Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  “Dr. Richards—” But he’s already hung up.

  There’s no point trying to talk my way out of it, anyway. I’m just going to have to pull up my big girl panties and face the consequences of my actions.

  I turn off my phone and lay it very gently down on the table. I can put the pieces together—I’m not stupid. I dug this hole for myself, but as to how far it’s managed to go? That’s Roger’s fault.

  But that doesn’t explain how he got the picture. Austin still has to have been part of it.

  Or does he? Could Roger have gotten access to my phone somehow? I went into the office the day after the party. I know Roger was there because I went out of my way to avoid him. I left my phone on my desk to go to the bathroom – that would have certainly been enough time for him to get the photo off my phone.

  I did. I left it on my desk for about five minutes when I went to the bathroom. As to whether Roger was there—well, he must have been. It’s the only explanation that doesn’t involve Austin betraying me on the deepest possible levels. And it’s getting harder and harder for me to believe he would have done that. Austin isn’t Roger. He’s not Mason. He’s a good guy.

  We could have had something together. Something good. And now it’s over.

  12

  Austin

  “Who the hell is this idiot? I need Chloe. I’m not starting over again in the middle of physical therapy.”

  Chloe just took off in the middle of the game. Didn’t give me a chance to defend myself, didn’t wait for me to figure out what I could do to help. Didn’t even wait for me to give her a ride home—she just hopped into the nearest bus. The last I saw of her was the door closing behind her and the bus moving away from the curb when I was still too far away for her to even hear me yelling after her.

  Whatever happened to get Chloe’s picture up on the Jumbotron, the fallout has been horrible. Photos of the big screen have spread all over the Internet; every single one of my social media feeds is plastered with it. The narrative at first was that the woman was just an overly obsessed fan. But then Chloe’s name got attached to the picture—I don’t know how—and now she’s being branded unprofessional, a football groupie, a whore, and every horrible thing the nasty underbelly of the Internet can think of to call her. Worst of all, the original picture has made it online. Somebody got into my phone, or got into her phone—got hold of the picture somehow.

  I have a feeling I know who it was. That smarmy face keeps floating across my inner vision—the asshole that accosted Chloe in the locker room and accused her of sucking my dick.

  I hoped I could talk to Chloe when she came by for my physical therapy session, so we could figure things out and decide what to do next, but instead some dumbass kid showed up at my door. He assured me he was thoroughly qualified to pick up where Chloe left off on my therapy. I gave him about five minutes, then I threw him out of my goddamn house. Then I called Coach, because I deserve a fucking explanation.

  “Austin.”

  This is Coach, trying to placate me. I’m not being placated. I want to climb through the phone and rip somebody’s head off.

  “Austin, you have to understand. Chloe’s not with the practice anymore.”

  “Why the fuck is she not with the practice? Did she quit?”

  If she was upset enough about the picture to quit her job, I’m sure I can talk her off the ledge, get her back on the right track. I’ve got Chloe’s boss on the call, too. I figured it would be more efficient to rip him and Coach both a new one at the same time.

  Her boss clears his throat, then he says, “No. We’ve officially let her go.”

  There goes the rage again. If I were a cartoon character, there’d be smoke coming out of my ears, and the top of my head would fly off for more smoke to come out. Hell, that might be happening anyway. It sure feels like it.

  “You fired her?” My voice is loud enough I’m sure Dr. Richards is wincing on the other end of the line, and probably Coach is, as well. “She had nothing to do with what happened at the game. Why the fuck would you fire her over that?”

  “We have a certain reputation to maintain.” Dr. Richards sounds like he’s explaining a complicated math concept to an obtuse student. “Our therapists do not get involved with our clients, and they certainly don’t splash nude selfies all over the big screen at our clients’ football games.”

  “You think she did that?” I can barely see through the rage. “That was a personal photo. Why in the world would she put it up on the screen at the football game?”

  “We don’t know exactly what happened,” Dr. Richards says gently. He’s trying to placate me, too.

  Good fucking luck. I’m angrier at him than I am at Coach. Coach was just the bearer of the bad news; Richards is the one who lowered the axe.

  “But in the long run,” Richards continues, “it doesn’t really matter how the photo got onto the big screen. What matters is that it was taken at all. This is not the way our staff is meant to behave.”

  “What she does in her own time is none of your goddamn business. Somebody stole that picture. He’s the one who should be getting fired.”

  Dr. Richards’ voice goes a little tight. I’m sure he didn’t miss the implication that the person I’m talking about works for him.

  I get the feeling he’s starting to not like me.

  “We have very clear guidelines regarding interaction between staff and clients. Whether that picture was taken on personal time or not, she has violated those guidelines. Surely you understand this? Your league undoubtedly holds you to certain behavioral standards.” There’s a pause, then he adds, “You knew this before you got involved with her.”

  The fuck? “You did not just go there.” This is bullshit.

  “It’s a fair point,” Richards says.

  I can almost hear Coach holding his breath, waiting for what I’m going to say next.

  For once, I pull my temper back under a tight rein. I could talk this asshole Richards around in circles all day, but I don’t have the time.

