The Lion Heart: Rogue Academy, Book Two

by Aarons, Carrie

  If there is one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I am not the bloke for the job.

  My pursuit of Poppy may have started out as a spirited challenge, but it ends here. I am not equipped to handle the emotions of a virgin, much less some needy bird who wants romance and fairy tales.

  Nah, I am going to cool it on my neighbor. It’s time to let my Kingston flag fly once more.

  13

  Poppy

  Lonely might as well be my middle name.

  I’m often surrounded by rooms of people, by parties filled to the rafters with those trying to mingle. But I don’t have a single person in my life that I can count on to be there when I really just need someone to sit in the same space as me. Even if it’s in silence, I have no one who will just comfortably hold my hand through a difficult period I can’t quite talk about.

  So, it’s no wonder that on my rare day off, I’m snuggled in bed around ten a.m. Honestly, I’m looking forward to a day alone, one with a lot of binge-watching and quiet reading time. After traveling from Paris to Morocco and then to Tokyo in the last two weeks, my entire being is so knackered, it’s a wonder I won’t spend this entire day staring off into space.

  I decide to order a delicious breakfast up to my flat, from the Zagat-rated restaurant conveniently located right next door to Charlton House. Eugene, the daytime doorman, brings up the tray they delivered, with a fresh daisy accompanying it.

  “Miss Raymond, it’s just as lovely outside as you are.”

  The flower makes me smile. It’s the little things that can make the biggest impact. “Well, isn’t this beautiful. Unfortunately, Eugene, I don’t plan on stepping foot out of my bed save for food today.”

  “Ah, a duvet day, then?” The kind smile that stretches his face makes me believe in humanity again.

  “That’s right.” Confirming I’m going to partake in the British version of playing hooky.

  After bidding him a good day, I take the tray and get back in bed, snuggling down in all of my blankets and pillows. I really decided to splurge on breakfast. A warm chocolate croissant nestled in a bed of egg whites, cheese, and spinach. Greasy, glistening potatoes, rife with salt and pepper. And an extra-large, extra-sugary caramel latte in a steaming to-go cup.

  I’m a model, which means I’ve been on a diet since I was fifteen. Yes, genetics help a lot … I’m naturally thin and don’t have to work quite as hard as the average bird to keep my figure. But I still need to have a certain look, which is unfortunately only attainable through muscle-shredding workouts and grilled chicken consumption.

  It’s my day off, though, and nothing I do today counts. Being lazy, pigging out, shrugging off phone calls about work—today, those things will happen without worry or care.

  I plow through the eggs, after switching on the telly to a random episode of Friends on Netflix, and move on to the potatoes. All the while, sipping my latte and chuckling at Ross’ antics. I’ve always thought Ross was the funniest.

  It’s not until I take the first bite of my chocolate croissant, which I saved for last since it was the naughtiest item of breakfast, that I hear the dull beat through the wall. At first, I’m not sure what it is, the steady thrumming that is making my headboard vibrate.

  Pausing my episode and sitting up a little straighter, I strain to listen for what it might be. That’s when I hear the lyrics. They’re muffled, but sure enough, there is DMX screaming about gutting someone or shooting up the block.

  Splendid, my neighbor is clearly home and getting his gangster on. All I wanted was a peaceful day in bed, with Rachel and Joey and the rest of their mates, and Kingston Phillips has to go and spoil it.

  How not surprising. Kingston Phillips, ruining a girl in bed.

  On the other side of the wall, the music grows louder and more violent. It’s switched to some Skrillex track that has been mashed up with a 50 Cent song and I’m growing more annoyed by the second. He’s completely interrupting my duvet day, and he’s not even trying. He’s just that much of a bugger.

  An idea sprouts, and suddenly, my chocolate croissant and Monica’s dilemma about Chandler are long forgotten. My jet lag and exhausted bones are not tired in the least … in fact, I’m recharged and jumping out of bed.

