Hook Up (A Bad Boy Sports Romance)

by Bella Love-Wins

  “No, no. Not about the car, about Chris James dropping you off at my front steps.”

  Now I had a full name. Cool.

  “What, you know him?”

  “Anyone in the State of Louisiana who watches college football knows Chris and his whole team. The guy’s a big name. He’s huge. Well, maybe not as big as Slade Clark or Evan Marshall, but he’s up there. How do you know him? Are you two dating or something? Shit, if Mike were home right now he’d have been out here like lightning to meet him.”

  Mike, Rose’s live-in boyfriend, was an A-grade asshole. I was glad he wasn’t around today. He and my sister got together in high school senior year, and I never liked him. He cheated on my sister every other week, got high on drugs whenever he wasn’t at work, and the rumor was he’d slept with so many hookers he’d given Rose at least one STD over the years. Even my Aunt Alice disliked him, and she loved everyone. Part of me was happy when they’d moved out here because it meant I wouldn’t have to see his sick perverted face every day. I didn’t have a clue what Rose saw in him.

  Their sorry excuse for a relationship was the reason I never let myself fall for any guy. Gratuitous protected sex. The more casual, the better. That was my philosophy, if I could call it that. That philosophy of mine didn’t mean that I slept with guys all the time. Far from it. I usually had my head down, working and saving for a rainy day. It was only once in a while that I put my priorities aside and took care of my urges.

  “Are you dating Chris James or what, Jo?” she repeated while I was on my inner rant about Mike.

  “No. We’re not dating. You know I don’t date. I barely know him, actually.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Leave it to you to have a hook-up with a guy every woman wished she could have and every man wishes he could be like.”

  I shrugged and looked up at the building. “So what floor do you live on?”

  “Don’t go changing the subject so fast. He gave you a ride from El Paso?”

  “Yeah. The car broke down near Horizon City.”

  “And he just picked you up and brought you and your stuff here?”

  “Pretty much. Well, I did meet him the night before at the Raging Bull Saloon.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, raising her hand to stop me. “Back up a bit. You met Chris for the first time two nights ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he picked you up at the side of the highway and brought you all the way here?”

  “That’s exactly what happened. Why? What’s the big deal?”

  “So you fucked him, right?”

  “Rose, since when are you so interested in sports or my sex life? Oh God, please tell me we’re not gonna start doing girl talk and shit, okay? Because I think I’d almost rather live in a homeless shelter and have someone gouge my eyes out while I’m sleeping.”

  “You fucked him. You did! Was it good?”

  I looked at my stuff on the sidewalk and wondered whether a taxi driver would be willing to take my stuff the hell out of here. This chick may have looked like Rose, and her voice may have sounded like Rose, but she was not the sister I knew and resented four and a half years ago.

  “Are you sure you’re twenty-three and didn’t get put in a time machine and sent back to when you were twelve? I don’t mean to start off our reunion like this, sis, but you’re really scaring me right now.”

  She giggled. “Stop messing around with me and tell me about Chris.”

  “Chris is just a guy who felt pity for me, and did me a solid by giving me a ride here, okay? Forget about Chris. What I need is my big sister. The one who can tell me where to put my shit and how to take public transit so I can get situated and have a job by the end of the week. Have you seen that Rose? Because I need her to help me.”

  “Awww hell. You always did clam up when you had juicy stuff you could be sharing.” She grabbed a suitcase and dragged it up the steps. “Bring whatever’s most valuable inside first. This ain’t the best neighborhood.”

  I followed her inside with my framed photos, leaning it up inside the main floor common hallway before running back out for the suitcase, then the plastic containers. My purse was cleaved to my side the whole time. I wasn’t letting that out of my sight.

