"You're not a freak, Ash! Everyone is into the down and dirty, Sweets!" Quinn says every time we talk about this subject. She’s the only one I’ll talk about my secret desires with.
"You're just trying to make me feel better," I said back to her last time we had this conversation.
"When the fuck have I ever lied just to make you feel better? Have you forgotten my uncouth way of being too blatantly honest? You bitch about it all the time."
I'm suddenly reminded of the poor sales clerk at Neiman Marcus that Quinn nearly made cry. The poor girl hadn’t done anything wrong except catch Quinn on a bad day.
"Neiman Marcus," I answered. "And yes, you’re right. You are never nice for anyone's benefit other than your own."
"Oh, come on! I snap at one poorly dressed sales girl one time, and now I'm never nice? I was having a bad day and was about to start my period. Cut me some slack. Bad days and PMS never mix well for anyone." Quinn defended herself before turning back to our original conversation. "Really though, if you want some spice in the bedroom, ask for it. You know how that saying goes. ‘Lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets,” she reminded. I had no choice but to giggle.
I smile thinking back to that conversation and Quinn's advice. We’d been unpacking some boxes that day, about a week after I moved in with her. After Jason had maxed me out, Quinn offered up her extra bedroom to me. I’d only grudgingly agreed, and we argued about it at first. I’d been in a bad a place, so I couldn’t see how awesome Quinn was being.
With about a month left before my lease was up on the place I’d shared with Jason at the time of our breakup, I’d been stressed the hell out about money, which was something new for me. I wasn’t a rich girl like Quinn, but I also wasn’t used to being a paycheck-to-paycheck girl with no pot to piss in or—in a month—no window to throw it out. After I’d opened those credit card statements from Jason, I’d known that the road ahead would be bumpy. I knew there was no way in hell I would be seeing that money from Jason, and those cards needed to be paid off. I couldn’t let him destroy my credit along with everything else he’d already destroyed, like my trust and confidence.
At the time of the break up, we had four more months left in our lease. Thank God, we hadn’t sent in the lease renewal yet. The lease was only in my name because Jason hadn’t had the greatest credit. So I was the only one legally responsible for making sure it got paid. My savings had been enough to about cover most of the remaining rent. The rent was two thousand for that now-awful apartment. I didn’t want to live there anymore, let alone pay two grand a month for it. It wasn’t bad when I was splitting everything with Jason. But shouldering the full rent, utilities, regular bills, student loans and now these huge credit card bills, I was wiped out! Yup, Jason had fucked me good! And not in the sense that either of us apparently wanted. Quinn had pushed me to go after Jason for the money, but it wasn’t worth it to me. I didn’t want to have to see him again and relive the memories of him banging that chick.
When Quinn had offered me the spare bedroom in her apartment, I’d agreed straight away. Until she told me not to worry about paying rent. Then I freaked out on her.
“I am not a fucking charity case, Quinn Taylor!" I told her.
"I never said you were, Sweets!" She stared me down, daring me to argue. "But I don’t need the money and right now you do." Quinn has always had money to burn and didn’t see what the problem was. Her father is some hot shot investment something-or-other in the city. She works for him but also still gets a healthy monthly allowance from her parents.
"Then I’m not moving in. If you don’t let me pay half the rent, then I’m not moving in here with you. I’ll find somewhere else to live."
"Ugh, fine! How much do you want to pay then?" She huffed, clearly annoyed at my stubbornness.
"Half," was my answer.
Quinn picked her head up and looked at me seriously this time. "Ashley, don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t let you pay half."
"Why not?" I asked innocently.
"Because you can't afford to pay half right now. So tell me how much will make you happy, and you can pay that. How about what you were paying with Jason? Will that make you happy?" she asked me, still not telling me how much the rent was.
"Well, is the rent here two thousand?" I asked, knowing it most likely wasn’t.