  Running into my living room, I grab the wireless Bose speaker I got for free in some awards ceremony gift bag. Pairing it to my phone, I balance it on the thick wood of my headboard, speaker side facing the wall. Pushing the volume button until the beeping ceases, indicating it’s at the highest level, I thumb through my phone for the perfect song.

  And then, I let him have it.

  Demi Lovato’s “Sorry Not Sorry” comes on full blast, her rich, husky voice singing about how payback is a bad bitch. Funny, I think the same, Demi.

  At first, I can’t hear anything but the blasting music coming from my Bose speaker. I even stand up on my bed, wiggling my hips a bit as sweet revenge courses through my veins. Is it sad that this is the most fun I’ve had in months? Sticking it to Kingston Phillips gives me a buzz like no other … and for the first time since I discovered he is my neighbor, I realize that there are so many more pranks I can pull.

  Apparently, Kingston has pranks, too. And louder speakers.

  Because another couple of seconds go by, and then Demi is drowned out by Big Sean’s “I Don’t Fuck With You.” Is that wanker mocking the fact that he hasn’t even tried to contact me since we kissed? I mean … not that I want him to.

  Except … blimey, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve spent days in denial, trying to convince myself that it’s my first kiss and, of course, I am going to stew over it until I go mad. That’s not it, though. I know it’s not. Because it’s not the feeling of the kiss, or my performance in it, that I’m worrying myself silly with.

  No, the thing I keep picturing when I close my eyes is Kingston’s mouth coming straight for mine. The possessive, raw stare that captured his expression right before he tilted my world on its axis. The way his hands came up to frame my face, and how his body brushed against mine, lighting me up like a circuit board. When I close my eyes and let my head hit the pillow, fantasies of him crawling up my mattress and laying that big, strong athlete’s body over mine, commanding my pleasure points … that’s what I’m thinking about.

  Which only irritates me more, hence my stomping out to the hall closet, where I stashed one of the three Amazon Echo’s the company sent me as a promotional gift. Running for the bedroom, I plug it in hastily, set the thing up as Big Sean curses and raps at his ex, and then start a song on the in-home assistant system at the same time I press play for the Bose speaker.

  Simultaneously, Taylor Swift begins to belt about bad blood, and the sound is doubly loud with both of the speakers booming through my bedroom wall and into his. I cackle, supremely happy with myself, and dance around as if I’m one of her friends in the music video. Actually, I’ve met most of them, and they’re pretty nice, as standards go for the celebrity world.

  My song thunders through my bedroom, and I might be trying to wind up Kingston, but I’m giving myself a headache. I’m about to turn it off, to claim victory and snuggle back into bed with my croissant, when “Roman’s Revenge” by Nicki Minaj and Eminem roars through the drywall.

  I swear, I’m almost knocked clear back on my mattress his answering cry is so deafening. My lord, he must have stadium-standard speakers in there, with enough power to put on a show at the O2! Never one to surrender, I try to hold out, turning the volume to ear-shattering levels.

  About thirty seconds go by, of us fighting it out for control of the air space, when I notice there is no more humming on the other side of the wall. Slowly, a smug, satisfied smile stretches the corners of my mouth up, and I’m folding my arms over my chest in smarmy celebration.

  Until someone begins pounding on my front door. Jesus, it sounds like he might put his fist through it. Quickly, I jump off my bed and race to the banging.

  “I believe I win, then,” I gloat, swinging
the door wide open so I can shove my music in Kingston’s face.

  “If you two don’t keep it down, I’m going to have to call management.”

  A blush steals over my cheeks as my other neighbor, Mrs. Clemens, stands in front of my open door. She must have knocked on Kingston’s as well, because he’s standing in the hall, a sheepish grin on his face.

  And … nothing on his upper half. No, he’s completely shirtless, wearing black football-style athletic shorts and black sneakers. Rivulets of sweat run down his abs, and I can’t will my eyes to remain level. The view is just too good.

  After the trauma I’ve been through, I rarely look at men with any kind of interest. So why is it that I’ve never been attracted to a man so desperately as I am to Kingston? It has to be him?

