by Lili Valente
Shane: Ugh. Poor kid.
Jake: Yeah, her mom isn’t winning any medals, but she did make sure that Keri takes parenthood seriously. Very seriously.
If Keri believes I’m with someone I care about and we’re expecting a baby, I think she would back off. Honestly, it might be the only thing that can get her to admit defeat. As long as she thinks she has a shot in hell of getting back on my good side, she won’t give up.
She’s already left five messages on my voicemail tonight, and I just changed my number two days ago.
Shane: Jesus. How did she get the new number?
Jake: I have no idea. I only gave it to my coach and a few people I know I can trust.
Shane: Aw, thanks.
I’m glad you know you can trust me.
And I promise I’ll do everything possible to help you get your life back, but faking a pregnancy doesn’t feel right. At least, not yet.
I think it’s too early in our “relationship” for something like that to be believable and it just…makes my guts squirm.
I’m superstitious.
Jake: Superstitious…?
Shane: I’d like to have kids someday. Hopefully some day not too far from this day, since I’m not getting any younger.
This little voice in my head says I’ll jinx my chances if I lie about being pregnant. I know that’s crazy, but I can’t help it.
Jake: No, I get it. That’s not crazy.
Shane: Yes, it is. It makes no logical sense and is grounded in nothing resembling a fact. That’s the definition of crazy.
Jake: Okay, it’s a little crazy, but I still get it. I take my lucky skates off and put them back on again three times before every game, and in college I went five months without shaving because I was convinced my scraggly beard gave me superpowers.
Shane: I love that!
When you finally shaved did you save some of the beard hair to put in a good luck amulet? Or in a locket for your first born son so you can pass the beard mojo on to the next generation?
Jake: All right. You win.
You can be the crazy one in our “relationship.”
Shane: Awesome!
But seriously, I had a pair of lucky underwear I wore to every test in college. By the time I graduated the elastic was shot and the back was full of holes, but I still keep it around in case of emergencies.
Jake: Sounds hot…
Shane: It is the opposite of hot. It looks like homeless-person underwear.
Jake: I bet you still look damned good in it.
Shane: If I didn’t know better, I would think you were flirting with me, Mr. Falcone.
Jake: Just practicing so I’ll be convincing next time we’re pretending to be in love, kitten.
What do you think about that? Does kitten work for you?
I was trying to think of something more special than baby or sweetheart.
Shane: I don’t know. Kitten is kind of cutesy. I feel like I’m too grown up for a pet name like that.
How about hell cat?
Or razor claw?
Jake: You’re going too far in the other direction. No one is going to believe we’re crazy in love if I call you my little razor claw.
Shane: Hmmm…you’re probably right.
Jake: How about ‘princess’?
You’re NYC royalty, and a princess and a dragon do go well together.
Shane: They do, don’t they?
Okay, dragon, I’ll be your princess.
That takes care of number twenty on the questionnaire, too.
Should we work through the rest of the questions? Since it looks like we’ll be jumping into this thing with both feet tomorrow?
Jake: Why don’t you just tell me something about yourself? Something you would tell someone you were dating. And then I’ll do the same.
Seems like that’s a more natural way to go about getting to know each other than giving you a list of my favorite foods and movies.
Shane: Or we could play truth or dare. I haven’t played that in years!
Jake: All right. But I’m not leaving my apartment. There are already guys with cameras prowling the block.
Shane: Got it. So what’s your pleasure? Truth or dare?
Jake: Truth. Even though you already know most of my secrets.
Shane: Right. So what’s a secret you haven’t told me?
That you haven’t told anyone?
Jake: Shit. I walked into that one.
Shane: You really did, and I’m so happy about it. I’m going to rub my hands together in evil glee as soon as I finish texting this.
Jake: I bet you are.
Okay…something I’ve never told anyone…
Shit…
When I was in high school I used to steal razors and shaving cream and stuff like that from the local drug store. No matter how careful I was with money, I always seemed to run out by the end of the month and I couldn’t stand to ask my mom for a loan. She was usually as tapped out as I was, or worse.
I never got caught, but I felt like shit about it.
As soon as I had enough saved up that I could stop living hand to mouth, I went back and wrote the guy who owns the store a check.
Shane: Wow. How did he take that?
Jake: He cried a little.
Turns out he knew I was stealing the whole time. He turned a blind eye because he knew my family had it rough and that Mom could barely pay for my kid brother’s asthma meds.
He actually tried to refuse the check, but I slipped it into his wallet while we were out grabbing beer and pizza, along with a note that said it would mean a lot to me if he would cash it.
He did and sent me a thank you letter and a picture of me on Santa’s lap when I was a little kid. Mr. Greer plays Santa every year. Turns out his wife saves all the shots.
Shane: Aw, that’s a beautiful story, Jake. What a sweet man.
Jake: He’s a really good guy. But I’m still ashamed of myself. I should have found a way to pay for the things I needed, or gone without.
Shane: You were a kid doing the best you could in a hard situation. And you made it right as soon as you could. You shouldn’t feel bad. You should feel proud. Most people never would have gone back to the scene of the crime to write a check.
So you have a little brother?