"No, it's not. I pay five grand a month here, and I know that you can’t afford twenty-five hundred a month. I really don’t want you to pay me at all to live here. My parents pay for this place, not me. Trust me, they can afford it."
"But that isn’t the type of person I am, and you know it. I’m not mooching off my friend's rich parents," I answered, meaning every word.
"Fine, tell me how much to get you to shut the hell up and move the fuck in here with me."
"Umm, how about fifteen hundred?" I knew it was more than I could afford, but at least I would feel like I was paying my way, not taking advantage.
"Fine! Whatever! But not a dollar more, and utilities are included," Quinn said, amending my offer and effectively ending the conversation. "Subject closed!" So I’d moved in with Quinn about two months ago.
I was slowly climbing from the red into the black. My security deposit from the apartment in Jersey City had paid off one credit card Jason ran up and a little bit of the other. My savings had helped me cover the other half of the rent that used to be Jason's. I was still stretched slightly beyond my limit, but I was making do. Knowing I’m not the kind of girl to ask for it, Quinn tried to hide her help from me. She didn’t think that I’d noticed the extra twenties she stuck in my wallet from time to time or the meals that she made sure were there waiting for me when I got home so I didn’t need to pay for dinner. Quinn had gone through the trouble to try to help me discreetly, so I let it go, even though it bothered me. I suppose that’s what best friends are for.
Quinn and I had met our freshman year of college and have been inseparable ever since. Seven years running, and I couldn’t be more thankful for the randomness of college roommate assignments. I only feel comfortable talking to Quinn about my "issues". I don’t think there are too many people out there more open-minded than she is. I hadn’t been all that upset over losing Jason himself, but the way it had ended and what he’d said to me had hit a nerve. At the time, I’d believed that I loved him, but now I’m not so sure. Thinking back, I probably stayed so long because I felt secure with him.
His claim that if I weren’t such a prude, he would have been sexually satisfied still bothers me after all these months, brings out my insecurities. I’ve wondered if anyone I’d ever been with has been sexually satisfied. I’m not shy per se, but I guess I am kind of reserved. I usually just followed Jason's lead when we were intimate—missionary, on top, rarely taken from behind, and always in a bed. I’ve racked my brain for any hints he might have made about wanting more, but he never did, which was why his little stunt caught me completely by surprise.
I’d wanted more too, still want more. I want someone to push me up against a wall, pin my hands over my head. Total Christian Grey elevator-style! I want someone to tell me how much they want me and how hard I make them. I want him to push me to my knees and give me no choice but to keep my mouth open as he shoves his cock in my mouth without even asking. I want him to tell me how good it feels to fuck me without remorse. I want all that and then some, but how the hell does one ask someone for that without coming off like a complete whore? Again.
These are the thoughts running through my mind as I pull up to the practice facility of the New York Jets for the interview. I glance at the clock on my dashboard. Wow, great! I’m ten minutes late, sweaty, and most likely smell like a farm animal. On top of that, I’m also a little turned on by the thoughts that I’d just been entertaining. I check my rearview mirror and am pleased to see my makeup isn’t too bad. I fix my hair quickly and rush from the parking lot to go interview the playboy quarterback, Tanner Garrison.
After doing my r
esearch yesterday, I’m even more hesitant about this interview. Pictures of the hot quarterback are all over the Internet. He's a local boy who grew up in Staten Island, so he’s definitely a big deal around here. The fact that he’s downright delicious, with bright green eyes and a messy crop of brown hair, doesn’t hurt either. You can tell he knows it, too. He’s always photographed with one particular bombshell—stunning, super skinny, great boobs, perfectly dressed in the latest fashions, and never a hair out of place.
