Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2)

by Magda Alexander

  “A woman, you mean?” Without bothering to wait for an answer, he says, “No. The only chick I know in Chicago is you.”

  “I’m not a chick, or a honey, or whatever you call women.”

  “Gotcha, darling.” He wraps a finger around a curl spilled over my shoulder.

  Before I can tell him to stop calling me darling, there’s another more insistent knock on the door.

  “Maybe I should get that?” He nods toward the living room.

  “No!”

  He stares at me, a puzzled look on his face. “Why not?”

  “Because—because”—think fast, Ellie— “You don’t want anyone to know you’re living here, do you? You’ll be mobbed by fans as soon as they find out.”

  His gaze swims with suspicion. “Eleanor, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I’ll get it.” After freeing my hair from his grasp, I rush to the door and open it no more than an inch. “Yes.”

  “Hi there.” The man standing on the other side is in his forties. Although he must have been fairly good looking in his youth, he’s gone to seed. He’s now sporting a slight paunch and a comb-over that does nothing to hide the fact he’s going bald. If he’s hoping his loose silk jacket camouflages his less-than-svelte physique, he’s dead wrong. All it does is bring attention to his flab.

  “I’m Warren Sheffield.” He gestures down the hallway. “I’m your neighbor three doors down. Ten-D.” He flashes a smile that reveals all of his teeth. Not a pretty sight.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Sheffield?”

  “Well, thought I’d come over and introduce myself.” The leer on his face tells me he’s exactly what I feared. He spotted the furniture and the whips and chains and he thought he would come over and play. As if.

  I stick out my hand. “Martha . . . Washington.”

  He lets out a belly laugh which makes his stomach quiver. Ugh.

  “That’s not your real name.”

  Granted, I should have come up with a better moniker. But how does he know it’s not real? “It’s not?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because no creature as beautiful as you could have such a prosaic name.”

  I take umbrage to that. Martha Washington is a perfectly good handle. “It’s been handed down through generations.”

  “All right, Martha. Have it your way. Guess we all must have our little secrets.”

  Sheesh. Patronizing much?

  “Yes. Well, I have a lot of unpacking to do, so goodnight, Mr. Sheffield.” I start to close the door, but he jams his foot into the opening before I can do so.

  “Don’t rush off, darling.”

  “I’m not your darling.” What is it with men?

  “Well, you could be. I saw some of your things. And I heard what was in one of the boxes.” He smirks. He winks. He waggles a finger at me. “You naughty girl.”

  Where’s a hole to crawl into when you need one?

  His voice drops a couple of notches to almost a whisper. “We have a club of sorts in the building. You know, the kind that swings.” He winks again. “We get together on Fridays. Evenings, of course. We’d love it if you would join us. Feel free to bring some of your . . . toys. Unit Twelve-B at eight. Don’t be late. Toodle oooh.” Waving his fingers, he slinks off.

  Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there. Not. I turn and run right into Brock’s chest. His big, broad, hard chest. He smells like a fresh pine forest, one I’d like to roll around in while he did wild, naughty things to me, while I licked every long, hard inch of—

  “What was that all about?”

  Ellie. Get a grip. You’re here to do a job. Not drool over the man. Struggling to regain my wits, I mumble, “Umm. A neighbor from two doors down. Warren Sheffield.”

  “Three doors.”

  “You were listening?”

  “Of course, I was listening. This is my place.” Not technically, it isn’t. But he doesn’t have to know that.

  “Fine. Three doors. What does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to borrow a cup of sugar from him.” I push at his chest to get him out of the way, but he doesn’t budge.

  Instead, he brackets my body with his huge arms and cages me in. “What is he talking about when he said he saw some of my things?”

  Focus, Ellie, focus. “The movers, err, dropped a box in the lobby, and some of the contents may have spilled out.”

  His eyes narrow. “What box?”

  “The ones that contained your . . . toys. They also paraded your bedposts with some of those . . . things still attached.”

  He snorts. “Fine movers you picked.”

  Taking umbrage, I hitch up my chin. “I’ll have you know they came highly recommended.”

  “Well, obviously somebody lied.”

  The nearness of him makes me breathless. I can’t stand being this close to him. It’s like I’m in a forest surrounded by trees. Big, gorgeous trees that move in strange, mysterious ways. I want to lie down on a soft canopy of leaves, and—God, not again. What is it about this man that makes me forget everything but him?

  His gaze slides to the closed door. For a couple of seconds he doesn’t say a thing, but then his glance bounces back to me. “Why are you here, Ellie?”

  “I—I told you. I wanted to unpack your things.”

  “Why would you want to do that? Last Saturday, you stormed out of my hotel room, angry at me. And now you want to do me a favor? That makes no sense. Besides, you wouldn’t do such a thing. Not without my approval. What the hell’s going on?”

  He’s so intoxicatingly close I can feel the heat, the sheer masculinity of him in every part of my being, and it’s driving me insane. “I, err—”

  Leaning down so his eyes are level with mine, he stares right into me. “Did Marty put you up to this?”

  “He may have.”

  “Why?”