Jake: Three. Jamie, Judd, and Justice. My mom had a thing for the letter J.
Shane: J is a sexy letter. One of my favorites.
So how old are they now? Are you guys close?
Jake: You’re milking this turn for everything you can get, aren’t you?
Shane: I’m an only child. I’m intrigued by people who have lots of siblings.
I always wished I had two, an older brother to teach me how to fight and a little sister I could teach everything else. And who would think I was the coolest person ever and be my very best friend, of course.
Jake: That’s cute. My brothers and I aren’t best friends—I spent too much time when we were growing up riding their asses to make up for not having a dad around—but we’re close. They still live in Pennsylvania, but they come to visit a couple times a year. And I always go home for Christmas and fly fishing in the summer.
Shane: So why wasn’t dad around?
Jake: Unh-unh. Your turn now. Truth or dare?
Shane: Oh truth, I guess. But only because I’m too lazy to get up off the couch.
Jake: Why did you want to learn how to fight when you were a kid? Private school that rough in the city?
Shane: After I moved in with my aunt, I went to private Catholic school instead of my Montessori cuddle fest, so that was a rude awakening.
The kids were mostly nice, but the nuns were monsters. Nothing like Fraulein Maria in the Sound of Music. Lots of smacking our kneecaps for wearing our skirts too short and no twirling in meadows.
It was a huge let down.
Jake: So you were planning to take down some nuns? That’s hardcore.
Shane: No, I didn’t want to take down the nuns! Ge
ez. I knew better than to start something with a woman in a hoodie. The media has taught me that people who wear hoodies are in gangs, Jake, and nuns are members of one of the oldest gangs running.
I was too scared to say boo to Sister Mary Eustice, let alone get violent in her direction.
Jake: Then why? Or who?
If you don’t answer, then I win the game.
And I bet you hate to lose, don’t you, princess?
Shane: I do hate to lose, you bastard…
Fine…I didn’t want to take down anyone in particular.
I was just…angry.
All the time.
Running and soccer helped, but I thought if I could learn how to kick the crap out of someone I would finally be able to get all the anger out and be normal again.
Jake: Why were you angry all the time?
Because of losing your parents?
Shane: Yes.
That was before I learned that stuff like that isn’t personal.
Jake: What isn’t?
Shane: Life.
Life isn’t fair, but it isn’t out to get anyone in particular, either.
I wasn’t singled out for bad shit. Bad shit just happened, and I happened to be in the way when it did.
Jake: I get it. And I’m sorry.
Shane: You already said that. And you don’t have to be sorry. Sounds like you had your share of bad shit, too.
Jake: I did, but I also had a really good mom. She saved my life a hundred times just by being there when I needed someone to listen and love me no matter what stupid thing I’d done.
Shane: Aw. That’s beautiful, too.
Is it okay that I find it completely adorable that “the Dragon” is a mama’s boy?
Jake: Yes. Adorable is the first step on the road.
Shane: The road to where?
Jake: You’ll see when we get there.
Shane: You’re more mysterious than most hockey players I know.
Jake: Judging by the fact that you thought a puck was made of plastic I’m guessing that’s not many.
Shane: None at all. And you’re really not mysterious, just a little…confusing.
Jake: What has you confused, princess?
Shane: So many things. Life is very confusing, don’t you think?
Jake: You’re avoiding the question again.
Shane: That’s because my turn is over. And sadly, I won’t be able to stay for another round of Truth or Truth. I have to get my brain sleep so I can be a high-functioning member of society tomorrow.
Good night, Puff.
Jake: Good night, princess.
And please, call me Dragon, at least until I prove to you that I’m magic.
Shane: dragon emoji All right, then…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Shane
The night passes in a blur of sweat-damp skin, tangled sheets, and lurid dreams in which Jake proves to me that he’s magic in a hundred different ways, with his hands and his mouth and his tongue curling between my legs and his “it can’t be as big as it feels through his jeans” cock fucking me until I’m a quivering puddle of happy woman on the floor.
I wake up a little after four, my nerve-endings on fire and my panties damp, cursing my over-active imagination and back-in-action libido. I throw off the covers, use the restroom, pound a glass of cold water, and meditate on sad things like gun violence, terrorism, puppy farms, and childhood cancer on my way back to bed, determined to banish all sexy thoughts and get at least a few peaceful hours of sleep before I start my day.
But the second my eyes close, images of Jake, naked and ready to show me why he was voted MVP, flicker across my mental TV screen.
Finally, I give up and reach for Shrek, pulling the green vibrator out of my top drawer, trying not to think about how wrong it is to whip out my sex toy because I’ve gotten worked up fantasizing about my client.
I lie back, summoning up mental images of Vigo Mortenson as Aragorn in Lord of the Rings. I’m a sucker for a guy with a sword, scruff, and wounded blue eyes. I’ve got a few other fantasy men who make an appearance in the rotation now and then, but Aragorn rarely fails to get me there.
Or at least close enough for Shrek to finish the job.
I close my eyes, imagining I’m lying on the pallet in Aragorn’s tent, wearing nothing but a fur wrapped around my naked body and a “come and get me” expression. My blood is already pulsing, thick and heavy, through my veins and an answering pulse throbs between my legs.