This Melissa Finnegan girl is in a lot a photos with him. Most articles say she’s his girlfriend. There are also plenty of pictures of him with other girls, and the captions always claim he’s stepping out on Melissa again. He sounds like a typical player. On and off the field. It’s disgusting, and I feel awful for Melissa, if she is his girlfriend. I know how she feels. At least the whole world didn’t get a front row seat to witness my embarrassment. This should be a fun interview. I don't know the first fucking thing about football, and now I’m so worked up over Jason that I don’t know how I’ll put up with this playboy. I can’t stand that I have to interview someone who is nothing more than your everyday jock with a padded bank account and a sense of entitlement that makes him believe he can do whatever the hell he wants. Ugh, here goes nothing.
Chapter 2
TANNER
I still can’t believe I let my agent talk me into doing this interview. He knows how much I hate interviews. How much I hate the spotlight. But Davis also knows how to manipulate me.
"Oh, come on, Tanner. It's for The City Press. You know how much New York loves their quarterback. You can do no wrong here. It’ll be good for your image and help the team. The Press has been asking for this interview for months now. It’s the only one I'm asking you to do pre-season," Davis had said, knowing he’d get exactly what he wanted with that line of reasoning.
I’m a sucker for giving back to the local fans. I love New York. I grew up here. These were my stomping grounds, and now I get to play football here. I’m also a sucker for anything that makes me look like the real me instead of the asshole that everyone thinks I am. I have no idea where the stupid, spoiled, rich playboy rep I have comes from. But that is not me. I’m not some womanizing asshole who hops from one chick to the next, while being in a relationship with someone. Geez, Ma would smack the shit out of me if that were true. She made sure she raised a boy who respects women, and I do.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the company of a fine woman looking for a good time, but I don’t have casual sex. Not anymore, anyway. I hang out with my friends but I don’t get close to many women anymore. Just Melissa. She’s the only woman I really trust. She’s stood by me through thick and thin and been a fantastic friend. I haven’t found any other woman I feel truly likes me for me and not just what she thinks she can get from me.
That’s the trouble with having money and fame. People always want something from you. I don’t mind the fans who want autographs or pictures. I actually like that part. The fans are a big part of the game. Without the fans, there would be no football. It’s mooches that I can't stand. People don’t give two shits about you, just what you can do for them. People seep out of the woodwork once you’ve made it to the top. Right now, I’m pretty high up.
Since we were able to pick up Darren Starks, our new wide receiver, everyone is predicting this to be our year. I had a great run last year, but I had no one to throw the ball to or anyone who could seem to hold onto the ball for more than five yards at a time. We made it to the first round of the playoffs and lost to Seattle. This year, I’m hoping we make it much further.
This interview better be all about football. I’m done with it the minute it becomes about anything else. I hate when interviews take a turn toward wanting some juicy piece of personal information. Guys are always looking for some details about my latest "conquest". They wish they were able to grab a girl like the ones I’m seen with in public. The women I spend time with are beautiful, and most are genuinely great people too. I don’t know why the press and gossip rags jump right to thinking that I’m sleeping with them. All of these woman are casual friends of mine or business associates. We both benefit from being seen together, but it’s never sexual.
I usually pair up with them to promote some cause —mostly charity work. They get me to help with whatever they’re trying to raise money for, and I like to think that I get positive press from these things, but usually it just spurs a new cheating scandal. I’ve tried explaining that Melissa and I aren’t an item, but no one wants to hear things like that. They only want a good story, which usually means it’s full of shit. I stopped trying to change everyone’s assumptions a while ago because I realized my efforts didn’t matter. They’re going to think what they want to, no matter what. At the end of the day, all that matters is what was accomplished for a greater cause, so I try to ignore the stupid shit they print.
Truth is, ever since that bitch, Carrie, I haven’t had a casual hook up. It’s not worth it for me. She singlehandedly cemented the fact that all anyone wants is to see what they can gain from me. Sure, I had fun in college, slept with my share of girls, and never gave it a second thought. That all came crashing down with Carrie. She showed up right after the draft, where I was a first round pick, and claimed she was pregnant with my kid. The oldest trick in the book. I’d only slept with her once, a week before. She couldn’t have known she was pregnant with my kid that soon. As if I were stupid enough not to notice that the timing was off. After I told her I knew there was no way the baby could be mine, I never heard from her again. Nonetheless, the whole experience killed casual sex for me. That was when I’d stopped sleeping around, no matter how much fun it had been. I couldn’t trust anyone anymore, with the exception of Melissa. Fortune hunters were everywhere. I didn’t need some girl pretending to like me so she could get knocked up and essentially tie me to her for the rest of my life. No, thank you.
