by Lane Hart
ALL IN
Paying to Play
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2015 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Wendy Ely
Cover by vocaldesign
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Photo © iStockphoto.com
WARNING: THIS NOVELLA IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY AND CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEX SCENES AND ADULT LANGUAGE!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Prologue
Jake Young
"Zack, Jake, you're in deep shit!" Jerry Tucker, the owner of the Wildcats exclaims with a glare in our direction before Zack and I can even take a seat at the conference table. Our managers, agents, head coach, and a sleazy man in a suit are all present, sharing the same identical frown. It's the look of serious disappointment. Something is definitely wrong. "Go ahead, let them hear it," Jerry directs the man in the suit.
"Does the name Amanda Roberts ring a bell?" the man asks. With a raised dark eyebrow, slicked back hair, and a smirk, I'm thinking this dude looks like an evil villain. Or a mobster. Maybe a crooked politician. Then the name he just uttered hits me like a sledgehammer to my nuts.
"Mandy?" I ask. Zack stiffens beside me.
"Yes, she probably goes by Mandy," the man replies while pushing some papers down the conference table to us. I recognize them right away as her signed CYA contracts.
"Is it true you made her sign these documents last night?" the shady man asks.
I swallow and nod, having a bad feeling that our threesome the night before, my pathetic attempt to get Zack out of his funk so we can win some fucking games, is about to blow up in our faces. "That's what our attorneys, Mike Stevens and Darryl Adams, told us we needed to do." I explain why we, as a rule, have women sign the Cover Your Ass docs before we screw them.
"Stevens and Adams have been fired," Jerry bellows. Uh-oh.
"You fired our personal attorneys for us?" Zack asks incredulously.
"Yes. This is Devon James. He's your attorney now."
Attorney. Should've known that's why he looks so evil. I bet Zack and I are paying him out our asses right now for his "legal services”.
"What's going on?" Zack asks them point blank.
"This morning, Ms. Roberts told her civil attorney that you two got her drunk last night, made her sign some papers that she doesn't remember signing, and then you both," the attorney clears his throat before continuing on, "proceeded to have intercourse with her for hours, including simultaneously. Is that true?"
Yep, I’m pretty sure my cock just shriveled up in embarrassment. Beside me, Zack scrubs his hands over his face probably feeling the same shame as I am at this very moment. This shit can't be happening again! I've been warned after the last PR nightmare that my sex life better not be brought to the team's attention again.
"That wasn't a rhetorical question," Jerry yells when Zack and I remain silent. "Answer it!"
"Yes, except for the drunk part," I reply honestly.
"Did you see her drink anything?" the attorney asks.
"A beer or two, maybe a shot while we were at the bar," I respond, after thinking back to last night before Mandy and I ended up at Zack's house. All of us in his guest bed.
"She says you got her drunk, made her sign a few papers, and then basically took advantage of her while she was under the influence."
"That is bullshit!" Zack exclaims. "She wasn't drunk and we didn't take advantage of her. She was a very willing participant, if not the instigator."
"Right. Well, Ms. Robert's attorney says the...contracts she signed are null and void since she was mentally incapacitated when she signed them. She's going public with all this, including a picture of you two in bed...naked together unless we can reach a monetary settlement with her ASAP."
Oh my God.
If someone could die of embarrassment I'd be pushing up daisies right this very second. Zack, too, I'm betting. When it comes to a person's sexual preference, to each his own has always been my philosophy. But as athletes in an uber-masculine sport, if this rumor gets out...if the fans hear that shit about us...
"It's not like we touched each other. We're not gay," I mutter in our defense.
"Do you think anyone will actually believe that when they see this?" The evil motherfucker, Devon James, pulls out a large photo from his briefcase. He slides it down the long wooden conference table to make sure everyone gets a real good look at it.
And...it's us all right. Zack and I are asleep in bed, naked, while our cocks wave enthusiastically at the camera.
"Ah, shit," I grumble, covering my face with both hands, unable to believe this disaster is actually happening. We're fucked. So. Goddamn. Fucked.
"She wants a million-" the bastard attorney starts.
"A fucking million?" Zack exclaims.
"A million from each of you," Devon James finishes. A million damn dollars! Unlike Zack, I don't have a whole lot of millions in my contract.
"Fuck," Zack groans.
"The franchise is going to pay it. She's going to sign a mile high stack of non-disclosure documents while sober and in front of a room full of witnesses, but you two are at the end of the line," Jerry says. "One more even minor incident and you're gone, contracts voided under the moral turpitude clause. And you better believe I'll use this shit to blackball you with every other team in the league." He points a finger at the picture. "No one will want you!"
