by S. R. Grey
“Wow,” I mutter, “what a whacko.”
Psycho Girl reaches the door and spins around. Stabbing a finger my way, she says, “You’re an asshole and a prick. God, I am so stupid. To think last night I thought you were ho… Uh, never mind.”
“Whoa, wait, you thought I was what? Hot?”
“Shut up!” she shrieks. And then, in a softer tone, she says, “Just please stop talking now.”
Shit, she looks like she’s about to cry. But that doesn’t mean she’s done cussing me out. “I hope I never again lay eyes on you. And I mean never, ever, ever… Like for the rest of my life. Even that might be too soon.”
Good God.
“Fine,” I say, defeated. I’m too tired and hungover for this shit. My amusement is waning, along with the semi I was sporting.
I close my eyes and listen as the door slams.
Thank Christ, she’s gone.
Still, despite her obvious need for a mental health assessment, I can’t erase her from my mind. There’s something about her. Crazy or not, her calling me out—even if she was wrong about the panties, and way off on the weird baseball thing—felt sort of refreshing.
It certainly made me feel more alive than I have in a long time.
Women never challenge me the way Psycho Girl did. They’re usually too busy trying to get to my cock…or to my wallet. Not Psycho, though. Of course, it helped that she didn’t know who I am.
Still, the girl was real with me.
And I need more real.
Maybe if I had more real in my life I wouldn’t be so damn determined to fuck things up like I’ve been doing lately. I test the fucking boundaries simply because I can.
Too bad a girl like her can’t be around every day—to challenge me, to keep me on my toes. I could use someone like her in my life.
But alas, she’s gone, forever out of my life.
Looks Like I’m Gonna Need That Uber, After All
Who cares if he’s scorching hot? He’s an epic jerk…and a panty-stealer.
“Yeah, what a freak,” I mutter as I scamper from the jerky baseball player’s room, the pumps that nearly tripped me dangling from my hand.
Forget about his washboard abs. He probably paints them on.
I bend in the hallway to slip on the heels. “For sure, that’s what that callous, arrogant ass does.”
Forget about his chiseled good looks. They’ll fade with age.
Faltering, I murmur, “Yeah, but aging for him is a long way off.”
Hey, pay attention here. You’re wavering.
“Good point. You’re right.”
Let’s not forget he messed up your awesome descriptive simile from last night. His eyes aren’t even sunflower-brown. They’re more of a whiskey shade.
“Another good point!”
Wait a minute. Enough is enough. I’m supposed to erase him from my mind. Plus, I need to pee. My bladder’s screaming that we better find a bathroom or the floodgates will burst.
Stumbling down the stairs, I luckily come upon a powder room. I do what I need to do, and then I’m on my way, out of this stupid lakeside house for good.
Digging my phone from my purse, I sigh. “God, I pray I never step foot anywhere near this place again.”
My head is pounding, and I’m furious with the arrogant ballplayer. I’m never watching baseball again. Not that I ever do. But this assures I’ll never start.
I glance around. I’m out in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere.
Tapping at my phone, and praying for reception, I muse, “Looks like I’m gonna need that Uber, after all.”
A ride can’t get here soon enough.
I shake my head, boggled by my own stupidity as I order the Uber. I can’t believe I thought that pompous ass was one of the most gorgeous guys I’d ever laid eyes on.
You were drunk last night, remember?
Yeah, nice try, but that doesn’t work. Jerk-o still looked damn good this morning. I may hate him, but I can’t deny he has an epic level of hotness going for him.
That’s all he has, though.
“Except for maybe that big dick,” I murmur.
No maybes about that one, chica!
Yeah, that was no magic trick under the covers. No rabbit in a hat illusion. Maybe it was a carrot. A really long, thick—
That wasn’t a vegetable under there, sweetie. That was some pure man meat.
“Mmm…” Happy that I’m not a vegetarian, I think about how I’d like to take a big bite, and maybe a lick or two for good measure, of his pure man m—
“Wait a minute.” I stop myself. “You’re supposed to be hating on that dick, not lusting after it.”
The dick can’t help who it’s attached to. Maybe a little lusting is okay?
“No!”
Seems even my voice of reason is a traitor when it comes to cock.
I hit the phone against my head to punish myself, but that just hurts like hell. “Ow.” I rub my temple and check my phone.
Seven minutes till my escape from this latest embarrassment.
“See, this is why you’re better off staying focused on work.”
Yeah, work. Speaking of which, I have obligations today. Luckily, it appears I’m still on schedule for my flight. I just need to stop at the hotel so I can take a shower, put my contacts back in, and grab my stuff.
Oh, and I certainly plan to put on some damn underwear. Everything under my dress feels so exposed, all thanks to that pervert absconding with my panties.
Just then, as if to emphasize that point, a gust of wind blows up my dress. I smooth the material down in the nick of time, seconds before the Uber driver pulls up.
Someone almost got a peep show.
God, now I’m even thinking like the pervy baseball dude. I swear I can’t get on that plane to Las Vegas fast enough. I’m ready to put this whole crazy morning behind me.
And Mr. Panty-Stealer?
