Hat Trick, page 10
She tucked her tablet under her arm, her phone in her front pocket, and locked the door behind her. Once she opened the double glass doors onto the suite, she saw that Marcus had already found some people he knew, no big surprise—the man rarely went anywhere important where he didn’t. He was standing at the bar, holding a beer and laughing with a few older guys she didn’t recognize, figuring them for execs from the two main sponsorship companies.
Taking another deep breath, she headed down the steps so she could lean out over the field. The crowd was pretty decent, considering they still had almost thirty minutes to go before the match started. The women were on the field, warming up. The opposing team—the Lady Racers—were on the opposite end, and seemed to have brought a nice contingent of their fans.
Her earpiece bleeped. She touched the button on it.
“Yeah? Haley?”
“Yes. Hey, listen, I found out about that tweet.”
“What tweet?”
“You know, Jason’s. Bros and hoes or whatever.”
“Oh, right,” she said, noting that the men’s team had gathered near the mouth of the tunnel from their locker room for some reason. She leaned out further, trying to catch sight of one of the coaches. “What are they doing?”
“Who? Oh, shit.”
A huge shout hit her ears and a cheer went up from the gathered crowd. Emily watched as the entire team, or what appeared to be the entire team of Black Jack Gentlemen, ran out between the two women’s teams warming up at opposite ends of the pitch. They were holding something that unfurled as they spread out from sideline to sideline. It looked like a banner. Someone to her left started chuckling while her brain attempted to process what her eyes were seeing.
The words “Go Lady Jacks” and “BJs Love Their Ladies!” were emblazoned in huge red letters on the banner stretching across the field. The sound system blasted Beyoncé’s “All the Single Ladies” as the men waved the thing. The women’s team stood, staring, dumbfounded by the scene. A couple of them—Ashley and Corrine, two of the more talented players—laughed and started kicking balls toward the men, who, since they had their hands up over their heads, had left their more sensitive areas uncovered.
As they turned to head off the middle of the field, the banner flipped over and the words “Bros Before Hos” and the old #BJDetroit were there, big as life. Emily frowned, noting all the phones raised, snapping pictures. Those assholes, she thought.
“Those assholes,” Sophie said, echoing her thought, before handing her a beer. “And may I just ask you one thing, dear Emily?”
“Sure,” Emily said, turning off the earpiece before taking a long drink.
“Why in the hell would you even consider anything in that pack of prancing, immature jackals?” She pointed down to the field, where the men had dropped the banner and were tossing their practice jerseys up to the fawning crowd above them. “Is there anyone in that bunch that is any better than the fine specimen of grown man over there?”
Emily sighed but didn’t turn around. She heard Marcus’s deep chuckle across the suite. It sent the most annoying, sharp spike of lust through her, so she had to down the rest of the beer in hopes of quelling it. “I know, right?” She set the empty bottle on a passing server’s tray and snagged a fresh one. “C’mon, let’s drink. I’m not driving.”
“Holy shit balls, sister, he drove you?”
“Well duh, Soph. I told you already. He’s angling back in, and I don’t know if I want it.”
Sophie gave her an arch look, then did an exaggerated peek around Emily’s shoulder.
“So help me, if you tell me he’s like George Clooney, only taller, I will push you off this ledge.”
“No, I was gonna say, ‘He’s like Clive Owen, only more American.’ Lucky cow.”
Emily dropped into the nearest seat and put the cold bottle to her forehead. Sophie sat next to her and patted her arm. “It’s all right. I’m just messing with ya. I can help you ignore him, if you want. I know it’s tough.”
They both looked up at the sound of a feminine squeal and saw a skinny, overdressed woman launch herself into Marcus’s arms. He smiled over her shoulder at the man Emily assumed was her auto exec husband and suffered her embrace.