Fuck me. I can't get thrown out of the league. It's the only thing in my whole messed up life that I've ever done worth a shit. The one thing my parents were actually proud of.
"You've both been warned before. Keep your dicks in your pants and out of the press and fucking civil suits. Or better yet, get a goddamn girlfriend! Not some whore, but a regular woman that lasts more than a fucking night!" Jerry barks at us, his face turning so red that I'm afraid he's going to give himself a heart attack. Suddenly his expression of pure rage fades and he rises to his feet.
"In fact, that's exactly what you're going to do if you're going to keep playing for this family-oriented team. You're going to find a fucking saint and take her out where the paparazzi can see you, not just once, but for weeks. Do you hear me? Weeks! This is damage control for future's sa
ke, too. No more sluts on planes, no more young girls, no more threesomes, and no more contracts! If you think a woman is so untrustworthy that she needs to sign something in writing before she fucks you, then don't fuck her!"
God, if my parents were alive they'd be so fucking ashamed of me. Of what I've become. Just a few months ago my dumbass almost got hit with what would've been a loooong prison sentence because a girl straight up lied her way into the club downtown with a fake ID. I thought she had to be at least eighteen, or they wouldn't have let her in. She'd just turned sixteen. Lesson learned that night. Now I actually ask to see their IDs to verify their age myself before I fuck them. Not that being careful with age makes what I do any better. I'm still a disgusting manwhore. But fucking is the one thing that is guaranteed to get me out of my head for a few hours. It's the only thing that postpones the nightmares.
"If this gets out, how many more women are going to come forward with the same threesome story wanting a handout?" Sleezy McSleeze asks, looking between me and Zack.
I add up the ones I can remember just to give him a number.
"Maybe a dozen," I say, but that's not completely honest, so I add, "This year." Zack mutters a curse under his breath.
"From now on, you two are settling down!" Jerry screams, smacking his palms on the table in front of us. "No more partying! I want you both looking so pussy whipped you can't breathe without your woman's say so. Everywhere you go, she goes. If I hear of a single slut near either of you, you're done! Maybe then you'll stop thinking with your dicks and screwing off long enough to finally win some goddamn games. That's what we're paying you a fortune to do - play football. Not to be fuck-ups by disgracing this franchise and the entire league!"
"But...Alex Marshall," Zack starts. "If you let me go-"
"You. Are. Replaceable. Just like every other player on this team," Jerry replies with a glance in my direction. "There's hundreds of guys who’d kill for a shot at your job, and some who will probably do it even better. I'll throw you out on your ass and smear your name quicker than you can say 'blackballed’. If you think I'll keep putting up with your shit just because you've got a decent arm then you're a fucking idiot."
Shit, he is fucking serious. He's going to kick us out on our asses.
"You've both got until Sunday's home game to find and serve up your goody-two-shoes on a silver fucking platter for the press, or this time you're done!" Jerry bellows before striding out of the room and slamming the door behind him.
Now where the hell am I supposed to find a goody-two-shoes?
Chapter One
Addison James
I'm catching up on paperwork in my office Saturday at lunchtime, typing a few updates in patient files when my dad calls my cell phone. Sadly I have no social life, and my weekends are usually spent at my desk since I'm terminally single while all of my friends are married, and some are already popping out babies.
"Hey, Dad," I answer right away.
"Hey, Addison. Are you busy?" he asks, then gets straight to the point before I can respond. "There's an incredible financial opportunity I want to run past you."
"Nope, not busy. What's up?" I ask curiously. My dad is a hotshot civil attorney, representing some of the state's biggest corporations and enterprises.
"How would you like to make a quick and easy hundred grand by doing practically nothing?"
I laugh into the phone. "Um, okay, Dad, are you aware that you just sounded exactly like a Nigerian email?"
"A Nigerian what?" he asks. "Never mind. Look, one of my new clients is in a...squeeze, and I think you're just the person who can help him out."
"Ah, what's going on? Is he suicidal? Depressed? Schizoid?" I ask, holding the phone with my shoulder, so I can reach and grab a yellow legal pad to jot down some notes.
"No to the former, and it's entirely possible on the latter."
"Okay, out with it already," I say, with a huff of annoyance at him giving me the runaround.
"Right. Well, just be open-minded and hear me out. Think how far a hundred grand would go in setting up your own private practice."
Oh jeez, he went straight in for the kill. He knows I've been dying to get out of my tiny, cramped office filled with pretentious, know-it-all geezers, so I can open up my own place. The doctors here refuse to advertise our practice on the Internet to generate new clients from the younger generation, and two of them don't even own computers for chrissakes!
"So what exactly do I have to do to get this small fortune?" It's probably less than what my dad makes in a month, but it's a huge amount of money to me. I've refused to accept a dime from him since I finished my doctorate. I'd hitched a free ride on that gravy train for way too long.
