by Lori Adams
Read on for an excerpt from
Crushed
A Redemption Novel
by Lauren Layne
Available from Flirt
Michael
“Your shirt’s untucked in the back.”
I turn, giving a half smile of gratitude to the blonde who’s just followed me out of the unisex restroom at the Cambridge Country Club tennis courts.
She giggles as she runs a hand over her tennis skirt, smoothing it over tanned, toned thighs. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into doing that in a public restroom.”
Yeah. Right. I hadn’t talked Mindy McLaughlin into shit. Everything from the location to the position had been her idea.
But I don’t remind her of this.
If I’ve learned anything in my first month as tennis pro to the rich and richer, it’s that cougars don’t like being reminded that they’re the ones doing the pursuing.
I give her a wink as I finish tucking in my shirt, before scanning the courts to make sure we don’t have any witnesses to the fact that we just spent the first twenty minutes of Mindy’s sixty-minute tennis lesson fucking against the wall of a bathroom stall.
Luckily, it’s the middle of the day and hot as hell. Most people hit the courts in the early morning or not at all.
Mindy follows me to the benches, where we retrieve our rackets. “Should we finish up?” I ask.
She lets out a low laugh, running pink manicured nails down the front of my white polo. “I think we already did that.”
I ignore this, and hold up the tennis ball questioningly.
“It’s hot,” she whines.
It is. Way too fucking hot to play tennis. She still has forty minutes left, but I’m not all that surprised that she wants to bail. We both know she didn’t come down here for the tennis.
It’s just as well. I hate the damn sport. I only work the courts three days a week, and my lesson schedule is packed with women who are probably better at tennis than I am.
I’m passably decent at tennis, because, once upon a time, I was one of the spoiled brats taking lessons, not giving them. I don’t love the sport. I’m not like these other douche bags that work the courts and make a big show of how they could have gone pro if they wanted.
My tennis skills aren’t why I was hired, and I damn well know it. Growing up on the Upper East Side of New York taught me early that women of the idle rich class get bored easily. A boredom they often ease by taking up with men other than their husbands.
Fortunately for me, most of my life I was blissfully unaware that my own mother fell into that category of straying housewives.
Ignorance truly is bliss.
And when ignorance is over?
All hell breaks loose.
“Same time next week?” she asks, moving toward me and tilting her face up.
I know what she wants. A kiss that I have no intention of giving.
I sidestep, setting my racket and ball on the bench.
“Can I buy you a drink?” she asks. She does an unnecessary stretch that strains her white top across full—definitely fake—breasts.
For the briefest of moments, I feel chokingly bored by it all, but I force myself to embrace the boredom.
“No, thanks. I’ve got a lesson after this.”
“What about tomorrow? I was thinking I should maybe add a second lesson in the week. To keep me loose.” She winks.
Christ. Really?
“Can’t,” I say. “I’m working the gym tomorrow. I alternate giving tennis lessons and being a personal trainer.”
I like the latter a lot better. It involves air-conditioning.
Her eyes light up both with interest and a competitive gleam. “Do I know any of your personal-trainer clients?”
Probably half of your book club, Bible club, and Junior League.
I’d screwed a good portion of them, too, and it’s obvious that Mindy McLaughlin is eager to know her competition.
“Well,” she says, leaning forward when I don’t respond, “if you ever decide to take a little break, you know just who to call.”
“Sure do,” I say, giving her a sleepy look that’s always seemed to have a way with women.
Well, all women but one. The one who mattered.
Normally, I’d be more than happy to be late to my next lesson in order to scratch Mindy’s second itch of the day and help her forget that she’s married to a high-powered judge with a potbelly.
But Mrs. McLaughlin has one unavoidable disadvantage working against her.
Today is Wednesday.
And on Wednesdays, I have a client I want more than Mindy McLaughlin.
After a few more failed come-ons, Mrs. McLaughlin finally gives up, although I know she’ll be coming with her A-game next week. Her skirt shorter, her lips glossier, her invitations more blatant.
I check out her ass on principle as she walks away, running the towel over my face before finishing a bottle of water in three gulps.
One more lesson before I can escape to Pig and Scout, the dive bar where I sometimes work nights. Generally, I count the hours until P&S; it’s a welcome break from all the pretension.
Although…
Today is Wednesday. And on Wednesdays, I’m not in such a hurry.
Despite what the other guys think about their athletic skills, I know we “tennis pros” are merely the pool boys of the country club. We’re supposed to be ripped, a little bit dangerous, and not clinging too closely to our morals.
I have no problem with any of those, especially the last one, even if it does get old after a while.
But my hour a week with Kristin Bellamy makes it all worth it.
I see Kristin approaching out of the corner of my eye, but deliberately don’t turn to check her out, even subtly.
See, forty-two-year-old women like Mindy McLaughlin are forever afraid they’re “losing it.” They need the confirmation that they’re still worth looking at.
But twenty-two-year-old girls like Kristin Bellamy know they’ve got it.
The trick to reeling those in is making them wonder if you’ve noticed.
