by Lex Martin
ABOUT THE NOVEL:
What’s the worst thing about wanting a sexy NFL football player? Everyone else wants him, too.
After catching my boyfriend getting deep-throated by a skanky cage girl, I’ve learned my lesson – never date a professional athlete. Never. Besides, I have more important things to worry about, like not blowing my shot to make it as a broadcast reporter. I won’t let anything get in my way, not even the new “it boy” of the NFL and my hot-as-hell neighbor.
What's the worst thing about getting death glares from his new neighbor? It doesn't make him want her any less.
I’ve worked my ass off to make it to the pros. The last thing I need is the complication of a relationship, especially since my last one was a total train wreck. But I can’t stop thinking about the feisty girl next door with the smart mouth. And I’d love nothing more than to show her what to do with that mouth.
Friends with benefits might be the best idea he’s ever had. Or the worst.
KISSING MADELINE, the third book in the Dearest series, can be read a standalone novel. This new adult romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.
ORDER OF BOOKS:
Dearest Clementine, #1
Finding Dandelion, #2
Kissing Madeline, #3
KISSING MADELINE
LEX MARTIN
Kissing Madeline Copyright © 2015 by Lex Martin
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This new adult contemporary romance is recommended for readers 18+ due to mature content.
Copy editing by RJ Locksley
Cover design by Twin Cove Design
Cover image © Perrywinkle Photography
April 2015 edition
ISBN 978-0-9915534-4-0
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
To My Readers
Excerpt of Dearest Clementine
Excerpt of Finding Dandelion
Acknowledgments
Contact Lex
To Matt & my little bears
“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”
- Confucius
PROLOGUE
(Early May)
- Daren -
Some people think I have it made. I say looks can be deceiving.
The white lights blare down on me, and I smile. That’s my answer for everything. I’ve broken bones, sprained ligaments, twisted joints, and I always smile. It’s how I get through the pain until the numbness settles in and I can breathe again.
The cameras crowd closer to the conference table, and the answers roll off my tongue. “I’m the new guy. I’m just looking to be a part of this team, to do my part and fill in the gap.” I glance at Coach Reynolds and Shawn Brentwood, the veteran quarterback. “That is, if there is a gap.”
Everyone chuckles, but underneath Brentwood’s grin, I know what he’s thinking. Because I’d be thinking the same thing. That I’m the asshole here to take his job. He’s right. Because what the hell kind of QB would I be if I were content to sit my ass on the bench all day? I’m here to win. It’s what I’m good at.
The coach fields a few questions, and my eyes travel to the back of the room where I spot wives and girlfriends of fellow players. Hell, even my father took time off from corporate domination to come, and he and I aren’t even talking. He’s standing in the back next to my mother, who looks like she might pass out from the euphoria of clutching my NFL jersey.
I should be just as elated. After thousands of hours of practice and games, I have arrived. Achieved my dream. But as I search the room, that numbness swells.
She didn’t come.
My jaw tightens. I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am. Because I’m the dumb asshole who thought that after all this time she’d be different. That she’d actually mean those promises. That she’d change.
She’s probably off buying some Armani luggage or a new Gucci watch or some shit that’s only going to crowd her overflowing walk-in closet.
I never ask her for anything, but I asked her to do one thing for me. One. To be here today, the biggest day of my career.
My temple throbs, and I rub it with my palm.
Deep down, I know I deserve this. What do they say? Payback is a bitch. Yeah, they got that right.
“Daren! As the Heisman winner, do you feel extra pressure to perform?”
Of course.
I shake my head. “Titles mean nothing. Only wins. While I’m honored to have received the Heisman, that award represents my college career. My NFL career starts now. As any athlete will tell you, the only thing you can control is the here and now. So I don’t let titles or previous wins or awards dictate how I think about the game. I play to win. That’s it.”
He nods, ignoring the fact that I didn’t answer his question. They always do because they only see my stats, my completed throws, my touchdowns.
It’s easy to see why people think I have it made. When I look in the mirror, sometimes I think the same thing. That the victories are too easy, that there has to be the other side of the coin, the dark side, the part no one sees. Because no one can walk between the raindrops like I can. I’m a fucking master.
But the tightrope comes with a price. Pride. Hubris. Vanity. Call it what you will. It’s the head game I play to make myself think I’m better. So when the ball snaps, when I can feel the leather stitching between my fingers and my heart pounding in my ears, the training takes over and I actually feel the swell of invincibility. Sure, I put in the time. I sweat. I train. I fight. But at the end of the day, the winners think they can do it, and the losers know they can’t.