  Mrs. Clemens lives in flat 601 and is the most prim and proper woman I’ve ever met. From what I could gather from one of the doormen, she is a widow who inherited millions from her husband’s untimely death. She’s lived at Charlton House for almost ten years and is somewhat of a modern-day Mrs. Havisham.

  I’ve only seen her two times aside from this and am thoroughly embarrassed that Kingston got me to stoop down to such a low level. Music wars through the walls? What are we, twelve?

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Clemens—”

  She cuts me off, her already wrinkled face shriveling in distaste. “I expect this of that bumbling idiot.” She points at Kingston. “But I assumed you had more class than this. Though you do pose for money in your knickers, so …”

  The look she gives me is so scathing, I swear half my face melts off. It could have to do with the fact that I’m currently in almost nothing but said knickers that they pay me to pose in.

  Mrs. Clemens doesn’t even bother to address our noisiest neighbor before turning on her heel and marching to her flat, slamming the door.

  “Nice pajamas.” Kingston’s gaze sweeps over my body, and I realize I should have considered a wardrobe change before answering the door.

  My spaghetti strap teddy tank and silky matching shorts are, of course, a set from Boudoir; what kind of top model for the brand would I be if I didn’t have every new design, for free, immediately messengered over to my flat when they were released? Some of the higher-ups at Boudoir are inane, but even I have to admit I love wearing their lingerie and sleepwear.

  “I was having a duvet day, for your information. Before, that is, you ruined it.”

  He rolls his green eyes that have probably melted thousands of knickers. “Yes, because I’m the one who began blasting music into the wall instead of coming next door to ask me to turn it down. You know, like a sane person would.”

  The blush that has begun to subside comes back with a vengeance. Blimey, do I feel immature that Kingston is the one suggesting that I act like a grown-up.

  “Oh, whatever.” Can I just shut my mouth? I’m only proving his point with the most primary school answer ever.

  “Come now, love, you can do better than that. I’ve seen you way cheekier. Guess that blush and your stammering means I won.”

  And with that, the scoundrel throws a smirk over his shoulder as he too walks back to his flat and shuts the door.

  I’m left standing in the hallway, mouth hanging open like I’m some gobsmacked fish, wondering how I wound up being the most to blame for this little stunt.

  14

  Kingston

  Nothing like parental disappointment to make you rebel even further down a dark path.

  In the week after my father got on my case about my goal celebration in the Mandem match, I’m late to two strength sessions. And when I show up to an integral practice thirty minutes after I was supposed to be on the pitch, one of the trainers loops Niles Harrington in. The manager of RFC lit into me, and my arse is still smarting from the proverbial chewing out he gave me.

  It’s just too bad I don’t care more. The hot and cold attitude, the years of abandonment and verbal abuse … it does shape a bloke to stop giving two fucks. My father has conditioned me to feel nothing about everything. If you don’t reward for good behavior, and punish for bad behavior, but then cross the wires and start doling out random emotions for something your child thought they did right or wrong … it really cocks a guy up.

  That’s why there is not a drop of sweat on my brow when I walk into the RFC facilities forty minutes late on match day.

  “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Jude is up in my face from the moment I open the locker room door.

  “Who’s got your knickers in a twist?” I throw him a casual smirk, ignoring the way his eyeballs are bugging out of his head.

  He’s not amused by my nonchalance and takes me roughly by the elbow, dragging me into the bank of toilets past the changing area.

  “You do, you fucking wanker. I’ve been calling you for almost an hour!” London’s sex symbol is growing more agitated by the minute.

  “I was playing that old Drake album we love. You know the one with—”

  “I swear to God, Kingston, if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to beat you to a bloody pulp. This is serious. Niles is furious. Rumor is, he threw a chair at the wall up in his office when word of your tardiness reached him.”

