But, if there’s one thing I have learned from Sydney, it’s that even smutty books have a happy ending. “Sure, I’d love to help you, Alex. When and where is the event?”
He breathes into the phone, sounding relieved. “Thank you, Kennedy. The Skills Clinic starts tomorrow morning at the event center on the Strickland University campus. I was planning to surprise Charlotte in the afternoon, but if you can meet with my teammates, Tyler Kane and Carter Donovan, beforehand, that would be great. They’re helping me organize everything with Charlotte’s clients. I’ll give them your phone number if that’s okay.”
Tyler Kane is the star center for the Philadelphia Flyers. He’s also the highest paid player in the NHL with the ego and looks to match. He’s a mega babe—short blond hair, sun-kissed skin, and wide blue eyes that jump off his face during every interview. I have a slight crush on him from watching him play. He sure knows how to tear it up on the ice, which makes me wonder what he’d be like in the bedroom.
And Carter Donovan is nothing to sneeze at. He’s bigger, more toned and taller than Tyler Kane, but he oozes just as much sex appeal with his scruffy dark beard and rugged good looks. For most of the season, he’s been sporting the lumberjack look that a lot of guys do because of superstition though I have never understood that tactic.
Alex is new to the team, but I have a serious fangirl, freak out moment knowing that Alex wants me to meet with his teammates. I’m dying on the inside, so excited I have trouble forming actual words for a minute.
“Yeah, that works for me.” My voice is level and calm, unlike how I feel on the inside. “Just have Donovan or Kane call me to setup a time for us to meet.”
I squeal on the inside with delight, the prospect of one of them calling me too much to handle after such a long day on the road. And to think I almost missed the chance because of Sydney blabbing about cocks.
“And just so you know, Charlotte’s entire client list will be there. You can have all-access exclusives with whoever you want.”
Some players are near impossible to get within a five-foot radius. I have been dying to get an interview with NBA hotshot Dante Fisher, for over a year. Even after helping Coach out with Alex, I still haven’t been able to touch him. It also doesn’t help that he plays for the Chicago Bulls and is only in town a few times per year. I sure as hell can’t afford to fly out there just to stalk him. The opportunity Alex is giving me is like hitting the sports lottery.
“Count me in.” The childlike excitement is evident in my voice.
“Great. Thank for doing this, Kennedy. Well, I better let you go. It’s Friday night, and I’m sure you have other plans.”
Nope, not even close. I have the dating life of a sixty-year-old woman. My life is nothing but work. The last sex I had over the past few months was with a vibrator or vicariously through one of Sydney’s books. She writes some real steamy stuff.
“Thanks, Alex. I’m looking forward to the clinic. Have a good night.”
After I hang up with Alex, I write down a few questions I want to ask tomorrow. This event will be the talk of the sports world. Sports Buzz needs a boost now that people are comparing it to the TMZ of sports. I take my career serious, and comments like that offend me. I did not spend four years studying journalism at NYU to let it go to waste.
Despite the late hour, I make another pot of coffee, because I need to finish my articles by morning. The worst part about being a writer is not having the words to put on the page. Sometimes, I stare at the screen for hours until I find inspiration, and thinking about the event tomorrow has me so distracted.
I turn on the radio and sink into the high back comfy chair, staring out the window that overlooks the noisy street.
My neighbors are blasting music from the house a few doors over. The same people sit on their front steps every night to deal drugs and throw wild parties. If I were smart, I would have gone apartment hunting at nighttime instead of the day. I had no idea what I was in store for until my first night living in this neighborhood. Most nights, I fall asleep to the sound of cop cars and ambulances.
Between the rent and upkeep for the apartment, I am barely making ends meet. My new lifestyle is much different from the one I had grown accustomed to as a child. Most people talk about rags to riches stories. Mine is more like riches to rags except my rags say Prada and Chanel. Or at least they do until I have to sell them to pay bills.
Within minutes of chugging coffee and reading through my notes, I find the right words to use for my article, adding some of my own flair to the story. News articles are boring, but I try to liven them up and do my best to make them sound less dull. Writing about a player with a torn rotator cuff or the Sixers practice report is not by any means the highlight of my life.
Where my writing really shines is on our blog. Our readers enjoy some of our features such as live Q&As where they can send us questions about love and sex that Sydney answers on Facebook and YouTube. Fans of her books and our blog followers love having the chance to ask a romance author for sex advice.
By the time I finish my story and add it to the queue for Monday, my phone rings again. Well after midnight, I assume it can only be one person and answer the phone without looking at the Caller ID.
“Syd, I told you I have to work on my piece. If you want another name for cock, you will have to Google it.”
A man laughs on the other end of the phone. “I think I can help you out with that. You have to start with the obvious—penis, dick, one-eyed monster—”
“Okay, that’s enough. Who the hell is this?” I yell into the phone, irritated. “You don’t go rambling off words like that to a lady.”
“Does a lady talk about cocks on the phone with strange men?” He has me there.
“You never answered my question. Who is this? Speak now, or I’m hanging up on you.”