Does that sound like total bullshit? Yeah, it is. But if I chant that crap long enough, I believe it. And when I believe it, I win.
So what happens when I don’t believe it? When I know I’m just full of shit?
I fuck up. Big.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and anger surges through me. When the press move on to interview the new wide receiver, I pull out my cell.
Her message is typical. I got held up. I’m coming.
I can’t type my response fast enough. Don’t bother.
Thanks for missing the NFL Draft, bitch.
CHAPTER ONE
(Late May)
- Maddie -
After a year-long internship with NBC, I finally did it. I got a coveted position as an on-air reporter. It’s meant long hours at the studio, missing meals, and having no social life, but I nailed it two weeks after I graduated from college.
I wish I could say NBC offered me the job, but my boss told me right off the bat he didn’t have any positions for newbs. So I got the next best thing—a gig with New England News Network, which boasts a reputation for hard-hitting stories. It also means that unlike most of my peers who are trekking off to report the news in bumble, I get to stay in my hometown.
And there’s only one person I want to celebrate with tonight.
Jacob is going to die when I tell him I nailed it.
Walking in to his apartment, I set my bag down in the entryway and kick off my heels. Jacob is probably napping. He always takes a snooze after practice. He’s a mixed martial artist and a gym rat. I’ve never dated a professional athlete before. Usually, I’ve gone for the quiet econ or history major, but I couldn’t resist Jacob’s allure. I was shooting footage for a friend who had to cover a local match last summer when we first met. After Jacob pummeled his opponent, he strutted up to me and asked me out.
Two weeks ago, he asked me to move in, but he’s training for a big fight, so we’re waiting until after his trip to Vegas next week to make it official.
Glancing at my watch, I know I’m a few hours early, but I can’t wait to tell him.
On the bar, next to a dozen roses, a bottle of wine chills in a cooler. Did he find out my secret? My tummy jumps with excitement.
I tiptoe down the hall, ready to strip out of my clothes to give him a proper wakeup call, when I hear the laughter. A woman’s laughter.
I jerk to a stop, my heart suddenly pounding.
“You like that, huh?” His voice cuts through the silence and sends goosebumps up my arms. “Suck it harder. That’s right. Show me how much you love my cock in your mouth.”
Oh my God.
Trembling, I don’t want to go any closer. I don’t want to see for myself, but my legs move of their own accord until I don’t have a choice but to witness this with my own eyes.
I see him through the crack in the door, sitting on the edge of the bed with his fingers threaded through her dark hair. Their faces are in shadow, but his head motions yes as she bobs up and down in his lap.
She pauses to look up at him. “Can we do it like we did yesterday?”
He moans. “Yeah, baby, just like yesterday.”
The skank crawls up the bed, and he follows, straddling her chest. She reaches up and grabs the metal headboard as Jacob directs himself into her mouth.
Nausea twists in my stomach.
Yesterday, my boyfriend and this girl had sex in his bed. Just before I had sex with him in his bed.
I cover my mouth, fighting hard not to vomit because, yesterday, we had unprotected sex. When I thought he was monogamous and the man I would marry, I let him put his dirty dick in me.
All at once, my life doesn’t make sense. Tonight should be about my future and planning a life with someone I thought loved me. I’m such a fool. Ignoring the rumors he was promiscuous, I let my guard down with him, let myself believe his lies about being with lots of girls simply because he hadn’t found the right one. And he let me believe I was it. His forever.
As I watch this woman deep-throat Jacob, the hurt and pain dissipate, and all I feel is rage. Blinding, white-hot, I-might-kill-someone rage. My hands move like I’m on autopilot, my training kicking in. I’m barely aware of my phone shaking in front of me as my finger slides across the screen to activate the camera.
I push the red button. A few seconds is all I get, but it’s exactly what I need to remind myself of my stupidity. Because I know he’ll lie. He’ll twist this around until I can’t see straight, and he’ll somehow get me to think this is my fault.
No, this is on him, and I want to remember every ounce of humiliation so I never repeat this mistake again.
The cocksucker pauses to ask where they’ll hook up once I move in, and he tells her they’ll do it in the locker room at the gym. Classy.
I turned down date after date so this jerkoff could cheat on me.
Tucking my phone back into my jacket, I stomp past them and dump the shit out of his gym bag before I yank open drawers and toss my clothes in.
“Shit. Shit. It’s Maddie,” he mumbles. “Baby, what are you doing?”
