Like a magnet unable to fight the attraction, my gaze's drawn right back to Ty. His gorgeous face tight with passion, his sensual mouth huffing breath after hard breath. My face flushes with heat. My panties get wet. All of a sudden I imagine it's me doing that to him. My mouth on his shaft, my lips wrapped tight around him. When the crisis hits, his head rolls back. I can almost hear his moan of ecstasy from clear across the space. The woman takes a second—to wipe her mouth? to zip him up?— before she climbs back into the booth. She makes a big show of swiping her lips again before she drinks from her glass. But when she tries to kiss him on the mouth, he turns his head, just like he did with the blonde before.
"What's going on?" Mar asks.
When did she get back? Did she catch the peep show? Or worse, my reaction to it?
In a panic, I come to my feet. "We have to leave."
Hot and sweaty from dancing, she stops blotting the perspiration from her brow. "But we just got here. Wait. Something's wrong, isn't it?" Her darn spidey sense has picked up on my distress.
"I don't feel well." It's true. My stomach roils with nausea, excitement, something.
"You do look a little flushed."
"Yeah, I think I'm coming down with that bug that's going around." My gaze drifts to the VIP section. Ty Mathews is standing up, throwing an arm around each companion. Oh, God. He's coming down the stairs.
I grab Mar's hand. "We gotta go. Now." I run toward the exit, but before I get there, like Lot's wife I look back. And just like her, I'm punished when his gaze finds me.
For an infinitesimal second, he smiles, not the least hint of embarrassment on his face.
Horrified, I drag Mar out the door and don't stop running until I reach home.
Chapter 4
Ty
MONDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP GROGGY FROM LACK OF SLEEP. After the game, we'd gone to the downtown Chicago hotel where the Outlaws regularly hold victory celebrations. A pair of blondes made me an offer I could not refuse, and we'd move the party to my hotel room where we engaged in some serious menage action. Around four in the morning, I'd caught my ride home, and stumbled into my own bed at five. Alone. I never bring women to my house.
I blink at the digital display on my night table—12:06 p.m. I normally don't sleep this late, but we don't practice the day after a game. So, it's my day off. I have all day to recuperate, and I'll need every fucking second of it. The cocksucker linebacker of the Texas Roughriders almost took me out of the game. But I got him back. After the referee called a penalty for roughing the passer, I threw what turned out to be the winning touchdown. My body doesn't feel much like celebrating this morning, though. Too many hits, too much alcohol, too much . . . No, there's no such thing as too much sex.
I trudge to the bathroom to relieve myself, and, after a much-needed shower, grab some OJ to rehydrate. Something tugs at my consciousness, something I should remember. And then it hits me. The redhead reporter. Shit! I was supposed to meet her at ten o'clock at The Honey Bee. It's fucking 12:45 now. Damn. I fucked up. Royally. No way is she still there waiting for me. Can't call her. I don't have her number, but our press office must have her contact information. No reporter can interview a player without providing it to the Outlaws. Protection for the player, the team. The reporter as well.
I call the head of PR who has the information I need—MacKenna's business number, the address where she works, and a whole lot more. A phone call's going to get me nowhere. She'll probably hang up on me which means I'll need to drive to her job and apologize. So I plug in the address into my car's GPS and head out.
When I arrive at her newspaper, the frizzy-haired receptionist squints up at me, not a hint of recognition on her face. "May I help you?"
"Umm is MacKenna Perkins here?"
"I'll have to check. What's your name?"
Her failure to recognize the Outlaws' quarterback surprises the hell out of me. Not only is the city football crazy, but I'm its best-known player. "Ty Mathews."
She pushes a button into her console and announces me. "MacKenna. Ty Mathews is here to see you."
After a short conversation, the receptionist hangs up. "She'll be right out," she says before going right back to sorting papers on her desk.
I barely get out a thank you before MacKenna is there in all her glory. Masses of auburn curls cascade down her back, a soft contrast to the fuzzy blue sweater she's wearing. My dick hardens at the thought of pounding into her with my hand wrapped tight around that magnificent hair of hers.
