Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Roxy Sinclaire

  “I have a few conditions,” he says, mimicking my approach from this morning.

  “Do tell.”

  “I’ll follow your wait-time guidelines, plus give you more information about my plans, if you accompany me to a charity ball tonight,” he offers.

  “Go out with you tonight?” I shouldn't. Worse: I shouldn't want to as much as I do. I have to keep this professional, or at least, as professional as possible.

  So why was I already worrying that I had nothing to wear?

  “It’s a charity event that my company donates money to every year,” he explains. “It was a cause very near to my mother’s heart and I haven’t attended since she passed.”

  His shoulders slump a little and the bravado that spilled from him in the sports car is now nonexistent.

  Devlin wets his lips and then looks out of the window. The sun streams in purposefully, like its only intention is to illuminate the clarity of his eyes like stained glass.

  I take his fingers in mine and squeeze them.

  When he looks at me, there is water welling in them.

  “You miss her?”

  Devlin clears his throat, before presenting an unauthentic smile.

  “I do, and I’d be honored to have you by my side tonight for my return to an event and organization that she helped fund.”

  “No problem.” I find myself agreeing. “That does mean that you’re sponsoring a new dress, shoes and hair,” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

  Devlin reaches for his wallet, but I put my hand up to resist.

  “I was just joking,” I tell him. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I always have.”

  His smirk reappears, erasing all signs of vulnerability.

  “Maybe it’s time that you don’t have to,” he says, handing me a black credit card.

  “I can’t take that, Devlin,” I insist, pushing the card back in his direction.

  “Would you rather have cash?” he says with no sign of understanding that I don’t want his money. He pulls several crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet.

  “Sorry,” he says, obliviously counting the bills to himself. “I only keep a couple thousand on me at a time.”

  “Put that away,” I snap in a hushed tone. “Where I’m from, people get hurt flashing that kind of cash.” I look around the room at the patrons, hoping that no one saw him. “I don’t want your money.”

  “No problem,” he says, taking a sip from his glass.

  “Thank you,” I say, before I realize he just gave up entirely too easily. And he was smiling even wider now.

  “I’ll just be there with you to pay for it,” he says before signaling Jenny over for the check.

  “No. That’s not—”

  He cuts me off. “Ayron, you are a beautiful woman and tonight, I want to show that off.” He reaches across the table, one long, strong finger lightly tracing circles over my wrist. I can't help it; even this light touch causes me to shiver and heat to pool between my thighs. I'm so distracted by the good wine, the good food, this good man—I force myself to pay attention to his words.

  “I’m not sure why you're fighting this, but one thing I do know is how take care of woman." He looks me in the eyes, and even though I know he agreed to my thirty-day plan, deep inside I tremble. "And tonight I plan to take care of you.”

  Exactly the thought that frightens me.

  Chapter 10-Devlin

  The lights and panoramic mirrors around the dressing stage allow for an all-access view of Ayron as she models dresses for tonight. I brought her to Baraide’s Boutique—the same one that my family has used for generations—to get the full stylist experience.

  “You like her,” Denise Baraide observes, her large false eyelashes fluttering, as Ayron disappears down a short hall into a dressing room to try on another gown.

  I’m glad that she doesn’t have any clients to see and is free for the day. I’ll be free for the next thirty days. Being a rich kid, I always felt the need to prove myself, that I wasn’t soft. My cousins hadn’t been as fortunate as I had been, and made it be known that I had it made, that I wasn’t as tough as them because my parents had money. In the beginning, in an attempt to prove them wrong, I worked extra from the bottom of my father’s company to show them that I had what it takes. Eventually, their opinion stopped mattering, and hard work had become habit and the best way to have a semblance of a relationship with my father. I hadn’t allowed myself to take a break in years.

  It is not possible for me to like Ayron as much as Mrs. Baraide thinks I could. I’m just not capable of it.

  “Maybe,” I half admit with a shrug from a cushioned sofa in the studio.

  Denise takes a seat next to me.

  “I remember when you were a little boy running right under your mother’s heels, playing with her dresses.” She claps her hands together with delight, her long rounded nails clacking together as well. “Oh, and when you got your first tailored suit, how you puffed out your chest and strutted around here like your father.” She laughs. “I know you better than you think. You could have taken her to the mall—” she scrunched her face at the mention, “but you brought her here.”

  I look at the woman who had been a stunner in her time and had helped create styles for every important event in this generation of my family. Even though I lost my birth mother, throughout the years, I had gained several surrogates who imparted their wisdom as though I were their own.

  “There may be something to that.” I shrug. “Maybe not.”

  Ayron emerges from the hall that she had taken to the dressing room and prances onto the dressing stage in front of the mirror. Like a bee to pollen, I want to be near her, in her, taste her sweet nectar.

  “Do you like it?” Ayron asks, a grin overtaking her face.

  Denise stands as I do, and I assume that it can only be because she sees what I see.

  “Wow.” I’m mesmerized

  Denise touches and tugs on the dress.