  We got everything up to the second floor and she showed me inside and to my room. Okay, it was not exactly a room. Rose and Mike lived in a one-bedroom apartment. They had the only bedroom. My ‘room’, was less than half of the tiny living room. Either she or Mike had found one of those Japanese room dividers for privacy. They’d moved the loveseat in front of it and put a sofa bed on the other side for me to sleep, with space on the side for me to swivel one section and use it as a door. There was a metal rolling clothes rack in one corner, and a chest of drawers beside it, leaving just enough room to open up the sofa bed when it was time to sleep.

  That was it.

  I looked at the approximately eight feet by nine feet space. It wasn’t that bad, to be honest. It was something. A place for me to lay my head, and just enough space to maybe put up an easel in the corner and paint. It even had a window, so who was I to complain?

  “This is perfect,” I told her, turning to give her a warm hug. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me get on my feet.”

  She accepted the hug for a second then she pulled out of my grasp. We weren’t a very affectionate bunch. “No problem at all. You’re family. Besides, you’ll be paying a third of the rent, so it’ll all work out in the wash.”

  I saw that part about paying rent coming from a mile away. I was ready for that. Rose and Mike both had pretty good jobs. Mike worked on an offshore oil rig and Rose was a receptionist at the University. In spite of all that, I had no delusions. I had to pull my own weight from the get go.

  “Of course. How much is that going to be?”

  “Five seventy-five.”

  “Split between the three of us? That’s easy.”

  “No, honey. Five seventy-five each.”

  My eyes just about fell out of my head. “For this? You’re paying seventeen hundred dollars for this tiny place?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How the hell is that possible?” The seven thousand dollars that I thought could last me a year or more was suddenly going to be used up in eight or nine months. I was close to panicking. Forget panic. I was hyperventilating.

  “We’re fifteen minutes from the main college campus, love. It ain’t cheap.”

  “But you said it wasn’t that great of an area.”

  “It ain’t.” She clocked my new-found anxiety and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Being this close to the campus means you’re more likely to find work. There’s a whole lot of coffee houses, diners and family restaurants nearby, so you’ll have something in no time.”

  “All right.”

  I sucked in a breath and started getting my things unpacked and put away. Rose went back to her room to relax. I was all situated before two in the afternoon. I still couldn’t shake the uneasiness about all my savings wasting away on rent in such a short time. The only way that feeling was going to leave the pit of my stomach was when I had a job that could cover at least the rent, food and transportation. I had to get something, and fast.

  My clothes were now hung up on the rolling rack. I studied which outfit would work best to get out this afternoon and start lining up places where I could apply. Coffee houses were less appealing because it meant I’d earn fewer tips. My best bet was to waitress at a decent restaurant where I could sweet-talk my way to big tips if I had to.

  As I stood there deciding on what to wear, I heard my phone beep with a text. Fishing around in my purse, I found it and checked the number. It wasn’t anyone I had in my contact lists. I checked the message and shook my head, smiling.

  It was Chris.

  Cornerback.

  ‘How’s it going in the Big Easy, little miss sunshine?’

  I knew it was him but I still replied with,

  ‘Who is this?’r />
  My smile widened when the reply that came back read,

  ‘Your white knight, sweet thing.’

  ‘How the hell did you get my number?’

  ‘I have a curious streak, Josephine Odette Celia Quinn.’

  Crap.

  The son of a bitch went through my purse and found my driver’s license? I threw the phone down on the sofa beside me and quickly reached for my bag. Digging through it, I saw my wallet was still there, as well as the only cash I had to my name that had to last me until I got a job and my first paycheck. Okay, so he wasn’t a thief, but he still took this too far.

  ‘Not funny, you no-good creepy bastard.’

  ‘There’s that mouth. As dirty as it is sweet.’

  ‘That wasn’t nice, searching thru my shit like that.’

  ‘You’ll be glad I got your number eventually.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Actually I was pretty darned tickled to see his message, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that.

  ‘Are you back in Baton Rouge yet?’

  ‘Yeah. Had a nap too.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Tell me something.’

  ‘Something like what?’

  ‘Have you said a single berating comment since you woke up this morning?’