"Hello, Mr. Mathews." She drills out through thinned lips.
Ooookaaayyy. She's obviously pissed, not that I blame her. "Can we, uh, go somewhere and talk?"
"Sure. How about the Honey Bee Diner?"
She's not making this easy. "Look. I'm sorry."
"Uh huh." She crosses her arms underneath her luscious breasts, calling attention to her hard nipples.
Lord, have mercy! Those things could take a man's eyes out. "I overslept."
"I waited an hour."
"I'd like a chance to make it up to you."
From out of nowhere, an older man emerges, beefy hand stuck out. "Mr. Mathews. How do you do? I'm Horace Bartlett, editor of the Windy City Chronicle."
I shake. "Hello."
"Ms. Perkins tells me there might have been a misunderstanding about the time you were supposed to meet."
Smart man. He's come up with a way for me to save face, without flat out calling me a jerk.
"Misund—" MacKenna spits out.
But before she can complete the word, her boss interrupts. "Ms. Perkins is available now if you have the time."
I rock back on my heels and grin. "As a matter of fact, I do."
"Well, I don't." As sparks fly from her eyes, MacKenna wiggles her foot. Probably itching to kick me in the behind.
"Perkins." The way he commands her to silence with a single word and a look, I'm liking this guy better and better. "Why don't you take Mr. Mathews into one of our interview rooms? Can we get you something to drink or eat?"
"Actually, I haven't had a chance to eat. Would Ms. Perkins be available for lunch?" I address the question to her boss. I'm not stupid enough to ask her.
"Nope."
"Absolutely."
"My treat, of course. L'Herron is just down the street." L'Herron is a high class French restaurant. By the time we get there, it'll be two o'clock, and their lunch rush should be over. Should reduce the number of autograph seekers while she conducts her interview.
After she shoots me one more dirty look, MacKenna excuses herself to get her things. Soon, Horace Bartlett is waving us out the door, his face wreathed in a smile. Don't know how he manages that with a cigar stuck in his mouth.
MacKenna's tight lips reflect the conflict battling within her. She can't let me have it, not with her boss watching from the newspaper's front door. But she's holding on so tight to her temper, she may very well explode.
To my surprise, she manages to keep it together until we reach the restaurant. There, we're shown to a booth with a clear view of Lake Michigan. Disregarding her "I'm not hungry" remark, I order the Chateaubriand Bouquetiere for two—roast tenderloin of beef, accompanied by an array of fresh vegetables with a béarnaise sauce—and a bottle of their best red Burgundy.
After the server leaves, she jams her arms across her chest while giving me the evil eye.
Obviously, she still has it in for me. A simple apology did not work. And seemingly, neither does the fancy luncheon. Don't know why I care about turning her up sweet. She's a rookie reporter, for heaven's sakes. It's not like I don't have women clamoring for my time. Right now, at least three of them are eying me from across the room. But somehow, MacKenna's good opinion matters to me. So I decide to punt while I try to come up with a plan to changer her view of me. "You're not hungry?"
"I ate breakfast. At the diner. Once I got tired of waiting for you."
I walked right into that one, didn't I? Stupid of me. "I apologize. Again."
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"Where I come from, Mr. Mathews, actions speak louder than words."
Me too. But, of course, she's not going to believe that. Not now. I have to get her in a better mood. If for no other reason than I screwed up. "Please call me Ty. You must have eaten four, six hours ago." She probably weighs a buck twenty soaking wet. So she doesn't have the same caloric needs my six six, 250 pounds of hard muscle require. Still, she needs to eat. "How about some bread?" I push the basket at her.
She grabs a roll, tears off a piece, and, without taking a bite, drops both halves on her plate.
Okay. So she's not a bread lover. I, on the other hand, love it. I grab the last aromatic French mini-baguette and slather it with fresh butter. Without being asked, the waiter replaces the empty container with a fresh batch.
"Would you like to ask some questions while we wait for the entrée?" I ask, after wolfing down half the baguette.