  Ignoring him, I begin unbuttoning my shirt. I am late, so no sense in dragging it out with Jude chirping in my ear. “I’d pay to see that. Also, what’s with the word tardy? It sounds so dirty—”

  Suddenly, I’m pushed back, my body trying to balance and keep up. Jude caught me off guard, and I struggle as he pins me against the cement wall.

  “Have you gone mental?” I spit at him, clawing at his arm as I wheeze.

  I’m in good shape, but Jude is in better. He’s diligent in his exercise routine, where I, like everything in life, rely on my natural talent and slack off.

  “Listen to me. Right now. You are in grave danger of throwing your entire life away. And you can stand there and mouth off, give me those shite retorts and act as if nothing matters, but I know you better than that, Kingston. Your father is a prick, we both know this. It’s time for you to wise up, ignore his antics, and live your life how you want it. And you might not think you love football innately, but I know you do. I’ve seen you play, I’ve seen how much you love the game when you think there is no audience. Wizen the bloody hell up. Or … or I don’t know if I can stand by and watch this much longer. While you’re in your selfish little world, feeling pity for yourself and trying to mask it with pranks and clubs and alcohol, there are people you can fall back on who actually love you in a genuine way. I’m one of them. But I won’t stay around for this. I won’t watch you burn your kingdom.”

  My throat is tight with emotions and lack of oxygen when he finally lets up, sending me halfway down the floor in a heap of gasping reality.

  “Phillips, Niles wants to see you in his office. Now.” One of our assistant coaches sticks his head into the toilets.

  Bugger. I’m about to get chewed out again.

  My squad mates are already heading for the field to warm up when I walk back into the locker room and Alex gives me a somber look.

  “Go get ’em, mates!” I give them a cheery send-off, even if there is no more amusement behind my tone.

  Jude seems to have sucked it all out of me, and for the first time in months, I’m not as smug as I try to seem. See, it’s easy to deny the gaping wound your lifestyle and upbringing leave when you can mask the pain with cheekiness and attention and self-medicating.

  My slow walk to the manager’s office feels like a death march. He may just cut me from the club this very second. Or it will be some psychological punishment … I can’t decide which is worse. I try to memorize the halls of the RFC stadium, knowing this could very well be my last time walking these hallowed floors.

  “Get out of my stadium,” Niles Harrington barks as soon as I walk into the room.

  I may be on an arrogant shite kick, but I know when to keep my mouth shut. “Sir?”

  “Get the fuck out of my buil
ding. You want to disrespect yourself? Your family? That doesn’t make a bit of difference to me. But you start disrespecting this club? My authority? You’re out on your arse. You’ll be a healthy scratch tonight, and if you utter one word to the papers about why, I’ll end you. From here on out, if you want to remain a player for this club, you’ll eat, sleep and breathe my instruction. Is that clear?”

  A part of me desperately wants to say “clear,” but the bloke is so furious, I’m afraid he may slice my head off. Besides, with the way my gut just went into a tailspin, it would appear that this display of power from the manager has me genuinely worried. It only took the head of Rogue Football to bring my temper tantrum to an end.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I’m half a scotch bottle deep with two tarts in my lap at a trendy Piccadilly Circus nightclub.

  The room is spinning, and the music blaring over the speakers seems to transmit through my ears and to my brain seconds slower than it is actually playing. I can barely feel my limbs, a sign that I am way over the limit it takes to get me good and plastered.

  But I don’t care. Today was shite. This year has been shite. And how better to treat a shite existence than getting wasted and falling into bed with two kit chasers who seem up for any naughty thing I might fancy?

  Le Ches, this nightclub, has become somewhat infamous for its close-lipped policy and raunchy debauchery. So much so that it’s become an international destination for the world’s elite. If you can find a place where shenanigans, many of them illegal, are not only accepted but encouraged and not spilled to the tabloids … that’s the sort of place many celebrities and athletes desire to go.

  As it is, I saw one of Hollywood’s A-list actresses swallowing two tablets of ecstasy at the table next to mine, and there is a rather famous gourmet chef engaging in more than spit swapping with one of the dancers on the stage.