“Tyler Kane. I assume you have heard of me since you’re a sports reporter. Parker gave me your number.”
He has such an arrogance about him that gives me the impulse to smack him through the phone. Sucking in a deep breath, I realize he makes me nervous, which is weird. I have fantasized about Tyler on more than one occasion while watching a hockey game.
What do I even say to him?
Somehow finding the words caught in the back of my throat, I speak, and with an intentional attitude. “Yeah, I know who you are, Tyler. Why are you calling so late?”
“Because I’m about to get shitfaced, and I plan to sleep in late tomorrow. I thought we should get this over and done with before I down a bottle of whiskey.”
“Right,” I snort. “You guys lost your wild card spot for the playoffs. Tough break. I guess a few drinks are in order.”
He sighs. “Yeah, thanks for reminding me, as if I wasn’t already trying to forget.” I note the irritation in his voice and hope that he doesn’t take what I said the wrong way, but he recovers fast. “We’ll get there next year, one step at a time. Anyway, tonight we’re celebrating Parker and Coach getting back together now that Parker is going over to the dark side and shacking up with Coach.”
I lean back in my chair and kick my feet up on the desk, trying to think of how to rebound from this conversation. We are already off to an awkward start, thanks to Sydney and her stupid questions. With the downfall of my father’s company hanging over my head, this paper is one of the last pieces of Sentry Publications, the multi-million dollar company my grandfather had built from the ground up, only for my father to destroy our family legacy by getting into business with the wrong people.
“Have fun. I’ll be working,” I mutter under my breath.
“You should come out with us tonight…if you want. A bunch of my teammates and me are hanging out at this new club on the river. It’s pretty sweet.”
“Thanks for the offer but it’s getting late. I have work to do, and you don’t even know me.”
“What’s there to know? If your body matches your sexy voice, tonight could be fun for both of us.”
/> I pretend to gag into the receiver and stick my finger into my mouth. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I have to hang up now. When and where am I meeting you tomorrow?”
“You’re no fun.” He breathes into the phone. “I’ll meet you at two p.m. at the event center on the Strickland University campus at the back entrance.”
“Sounds great.” I slide my feet off the desk and stand with the mug in my hand because this conversation requires a shot in my coffee. I need to find that bottle of vodka I hid. “I’ll see you then.”
Without giving him time to say another word, I hang up and open the freezer. Tomorrow is going to be a long day if this talk with Tyler is any indication. But I need the press for my paper.
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Teach
If you like professor-student romances, keep reading for a free excerpt of TEACH, the first book in the City of Sinners Series.
TEACH is available now!
Read TEACH for FREE with Kindle Unlimited
Mark Montgomery cares about two things—getting laid and getting paid. He's cocky, confident, sexy-as-sin, and counting down the last few months of college before he can begin his professional baseball career. But there are things Mark must do to survive until his big payday, questionable activities that could get him killed.
He doesn't want to rope anyone into his mess, especially not Olivia Ford, the woman he takes home from the club, a sexy lawyer who turns out to be his Law and Ethics professor. Their new relationship changes everything. But Mark won’t take no for an answer. Olivia can fight him all she wants, but Mark is the one who will be teaching her a lesson. In her classroom. Bent over her office desk. On the hood of his car.
Mark is more than a dirty talker who’s good in bed and can throw a ball, but what he does on the side is the one thing that could tear them apart and expose their forbidden relationship to the world.
Teach Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
OLIVIA
“You can do this,” I mutter. I suck in a deep breath, trying to psych myself up so that I can make it through one more night of work. Except it’s not just one more night. I have repeated the same mantra to myself for months now, and this job never gets easier.
Staring into the mirror, I hate the person I see—a woman with long fake lashes, too much makeup caked on her face, and a short black wig that itches her head, forcing her to scratch so hard that she looks like a dog who has fleas. None of it is mine; all of it is a facade to lure customers into the club. I hate that I have to work at Club Rave, offering my body to men, shaking my ass for a few dollars. But I’ve chosen this lifestyle as a temporary means to make money.
The bass thumps through the club, and even in the dressing room, the music vibrates beneath my five-inch heels. Each girl has their own vanity that they use to get ready, but tonight, the boss called in a few extras to entertain a private party, and now, we’re forced to share. On nights like these, the claws come out, and the girls have been known to fight over something as stupid as using the last of the hair spray.
“Liv,” Donna says from behind me, “we’re on in five. Hurry up. I need to put my face on. Courtney won’t move her ass until she’s slathered on another five layers of concealer, and I have bags under my eyes that make me look like a zombie from The Walking Dead.”
I don’t see a thing. She is gorgeous and has the body of a goddess. But her looks are not her best feature. Men like her because of her spitfire personality that matches what they see on the outside.
Her long, dark strands, also as fake as mine, sit above her large breasts that are practically falling out of a sexy referee costume. Most of the girls wear wigs to protect their identities. Donna just so happens to be the daughter of a successful banker in town who would go ballistic if he knew what she did for a living. Unlike me, Donna dances because she likes it. She loves when men throw themselves at her; she even gets off on it.