  I thought about it. I don’t think I had.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s cuz I rubbed off on you.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Have a good evening, beautiful. Call or text me anytime.’

  ‘See you, Chris.’

  I put the phone down and went back to picking out clothes. I was still anxious as hell about finding work and paying my way, but my head was soaring. Good old cornerback Chris had taken the time to make sure we wouldn’t lose touch.

  10

  Chris

  “Get your sorry Texas ass in the car,” Slade barked when he stopped by my off-campus apartment to pick me up for the pub crawl. “We’re late as fuck.”

  “Can’t be late for a pub crawl, dumbass,” I yelled. “And didn’t you say the party don’t start till you show up?”

  “If the squad ain’t there, it ain’t no party, son,” Tre piped up from the backseat behind Slade. Evan was riding shotgun so I jumped in beside Tre, who had his hand held out waiting for a fist bump to greet me.

  I was ready to head out with the boys even though I hadn’t been away from them long enough to miss their ugly mugs. We’d all been at summer school, which was customary for members of the football team member, to make sure we kept our grades up and our bodies in shape all year long. A few hours earlier I had stopped by the frat house to hang with him, Tre and Evan, who had all made it to campus before me. Slade and Tre were local. Evan was from somewhere up north, and as we were always battling, I didn’t give a crap where he was from. That guy had a mouth on him that was probably worse than Jo’s.

  I wondered what she was up to right about now.

  Mo and Chad were the only two from our more senior bunch who weren’t back yet. Had I known the whole squad wasn’t here yet, I’d probably not have rushed to leave that little Beaumont hotel so fast.

  I was having a sweet flashback of Jo and me getting busy when Evan started his usual crap.

  “Let me be the first to say, I don’t give two fucks what any of you did over the past week. We all did the same fucking shit. We saw our folks. We drank like fish. We ate disgusting unhealthy food. We didn’t keep up with workouts. And we fucked some girls. The only difference between me and you losers is I got to tie some of them up and give one or two a nice little spanking. Did I mention it was topless tassel and ball gag night at the karaoke place up the street from my house?”

  “Too much fucking information,” Tre shouted. “Keep that freaky shit to your damn self.”

  “And the fact that you spent your whole week off inside a strip club isn’t freaky?”

  “No, it ain’t. It’s quality time with my hoes and bitches. The lap dances were off the chain!”

  “Here we go again.” Evan shook his head and turned back to face forward.

  “I’m telling y’all that’s what we need up in the frat house.”

  “A strip club?”

  “I’ll settle for two stripper poles in my room. Our usual groupies would be all over that shit.”

  “I’d like to be there when you pitch it to the landlord.”

  Slade, quarterback and team captain, raised a hand to get everyone’s attention. “Listen up, sons. I got an announcement to make.” He waited until we all simmered down before he continued. “I’m about to make a bold prediction. Who’s ready to hear it?” We all nodded in his direction. “We are going to win the SEC Southeast Conference championship this December, and then we’ll move on to scoop up the playoff semifinals. After that, we’re gonna break some skulls and take home the Nationals. Who the fuck’s with me?!”

  “Fuck yeah!” we all shouted, barking out our usual loud chanting, which was twice as loud in the car with the windows up on account of the heat and humidity.

  “And every one of us graduating this year is getting into the NFL. That’s me, Chris and Evan. Tre, you’ll have to hang on until you’re juvenile ass is old enough to graduate.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  “What are you, eighteen?”

  “Nineteen, motherfucker.”

  “You’re still too young for strip clubs.”

  “That’s not what your momma told me.”

  Slade grumbled, then he continued. “Who else? Chad’s got a shot too. Mo, well, he has to get his grades in order. I ain’t too sure he can pull it off this year, but he will for sure by next season…Getting back to the point. This. Is. Our. Fucking. Year!”

  “Woot!”

  “We’re gonna bring it like we own it, because no one can take us on.”

  “Hell yeah!”