  The scent of pine is all around me, and I can’t breathe without taking him in. My imagination runs wild. I’m lying in a secluded forest, naked as the day I was born while he whispers wicked words to me. Oh, God, please let it stop. Brushing a trembling hand across my face, I fight to recall what’s going on. Boxes. Toys. What Warren Sheffield saw. And how much trouble I’m in.

  “Okay. Fine.” It’s best if he knows the truth, anyway. “You’re not supposed to get embroiled in a scandal, right? Unfortunately, the evidence of your lifestyle would do just that. Somebody saw your things. Warren Sheffield for one, obviously. There were others, as well. At least one of them took pictures. So there’s proof. Proof that somebody would be more than glad to sell to one of those gossip rags. If anybody figures out it’s you living here, it’ll be all over the internet faster than I can say Bob’s your uncle.” I don’t have to tell him how the Outlaws would react. He knows.

  He strides away, anger evident in every step. “Damn it. Just as things were starting to look up.”

  His scent’s still in the air, but not as strong. I take a long, deep breath to regain my equilibrium. “It sucks. I know.” He may be a horndog. He may have lied at the hotel, but I don’t want to see him suffer. “You can get through this without anybody finding out.”

  He swivels back to me. “How?”

  “You have one more day of training camp, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when camp ends, you’ll be living here.”

  He nods.

  I take a deep breath. “I’ll be living here too.”

  “Why would you do that, Eleanor?” His brow knits, but his question emerges in a soft, low tone.

  “To stop anyone from finding out you’re the tenant.” Before he has a chance to say something, I rush through my next words. “If anybody gets nosy about who’s renting the place, they’ll find my name on the lease, not yours. And it was me they saw in the lobby. Everything points to me. I’m nobody famous, so if it gets out about the furniture and stuff, it’ll be no biggie.” That’s right. Play it off like it’s not that important.
<
br />   During my explanation, his expression clears up. “So.” He grins. “We’d be sharing the place?”

  “But not the same bed.” Gotta make things crystal clear before he gets the wrong idea. “It’s a two-bedroom condo, Brock. I’ll be in one, you’ll be in the other. Privacy shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound like he wants privacy.

  Tough. I’m willing to share the condo, but I’m not jumping into his bed. “I’ll be here Monday through Friday. Go home on weekends. Days, you’ll be at the Outlaws’ compound. I’ll be at work. We’ll only run into each other at night. Saturday and Sunday, you’d have the place to yourself.”

  “Sounds like you’ve worked everything out.”

  “I try.”

  “Only one problem with your plan. I’m bound to run into people. In the elevator. The parking lot. What if somebody recognizes me?”

  “Not if you adopt a disguise.”

  “A disguise?” He scoffs.

  “Yes. I got you a wig. Dark, shaggy hair. You’ll have to wear sunglasses and a hoodie.”

  “It’s eighty degrees out there. They’ll think I’m out to rob them, for fuck’s sake. And why would I wear sunglasses at night?”

  “Because that’s what cool people do?” I venture.

  “Ellie. Be serious,” he says in a not unkind tone.

  “I am. Look, you’ll be leaving at the crack of dawn, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Nobody will be out that early in the morning. Even if they are, they’ll be half asleep. Chances are they won’t notice you.”

  “You do know I’m six four and weigh 210? And my face has been plastered all over the news? How the hell do you think nobody will recognize me?”

  “You wear your wig and sunglasses and keep your hoodie over your head, and they’ll ignore you. If someone’s stupid enough to comment, mumble ‘hangover.’ They’ll leave you alone after that.”

  “And in the evening?”

  “Keep your head down. If anybody gets in the elevator with you, get off a couple of floors up and walk down.”

  “Not sure that’s going to work, sweetheart.”

  I ignore the sweetheart bit, seeing how I’m trying to convince him to go along with my plan. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  He thinks about it for a little bit. “Maybe I could find another place, fully furnished.”

  “You could. But there aren’t any closer to the Outlaws’ facility. Believe me, I looked.”

  “Somewhere farther away then.”

  “You’d spend an hour or more in traffic. Each way. Chicago traffic is a bear. Do you really want to spend all that time on the road, especially after a long day of training?”

  He tangles a hand through his sandy blond mane. “No.”

  I know that gesture. It means he’s considering my argument, or at least listening to it. So I press on. “I know this is not the best situation, but it will only be for a little while. If you’re worried about me cramping your style, don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t mind sharing the condo with you.”

  I thought that would be his number one objection. After all, he can’t bring his honeys or chicks to his pad if I’m here. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I want to come and go as I please, not play incognito like some cheap character in a bad spy movie. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “No, it isn’t.” He does have his pride, after all. But it’d be for his own good. “Look, I know this is not what you want. But it won’t last long. We can start looking for a house for you right away. Just let me know what you want.”

  “I’ll need one with a big yard for Butch.”

  “Yes, but I need to know what style house you’d like—contemporary, colonial, Victorian?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Chances are I’ll only be here for a year.”

  I could tell him that it matters, that you never know what fate will bring. But he’s not likely to listen. Not now when he’s as upset as he is. Better I point him in the right direction and let him decide where he wants to live. “How about I have my realtor contact you? She helped me find a house that fit my budget in a great neighborhood. I’m sure she can help you.”