Well, he’s being erased from my mind, never to be thought of, or spoken of, ever again.
When I arrive in Vegas there’s a limo driver waiting for me. He’s in the baggage claim area, holding up a large placard with my name spelled out in letters so big even my tired and hungover self can’t miss it.
It’s stuffy and warm inside the terminal, making me more than ready to turn my bags over to the driver. He takes them off my hands, and I proceed to follow him out to a far worse inferno.
As he begins to load my luggage into the trunk of the waiting limo, I remark, “Wow, it must be like a hundred and ten degrees out here.”
I fan myself with my hand, a sorry attempt to cool down. The black business suit I put on at the hotel seemed comfy and fine back in Minneapolis, but here in hell I feel like I’m about to die from heatstroke.
“It’s not that bad today,” the driver replies as he busies himself with shifting my many bags here and there, making sure they all fit. “Though it’s been pretty rough lately. You’re lucky. We’re on a cooldown now. Last I checked it was only ninety-seven.”
“Only ninety-seven,” I mutter. “That’s some cooldown.”
Smiling kindly, he assures me, “I’ll put the AC on high in the car. You’ll be comfortable in no time, Miss Shelburne.”
Once we’re in the limo, and the AC is indeed pumping full blast, I remove my makeup bag from my purse so I can at least attempt to freshen up after the long flight, a flight where I, thankfully, had a chance to take a much-needed nap.
All in all, I’m not in too bad of shape. Especially considering I had such a rough night…and a fucked-up morning from hell with the baseball player jerk.
Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to a stop at whichever extended-stay hotel my firm has me in for the duration of this assignment.
That reminds me to ask the driver, “Where exactly are we going?”
Peering back at me in the rearview mirror, he says, “I’ve been instructed to drive you straight to the meeting with management and the new client.”
“Wait, what? We
’re not stopping at a hotel first? I was hoping to drop off my things and freshen up.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the driver informs me. “And I wouldn’t count on a hotel stay, ma’am. Based on where I’m supposed to take you following the meeting, it would seem your firm and client management have decided you’re staying somewhere other than a hotel.”
“Oh, great,” I mutter, irritated at the ridiculous amount of secrecy for this assignment. “So where will you be taking me after the meeting? I’d like to know where I’ll be living for the next couple of months.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to divulge that information just yet, Miss Shelburne. I’ve been instructed to inform you that everything you need to know will be covered at the meeting.”
I don’t press. Orders are orders.
But I am curious.
If I’m not staying in a long-term residence place, I guess I’ll be put up in an apartment. A place of my own would be nice, but it also tells me I’ll be residing in this lovely sauna known as Nevada for quite some time.
Wow, this client must really be a handful. Better prepare for the worst now.
But I can’t, seeing as I still have no idea who the new client is. And though the driver wouldn’t have that info, he can definitely let me know where exactly we’re going. If I have that info, then maybe I can guess what type of celebrity I’ll be working with—actor, musician, or professional athlete.
Reaching for a bottle of water from a cooler in the back, I casually ask, “So where is this meeting taking place?”
“At Desert Sports Complex,” the driver replies.
Hmm, sports. An athlete, it would appear. Oh joy, like I haven’t had enough of them after this morning.
“There’s no baseball team out here, is there?” I cautiously inquire, holding my breath.
Not that the jackass from this morning would play for a team in Vegas. He’s clearly a Minneapolis player since he lives there. Still, I’d hate to run into him at a game or at a professional baseball function.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the driver replies, “No, there’s no professional baseball team in Las Vegas.”
“Thank God,” I murmur. And then I ask, “What professional teams do play at the sports complex?”
“Why, the Las Vegas Wolves play there.” The driver beams like a proud fan.
Wait, I’ve think I’ve heard of that team.
“Ah,” I murmur as it dawns on me. “They’re a hockey team, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sooo, I must be assigned to a player. Too bad I don’t follow the sport more closely. If I did I might have a clue as to who their troubled players are.
The driver continues to make small talk as we drive to our destination. I don’t catch everything he says, but I do perk up when he excitedly announces, “The Wolves’ new season is starting up real soon. Every September I try to take my son to at least one of their preseason scrimmages.”
I don’t have children of my own, not yet, but I hope to some day. Still, I’m always awed by the love that’s so clear when parents speak of their kids. My driver seems to be no exception.
I pick up on the longing in his voice when he sighs and adds, “I’m hoping someday I can take my boy to a regular season game. For now, though, those tickets are way out of my price range.”
“How old is your son?” I ask softly as I make a note to give him a really great tip.
“Twelve,” he replies.
“That’s a pretty fun age.”
He nods and agrees. “Yeah, it is. He’s old enough to understand the game and how it’s played.”
I laugh and tell the driver, “I could probably use a few lessons from your son.”
“Not much of a hockey fan, huh?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I know team names and stuff, but not much beyond that.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, but then I realize this man, a fan, might have some valuable insight into who I’ll be working with.
“So,” I begin, “living out in the east, I don’t hear much about the Wolves. Are they any good?”