I can’t wait for him to get here.
Get here and take me, take the edge off, take care of the hunger twisting my insides, making it impossible to think straight.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the animal skin covering the entrance to the tent shifts and a man steps inside. But it isn’t the man I’m expecting…
It’s Jake, wearing soft leather pants that mold to his impressive thighs, heavy boots, and not another damned thing. His incredible chest and stunning forearms are on full display, his muscles rippling as he pushes the flap closed behind him.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, my heart thudding faster.
“I don’t care.” His tone makes it clear he hasn’t come all the way to Middle Earth to take no for an answer.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper, but I let the fur slip lower, baring the top of my breasts. “We made promises.”
“Fuck promises.” His hair is dripping from the rain outside, but he doesn’t stop to dry off before crossing the room and pushing me back onto the pallet.
Cool drops hit my burning skin, and a moment later, his mouth covers mine, kissing me roughly as he rips the fur from my body, baring me to his touch. And then his big, calloused hands are warm on my breasts, teasing my nipples as I fumble with the fastening of his pants. There are laces and I’m clumsy with wanting, but finally I free his cock, groaning into his mouth as I feel how hot and hard he is.
The confirmation that he wants this as desperately as I do is all I need to push guilt aside and seize the moment.
“Yes,” I mumble, pulse spiking as he nudges my legs apart with his knee. “I want you.”
“And you’re going to have me,” he promises. “But first I’m going to have you.”
He pushes inside me, the first stroke so deep and hard that I cry out. But not in pain. God, not in pain.
Because he feels so good, so fucking good that we’ve barely gotten started when I suddenly spin out, my body contracting tight around his pistoning cock as I come and come, waves of bliss crashing through me until I’m limp and useless and…
…the sound of Shrek buzzing away between my legs pulls me back to the real world.
Cheeks flaming, I snap off the vibrator with a huff and throw an arm over my eyes.
Shit. This is bad. So bad. I’ve got the worst “No, I Wasn’t Fantasizing About Banging You” face in the world.
There’s no way I’ll be able to hide this from Jake. He’s going to take one look at me and know that he’s been starring in my X-rated fantasies.
He might as well have caught me Shrek-handed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shane
“No, no, no…” I mutter as I stumble into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I still have half a day to pull myself together. “By noon you’ll be so tired from not sleeping you won’t care about the size of Jake’s hockey stick. All you’ll want is a twelve-hour make-out session with your pillow.”
I pull my nightshirt over my head and step into the warm spray with a sigh, wishing there was a four-footed friend around somewhere. Talking to myself is so much weirder without furry folks around to listen.
I miss my puppy-niece Fang, my friend Cat’s Chihuahua, who I haven’t seen since I delivered her puppies. I miss my cats—Happy, Sleepy, Scary, Snorty, Captain Pickles, Pirate, Persephone, Death Claw, and Mr. Twitchy—and wonder if they miss me.
Probably not. They’re cats.
They move quickly through the Feline Stages of Grief:
brief sadness, followed by slightly more lingering resentment, and then a swift return to their natural state of giving absolutely no fucks.
Besides, they have my friend Beatrice’s barn outside Atlanta all to themselves, gourmet cat food I ship down from my favorite NYC pet supply store, and Beatrice’s ancient sheepdog to torment in their spare time. They’re probably happier than addicts in an opium den.
I’m the one who’s lonely. So lonely I’m falling hopelessly in lust with the first semi-attractive man with a brain who has wandered into my path.
He is so much more than semi-attractive, psycho.
He’s every sexy fantasy hero you’ve ever crushed on rolled into one delicious smelling package. And he’s witty, to boot. Did you see how quickly he picked up on the Puff thing last night? It was almost enough to make you come, and you know it.
You’re helpless against a beautiful man with a big, sharp, penetrating mind.
“Stop,” I groan as I scrub my scalp a little too vigorously. Must stop thinking about Jake’s incredible body and big, penetrating brain.
We’re in damage control mode and need both of our brains to get “the Dragon” back to being hockey’s fiery, but beloved, center forward. This is about so much more than getting one mentally ill woman to leave him alone. The pictures on the gossip sites last night fueled speculation about what went down with Jake’s last girlfriend. The images of Keri with bruises on her neck rose to rejoin the scum floating atop the Internet, and Jake’s fans are making their opinions of the Dragon’s behavior known in the forums and chat rooms.
Jake’s image is in trouble, and his career could be next. We need to get the ugly stuff shut down before this fire grows too big to put out.
The simplest way to do that, of course, would be to go to the police, but then we would get into a case of he said/she said that might not play well for Jake in court and certainly wouldn’t do him any favors in the court of public opinion. And, of course, there’s the fact that Jake avoids the cops like ass sores and won’t step foot near a police station.
My gut tells me the best thing I can do for my client is to change the conversation, and what better way to do that than with a glossy four-page profile in GQ? I have the connection in editorial, and Denise has already promised to push her piece on the state representative who sent dick pics of his serpentine cock to half of New York to make room for a Jake article.