  “I guess that would work.” He doesn’t look too happy about it, but I think he’ll go along with the plan. “In the meantime, what about Butch?”

  I didn’t even think about his dog. “What about him?”

  “He can’t live here. Look at it. The place is too small for him.”

  “Couldn’t you leave him at the dog kennel until you find a house?”

  “No. I can’t. I called to check up on him. He tried to escape so they have him caged up most of the time. That’s not going to work. He needs room to run around. And a big backyard.”

  “I may be able to help.” God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I can’t believe I’m thinking this.

  His head comes up at that. “How?”

  “Butch can stay at my house. I have a big yard and Mama will be there during the week.” She’d already agreed to supervise Kaylee while I’m at Brock’s place. “Weekends, he can be with you.”

  “Your mom won’t mind?”

  “No. She won’t. She’ll already be watching Kaylee, and she loves dogs.”

  “Kaylee? Is that your daughter’s name?”

  Darn it. I shouldn’t have let that slip out. “Yes.”

  Head down, he meanders around the living room, mulling things over, until he comes to a stop directly in front of me. “You sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

  I try hard not to breathe. “Positive.”

  Acceptance rolls over his face. “Then I guess that would work. Thank you. I’ll spring him from the dog kennel and bring him by this weekend.”

  That can’t happen. “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m having a birthday party for Kaylee on Saturday. A bunch of giggling girls, a slumber party. It would not work.”

  “Next weekend then. Although I hate for Butch to stay at the kennel another week.”

  “Okay.” Kaylee won’t be there when he drops off Butch. She’ll be at camp for two weeks. I’ll have to hide all her photos before he comes by, though. “I’m glad we worked that out.”

  “Thanks, Eleanor. I really appreciate it.” The relief in him is palpable. He was really worried about his dog. He never agreed to go incognito, though.

  Baby steps, Eleanor. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’ll need to figure out a way to convince him. In the meantime, we can do something about his things. “Want to finish unpacking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. You take the orgy room, and I’ll finish up with the guest bedroom.”

  He props his hands on his hips. “You do realize you’ve been putting my things away in your room?”

  I do now. “I was not going in the—“

  “Orgy room?”

  “That’s right.”

  A lopsided smile pops up on his face. “Stick in the mud.”

  I answer with a grin of my own. “Pervert.”

  In the end he moves his things and his boxes into the orgy room which leaves me with little to unpack. Once done, I head out, happy with the way things are working out. With any luck at all, we’ll sail right through this.

  Chapter 9

  Brock

  A WEEK AFTER TRAINING CAMP ENDS, I head to the kennel to pick up my best bud. Going by the cleanliness of the place and the healthy-looking, happy dogs, the place is run professionally. So, no complaints there. But Butch being caged up for most of his day, even if it was for his own good, doesn’t sit right with me.

  As soon as he spots me, he does his wiggly-butt dance.

  “Hey, bud, how you doing?”

  “Woof.”

  “Yeah, I’m here to spring you. Did you miss me?” More rump-shaking tells me he does.

  Rather than bring the spiffy Porsch
e Cayenne the Outlaws gave me, I drove my SUV which arrived at training camp, no worse for the wear, a couple of days ago. Not only does it have Butch’s very own seatbelt, but he’s familiar with its smell. So even though he’s in a strange, new city, hopefully, he’ll think of it as home. After settling his bill and thanking the staff, I snap him into the car’s restraint and plug Ellie’s address into the GPS. Soon we’re flying down the highway on a bright, sunny day. With my best friend sitting in the back, slobbering all over the seat, everything’s right as rain.

  “They treat you good back there, bud?”

  His gaze narrows with reproach. “Rawr.”

  “Yeah, I can see they starved you to death.” He’s actually gained a couple of pounds. No wonder. Except for two scheduled outings a day, he wasn’t running around. But his coat’s healthy and his eyes are bright, so the place did their job of keeping him healthy and well fed.

  “Soon you’ll have a new backyard to explore. With trees and squirrels.” I have no idea if Ellie’s backyard has such critters, or even trees, but it can’t hurt to mention them. “You’ll like that, boy, won’t you?”

  “Aaaaooooo.” Yeah, he’s happy to have been sprung. Or maybe he’s just happy to be with me.

  I fire up the audio and find his special song, “Who let the dogs out?” and soon, we’re howling along with the tune.

  Forty minutes later we arrive at Ellie’s house which sits on a corner lot. Not big by any standards, but extremely well kept. The lawn’s mowed, the hedge’s manicured and the rows of flowers in front of her home bloom in profusion.

  Holding tight to Butch’s leash, I walk up the path to the front door. I barely have time to knock before the door swings open to reveal Ellie standing on the other side and an older version of the woman I knew as her mother next to her. Both are wearing aprons. The scent of something yummy hits me—apples if I’m not mistaken.

  “Brock,” Ellie’s breathless voice surprises me. Did she sprint for the door? Or is it something else?

  I nod to both of them. “Ellie. Mrs. Adams.”

  “It’s Mrs. Jensen now, Brock, but please call me Ruth. Come in.”