  “Deep gold is your color,” she says. “The sweetheart neckline and mermaid cut of the gown are perfect for your body.”

  The dark gold material pools atop her perfectly painted taupe toenails, flows along the contours of her legs, and tightens perfectly to cup the girth of an ass that I plan to lay my head on at least twice in my life. The center of the dress pivots inward to accommodate her waist, and circles around her pert, pronounced chest in a heart shape without a strap or wire to hold it up or in place.

  Ayron playfully snaps her fingers in my direction.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to stare?” Her face is flushed and she looks delighted. I like this sassy side of her.

  “Umm. Yeah.” I let my tongue run the length of my lip, wishing that it were the lips below her hips that my tongue had the pleasure of indulging.

  “All right, Ayron,” Denise says. “Let’s get you out of this dress and over to hair and makeup.”

  “Yeah. Let me help you out of that dress,” I say, following the pair.

  “Shoo,” Denise pushes. “You let her stay a lady. You’ll see her in four hours.”

  “Wait.” Ayron steps forward. “Promise me that you won’t act on anything until we’ve had a chance to talk out a plan.”

  Her eyes are wide with concern.

  “I won’t do anything without you,” I say and truly mean it.

  “You better not,” she says with a wink.

  Dana’s uptown loft is immaculate as expected. I don’t visit often, but when I do, the furniture is always new, ornate, and up-to-date.

  “You change furniture like people change clothes,” I comment, following my older sister through the vaulted entryway into the all-white living room.

  “What is this about, Dev? I know you didn’t come here to discuss decorating,” she insists, stepping over to the grand bar area full of beautiful bottles and decanters.

  My sister had always been direct. It was a trait she inherited from our father. If anyone
is like the old man, Dana is. Sharp and determined, I could just mention her name in certain circles and people would quake. Her infatuation with Trevor is baffling.

  “Would you like something to drink? A stogie?” she asks, already pouring a drink for herself.

  “No, thanks,” I tell her, taking a seat on a sofa.

  My sister is a hard woman, but her appearance doesn’t suggest so. There are still soft lines about her. Dressed in her usual fitted, wide-leg pantsuit and heels, she looks as though she could be a poster for the feminist movement.

  “So, what would you like, Devlin?” she asks, leaning against the bar. “I can tell you now that I am not going back on my recommendation for your suspension, and I know for a fact that you need to see a therapist.”

  “Why are you marrying him?” I ask, straightforward.

  Her laugh sounds more like a hiss.

  “When were you ever concerned about my dating life?”

  “Since it affects the future of our family business,” I explain.

  “Let’s get something straight, baby brother,” she says, placing the glass down on the bar and pointing a finger. “I don’t answer to you about whom I sleep with. You sound just like Dad, concerned about the business and the image.”

  “That’s not it,” I say, standing up.

  “Then what is it?” She steps closer to me. “Growing up the only daughter of David Masters was not an easy feat. Every guy I brought home had to be perfect: skilled, mannered, and verified. Now, not only does the man I intend to marry have all three, he’s even already a part of the company. How could you possibly have a problem with him?”

  “Because he wants to take our company,” I say.

  “And why shouldn’t my husband run the company?” she responds with a roll of her neck. “I don’t want to, but I’m capable of choosing a successor, Devlin.”

  “He’s not family for real,” I explain, exasperated. She should know this shit already. “He’s not going to have Pop’s back like I will. This motherfucker is shadier than an oak tree, and you’re ready to hand him my damn legacy.”

  “Our damn legacy, Dev,” she corrects, poking me in the chest. “The company is ours, and as per usual, your selfish ass can’t see past your own interests.”

  “Selfish? I’m trying to save your ass.”

  She shakes her head in disagreement.

  “Nope. This is just like when we were younger and you popped up and stole all of the air out of the room,” she hisses. “Junior and I, we were there for the lean times, when they had to struggle hard and hustle harder. We didn’t have the exclusive private schools of the rich and famous, catered birthday parties, and thousand-dollar allowances.” Her voice grows louder with each description.

  This had always been my experience with my siblings—resentment.

  “And that pisses you off, doesn’t it? So is this my punishment for being born?” I question. “I always hoped that you had a smidgeon of sibling love and that our circumstances made it difficult to show. Thank you for the clarification that I don’t mean shit to you.”

  The lights twinkle across the perfectly canopied trees and up the pathway to the expansive country club where music blares from the venue. If I ever visit this club, it has to do with business, and it happens during the day. My mother had held events here so often that this place began to feel like a second home. The one event that meant the most continues on in her legacy—Gladys’s Glad Gala. The benefits are given to nonprofit organizations that provide low or no-cost professional counseling or psychological support.

  I leave my car with the valet and stand in wait for my date. I had sent a car to pick her up and it would be here soon. I could wait inside the windowed building, but I know these people. They ask many questions on a normal basis, nosy motherfuckers, but they ask even more questions after a noticeable absence.

  I straighten the lapels of my black Armani tux and look up the extended drive. Having Ayron by my side will serve as a shield of some sorts. Decorum demands that deep questioning not occur around the unconfirmed, those not established as a part of this community. Ayron is new to this world.

