Throw Down (The King Brothers Book 1)

by Teagan Kade

  He draws a hand back. “Okay, okay, maybe, but the point remains. You soften up and this girl’s good as gone. These girls don’t want someone to talk American literature with, to sit by the fire and play tic tac toe. They want the dick.” He looks down. “Your dick. The dick.”

  “You seem awfully fixated on my cock.”

  “It’s a pretty cock, what can I say?”

  I shove him away, smiling. “Don’t ever call my cock pretty again, got it?”

  He turns and makes for the bathrooms, throwing a hand up. “Think about it. You know I’m right.”

  I give it all of about two seconds thought before I bring my cell up to my face and start punching out an apology message. “Nah, fuck your ideas,” I whisper to myself.

  I sit back down and watch the message go. I realize I never said who the message was from, not that it’s going to be any great mystery.

  Her number wasn’t hard to find. Nothing on campus is when you’re a King.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feel my muscles relax and then flex tight with uncertainty. I don’t know what she’s going to make of it, but I do know one thing:

  I need Erin Nash.

  I need her like I need air itself.

  *

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door, Nolan poking his head in. “You want any pizza?”

  My brothers, bless them, have decided to crash my place tonight for the Pats V Cowboys game. I shake my head. “Let the twins have it.”

  “You good?”

  Of my brothers, Nolan’s the quietest, the most introspective, if there is such a thing when your surname is King. He’s probably the only one of us with an actual beating heart.

  I smile, eyes drifting up from the phone screen. “Yeah, bro.”

  “Girl?”

  “Something like that.”

  He moves into the doorway and I’ve got to admit the extra time he’s been putting in on the weights is starting to pay off. His arms are fucking tree trunks. “You want to pretend I’m Coach Mooney, tell you to keep your head in the game and stop playing High School Musical with the campus hussies.”

  That makes me laugh. “Like your coach is any better.”

  “True that,” Nolan nods. “He’d have us on the ice twenty-four hours a day if he could. We’d be living in an igloo.”

  “Right,” I reply, returning back to my phone screen and the message I sent to Erin earlier, but there’s no response. I even tried calling, called the damn paper too, but nada.

  Nothing.

  Nolan slaps me on the leg. “Game in ten. See you down there.”

  He leaves, the twins’ voices already booming downstairs.

  I place the phone down with a sigh and roll over, staring at the wall but seeing only her and that perfect face, tawny waves of hair framing her features and whispering to me, telling me to do nasty things to her, to slide a hand between her legs and find out for real how wet she is for me.

  Keep dreaming, lover boy.

  When I do find sleep, it’s with a full head and hard cock, dreams of Erin failing to materialize and provide the sweet relief I so desperately require.

  *

  It’s hotter than usual on campus the following day. The receptionist kept telling me Erin was in a meeting, so yet again I’m forced to wait outside until god knows when, hat in hand looking like a complete idiot.

  I check my watch — two hours and counting.

  A good source of mine told me she always comes out for lunch, eats by herself down near the lake under the big willow tree that looks like something from Harry Potter.

  “Come on,” I whisper under my breath, eyes on the front door of the building. “You’ve got to surface some time.”

  Right on cue, the doors open and she comes walking out straight for me. I stand and try to calm myself.

  Talk with your head here, not your dick, I tell myself.

  I hand out the matcha bubble tea, probably lukewarm by now. “Peace offering?”

  She stops before me. Her hair’s tied up into a tight ponytail, a small silver clip keeping it out of her eyes. “You think bubble tea’s going to make up for that disgusting stuff you said?”

  I hold it out a little bit further.

  She sighs and takes it, sipping. “It’s a start, I guess.”

  Her face tightens at the temperature of it. “How long have you been waiting?”

  I step forward careful not to get too close. “Long story. Look, I do want to apologize, and trust me, that’s fucking hard for me to do.”

  “Wow,” she whistles, “so sincere.”

  “What do you want me to do? Prostrate myself before you?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” A faint line of a smile.

  “I’m sorry, okay. I was an asshole.”

