by Shandi Boyes
“Everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
My brows furrow when he replies in a hurry, “It’s Becca. She got assaulted in the bleachers.”
“Hold on, what?” I grab his shoulder, pulling him back before he’s swallowed by player-eating journalists. “She got assaulted—here? On our home turf?”
Surely I heard him wrong. The 69er fans are a rowdy bunch, but they love all aspects of their team—wives and girlfriends included.
Dalton’s comment makes sense when he adds, “She lost her ticket. With her ID left on the kitchen counter along with her baby brain, she bought a ticket from a scalper. He failed to mention her seat was in hostile territory.”
“Is she at the hospital?”
Dalton groans then shakes his head. “No. You know Becca: as stubborn as she is beautiful.”
A chuckle vibrates in my chest. I’ve known both Dalton and Becca for over a decade, but their friendship was proven without a doubt after I was injured. They were the only couple who stuck by me through thick and thin. Becca even went as far as offering me a job with her design firm when I was released from my contract. I’m not exactly sure what she wanted me to do, but just the fact she offered reveals what a standup woman she is. Dalton got lucky when he stumbled upon Becca. All I got was hives from my college relationship.
Noticing Dalton has an Uber app open on his phone, I ask, “Do you want a lift? I’m about to head out anyway.”
He raises his eyes from his phone to me. “Don’t you have an endorsement meeting tonight?”
“Nah,” I lie. “They need proof I’m sitting at a zero body fat percentage before they’ll let me sell their sugar-loaded drinks—as if they won’t have their customers shitting out of the eye of a needle within a minute of drinking them.”
Dalton’s face screws up. “Thanks for the mental image.”
I slap him on the back, accepting the praise he never meant to give before directing him to the parking garage under the stadium. “Car is this way.”
While leading him away from the throng of reporters who’d give their left nut to capture the quarterback aspiring to return to his glory days, and the captain of a three-time state championship team on the same reel of tape, I send Danny a message.
Me: Family emergency. Cancel appointment with pharmacy rep.
Danny either anticipated my text or he’s sitting on his phone. I’d say it is a combination of them both. He’s rarely seen without an electronic device attached to his hand, but being my friend more than my agent means he felt my unease during our talk with a pharmaceutical company last month. They want me to endorse a diet shake they’ve created. I’ve always been a firm proponent of fueling your body with a good nutritious diet, not gunk that makes you so sick you can’t eat.
As Dalton and I push through a set of double doors, I answer my ringing phone. Danny breaks into a conversation without issuing a greeting. “We discussed this. Until you’ve proven yourself, the amount on your contract will be disbursed in minimum scheduled payments. By minimal payments, they mean not even enough to cover my salary. That’s where endorsements come in. No true sports star makes all his money on the field, Elvis. . .”
His words waver at my growl, but his scorn doesn’t lessen in the slightest. “You need this deal. Let an attack of the conscience eat you alive once you’re back on your feet.”
I sit on my reply for a couple of seconds to contemplate. I know the right thing to do, but I also understand Danny’s viewpoint. In this town, you’re nothing without money. If you have it, you’re expected to flaunt it. If you don’t, you fake it until you do. My $200,000 leased ride proves this more than anything.
Needing more time to deliberate, I reply, “I do have a family emergency.”
“Okay. That’s fine. We can reschedule.” Danny’s hurried words expose his relief that I’m not pulling out of the deal entirely. “What about tomorrow morning before you fly out? Say 8 AM?”
After pressing the lock button on my 2017 Aston Martin v12 Vantage S, I nudge my head to the passenger seat, suggesting for Dalton to begin the awkward maneuver it takes for men our size to squeeze inside. It’s no easy feat. We’re both over six-foot-two with shoulders wider than the Aston’s leather seats. Its cramped insides are smaller when Dalton’s shoulder squashes mine as I slam my door shut.
Giving up in defeat, I hum, “Reschedule the meeting, but don’t give the reps any indication I’m interested in their offer.” Dalton chokes on his spit when I say, “A little bit of disinterest may see their five million dollar offer climb to ten.”