“Hey, Michael.”
I turn to face her, keeping my expression indifferent. “Kristin.”
Yeah, I definitely notice her.
She’s wearing only a white sports bra and a tiny white tennis skirt. I’m pretty sure the club has some sort of policy requiring members to wear a little more clothing, but considering the place is run by a bunch of doddering old dudes, I doubt they’re going to order Kristin to cover up her tanned, toned stomach and perky tits.
My eyes don’t linger, returning quickly to her face, and she appears not to mind that I don’t check her out.
It’s a game we’ve been playing for weeks now.
For the life of me I can’t figure out who’s winning.
I only know the endgame. Her. Me. In bed. Or wherever.
Kristin is the first girl to interest me—truly interest me—since Olivia Middleton. The only girl I’ve ever really wanted. And definitely the only one I’ve ever loved.
Not that I have any intention of loving Kristin. I’m not going that route again, ever.
But I do want her. And not just because she has a smoking body. Kristin has a key connection to my very reason for being in Texas.
“Saw Mindy on my way down here,” Kristin says, giving a little twirl of her racket as she moves closer. “Everything go okay with your lesson? She looked kind of irritated.”
I toss my towel aside with an indifferent shrug. “It’s hot. Makes everyone edgy.”
“It really is hot, isn’t it?” she agrees, setting her racket on the bench to pull her long dark hair into a high ponytail. “I could hardly bear to get dressed this morning.”
Looks like you didn’t bear it at all, I almost say. But I don’t. I just pretend like I don’t notice the way her current posture shows off the lean curve of her waist.
Kristin looks nothing like Olivia. Olivia was blond with warm green eyes, whereas Kri
stin is dark-haired with scheming brown eyes. But they have that same combination of sweet and haughty, the same rich-girl fit body, same shy yet confident smile.
Kristin absently runs her fingertips over her bare abdomen and I nearly grin at the obviousness of her gesture.
Even as I want to haul her to me and give her the kiss she’s so blatantly asking for, I want to knock her down a peg. To tell her she’s nothing to me but a chance at redemption from my past, and the key to getting my foot in the door of my future.
Kristin Bellamy is nothing but a reminder of what it felt like to want someone.
“Should we get started?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she says, flicking the ponytail back over her shoulder. “I’ll need all the practice I can get since I’m team captain next year.”
“You’ll be a senior, right?” I ask, even though I don’t really give a shit.
“Yup,” she says.
A snort comes from behind me, and I’m surprised to realize we’re no longer alone.
“Fifth-year senior,” the newcomer says, settling herself on the bench as though she belongs there.
“Sorry?” I ask, still trying to figure out where the hell this girl came from.
The girl nods in the direction of Kristin. “She’s already done her senior year. Next year she’ll be doing it again.”
I glance toward Kristin and see her giving the other girl a death glare.
They clearly know each other.
I give the new girl a second look. She’s about Kristin’s age, but looks nothing like her. There’s a book on the bench next to her hip, but right now both of her hands are occupied with an M&M’s bag. She fishes out a candy and pops it into her mouth as her eyes move between Kristin and me like we’re the world’s most fascinating spectator sport.
“Cute,” the girl says, gesturing between Kristin and me. “If you two copulate, I’m calling Pampers to tell them I know where their next baby model is coming from.”
“Friend of yours?” I ask Kristin.
Kristin sighs. “Sister.”
Sister?
Disbelieving, I look more closely at the chocolate-munching creature.
Instead of Kristin’s smooth dark ponytail, this one’s hair is a mass of wild curls, sort of gold and brown, and maybe some red.
She’s got the same big eyes as her sister, except somehow they’re too large on her, and blue instead of brown. She also has her sister’s full mouth, but it’s too obvious, somehow. And whereas Kristin is slim bordering on skinny, this one is, well…lush.
“I know, I know,” the other girl says in a weary voice, tilting the M&M’s bag to her mouth and munching the last of the candies. “I’m the pretty one. Don’t tell Kristin; she’s sick of hearing it.”
I hear another tiny sigh from Kristin. “Michael St. Claire, this is Chloe Bellamy. My mom insisted she come along and watch, in hopes that this will be the summer that she’ll actually want to take part in some of the more active elements happening at the club.”
“Um, did you not see the way I kicked the ass of that vending machine?” Chloe asks, giving her sister an incredulous look. “And if Mom had ever seen me pursuing a midnight snack, she’d know just how active I can be.”
I stifle the unfamiliar urge to smile, even though I can see right through her.
Her curvy figure isn’t fashionable…not in places like this, where celery sticks qualify as dinner. But she’s smart about it; she’s joking about her weight before the rest of them can.
Annoyance flashes across Kristin’s face, but before she can open her mouth, I clear my throat, hoping to break up a sibling fight. “Ready?” I ask Kristin.
With a last warning glance at her sister, Kristin gives me a bright smile. “Totally. But go easy on me….I haven’t played since our lesson last week.”