  She laughs. It’s so light, so fucking beautiful. “An asshole? If there was an Academy Awards of Assholes, you’d have a whole closet of gold.”

  I can see why she’s a writer. Big imagination, which means… I hold the thought at bay.

  I place my hand on my heart, surprised to find it’s beating a bit faster than its regular 53bpm. “I promise to be on my best behavior from now on.”

  She gives it a moment of thought, but I know it’s for show. I’ve broken through. “Fine,” she relents, ponytail whipping from shoulder to shoulder.

  I look past her, look for a way to shift the subject back to something she’s passionate about, keep following the line to the good stuff. “What’s it like, working in there?”

  She turns her head, pointing. “The Crimson?”

  “Yeah.”

  I can see the question’s taken her off guard. “Uh, it’s fine.” She examines me. “Do you… want a tour?”

  I start to walk towards the office. “Love one.”

  It’s not like I was planning it, but it’s moving in the right direction.

  She skips along to catch up. “Um, okay. Follow me, I guess.”

  I do, more than happy to fall back and admire that impossible ass of hers. Fuck me, I’d do anything to get my hands on it.

  The receptionist looks surprised to see me again. “We’re just heading upstairs,” says Erin.

  “Have fun,” the receptionist laughs, though I’m not sure at who’s expense.

  Upstairs, the Crimson is a bustling hive of activity. I had no idea this was even here, thought it was an old archive building.

  “So,” says Erin, unsure, “this is where the action happens, I suppose.”

  She’s nervous, awkward, but why? She’s playing with her hairclip, looking around anxiously. “What did you want to see?”

  “Where do you sit?” I ask, my hands behind my back like I’m an inspector of sorts, here for a simple looksie-loo, make sure everything’s ship shape.

  A high female voice startles us both. “And who have you brought along for show and tell today, Erin?”

  We both spin, a bouncy bottle blonde standing before me in hot pink heels and matching top that’s truly defying gravity given the rack she’s packing. She pushes her chest out and smiles, eyes getting awfully handsy over my body. She whistles, “Impressive.”

  Because Erin’s gone suddenly speechless, I extend my hand. “Peyton.”

  She takes it… and keeps holding it. “Amanda. So pleased to meet you.”

  Amanda here is the complete opposite of Erin. I’m pretty sure she’d let me fuck her on the photocopier right here right now if Erin wasn’t trying to wedge herself between us. “Thanks, ’Manda.”

  Erin takes my arm and leads me towards a row of desks at the back of the room. “Don’t mind her.”

  “Who?” I laugh. “Barbie incarnate?”

  Another smile. Another win. I can see the endzone approaching, visualize that sweet, sweet TD so clearly now.

  Normally, I’d go for flirty Amanda — easy pickings — but no. Why have the buffet when there’s fine dining right next door?

  What I need to do is have Erin, and as soon as possible. I can’t allo
w any girl, no matter how attractive, to have any kind of hold over me. It’s bad for my game, bad for the King name, and just generally bad business.

  No, I’ll have Erin and I’ll have her all, get her right out of my system so I can get back to concentrating on what matters.

  “Here we are. Home sweet home,” says Erin, leaning against a partition wall.

  Her desk is sparse bar a row of squishies and a framed photo of a woman I assume is her mother, though the photo itself looks dated. There’s a mug with a quote in French. I read it aloud: “Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid? Something about a small bird?”

  “Color me impressed.”

  “I’m not a Neanderthal. What does it mean?”

  “‘Little by little, the bird makes it nest.’ It’s a French proverb of sorts, speaks to patience and perseverance, a kind of oxymoron when it comes to you, it would seem.”

  I sit against the edge of the desk, pick up a squishy that looks like a three-eyed alien and squeeze. “I’m persevering, aren’t I?”

  She lets it go, watching me and then leaning over to close whatever was on her screen.

  Just as I’m about to question it, a guy shows up behind her back. He eyes me suspiciously. “Everything okay here?”

  Erin pushes off the partition like she’s been zapped in the ass. “Lewis. I thought you were at lunch.”

  “That was an hour ago.”