“Just turn up and leave the rest to me. I’ll get you more than ten.”
In his eagerness to get negotiations started, Danny disconnects our call.
“Agents,” Dalton grumbles. “Can’t live without them, but it’d be a whole lot easier if we could.”
I laugh. It will be a long time before he goes down the “I love my agent” route. Only eight months ago, he fired his “ball-crusher” agent for using work events to place strain on his relationship with Becca. Amy thought the more she distanced Dalton and Becca with endorsement meetings, contract talks, and any other bullshit she could find, the more fragile the relationship would become.
She underestimated the love Dalton has for his wife, and in some ways, she helped their relationship blossom. If she hadn’t scheduled Dalton on the latest flight possible to attend the wedding of a mutual friend of both his and Becca’s, he would have discovered he was becoming a father the old-fashioned way—by being handed a pee-loaded stick.
Thank fuck his schmoozing wrangled him a flight an hour earlier—because no man should ever be handed something a woman peed on. I get you’re excited, truly I do, but if it requires a toilet at any stage during usage, I don’t want to see it nor touch it. You can keep that shit to yourself.
Our trip from the stadium to the home Dalton shares with Becca reveals how different my life could have been if I had taken better care of myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not poor by any means. I just don’t have an eight-bedroom house with no mortgage and a paid-for-in-cash Maserati and top-of-the-line Range Rover in the driveway.
My crash pad is a few blocks from here. It’s one of those housing developments techies hide out in while waiting for their app to hit the big time. It has two full-sized tennis courts, three pools, and I was lucky enough to snag one of only two condos with a hot tub in the courtyard. It’s modest but not in a way its two million dollar price tag can hide.
Dalton flings off his seatbelt then locks his eyes with mine. “Coming up?”
A “no” sits on my lips, but a niggle in my gut shuts it down before my mouth can deliver it. Only once has my stomach cautioned me like this. It was when I told my physical therapist to head to my apartment instead of her office. It was two miles closer than our arranged meet-up point, and she wouldn’t need to go through an accident scene that had traffic backed up for miles.
If I hadn’t listened to my gut that day, I wouldn’t have discovered the extra-curricular activity Lillian was participating in every afternoon between two and three.
“I won’t stay long. Just long enough to check if Becca is okay.”
Dalton slaps my shoulder, wordlessly advising me he appreciates my support before clambering out of my car. It takes even more effort for us to peel out of my sardine can than it does for us to enter it.
The further we descend down the path separating Dalton’s four-car garage from his mega-mansion, the more my brow perks. There’s a female voice in the distance. From how one-sided her conversation is, I can only assume she’s talking on the phone. Her numerous apologies for “skipping the shit-fest” gains my attention, but the sexiest accent I’ve ever heard utterly seizes it. She’s either Australian or South African. I often get their accents confused.
A smile tugs on my lips when the voice in the distance snarls, “From the way you’re acting, anyone would think I instigated the incident.” Her friend clearly believe
s that when she barks out only two seconds later, “He assaulted a pregnant lady with a can of beer.”
I love the way she says “can of beer” like they’re a rarity.
“He should be grateful I didn’t shove it where the sun don’t shine.” She murmurs a throaty moan of agreement. “Oh it was, but I would have made it fit. Men with attitudes like his don’t have much dangling between their legs. Why do you think he was such a prick? Because he doesn’t have one!”
Hearing the chuckle I fail to stifle, the unnamed brunette spins around to face us. Holy fucking cupcakes! Wavy brown locks fanning a flawless heart-shaped face, eyes that are either really light blue or gray in color, and a rack a Viking could feast upon for a year and never go hungry.
What? You can’t see what I’m seeing. The fact her boobs were the third thing I noticed should award me some brownie points. I’ve never seen a more impressive pair of tits in my life. I’m not a religious man, but I’m praying to God now, hoping he’ll unknot the thin strip of material keeping his greatest creation contained. Her breasts are seconds from exploding from her top, and my tongue is hanging out of my mouth in anticipation.