“Fuck you, asshole.” I storm into the bathroom and grab my makeup. When I emerge, Jacob is pushing the girl away, and I see her face for the first time.
“Oh my God. This just gets better.” Staring at Kimmy the cage girl, I can’t believe I got this whole thing so wrong.
“Baby, this isn’t what it looks like,” he stammers.
My knuckles turn white as I grip my bag. “Really? So your dick magically landed in her mouth? What an interesting phenomenon.”
I take the keychain he gave me with a miniature boxing glove and chuck it at his head.
“Kimmy, now you don’t have to blow him at the gym. He’s all yours.”
CHAPTER TWO
- Maddie -
When the door opens, Sheri laughs. “Maddie, you have a key. You don’t need to knock.”
I shrug, and my messenger bag slides down my arm, dragging my blouse with it. Tugging up my shirt so I’m not flashing her, I blow my bangs out of my face. “It felt like the right thing to do. I’m your guest. Your very grateful guest.”
“No, you’re my roommate. None of this guest shit.”
Smiling weakly, I acquiesce, but only so she’ll stop arguing because we both know she’s not charging me anything close to half the rent. She lives in a luxury brownstone in Boston’s Back Bay, something I could never afford in my wildest dreams. But my friend caught wind that I needed a place to stay since I had already given my notice for my old apartment, and she all but demanded I move in.
I’ve been here before, but I’m still a little awed by her condo. Dark, polished hardwood floors draw my eyes to an enormous brick fireplace, which is flanked by sleek modern furniture. It’s sophisticated and elegant, and about a million times better than my futon fold-out bed and cinderblock book shelves.
There’s only one thing missing from the view.
“You moved my boxes.” Because, holy crap, that was a lot to move.
“I had a little help. My neighbor stopped by, and he lent a hand. Speaking of that hot man—”
“You went through too much trouble. I could have done it.” When I brought over my moving boxes last weekend, I was afraid I’d get a ticket for double-parking the small van I’d rented out front, so I just left everything in the corner of her living room.
She waves me off. “It gave me an excuse to skip the gym. Besides, I had fun analyzing how you labeled your stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bathroom makeup and moisturizers. Winter bedding and thermal layers. News-writing textbooks and notes. Everything color-coded. Did you use a label maker?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “By the way, what was in the ‘bedroom nightstand’ box that started vibrating when I accidentally dropped it?” My mouth drops open, and her chuckle grows into full-blown laughter. “Hmm, let me guess. Jacob’s replacement.”
Clearing my throat, I shake my head, and with it, my embarrassment. “Jacob wishes he was as hung as the Power-Boy 3000 or that he gave me nearly as many orgasms.”
Her eyebrow raises. “The Power-Boy 3000? Where can I find one?”
“I bought it at my friend’s sex toy party.”
�
��We are so going to have one of those! Maybe when we wrap up this film.” Sheri works for her dad, who’s this big movie producer, so she travels a ton. It’s one of the reasons she wants a roommate. To keep an eye on her place when she’s gone. It would be so much easier for her to move to New York or LA, but she’s a Boston girl through and through and gets a little crazy at the mere mention of relocating.
After I change out of my work clothes and into a pair of jeans and a fitted v-neck t-shirt, Sheri suggests we check out a new bar that opened up down the street and grab a few drinks.
Twenty minutes later, we settle into a corner table in the dimly lit bar, and by the time we get our second round, the effects of the alcohol have me on the verge of crying into my beer. I never drink for a reason. I get too emotional. And right now, my heart feels heavy. “Sheri-berry, I really appreciate you taking me in.”
Her eyebrows raise. “You’re the first friend I ever made at BU. Of course I’d take you in.”
Sheri and I were roommates freshman year in the dorms at Boston University. We didn’t get along at first. I think she found me too uptight, and I found her to be too rich. I know that sounds terrible, but she’s a Park Avenue transplant, and growing up, I was a second-hand clothes kind of girl—not because I thought that was cool or because I watched too many old John Hughes films, but because we couldn’t afford more. But I eventually began to look beyond Sheri’s designer labels and French manicures to see a girl with a heart too big for her pixie-sized body.
Together, Sheri and I make for odd-looking friends. If she’s the size of a walnut, then I’m an oak tree. She’s petite and tan with cropped blonde hair and big blue eyes. I’m a little over five-eight with long black hair, pale skin and blue eyes. She looks like she waltzed off a movie set, and I look like a character from Wicked. But I love her, even if her whole body could fit into one leg of my jeans.