  A white limousine ends it trek at the curved driveway before me.

  The well-dressed driver hops out of the front seat with a whistle, as though his job is of great importance, and opens the door for my lady in waiting.

  Her perfect, unassuming face lifts in a smile as she tilts her head and gives a simple curtsy while thanking the driver.

  “Thank you for the pleasant ride.”

  I let loose a hearty chuckle.

  Ayron had only slightly started with her glamour process when I left Baraide’s. Her look, now complete, rivals the star-lit sky.

  I blink a few times before allowing my eyes to drink in the sight of the sassy, shapely woman.

  Her curled copper hair rests against her bare shoulders as she moves her gold-clad body in my direction.

  I meet her half way, acting on a sudden need to be near her.

  “Were you laughing at me?” Ayron asks, stepping between my arms.

  Embracing her longer than normal, I reveal that her actions caused my smile.

  “You don’t have to curtsy to the driver, princess,” I tease.

  “I was just saying thank you,” she declares, playfully jabbing my shoulder with her matching clutch purse.

  “You look good,” I say, exploring the contours of her perfect face and shimmering lips.

  Ayron empties my arms to model her look for me, and I humor her.

  “Just good?” she questions. “You paid enough for me to look awesome, stunning, or breathtaking, Devlin. If I’m looking like the ugly stepsister to you, then we need to head back to the shop and get your money back.” She grins and twirls like a model on a catwalk.

  I shake my head, transfixed by her fascinating form.

  “I’d tear that dress off your body right now,” I growl.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” She nods. “My best friend’s philosophy on the pain of beauty—If he don’t want it. then it wasn’t worth it.”

  “You crack me up.” I laugh.

  I leave an arm around her waist as we stroll into the building.

  On our way through the corridor to the ballroom, a gangly teenage employee nearly walks into a post, gawking at the picture-worthy woman attached to my arm.

  A few other scattered bystanders notice her as well. I catch a few scattered whispers, wondering about her identity.

  The trip to Baraide’s was worth every penny. The last time I attended this function, I slunk away a heartbroken mess.

  Her walk is one of pure, self-assured confidence, something she will definitely need when we enter the room of entitled elitists.

  “Is that her?” Ayron asks, swiveling her head between the glossy picture of my mother and my glistening eyes when we arrive at the ballroom.

  A large poster of my mother with the words “Gladys’s Glad Gala” sits atop an easel. I had put her pictures away the same time that my father and family had. Although I remember her in smells, sights, and songs, I had left the beauty of her image locked in a box under my closet floor.

  “Yes. That is my mother,” I tell her.

  Her eyes light with approval.

  “She was beautiful.”

  “Are you ready?” I ask her, eyeing the nut-brown polished floor that gleams beneath the white-washed walls.

  “Always,” she sasses, moving forward into the ballroom with a twitch of her hips.

  We don’t have to move far before acknowledgment of our addition is heard in a grasshopper string of gasps across the magnificent, shining chandelier hanging from the middle of the room.

  Chapter 11-Ayron

  Entering the ballroom with Devlin is like walking into a scene from the long-ago television show “Dynasty.” I can feel the vibration of wealth all around me just from the way that the straight-backed, expensively dressed people stand. Their perfectly quaffed hair and professionally powde
red faces beam affluence.

  An unexpected thrill sidles me. Their eyes say it all—Devlin is a desired man in these parts. Penetrating eyes whisk our way from the pampered princesses, and sharp fiery gazes crucify me with smiling lips.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” Devlin asks as he hooks me close.

  I place a hand on his chest, more for show than anything—a statement that we are close. I move my lips to his ear to speak.

  “I’m all good. I’m here to support you,” I let him know, and match the smile that crosses his full lips.

  He nods to me with a confidence that few men know and even fewer exude. Even with an established absence, he is recognized and respected. This morning he had been just a man, a broken man that I had made a promise to help. Tonight he is a returned prince.

  “If you feel uncomfortable, let me know and we can leave.” He whispers this so close to my neck that his lips nearly kiss it.

  Our secluded seconds at the entrance quickly succumb to the intrusion of a perturbed looking woman. She had walked away from a conversation on the other side of the room to speak with us.

  I wonder if Devlin can see the glint of jealousy in her eyes or the slight, annoyed tilt of her head, and I’m pretty sure she’ll talk in a sweet tone.

  Her eyes move across me as though she is preparing for battle, but she turns her body to Devlin and leans in for a respectable one-armed hug.

  “It’s good to see you here,” she speaks in cheery tones, but I hear the real objective of her words—where have you been? I am fluent in dignified folk’s double talk. My granny warned me to keep an ear as sharp as their tongue. “Words become as worthless as arrows shot at the sun as long as you know your worth,” was one of her regular sayings to me.

  “Hello, Giselle,” he says flatly. “I’m glad to be seen. Let me introduce you to my date, Ayron.”

  She acknowledges me briefly with a nod and returns her attention to Devlin.