  Erin’s flustered, gesturing to me. “Ah, Lewis, this is Peyton King, the Thunder’s quarterback. Peyton, this is Lewis, Editor of the Crimson.”

  A-ha. “I take his hand firmly. Pleased to meet you, Lewis.”

  He smiles a fake fucking smile but says nothing to me, exchanging a glance with Erin I can’t read but know is full to the brim with meaning.

  This Lewis nods to me and walks away, looking back once before heading into an office.

  I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. Caveman instincts kick in and I lean over to whisper in Erin’s ear. “Let’s head back outside.”

  Erin seems pleased for the suggestion. “With pleasure.”

  She walks us back through the office, Amanda winking at me with her legs up on her desk.

  Outside, I point back up at the office. “You with that guy?”

  “Lewis?” she laughs. “Of course not.” She sees the way I’m looking at her, the way my shoulders have failed to relax. “My god, you’re jealous, aren’t you? Of what? We’re not together. He’s like, forty-five or something.”

  I’ve got to dig myself out of this, and fast. “Forget it. Want to come to a party tonight?”

  I know this is switching it up, but to my surprise she doesn’t balk at the offer. “A party, you say? Is it going to end like the last one?”

  Not if I have anything to do with it, I want to say, but I keep my reply concise. “No, ma’am.”

  She hesitates, looking back up to the office windows, but for who? She turns back to me. “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  Awkwardly, she turns and starts walking away.

  I let her go.

  I’ll get my fill tonight.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ERIN

  I arrive at the frat party and I swear to god it’s like I’ve stepped straight into American Pie. From my expert Googling, Gamma Kappa Phi appears to be one of the more popular houses on campus. Like most of the Greeks, it’s a sprawling white house of a mansion, the inflatable flamingo in the fountain out front something of a juxtaposition to its otherwise stately appearance.

  Inside, it only gets worse. I was never a party girl at college, never partook of the American tradition to get blind drunk, puke in a pot plant and have limp, sandpaper dry sex upstairs. No, I studied and I worked my ass off because I had a plan. Now it’s been what? A week? And here I am at my second house party, or is it a pre-game party? Given the amount of Thunder jerseys I’m seeing, a sea of red, maybe it’s the latter.

  I pick up an empty cup and stroll through the house looking for Peyton. It’s a whole new world. There’s beer pong and flip cup going on, a girl being hoisted upside down to drink from a keg. In the corner of the living room a wannabee Skrillex has taken control of the aux cord. There are people everywhere, the yeasty stench of spilt beer overwhelming. It’s no Project X, but it's no lighter on the clichés.

  A hand on my shoulder. I spin and find Peyton standing there. He’s ditched the jersey for a tailored black Oxford, the top two — or is it three? — buttons undone to reveal an unholy slab of chest. Even in the murky low-light, his eyes shine and glimmer, beg me to abandon reason.

  But I will not.

  “Welcome,” he smiles, lifting his voice to be heard over Dua Lipa’s Kiss and Make Up. He leans over to my ear, a single pant of heat against the side of my throat before he speaks, a hint of Tom Ford. “You look incredible.”

  I did ramp things up a little in fashion department tonight — full credit to Mindy. I’m not used to wearing dresses, much less a minidress (big on the ‘mini’). I’m not used to the weird satin fabric, the color gold or the fact I can feel an actual breeze between my legs.

  It's not just the breeze, my head warns, but I quash such flippant thoughts.

  You’re here to work, remember?

  “Thank you,” I finally reply, coming back to reality. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  “Come,” he says, the warmth of his hand against my back, “We’ll find somewhere quieter.”

  We snake through the quasi-mingling to the kitchen area at the rear of the house. There’s a pyramid of kegs against a wall, an assortment of liquor on the kitchen counter that would put any hotel bar to shame.

  The music’s muted down here, but it’s still loud.

  I lean against the wall trying to look casual and cool. It’s that original party all over again. “So,” I begin, Peyton facing me with his hands in his pockets, “you ready for the big game?”