  After a while we got into the Baton Rouge pub district near River Road. He parked near the meeting spot for the first spot on the pub crawl. “We’re here. Let’s drink our faces off until we pass the fuck out.”

  After our first stop on the pub crawl, the rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. I should have paced myself, but then again, who can really do that on a night like this? First of all, someone had let Tre do the organizing of the route. Bad fucking idea. Tre may have been a local, but he was not the right guy to pick if you had a simple set of tasks needing to be done.

  Tre was the walking reincarnation of Chuck Sherman from American Pie, except all anyone needed to do was replace the Sherminator’s fascination with robots to an unhealthy preoccupation with strip clubs. Tre even looked like Chris Owen—well, an African-American, wealthy Chris Owen, with an athletic build and dark curly hair. Tre was probably just as uber-rich as our buddy Chad. His parents were both very successful entrepreneurs. Tre had this thing about lists. A five-item list of things to do would get deconstructed, morphed and expanded to the two hundred and seventy-six component parts, usually involving one or more stops to nearby strip clubs. If his parents had ever found out Tre spent a solid third of his time in college at those places, they were sure to get him into long-term weekly counseling.

  What was worse about Tre was his best friend, Pappa Thumbs. Pappa Thumbs—also known as Franko Salvatore, which was his real name—was a sophomore here at college, and a born and bred third generation Italian. He told us that was what friends called him in his hometown because his father really did have two thumbs on one hand. Dude even had a picture of it in his phone. One thumb was normal sized, and the other was a small, almost boneless looking version of a thumb, just dangling from a spot close to his wrist. I thought the picture was photoshopped for sure. Someone at the frat house got so tired of calling the kid Pappa Thumbs, our new nickname for him was Pat, which was nowhere near as menacing. Pat said he was next in line to take over the Syndicate, which he said was code for the mafia unit that ran all organized crime on the Southeastern seaboard. Most of us thought he was just anothe
r shit-talking rich kid.

  Pat was not on the college football team. Thank fuck for that, because whenever Tre brought Pat out to hang with us, everything all went to shit. That was a match made in hell. Tre, his list and strip club fetish, and Pat. We met up with Pat at the first stop. He was standing there with eight drop dead gorgeous women around him, all waiting to kick off the night in style with us. Christ, the man was out here in the Louisiana heat wearing an all-white three-piece suit to go with his mafia image, a white wide-brim fedora hat, and a Cuban cigar hanging out of his mouth.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted us. “I’ve set up the finest set of drinks for us inside with my guy. He’s the best bartender in all of Baton Rouge…a mixologist.”

  Slade stopped him right there. “Dude. We didn’t come down her for girly neon colored drinks. Fuck the mixologist. We want what’s on tap, or the hard stuff to get you and Tre shit-faced quick enough to do stupid shit and make tonight interesting.” He eyed two of the ladies. “On another note, who are these fine young things you brought along, Pat? Are these for us?”

  Pat took a long drag on his cigar and nodded. “Uh-huh. Take your pick.”

  The ladies gathered around us and with Pat leading the way, we made one hell of an entrance. We must have had enough booze in that first stop to make the entire college campus drunk as skunks. That was our second mistake after letting Tre set up the itinerary. Things took a nose dive when the pub crawl turned into a pub drive—in the limo Pat had hired for the evening. At least none of us were getting slammed with a DWI tonight. That may have been the only upside.

  We rolled up to the second stop, and the minute we got there everyone in the limo but Tre and Pat did a collective eye-roll. It was the Blue Bayou Gentleman’s Club. A strip club.

  “We’re not going in there,” Slade announced. “Pat, get your driver to find us a pub, not a fucking peep show.

  “This is a fine drinking establishment, gentlemen. Anything you order inside is on me. I’ve got a tab. Tre does too.”

  For whatever reason, that got Slade interested. “Fifteen minutes and we’re outta there, got it? If any of you buy me a lap dance you’re getting your teeth knocked out.”