I look at the clock as my internal tirade is winding down and see that it’s ten past ten. The interview was supposed to start at ten on the dot. She's late. I really don’t like late. I mean, how hard is it to be on time? I get a five yard penalty if I’m late. Sometimes that shit can throw off the whole game. Lateness shows a lack of respect for other people’s time.
The scowl on my face must be worse than I’d thought, because the moment the door to the conference room opens and the breathtaking brunette walking through it looks up, a horrified expression takes over her face, and she mutters a string of apologies.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Garrison," she rushes to say while smoothing down her skirt. "I didn’t factor in traffic when I left this morning. I’m not too familiar with this area and didn’t anticipate the amount that I ran into. I hope it wasn't a terrible inconvenience for you, standing here waiting. I know how busy you are, especially this time of the season," she rambles. I don’t think she’s stopped to take a breath since walking into the room. Then I realize that she must be uncomfortable because I’m standing here, scowling at her, not muttering a single word.
Wow, snap out of it, asshole. Say something! My brain yells at me, finally working again but not sending any words to my mouth for me to speak. I take a few steps toward her, and thankfully my mouth and brain finally cooperate. I stick out my hand to take hers and say, "No, no inconvenience at all. Miss...?"
"Mitchell. Ashley Mitchell. Thank you so much for doing this interview with us," she replies, putting her hand in mine.
The second our fingers touch, my whole body comes alive. It feels as though I’ve just touched a live wire. But in a good way. I swear I can hear the molecules in the air around us crack and fizzle. It’s as though she has a superpower that renders me immobile. I’m not even sure I’m breathing. I can’t recall anyone ever having me this off kilter in just under thirty seconds. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m surrounded by beautiful woman all the time. So what's the deal with this one? Why does she have me feeling something I can’t quite put my finger on? I look at her face. She has
the most beautiful skin. Her light tan makes her blue eyes shine in a shade I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. Her chestnut hair hangs, slightly damp, framing her face. I'm still staring at her face when I realize that I’m doing it again—just watching her silently.
I snap out of the beauty-induced stupor and remember my manners at last. "It’s no problem, Miss Mitchell," I say. I put my hand on the small of her back to direct her toward to table in middle of the room. I feel it again—a tingling sensation that hits me as soon as I touch her. I wonder if she feels it too. "Please, have a seat. Can I have anything brought in for you to drink? Water or coffee? I know it must be pretty hot out there already." I laugh at myself in my head. Great line, genius, talking about the weather. I must sound like a total loser.
"No, thank you, Mr. Garrison," she replies, still looking a little flushed.
"Please, call me Tanner." I take a seat across from her.
"Okay, Tanner. Well, since I was late, I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary, so would you like to start?" she asks as she reaches into her bag. She pulls out a small recorder. “Is it okay if I record our conversation?”
"Sure, let’s get started then." Might as well get this over with so I can go back to being unaffected by this woman. Something about her makes me feel off, and I don’t like it. It feels as though someone has tilted my world off its axis.
She presses the record button. "Okay, so let’s start with last season. If you could change one thing about last season, what would it be?"
At first glance, she seems unaffected, but when I look into her eyes, I wonder if she’s as discombobulated as I am.
Based on her body language, she seems entirely at ease, but her eyes tell a different story. Their color has gone from a bright ocean blue to a darker, dimmer gray-blue. I wonder the reason behind the change, but I guess I should probably answer her instead of wondering whether or not it’s because I affect her the way she does me.
Inhibitions Page 2