  “You can shove your behavioral standards up your ass. Regardless of whatever relationship we may or may not have, Chloe has been getting me ready for the championship game, and I’d better fucking have her back working with me by the end of the day, or I’m going to sue you for breach of contract.”

  “I don’t believe this constitutes a breach of contract.”

  God, Richards is so fucking calm. He’s probably right, too, but I’m not going to let him get away with a throwaway dismissal. Not after what he’s said to me.

  “I’m working with you because you provided the best physical therapist available. Now you’re taking that therapist away. That’s fucking breach of contract, so fuck you.”

  “Sherwood, calm down. There’s nothing we can do about this.”

  “The fuck there isn’t.” I’m surprised at this point that I can still form words, much less mostly coherent sentences. I don’t think I’ve ever been so furious in my life. They’re fucking with Chloe. My Chloe. And goddammit, you don’t fuck with what’s mine. “You want me back on the field? You get her back on my case.”

  “We’ve officially terminated her employment.”

  “She did nothing wrong. Whoever decided it was okay to put that picture up on a screen in front of sixty thousand people and then spread it all over the goddamn Internet is the one who needs to be punished.”

  “We can’t—” Richards starts.

  “Bullshit! You can and you will! You hear me?”

  I have no idea if he hears me, because I throw the phone across the room. It bounces off the wall, and the voices coming out of it fall silent. I wonder if I’ve broken it. Honestly, I don’t give a flying fuck. All I care about is Chloe.

  I wheel away from the wall where the phone landed. Behind me, the TV’s on. I’d almost forgotten about it—I turned the volume down so it wouldn’t interfere with the phone call—but the pictures moving across the screen are enough to start me off again. The
y’ve been showing Chloe’s naked torso on ESPN every fifteen minutes since I turned the damn channel on. It’s blurred, of course—small mercies that every man in America can’t see her unpixelated nipples—but it’s Chloe.

  The asshole who did this to her should be shot.

  No, he should be subjected to a much more complex, imaginative, and painful punishment. Preferably one that could go on for days, keeping him in horrible agony, on the verge of death, for weeks…months.

  I grind my teeth together so hard I get a stabbing pain behind my eyeball. Picturing forms of torture being inflicted on someone—and I pretty much know who that someone is, having met his charming self however briefly—is probably not good for my blood pressure.

  I flip the channel. But there she is again, on ESPN2, and on NBC Sports Network. Even the news channels are carrying the story.

  “Fuck you!” I scream at them, stab the OFF button on the remote, and fling it across the room. It barely misses the TV. It’d be just my luck to destroy two important electronic devices in the space of five minutes. Mom always said my temper would be the end of me.

  But this isn't just about my and my temper running amok. It’s about Chloe. God, what is she going through right now? Unless she went home and locked herself away in her bedroom, she has to know all this is going on. I have to talk to her. I have to figure out how to fix this for her.

  The phone is lying on the floor at the base of the wall. I retrieve it. It appears not to have been damaged; it landed on the carpet. When I press the button to take it out of sleep mode, everything seems to be working.

  I hem and haw, guess and second-guess, trying to decide on the right course of action, and finally call Chloe.

  It rings several times, and I’m about to give up when she finally answers.

  “Chloe. Are you all right?”

  It’s a stupid question. Of course she’s not all right. She wasn’t all right yesterday, and chances are excellent she’s not any more all right today. But I have to ask.

  “I’m fine.” She doesn’t sound a bit fine. Her voice is thick and muddy, like her sinuses are full from too much crying.

  All my protective instincts kick back in. “I can fix this. I swear I can.”

  “Austin…” She stops. “Just stay out of it. Please.”

  Her voice is so raw. I blink rapidly, feeling her pain in the middle of my own chest. “I didn’t do this, Chloe. I swear to God I didn’t.”

  The thought that she might still believe I set her up is more than I can stand. She knows I care about her more than that.

  Does she? Did you ever tell her?

  I hear her take a slow breath, then she says, “I know you didn’t, Austin.”

  The relief at hearing her say it is so intense my chest goes tight. I swallow hard. “Do you know who did?”

  My voice sounds thin and choked even to me. If she confirms my suspicions, I’m ready to fly out the door and mete out some serious justice on the guy’s fucking head.

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure,” is all she says.

  “Tell me.” I say it a little too harshly. “Tell me and I’ll beat the living shit out of him. There’s no way I’m letting him get away with this.”

  “No, Austin. Just let it go.” This time she just sounds tired. “There’s no point. It’s all over.”

  “What’s over? Nothing’s over. I’ll talk to Dr. Richards again and get you reinstated. You did nothing wrong. They can’t fire you over what you do in your personal life.”

  “Yes, they can. Please, Austin. Just drop it. We knew it was a risk. We knew it wouldn’t work. And now…”

  I’m quiet, seething, afraid to speak for fear I might take out my anger on her. I’m furious that she’s just rolling over. How can she just let them do this to her?

  There’s a long pause.

  “You’re right. I know who did it, or at least I’m pretty sure. He must have taken my phone when I stopped by the office. I left it on my desk for a few minutes and went to the bathroom. He probably poked around, found the picture, and sent it to himself. He posted it. He must have paid somebody to get it shown at the stadium…” She trails off.