Swallowing harshly, the brunette’s eyes widen. “I have to go,” she squeaks into her phone, her words breathless.
I want to pretend she’s struggling to breathe because she perused my body as readily as I did hers, but the fret in her eyes weakens my hypothesis. I’m confident she likes what she sees, but the daring glint in her eyes verifies she’s not the type of girl to let a chunk of man-meat steal her smarts.
As her eyes dance between Dalton and me, she murmurs into her phone, “No, Skylar, truly, I have to go. This isn’t a ploy to skip the celebration.” Her dated cell phone presses close to her fleshy, nude lips before she whispers, “The feds are here to arrest me.”
Her friend squawks down the line when she lowers her phone from her ear. After pushing the end button, she slips it into her jeans, which are struggling as hard to contain her sweltering curves as her shirt is.
I could imagine her hips being gripped during raunchy, explicit sex, and her mouthwatering thighs look capable of surviving a marathon fuck session. She’s got more curves than I’ve handled before, but her ripped jeans, chunky wedge shoes, and tight shirt embrace her voluptuous frame in a way that stimulates more than a bit of interest out of me. . . and my cock.
Wary of my prolonged gawk, she holds her hands into the air, then takes a step back, her skin growing pale . “It was an accident, I swear. I didn’t mean to knock him out; I just forgot instruments like cricket balls are dangerous weapons in the wrong hands.”
Cricket balls?
Her reply piques Dalton’s brow as much as it does his interest. “You’re the girl from the YouTube video?”
YouTube video?
As confused as me, the brunette replies, “Yes, I’m Willow—or Will, as my friends call me." It takes several swallows to dislodge the lump in her throat before she continues, "And I know I have a baby face, but I swear I was legal when that video was filmed.”
My heart thrums against my ribcage as Dalton does a double-take. “You have multiple videos uploaded to YouTube?”
Thank fuck Dalton jumped back into the conversation because I was two seconds from whipping out my phone, snapping Willow’s photo, and going on a Google hunt. These days, Willow is a common name, but that won’t dampen my eagerness in the slightest to discover what tape she thinks we’re referencing. I’m not a dirty old man who trolls the web for naughty pics of college students, but if they're out there for the world to see, its fair game as far as I'm concerned.
Furthermore, I’m dying to discover if her tits are real. Her video may give me the answer I’m seeking without making me appear seedy. . . for the most part.
If only I could lift my jaw from the ground, then maybe she'd stop staring at me like I'm a contestant at a freaky Friday competition.
The hang of my jaw doubles when Willow asks, “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? A. . . somewhat risqué YouTube clip?”
Although panicked, she’s got a smart head on her shoulders. By keeping our interest on the footage, she’s hoping we’ll forget her confession about knocking someone out. I’m not as willing to let it slide. She’s young—so young I shouldn’t be looking at her as I am—but her youth has unlocked something inside of me I haven’t unleashed in years: my naturally engrained playfulness.
When Dalton attempts to relieve Willow’s worry, I stop him. He eyes me with suspicion but doesn’t break my cover when I say, “First-degree assault is a very serious charge, Ms. . .”
“Hart,” Willow fills in, her voice quivering.
My arched brow grows and grows until she succumbs to its pressure. “Fine. It’s Underwood. Willow Reed Underwood. U.N.D.E.R—Wood. As in the wood your pants struggled to contain when I spun around to face you.”
Spit flies out of Dalton’s mouth when he fails to smother his chuckle. I don’t know if he’s chuckling at Willow’s reply or the horrendous name her parents bestowed upon her. Whatever it is, I’m laughing right with him.
“You’re name is Willow Reed Underwood?”
When she nods, I laugh even louder. “Your parents aren’t environmentalists by any chance, are they? Tree huggers? Forrest lovers?” My voice crackles more with each word I speak. “Let me guess, your sister’s name is Aspen, Maple, or Birch. It’s Birch, isn’t it?”
Unimpressed, Willow folds her arms under her chest. I really wish she wouldn’t. One thrust of her boobs and my brain turns to dust.
“Alright, asshat, you’ve had your fun; now get on your bike.”