  My research tells me it is a big game. Peyton King is hot property on the football field, some say the next Aaron Rodgers given his touchdown-to-interception ratio — one of the highest in American college football. I imagine the same ratio’s going pretty well when it comes to getting laid. It’s those damn eyes. Screw them and their chocolate voodoo. I have to glance away their power’s so strong.

  He places a hand next to my head, leaning forward, his shirt falling further open and yep, yes, there’s abs all up in there — ten, twelve? Who knows how many. “I am,” he replies, voice husky. “I’m always ready to play.”

  If we keep speaking in innuendo like this we’re going to turn into a sitcom. I shake my head. “You told me you’d tone down the whole jock take-me-now stuff.”

  He places his hands up in surrender. “All right, but it still doesn’t mean it’s not the truth. I love the game. What can I say?”

  I’m unsure if we’re still talking football or not. “And that’s what you want to do,” I press, “play in the NFL, make Daddy proud?” I’ve got my journalist hat back on.

  An illicit laugh in return. “I could make ten touchdowns in a game and ‘Daddy’ would still be on my ass. You can’t please my father.”

  “He’s strict?” I ask.

  Peyton’s hands slide back into his pockets and I notice a definite something going on at the front of his jeans I’m pretty certain isn’t a design. “Was,” he corrects. “We barely see anything of him these days he’s so busy with his team, his next wife.”

  I had read Stone King goes through wives like weekday underwear. “What are your chances?”

  A raised eyebrow. “Of becoming my father?”

  “Of making the NFL.”

  “One-hundred percent, baby. One-hundred percent.”

  This isn’t working, this awkward back-and-forth between us. It feels like we are both holding back, pretending to be people we’re not, or maybe dancing around each other, too scared to push harder.

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

  Ea
sy, Brain. Easy.

  We both jump when someone comes sliding up between us. “What’s up, fuckers?!”

  Peyton shoves the jersey-wearing giant away from him. “Tony, what the fuck, man?”

  I mentally run through my notes — Tony Hamilton, Thunder tight end.

  Tony finally notices me. “Oh, shit, I didn’t know you had company.”

  Tony picks up my hand and plants a kiss on it. “A pleasure.” He looks into my eyes and jumps back, holding Peyton. “Fuck me. She’s the unicorn, isn’t she?”

  Now I’m really confused. I actually look upwards expecting to see a horn growing out of my head. What does that mean, ‘the unicorn’? I’m girly? One of a kind? A freak? I have no idea, but I do intend to ask Peyton about it later.

  Peyton’s face tightens. He takes Tony by the jersey and pulls him back, speaking through gritted teeth. “Not now, bro.”

  Tony carefully peels Peyton’s hand away. “Apologies.” He spots my cup, looking over the rim. “Looks like you’re out, sweetheart.” He turns and rummages around the kitchen counter, clicking his fingers at another Thunder jersey dude who opens the fridge and takes out a tray of shots. In fact, it doesn’t look like there’s anything in that fridge except shots.

  Tony takes the tray and places it down on the corner of the bench, handing two shots to Peyton and two to myself. “Fireballs for everyone! Get your fireballs!”

  I hesitate before taking them. I haven’t done a shot since I was seventeen, much less a fireball. I don’t like whiskey, or cinnamon, or, okay, alcohol. It’s a nice wee glass of ‘Yeah, I hate it,’ but before I know what’s happening Peyton and Tony have downed theirs, eagerly waiting for me to follow.

  I wanted in.

  This is in.

  I shake my head internally and put the first shot down. It burns like fucking fire — surprise, surprise. The second’s as bad as the first. I cough twice and thump my chest, Tony reaching forward to hold up my arm.

  “Fuck yeah!” he shouts. “Fucking P-A-R-T-Y! Thunder for life!”

  The sentiment is echoed by the others in the room, a staccato series of grunts that confirms I’m in a house full of Neanderthals.

  Tony vanishes, Peyton taking my hand and simply holding it between us. I let him knowing full well what it’s doing to my self-control. It’s hot, not warm, softer than I thought too, a tenderness to his fingers I wasn’t expecting. “Hey,” he says, “you want to dance?”