“Marcus! What are you doing here? Did the bank buy in as a sponsor? God, I hate these games. Where’s Melissa? Maybe she and I can get a locker room pass to the…”
Emily winced, recalling that “Melissa” was the ex-girlfriend. She shut out the sound of the woman’s high-pitched bleating. She knew that tone. She’d adopted it herself many times and in many situations, but had dropped it thanks to Sophie, who’d told her the first time they’d met that if she didn’t stop sounding like a trophy wife at a fundraiser they’d have to cut her loose.
“Oh fuck me,” Sophie said now. “We can’t get away from them, can we?”
“You forget,” Emily said, draining half of her second beer and sensing when it finally hit her overwrought nervous system. “I was one. I speak WAG.”
“Oh, right. Awesome.” Sophie held up her beer in a mock salute.
“Speaking of,” Emily said, flipping her earpiece on. “Something’s up with one of these guys. And I’m afraid it’s my favorite one.”
“Dec?”
“Yeah. Hang on.” She stood up and walked to a slightly quieter corner, observing her ex-husband working the suite like the pro he was. “Haley,” she said, “you there?”
“Yeah, boss. Behind the bench, snapping tons of pictures.”
“What did you find out about Jason’s tweet?” She smiled on reflex when Marcus looked up and caught her eye. They used to do this a lot together, hit a party and separate, making eye contact on occasion to gauge each other’s interest level in the event. Her face flushed hot when he kept his gaze on hers and lifted his beer to his lips, then winked, slowly. At that precise moment Haley’s voice filled her head.
“He’s pissed off because apparently Declan’s about to ask Cassandra to marry him. It’s beyond everyone’s understanding, of course. She’s such a slut. Poor Dec.”
“Yeah, right. Okay, thanks.” Her legs were shaking by then so she stood a minute, trying to gather all the wild threads of her thoughts. Marcus. Declan. She had no idea why she even passed a second thought for the sweet, handsome Scot. But she did. He was her “pet,” as one of the marketing flunkies liked to call him—the one player she’d latched onto and obsessed about. A few on the staff acted on their obsessions. Emily, of course, had not.
Marcus materialized at her elbow. “You all right?”
“Yeah, fine.” She tried not to, but leaned into him anyway. “Why?”
“You looked like someone just told you the rabbit died.” His whisper made her shiver. She looked up into his silvery eyes.
“No, trust me, I have less than no reason to think that. Unless it’s the second coming via immaculate conception.”
He gave her elbow a squeeze and let his hand drift toward her hip. Feeling woozy, fuzzy, and weak, she let him, moving even closer into the familiar circle of his arms. “Hmm…yes, I can tell.” He kept whispering, his lips grazing the ear not encumbered by Bluetooth. “You’re so very tempting right now, Em. So in charge. I like it.” She shut her eyes when his teeth grabbed her earlobe, then let go.
“Get off me,” she said, pushing him away, angry again at how easily she let herself get manipulated into the precise position she’d hated. He let go and stepped away from her.
“Hello there,” Sophie said, moving in next to Emily. “I’m Sophie, Emily’s friend, and I’m apparently in charge of this playpen.”
Marcus gave her his best smile and took her hand. “I know about you. The man who hired you was a good friend of mine.”
“You knew Jack?” Sophie blinked fast. Emily noted Brody moving up next to his wife and putting a possessive arm around her waist. Marcus tended to bring out the alpha behaviors amongst the others in the room.
“Yes, I did. I miss him a lot.” Marcus turned to look out over the field and finished his beer. “Hon, I’m gonna go grab some food, okay?”
Emily nodded, frowning at Sophie when she mouthed the words Oh my God, and waved her hand in front of her face.
“Shut up,” she said, taking her seat. “Let’s watch a fucking soccer game.”
Chapter Ten
The Lady Jacks won. Their male counterparts did not. By the end of the men’s game, Emily had traveled too far down the road to being drunk, which she damn well knew was a bad plan. Marcus opened her door and helped her into the front seat of the Jag, leaving her to fume at herself for being so stupid and weak willed. He drove home, keeping his warm palm on her jeans-clad thigh. She let it rest there, contemplating it and picturing how he’d use it, later.