Her eyes flash at me, and not in the good way that usually goes with, 'Oh, yeah, baby, baby, baby.'
"You'd like me to start the interview? Fine." She fetches her recorder from her purse, grabs her notebook, slaps it down on the table. "Tell me, Ty, is the reason you overslept a blonde or a brunette?"
I choke on the bread. "What?"
"How do you like to do it? I imagine missionary must be pretty boring for you. I'm betting doggie style is more your thing. Or perhaps something more exotic?" Damn if she doesn't write 'How Ty Mathews likes to do it' in her notebook.
What the fuck? "We're supposed to be talking football."
She dismisses my statement with a wave of her hand. "Most readers don't care about such things. They want to know about your sex life. So tell me, the blonde and the brunette at Platinum Saturday night, did you take them home and do the nasty with them?" Her eyes spark with emotion—anger, for sure. But there's something else there. Something much darker, more primal. Excitement. Lust.
Some men might be clueless when it comes to women. Yeah, I'm not one of them. I know exactly where they're coming from. MacKenna is pissed I stood her up, but she's also angry about what she witnessed at the club. "You saw me. At Platinum."
"Yes, that was quite a show you put on. Half the people there could not keep their eyes off you. So for our readers, Ty, tell me, why did you allow that woman to blow you in a public place?" She's so worked up, her breath fails toward the end. And then she goes and licks her mouth.
In an instant, I'm hard as stone.
Fighting the urge to put that soft mouth of hers to good use, I order, "Turn off the recorder." The Texas twang I've fought so hard to get rid of creeps into my voice. Something it does when my emotions get the better of me, like now.
She turns off the machine, stashes it in her purse. "There. It's off. Now tell me, why do you do such a thing?" She should be detached when it comes to an interview, and yet, she's not. Although she's trying very hard to hide it, her voice's quivering with emotion.
The last few months I've grown bored with my personal life. I have nothing to look forward to except more of the same. But now this spitfire sits next to me, all wet, pouty lips, and red-hair down to one luscious ass, challenging me, sparking my interest like no one has done before. And the warrior in me, the one who vanquishes defenses with his golden arm, crawls out, aching to conquer this female. Ready to fucking own her.
"The question, little darling, is not why I did it. You're smart enough to figure that out." I lean into her, brush a finger down her cheek. It's soft, just as I imagine the rest of her is. "The more important question is, why do you give a damn?"
Chapter 5
MacKenna
I WALKED OUT. What else could I do after I made a fool of myself. Again! Granted I have every right to be upset after he stood me up. But the reason I'm angry has nothing to do with him blowing me off, but with the reason. Or what I thought was the reason. The entire hour I waited for him at the diner, I pictured him having sex with the floozies from Platinum. And the longer I thought about it, the angrier I became.
So when he breezed into the Windy City Chronicle, expecting all to be forgiven because he's the Chicago Outlaws' golden boy, the fire I'd been stoking all morning burst into flames. He didn't help matters when he railroaded me into going to lunch with him. Sure, I went along. What else could I do with my boss pushing us out the door? But when he suggested I should start the interview like he'd done nothing wrong, I went off like a firecracker, not stopping to think about the inappropriateness of such questions or the consequences of my action.
After the stunt I pulled, I'm sure to lose my job. Doubt Mr. Bartlett will keep me after failing to deliver not one, but two interviews. How could I have acted so irresponsibly?
Hoping to escape his notice, I creep into the newspaper office. But as soon as I step in the reception area, my name's called. "Perkins. Get in here." No help for it. I'll have to face the music. I'm not going gentle into that good firing, though. I'm going to take it on the chin with my head held high. I walk into Mr. Bartlett's office and shut the door. I'll be damned if I let that little pipsqueak, Randy, witness my defeat.
"Back so soon?" Mr. Bartlett asks, chomping on his cigar.
"Yes, sir."
"How did it go?"
Before I have a chance to answer, his phone interrupts us, and he jabs the speaker button. "Yes."
"Chief." Dotty, the receptionist. She likes to call him chief. "Mr. Mathews is here again."