  I wonder if she’s crying. She sounds so small and broken. This isn’t Chloe. Not the Chloe I know. I’m used to her giving back as good as she gets.

  “None of this means you have to just give up.”

  I can’t bear hearing her sound like she does. I want to make everything better, but I’m not sure how. More than anything, I’d like to find that Roger idiot and smash his face into a pulp.

  “It’s over, Austin. As far as my career is concerned, I came back from what Mason did, but this on top of that… There’s just no point. I’m done as a physical therapist.”

  “There is a point—”

  But she’s already hung up the phone.

  I try to keep myself under control, I really do, but I can’t. The longer I sit there thinking about what’s just happened, I just get angrier and angrier. Finally I sit down at the computer, run a few things through a search engine, and go grab my coat. It’s not hard to track people down these days if you know where to look.

  Dr. Roger Pendleton is going to pay for what he did.

  There are reporters outside, because of course there are. They’re just lurking, waiting for me to stick my nose out so they can shove a recorder at me. I barely register the questions as they swirl around me. “Do you know the girl who was on the screen?” “Are you dating her?” “What can you tell us about the picture?” “Did you expect it?”

  I keep walking. All I want is to get to my car. Then one of the peskier of the group—I’ve dealt with him before—stands right in front of me and sticks his iPhone right in my face.

  “What do you know about—”

  I slap the phone out of his hand. It hits the sidewalk and I see the screen shatter.

  I don’t care. I get up in his face. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  There’s a ripple through the others.

  “Just one question, Austin,” I hear. “What do you think you’re doing?” another one says, voice raised.

  I wheel on them while the other man scrambles for his broken phone. “All of you. You fucking parasites. Get the fuck out of my way before I put my fist through one of you.”

  There’s a dead silence suddenly. They’re all staring at me. They’re afraid. Good. I keep walking.

  My PR rep is going to kill me. Slowly. Probably using the tweezers she occasionally whips out to adjust her eyebrows.

  Fine. Whatever.

  I head straight for the car. I know exactly where I’m going. The asshole who did this to Chloe is about to find out what it means to cross me.

  It’s not until I pull up in front of Pendleton’s house that I realize half the reporters and paparazzi who ambushed me back at my house have followed me.

  Goddammit. I don’t need that kind of complication. It’s not going to stop me, though. Nothing’s going to stop me.

  I stalk up the sidewalk. It’s like something’s carrying me there and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. He has to pay. He has to answer for what he did to Chloe.

  I pound on his door and it shakes under my fist like it’s going to collapse under the impact. Maybe it will. That’d be satisfying.

  “What the hell?”

  The voice comes from inside the house. I recognize it, so I’ve managed to get to the right house, at least. I clench my fist, preparing to strike the door again, but I don’t. I let him come. I can hear his footsteps on the tile on the other side of the door, and when he flings it open, I give myself a single second to register his face.

  It’s definitely him. I tighten my fist. I’ll give him one chance. What he has to do to earn a reprieve, I don’t know, but I have to give him the chance.

  He smirks. “Well, well. Austin Sherwood. I suppose you’re here to—”

  Whatever he could have said to make me stand down, that’s not it. I cock my fist back and punch him in the mouth.


  He staggers back. I grab his collar before he can fall and draw him back upright so I can hit him again. This time I hold tight to his collar and swing him around so he can’t retreat into the house.

  I didn’t exactly forget about the paparazzi and reporters out in the yard, but I’m not exactly taking them into account, either. And as I put my fist into Roger’s face again, his body spins toward the photographers. There are clicks and flashes and people crying out. I get in three or four more good hits—and Roger manages to catch me a couple of times, as well. Then there are hands on my arms, my shoulders, and they’re dragging me off him. His face is bloody, his teeth bared, eyes wild. My knuckles are bloody, and there’s blood on my shirt.

  And there are cameras everywhere.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Coach throws his iPad down on the table in front of me. There’s a picture of me on the front page of the sports section. I look…insane, one hand cocked back, the other twisted in the collar of Roger’s shirt.

  “You know what happens now, right?” Coach is still yelling at the top of his lungs. I’m sure everybody in the stadium can hear him at this point. “You’re suspended. Indefinitely. Pending criminal charges. You hear me? Criminal charges. If this guy decides to press charges for assault, you’re fucked. You understand, Sherwood? Fucked. No playoffs, no championship—no fucking career. You’re gone. Over.”

  I stare at the picture in front of me. It’s pretty damning. But of course it is. I went to the guy’s house and dragged him out by his throat and beat the shit out of him. I can’t deny it.

  “It was him.” My voice sounds cold, dead. “He was the one who had that picture put up on the screen during the game. He was the one who put it up on the Internet.”

  Coach isn’t having it. “So that gives you the right to drag him out of his own house and pound him in front of thirty people with cameras?”

  “He stole the picture. He hurt her. He made her lose her job. He put her up in front of all those people.” The rage is rising again. I’m not sure I can do anything to keep it down.