They ordered pizza and ate it in front of the latest Disney movie on demand with Michelle between them. Marcus’s presence was not questioned, nor ever in doubt. He sipped a beer and Emily drank water, trying to regain her equilibrium.
When one of Michelle’s neighbor friends dropped by and asked her to come over, the girl agreed, leaving Emily on the couch, sweaty, nervous, and revved up beyond belief while Marcus put away the pizza boxes and hummed as he puttered around the kitchen. Deciding to take matters into her own hands one way or another, she got up and walked into the marble, granite, and stainless steel space. She put a hand on his shoulder while he stood at the sink rinsing glasses and sticking them into the dishwasher.
“Are you trying to make me orgasm with all this housework? I didn’t think you even knew where our dishwasher was located.”
He grabbed a towel and dried his hands before turning to her, leaning against the counter. “I know. Being a bachelor again has brought all my old skills back.”
“You were hardly a bachelor, Marcus. I’m sure Melissa made a fine pot of chili when she put her mind to it.”
He laughed and tossed the towel onto the island behind her, then gathered her close, forcing her to go up her tiptoes and put her arms somewhere—so she put them around his neck. He felt so very good, pressed against her, his lips hovering over hers, his words filling her ears.
“Melissa is long gone, baby. I’m here with you and I don’t ever…” He kissed her lightly. “Ever.” He did it again, a little longer this time before stopping and leaving her breathless. “Ever want to be anywhere else but here again.”
She kept her eyes closed, wishing this were true, wanting to believe him but wanting him to take her upstairs more than anything. He thumbed her chin. “Look at me, Em.”
“I’m afraid if I open my eyes I’ll see the old Marcus,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid of being the old Emily again.”
He slid his hands up, releasing her ponytail and burying his fingers in her hair. “I promise old Marcus is gone. And I love this new Emily.”
“Jesus, would you just stop sweet talking me and take me upstairs, please?”
He picked her up and headed for the front stairs. She hit the bed with a bounce and a squeal. He stood, looming over her, hand on his zipper, his eyes clouded with something she’d never seen there before—confusion. She propped herself up on her elbows and glared at him.
“What’s wrong? I don’t do it for you anymore?” She put one bare foot on the bed, anger licking her consciousness again.
“Oh, you more than do it for me, Emily,” he said. “I just…I wanted this to be something special. I don’t know.”
She sat up and grabbed one of his belt loops, tugging him toward her and unzipping him at the same time. She exhaled at the sight of his rigid cock, and would swear that her mouth watered. “This is special,” she said, sliding her hand up and down, relishing how wet his tip was already. She stood, letting her body rub against his, keeping her hand on his dick. “Very special.”
He gripped her arms and kissed her, diving into her mouth with his tongue, owning her in a way she remembered, as if they were sliding into a familiar pair of comfy shoes. “Oh Christ,” he muttered, yanking at her T-shirt, ripping at her bra before laying her back on the bed and tugging her jeans off, cursing again when they got caught on her feet. “Still on the pill?”
She nodded, relishing his lips and tongue on her nipples, his hand between her legs, stroking and rubbing and making her tense up, then grab his arm, her hips thrusting into his fingers.
The orgasm surprised her with its intensity. He groaned into her mouth as she kept coming, her body pulsing around his hand. With a growl she didn’t even recognize as coming from her throat, she shoved him over onto his back and crawled up between his legs, latching onto his massive cock with her lips for a few seconds, then straddling him.
She hovered, staring down at his lightly furred chest, his still-perfect pecs and abs. Her body hummed with need, but she hesitated, dropping down over him and kissing him. She broke away from his lips and he touched her face, his eyes dark with lust. “I want this so badly, Em.”