"Tell him to come on back."
"Roger that." Did I mention she used to be in the military?
Seconds later, Ty Mathews walks in Mr. Bartlett's door, hair all windblown. He must have run all the way to get over here so fast. "There you are. I thought you'd wait while I had them box our lunch to go."
Huh? No idea what he's talking about. But it's a reprieve from getting fired, so I snatch at the lifeline. "Sorry."
"I get it." He smacks his forehead. "You were so eager to get your boss's approval to cover the Outlaws visit to the Boys and Girls Club that you rushed back to your office." He glances at Horace Bartlett, flashing a bright smile that would put the sun to shame. "It's a promotion event. Some of the Chicago Outlaws will be tossing a few balls to the kids."
"And the press is invited?" Mr. Bartlett's voice rises with excitement. Of course he's thrilled. It's the kind of feel-good, human interest story our subscribers eat up with a spoon and go back for seconds.
"Of course."
"When and where?"
"Four o'clock, the Lamont Boys and Girls Club."
Lamont is an inner-city neighborhood where some of the poorest residents of the city live.
Mr. Bartlett picks up his phone, punches some numbers. "Peter, you doing anything this afternoon?" A couple of seconds' pause. "Never mind that. The Chicago Outlaws will be at the Lamont Boys and Girls Club this afternoon. Get over there and snap a few pictures. Starts at four." He hangs up. "The photos will go great with Perkins's article."
What article? There isn't going to be an article, not after the way I embarrassed myself at the restaurant. "About that, Mr. Bartlett."
Mr. Bartlett's phone buzzes. Again. He punches the speaker button. "Yeah?"
"There's a delivery guy here," Dotty says. "He's got some food for Mr. Mathews."
Ty rubs his hands together. "Great. I'm starved. Horace? You don't mind if I call you Horace, do you?"
The cocky quarterback is sure to suffer a setdown. I've heard not even Mr. Bartlett's wife calls him by his first name.
"Of course I don't mind," Horace says.
My jaw drops.
"Great. Well, MacKenna got the great idea to conduct the interview here rather than the restaurant. That place's great, but it's too public. People are always stopping by to get my autograph." He curls a massive arm around his best bud's shoulders. "You understand, don't you, Horace?"
"Absolutely." Beaming a wide smile, Mr. Bartlett throws open his office door. "Feel free to use the interview room."
"Will do." Ty gestures me out. "After you."
What else can I do but follow him out the door? He saved my bacon, after all. I tag along while he grabs the food from Dotty, taking the time to wink at her before turning to me. "Lead the way."
"It's, uh, back there." With him hauling the bags of food, we make our way through the space. He might be big and and wide-shouldered, but he maneuvers his way through the narrow aisles with surprising grace.
"Which one's yours?" His chin gestures toward the cubicles.
"This one." I point to it as we walk by. My cubbyhole houses an old beaten desk, a rickety office chair, an ancient file cabinet and a state-of-the-art laptop. The newspaper might skimp on furniture, but the electronics are first rate.
When we arrive at the glass-enclosed interview room, he plops the bags on the table. I try to help him unpack, but he waves my hand away. "I got it." He lays out the chateaubriand, veggies, and bread rolls. The aroma of the French cuisine permeates the room, and my stomach growls, reminding me it hasn't been fed.
A smirk pops up on his face. "Not hungry, eh?"
I frown. If he were any kind of gentleman, he wouldn't have mentioned it.
From a tall container, he retrieves a bottle of wine that the restaurant was nice enough to decant. All he has to do is pull off the stopper. They even included two wine glasses. Granted they're plastic, but still it was a nice gesture on their part.
Can't believe he's being such a gentleman after the way I behaved, though. Which means I need to apologize. "I'm sorry for . . . the way I acted. Those questions were entirely inappropriate and unprofessional."
He flashes me that same, bright smile, while he pours the wine. "MacKenna. May I call you MacKenna?"
Dirty Filthy Boy (Chicago Outlaws #1) Page 3