He shrugs. “They’re okay. Been to the playoffs a couple times, but they never seem to do much once they get there. It’s crazy too. As a fan, you expect more. With that OPS line of theirs, you’d think they’d go deep in the playoffs every year.” He sighs. “Oh well, what can you do? Just hope they turn it around this season, I guess.”
OPS line, what the hell is that? I have no clue. And I don’t care to ask. But I would like to know, “Have you ever heard any rumors of troubled players on their team?”
The driver throws a disapproving glance back at me, probably wondering why I’d ask such a thing. “No, ma’am,” he finally replies.
“Oh, okay.”
After a minute, he clears his throat and asks, “Where you from back east?”
“Oh. I’m from a small town named Butler. It’s a little north of Pittsburgh. But I live in Chicago currently.”
“Ah, so does that make you a Hawks fan? Or do you still root for the Penguins?”
“Well, like I said, I’m not a huge hockey fan. But I’ll always be a hometown girl at heart. If I were to root for a team, it’d definitely be the Pens.”
We reach our destination and our hockey talk comes to an end. But my brush with hockey is about to go much further.
Shit, Not You Again
After the crazy—though very much intriguing—girl leaves, I head to the bathroom for that aspirin.
When I stop to take a piss, aspirin dissolving on my tongue, I discover a pair of lacy red panties on the floor in front of the toilet.
“What the…?”
These must be the panties Psycho Girl was going on and on about. Figures she left them on the bathroom floor all on her own.
“What a crazy girl¸” I say, chuckling as I drain the monster.
Later, after a refreshing shower and a few more aspirin, I pack for my impending trip to Vegas. When I remember that I need to throw a toothbrush in my bag, I head back to the bathroom. The panties are still balled up on the floor. That red scrap of silk and lace is the only reminder I have that this morning really happened. It’s already starting to feel like a faraway dream.
I don’t know why I do what I do next, except maybe just to hang onto something tangible so I don’t forget Psycho Girl. In any case, I grab the undies and throw them in my bag.
And then it’s time to go.
Nolan drives me out to the regional airport, where the team’s private jet is waiting for me to board. The whole way there I bitch about being kept in the dark as to why I’m required to fly to Las Vegas today.
“Why would the Wolves want an in-person meeting with me?” I ask Nolan since he’s like Yoda—all-knowing, all-seeing. “Haven’t they ever heard of Skype?”
“Probably not,” he replies. “If you recall, management only recently discovered text messaging.”
“Unfortunately for me,” I murmur. “If they’d stayed in the dark ages, I’d probably be off the hook.”
“I doubt that,” Nolan says, chuckling. “It was your agent who sent the text.”
“Good point. He is a savvy bastard.”
Once we reach the tarmac where my plane awaits, I reach around to the cabin in the back of the truck to retrieve my bag. “Thanks for the ride,” I say to Nolan.
He knows I’m starting to stress about this meeting, and why shouldn’t I? I’ve been a bad boy in the eyes of the team. Hell, I’ve been a bad boy in the eyes of just about everyone.
“Hey,” he says, “whatever is going on, just keep in mind that it can’t be as bad as what’s happening to Benny right now.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure.” I lean my head back against the headrest and think about how poor Benny is on his way to an airport as well, but not this one. “Not only does the sad bastard have to enter that rehab facility out in Arizona by tonight, but he has to fly to Phoenix commercial.”
It’s a message from the team, a smack in the face to wake the hell up. The good life could end at any time—for me, for Benny, for anyone. We’re all fair game. Maybe not Nolan, though, since he’s basically kept his shit together.
Sighing, I say, “I should’ve followed your example, man. You’ve been working out, eating good stuff, doing all the right things.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, kid.”
Let’s hope Yoda is right on this one.
In Las Vegas, my agent—a middle-aged man, trim and fit and with silver-streaked hair—is on the tarmac, waiting to pick me up.
His name is Jock Sosarelli. With a name like Jock, how could you not be involved with sports? Before he became an agent, Jock played professional baseball. When a career-ending injury took him out of the game for good, he went into sports management.
Jock’s a great agent—one of the best, with a killer rep. He’s slick, polished, and professional. He expects the same from his clients. That’s why I’m not the least bit offended when he lowers his four-hundred dollar sunglasses and eyes me up and down with a shake of his head.
I have to chuckle. Already evaluating and assessing, and I’ve only been off the plane for three minutes.
“Glad to see you arrived cleaned up,” he says. “You look more or less ready for a meeting of importance.”
“Hello to you too, fucker,” I retort.
Laughing, Jock holds out his hand.
We shake, and he tells me, “You don’t pay me the big bucks to kiss your ass, Oliver. You pay me to land you seven- and eight-figure deals. And to make sure you retain them.”
He has a point.
Glancing down at the navy blue suit I threw on at the last minute, I remark, “Dressing like this seemed the wise thing to do.” With a quick glance up to the blazing sun—and I mean quick, so as not to scorch my corneas out of my head—I add, “Even if it is like hell on earth out here, and I feel like I’m melting.”
Jock chuckles as he indicates we should get into a waiting limo.
Once we’re settled in the comfortable, air-conditioned car, he says, all cryptic-like, “You think this is hell? Just wait till we meet with the team.”