“You’ve gone a whole week since trying to swat a fuzzy green ball?” Chloe makes a dramatic, despairing noise behind us. “Why, God, why? Why is life so hard?”
Kristin inhales long and slow. The sound is practiced, as though she’s done it before to cope with her annoying younger sister.
I don’t have siblings, but growing up with Ethan and Olivia in my back pocket, I know that sometimes pretending the other person’s not there is the best way to stave off a fight.
Kristin brushes at the hair near her temple, and I notice it’s curling a little in the afternoon heat. It’s cute. Unlike her sister’s curls, which are…crazy.
Kristin moves to one side of the net and I move to the other, ignoring the wolf whistle from Chloe as I walk by her.
I pull a ball from my pocket, lobbing it easily over the net. Kristin moves into place, sending it back in my direction with near-perfect form.
This goes on for several minutes until I hear a noisy fake snoring sound from the spectator on the sidelines.
Kristin pauses long enough to glare at her sister again. The ball goes sailing past her, and I see her frown.
Not exactly the flirtatious foreplay I’d been hoping for today.
But since I can’t make the annoying sister go away, I figure the least I can do is to engage her in conversation so she quits bugging Kristin.
“You play tennis, Chloe?” I call out as I pull out another ball and serve it to Kristin, harder this time.
“Do I look like I’m all about cardio?” she calls back in a cheerful voice.
“What about when you were younger? You didn’t take lessons?”
“Um, that’s a negative,” Chloe says around a mouthful of chocolate. She has a candy bar now. “Some of us were reading Harry Potter like normal kids.”
“Ignore her,” Kristin says sharply, delivering a strong forehand in the direction of her sister.
It misses by several feet, but the aim was not accidental, I’m guessing.
Chloe apparently takes the hint, because for the next several minutes, she seems to settle down with her book. I start to forget she’s there, except for when she occasionally shouts out a request for me to flex, or to “circle real slow-like so I can see the goods.”
I do my best to ignore her.
It’s not easy.
Kristin’s serve is sloppy today, which I’m guessing has something to do with her sister’s distracting presence, but I’m not really complaining. It’ll give me a chance to touch her as I correct her form.
“You’re using too much wrist,” I say, nabbing the ball she’d just sent over. “Let’s work on it.”
I start to head over to the other side of the net, and our eyes lock as I make my way toward her, but then her eyes move over my shoulder and widen in surprise and something else before a huge smile breaks across her face.
“Devon!”
I freeze for a split second, the name splintering through my consciousness. It’s possible there are other Devons, of course, but not likely.
And the Devon I know is dating Kristin Bellamy.
It’s the reason I’m after her. Well. That and the body.
I turn slowly, waiting to get my first glance at one of the very reasons I’m in Cedar Grove, Texas, in the first place. But even though I think I’m prepared for it, his features are still a shock.
This kid is a dead ringer for Tim Patterson.
I realize that I’m not dead inside like I’ve been thinking these past few months.
I watch as Kristin’s arms go around Devon’s neck, and my fingers tighten on the handle of my tennis racket.
I wait for a stab of jealousy.
I feel nothing.
This had been the plan all along: Use Kristin to get to Devon.
Then use Devon to get to Tim.
I let them have their moment. The game I’m playing is a long one. No need to rush things.
As I go to grab a bottle of water, my eyes inadvertently fall on mouthy, messy Chloe Bellamy.
I pause.
Gone is the snarky, don’t give a shit Chloe who’d been hollering smart-ass remarks just a couple minutes before.
&n
bsp; Her eyes are locked on her sister’s boyfriend, and the look on her face is painfully familiar.
I know that look.
I know that look better than I’ll ever admit to anyone.
Chloe Bellamy is in love with her sister’s boyfriend. I’ve got a pretty damn good idea how shittily that’s going to work out for her.
Chloe rips her eyes away and stares unseeingly down at her book. Her eyes squeeze shut.
I shift my gaze back to the couple, who are now kissing in earnest, and the anger starts creeping in, mingling with the jealousy and causing a hot stab of resentment to lodge in my chest.
Objectively, I know that I’m watching Kristin and Devon, not Ethan and Olivia.
But it’s the same, isn’t it?
The perfect fucking couple, completely blind to the people around them.
Only this time, it’s not the guy who’s like my brother who has the girl.
It is my brother.
My eyes flick back to Chloe.
Maybe Kristin’s not the only path to Devon after all.
Experience the first rush of love
eOriginal Romance from Random House
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
List of Characters
Chapter 1: Taken
Chapter 2: Michael
Chapter 3: Dante
Chapter 4: Organic Human Existence
Chapter 5: Naughty Sex Goddess
Chapter 6: Michael
Chapter 7: Dante
Chapter 8: Sweet Confection in the Air
Chapter 9: Dante
Chapter 10: Michael
Chapter 11: You Go, I Go
Chapter 12: Kampfzone: Battle Zone
Chapter 13: The Temptation of Fate
Chapter 14: Dante
Chapter 15: Yours to Love
Chapter 16: Dante