Her sexy accent eradicates any chance of me taking her threat seriously. Her straight lips and narrowed eyes have me laughing so hard, the timber decking beneath my feet shudders. Their vibrations are so fierce, Becca sprints out the door separating the deck from her massive kitchen, panicked about an earthquake.
Considering she’s eight months pregnant, her mad dash doesn’t just steal my laughter, it has Dalton’s fist getting friendly with my gut.
After a stern finger point, Dalton devotes his attention to his wife. “Are you alright? I saw the footage on YouTube. What were you doing in that section, Becca? You know how crazy those Marshall fans are. You should have gone home.”
I barely hear Becca whisper, “I wanted to see you play your final home game before the baby comes,” before a scent too sweet to be innocent secures my attention.
Willow is standing next to me. She still has her arms folded over her chest, and her nose is screwed up, but the fire in her eyes has dulled from witnessing Dalton’s attentiveness to Becca.
“If she’s married to a fed, how did she get such an impressive house?”
Although she’s asking a question, she doesn’t give me a chance to reply.
“Ohhh. I mistook your Tweedledum, Tweedledee outfits. You’re not feds! You’re hitmen who’ll pop the guy I knocked out.” She peers up at me, her short height made more noticeable by the large crank of her neck. “If I knew you wanted him dead, I would have loosened up my muscles before taking my swing.”
“You hit the man who struck Becca?” Surprise resonates in my tone. She’s got fighting spirit in her eyes, but she appears to be more of a lover than a fighter.
“What? No!” The front of my pants tighten when she flashes me a mischievous grin. “I just returned his missing beer can.”
With that, she paces away from me to interrupt Becca and Dalton, her steps as seductive as her gorgeous face.
CHAPTER THREE
Willow
Y ou know that weird sensation your tummy gets when you’re lowering your parents’ closed bedroom door handle? You know you don’t want to see what’s happening behind the door, but the weird noises coming out of their room are too loud for a nine-year-old to ignore. That’s how I’m feeling right now as I approach Becca and the man I mistook for a federal agent.
My error can be easily excused. It’s not every day you
have two men approach you in matching navy suits without warning, much less after you fled the scene of a crime. If that wasn’t suspicious enough, their shoulders are as wide as I am tall, and the bulkier of the two has a black eye and a cut lip.
Alarm bells were ringing.
Unfortunately, a warning siren wasn’t the only one their arrival set off.
The slimmer of the two is handsome. He has a defined jaw, pillowy lips, and cheekbones that sit a shit-ton higher now than they did when he arrived. I guess his wife’s constant reassurance that she’s fine gives him a good reason to smile.
His friend, on the other hand is rough, rugged, and so damn wickedly sexy my panties filled with moisture long before my eyes did. The split in his top lip enhances his wonky smile; his stacked shoulders reveal he’d have no trouble pinning a woman to a wall and fucking her until her legs gave out, and the most deliriously sexy dimple rests in the middle of his chin. You have no idea how hard it was for me not to whack my chest and say, “You Tarzan, me Jane,” upon spotting him.
It was a close call. The only thing that stopped me was recalling how long it took me to calm Skylar down from “dumping” her at the game. I had left Becca unaccompanied for over twenty minutes, giving her plenty of time to dob me into the cops.
Becca is as sweet as pie and was extremely convincing when she said I could hide out in her palatial home until the heat died down at the football stadium not too far from here, but I’ve been fooled by pretty faces before.
Not many rich people are nice. It’s not their fault. They’re just so hungry from the constant diets they’re on, they can’t help but be cranky. I’m not putting down skinny people; I’m talking facts. I was the crankiest bitch on the planet when I followed my strict no more than 1000 calories a day diet, so wouldn’t it be the same for everyone else? We are, after all, cut from the same cloth.
Realizing I’m letting my hunger get the better of me, I tap Becca on the shoulder. “Hey. . . ah. . .” Come on, Willow, you’ve been able to talk under water since you were nine months old. “I’m gonna head off. The sirens have settled, and your man is here now, so you don’t need me hanging around anymore.”