“I don’t know what I want,” she said, moving against his length but not allowing him inside. It was the God’s honest truth. The concept that Declan was right this very second on his knees in some swoon worthy scene asking that horrific, slutty bitch Cassandra to marry him had not exited her brain, not once, since Haley had told her that little tidbit. But her body knew what it wanted, and it was so close right now, tears welled in her eyes.
She covered Marcus’s mouth with hers as she angled her hips and took all of him at once, so deep it hurt. He gripped her hips tight, let her inside his mouth with her tongue as she rolled against him, gaining the exterior friction she required while the sensation of him filling her so completely sent her right over the edge within minutes. She propped one hand on his chest, the other on his thigh behind her.
“Do it, baby. Take it,” he whispered, reaching up to pinch both her nipples at once, making the dark room lighten around the edge of her vision. She shivered and let herself have the release, crying out into the space that used to be their marital bedroom. “That’s it…that is how my Emily comes.” He yanked her down, kissing her with a ferocity born of something she’d never experienced with him before—desperation, if she didn’t know better.
Their bodies kept moving, the rhythm familiar. She broke from his lips and stared down at him, confusion and satisfaction clanging around inside her head. “I love you,” he said, lunging up and pulling her legs alongside his hips so they sat, connected, changing his angle and making her gasp with the sensation. “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you…oh Jesus, yes!”
She leaned back, taking him ever deeper as he kept thrusting, hard, harder, digging his fingers into her hips until he shouted and closed his eyes. She sighed, recognizing his expression and the way his knees trembled against her before he pulled her up and held her so close she didn’t know if it was his heartbeat or hers pounding in her ears.
“Baby,” he whispered into her neck. She disentangled and headed for the bathroom, nearly falling over herself in the process. After washing her hands, she wandered out, smiling at the sight of him on his side, propped up on an elbow, grinning that shit-eating Marcus-got-laid grin at her. He held out a hand. “Can I stay?”
Knowing she should say no, she nodded and dropped into bed, letting him pull her close as he kissed her neck, whispering his “I love you” until she drifted off to sleep, body sated, mind awash with too much beer, hormones, and information about her pet soccer player.
The loud clanging of her phone drove her from sleep, making her sit up and brush her hair off her face. Marcus was on his stomach, hands shoved under his pillow, snoring lightly. She touched his shoulder, relishing what she should not have done with him, yet humming with satisfaction from her head to her toes that she had.
He rolled and draped an arm over his eyes. “What the hell is that noise?”
“Phone. Sorry.” She jumped up and scrambled around for her jeans. Finding her pockets empty and trying to trace the noise to its source, she located the device on the hall floor, where it must have fallen out of her pocket.
She answered it about a second after Gabe hung up. She sat on the top stair, naked and staring at the screen. He’d called her four times at three in the morning.
Her body went on high alert as she hit redial.
“What’s wrong,” she asked when he answered after one ring.
“A lot,” he said. “Meet us at the downtown Ann Arbor police station.”
“What? Who?” She was already heading into the bedroom, flipping on lights and locating her clothes.
Her cotton-ball dry mouth got even worse at his next words. “It’s Declan. And it’s bad.”
Chapter Eleven
Declan
The hours passed in a blur. And beyond the absolute triteness of that statement, Declan wondered what else he could say to describe it. It was that in a nutshell, inside the horrific drunk tank where they stuck him for a full twelve-hour period. The whole scene was utterly surreal.
Finally, after sitting and staring at the same pattern of filth and graffiti dotting the walls and floors for longer that he could account for, the clank of the opening cell door made him startle. He smelled his own sweat, tinged with terror and no small amount of day-old vomit.
He looked up, feeling the ligaments and tendons in his neck and shoulders creak and stretch after having spent so many hours more or less in one position. Confused by the soreness in his fingers, he looked down and saw that he had them threaded together, locked in place. Moving them apart was agonizing.
“Okay, let’s go. Your bail’s been made.”
He blinked, unable to process the words.
“Get up. Get out.”