We became friends after only one night at the club. I was nervous about dancing in spandex and a crop top in front of strange men, and Donna did everything in her power to make me comfortable.
I look at her reflection in the mirror and laugh, shaking my head at her ridiculousness. “You look great, as always. Stop fishing for compliments.”
“But it’s true. I’ve been dragging ass this whole week. I’ll be lucky if I don’t break a heel and face-plant on the bar.”
I remove a tube of red lipstick from the makeup case on the vanity in front of me. “That’s because you choose to run out for your late-night booty calls with Tony whenever he beckons you.”
“If you saw the size of him, you’d run right over, too. Trust me.” She places her hands on my shoulders, winks at me, and squeezes down hard enough to cause me to slump in my chair. “You need to get laid, babe. When was the last time you had a good dicking?”
I burst into laughter. “Dicking? Where do you come up with this shit?”
She proceeds to make an O with her left thumb and index finger and then sticks her right index finger through the middle, sliding it back and forth at a fast pace, her eyes wide open with a goofy smile splayed on her face. “This is what you need to do before your vagina dries up like the Sahara.” Donna moves to the side of my chair, leans against the vanity, and bends down, as if looking under my skirt.
I roll my eyes. “What are you doing, weirdo?”
“Checking for cobwebs.” A smile reaches up to her deep brown eyes, but she holds back her laughter, her face giving away nothing.
I swat at her arm, but she moves in just enough time, causing me to smack my hand on the edge of the counter. “Damn you. Shut up, and go get ready. We don’t have time to discuss my love life, or lack thereof.”
“I’m only trying to help. As your breast friend, it is my duty to make sure you stop moping around and find some action. A one-night stand would do you some good.”
She has a point, but I don’t bother to acknowledge her comment. It has been far too long since my last boyfriend. I’ve finally gotten to the point where I dated so many losers in a row that I gave up on the idea of finding anyone normal in this city. My last boyfriend stole my car and wrecked it, and the one before had a drinking problem.
Propping her leg up on my chair, she laces up the black leather boots that cover her pale legs and stop mid thigh, accentuating her killer curves. “Is that what you’re wearing out there?” She sets her foot on the floor and moves closer, her eyes traveling down my body in disapproval. “You have to take that off.”
I slide the red lipstick along my lips and blot with a tissue from the box next to my makeup case. “Why? What’s wrong with what I have on? I wear this every Thursday.”
“Not this week. Bruno said you had to wear the gray skirt and top tonight. Ya know, the sexy-teacher outfit.” She points at the opposite end of the room, her finger landing on Kerry, who is wearing the same schoolgirl outfit as me.
Guess I missed the memo.
Bruno will kill me if I go onstage in the same costume as another dancer.
I glance in the mirror, checking my makeup one more time, and run a glossy shimmer along my bottom lip before smacking them together. “Whatever Bruno wants.” I stand with my hand held out, motioning toward my chair. “Go ahead. You should finish up here. I’ll get changed, and then I’ll see you in the VIP room.”
“Perfect.” She plops down on the leather chair. “I’m right behind you. Break a leg.”
After I change, I walk down the creepy back hallway. In the dimly lit space, the lumpy red wallpaper reminds me of coagulated blood. The lack of ventilation along with the mold and whatever is festering inside the walls and drop ceiling make it hard to breathe.
At the end of the hall, opposite our dressing room, I open the door to the VIP room and suck in a deep breath, taking in the dense air and the stench of sweaty bodies. Purple lights illuminate the mirrored walls and ceiling, casting shadows of the men who are sitting on c
ouches scattered throughout the large, open room and standing around the bar that runs along the right side.
Two girls are dancing, each wrapping her body around a pole at the center of the room. While we’re not strippers, we have to do some pole work on occasion, especially for the high-end clients who book private rooms. Bouncers guard us, as if we were their property. In some ways though, we do belong to Bruno and his club.
Donna files in behind me and playfully smacks me on the ass, pushing me closer to the stage. Even after three months of working at the club, I still get stage fright for the first few minutes until I get into my groove. But, after I’m on the stage, bar, or whatever spot Bruno has chosen for me that night, I try not to think about the people in the crowd, and I concentrate on the real reason I am stuck working here.
Donna takes her place on the stage. I follow her lead. Bruno even had the circular platform mirrored, allowing anyone who is standing close enough to see right up our skirts. I purposely wear booty-hugging black shorts instead of the standard thong and fishnets most of the girls wear.
Moving my hips back and forth to the music, I keep my eyes on the crowd forming in front of me, careful not to focus on anyone in particular. I made that mistake when I first started dancing. A man thought I was making eye contact to signal that I wanted him when all I was trying to do was calm my nerves and pick someone to zone in on. I had done the same thing when I was in law school, and my trick had worked every time. But the freak followed me home for a week after our strange encounter, which resulted in me having to stop by the courthouse to get a restraining order.
Donovan (Face-Off Series Book 3) Page 21