"You just need to be seen on the arm of one of the Wildcats' players for say five or six weeks at various publicity opportunities."
I don't know all the ins and outs of football, but I do know that the Wildcats have some seriously hot players. At the top of that list would have to be their absolutely gorgeous quarterback.
"Is it Zack Bradford?" I ask excitedly, aware that I sound like a teenage fangirl, and not caring. He’s so freaking hot.
"I can't tell you who it is unless you agree, and only after you sign a non-disclosure agreement."
Damn.
"So I basically have to agree to date this man and be his arm candy for a few photo ops? That's it?"
"Well...you'll also need to move in with him. Just to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't break his end of the bargain."
"Move in with him?" I ask appalled. “It sounds like you want me to be a full-time babysitter for a grown man.”
"You'd have your own room and there would be no physical contact allowed whatsoever."
Double damn. What if I want physical contact? I'm a twenty-seven-year-old single woman, not a nun.
"So are you up for this or not? We're on a tight deadline," my dad says. He's always on a deadline.
A hundred grand would be enough to secure me a great little suite in one of the downtown buildings for probably a year and pay for advertising. I'd be an idiot to turn that down for a couple of dates and a new roomie for a few short weeks. How bad could it be?
"Okay, I'm in."
"Great. Why don't you come on by the office to get everything signed? We should have your name on the paperwork and ready to go in half an hour."
"That'll work. When do I start?" I ask.
"Immediately," he replies. "You'll need to pack your things and head over to his place tonight."
"Fine," I agree. It's not like I have plans, and I’m excited to meet this mysterious professional football player. "See you then."
...
An hour later my hand is cramping and there are still more forms to read and sign. The player I’ll be living with and pretending to be in a relationship with is Jake Young, a wide receiver I'm not familiar with. When I asked my dad's sole legal assistant working on a Saturday afternoon if she knew what the man looks like she fanned her face, which I take as a good sign.
Apparently Mr. Young and I have to make this "relationship" look real whenever we're in the public or in the presence of other people. I can't tell anyone that it's not legitimate or I lose my payment that I'll be provided at the end of six weeks. Mr. Young is not allowed to lay a finger on me or I can void the agreement and he still has to pay me. I’m sure that was my dad’s language. If the contract gets voided, Mr. Young loses his multi-million dollar contract with the Wildcats. If I catch him associating with any women, I'm required to report it to my father and the Wildcats will throw him out on his ass. Wow.
Nothing I've read explains why he needs me to agree to date him. It must be bad if it's come to this extreme of an arrangement, based on the fact that he could lose his contract if it doesn't work out.
"Okay, this is the last one," the legal assistant says on an exhale. She’s been shuffling all the paperwork to me and notarizing some of the more important ones.
"Good."
; "Let me go copy you a set of all this and I'll be right back."
"Sure," I say, pulling out my phone to check and see if I've missed any patient calls. Mr. Williams has been growing more depressed by the day ever since his wife left him, so I worry he might need an overhaul of his prescriptions. I hope I don’t get a call that he's been committed before I see him Monday. It's an hour earlier in the day than Ms. Jefferson's usual frantic call, her delusions varying from someone broke into her apartment and stole her glasses to the man in the apartment downstairs is pumping nerve gas up into her air vents. Yes, my patients can be rather distraught, but it's all just part of their sicknesses. It's why I work so hard trying to help them live their lives as normally as possible. It's a good thing I have an unlimited supply of patience for my patients.
My stomach growls, reminding me that in the rush to get over here I skipped lunch. Instead of sitting around waiting for my bible size stack of copies, I grab my purse and decide to go eat and come back later. Or better yet, just have my dad bring the paperwork to me.
Most of the hallway maze of the office is dark since it's the weekend. I head for the one room that has a light shining out of it. I'm pretty sure it's the copy room since I hear the equipment running and sort of a banging sound. What's my dad's assistant's name? Hanna? Hope? Holly! That's it.
"Hey, Holly?" I call out as I round the doorway and then come to a complete stop. My eyes try to process the sight before me, but it's taking longer than usual. There's this buff, dark-haired man with his back to me, his bare ass completely exposed since his cargo khakis are tugged down his hips. He didn't hear me above the roar of the office equipment, and doesn't seem the least bit concerned that someone could come along and find him fucking a girl face down on the copier while it spouts out pages. Oh, but not just any girl. I'm pretty sure that's Hailey or Holly, whatever her name, getting drilled hard and fast from behind. My opinion of her drops drastically after seeing her screw her boyfriend in my dad's office while she's on the cock. I mean the clock. Dang Freudian slip.
