Hat Trick, page 4
Traci: You told me he was boring the other day. And that you weren’t fucking him b/c he wouldn’t take you to Maui with the team. What happened? I want him next you know. You promised me.
Helene: Yeah a week ago you were breaking up with him.
Sam: I’m breaking up with Coop.
Traci: No you’re not.
Helene: No you’re not.
Cassandra: Stop kidding yourself Sammy. You’ll stick with him, get the ring, pop out the babies and tolerate his mistresses until you drop dead from stress.
Sam: I’m not coming tonight. I told him I was done. This last time was the last straw.
Helene: The time before that wasn’t?
Sam: Don’t be a bitch. You know I love him. I’m gonna go. Have fun tonight girlies.
Traci: She gone?
Cassandra: Yeah.
Traci: Well?
Cassandra: What?
Helene: You know damn well what…
Cassandra: It’s not my fault that little sexpot wanted to bang me his first weekend in town. He’s a maniac, girls. I shit you not. Into the kinkiest stuff. Real sex book kinda crap. Whew. I’m getting wet just thinking about him. Poor little Sam though. She should do herself a favor and find somebody else. Somebody nicer than that animal.
Traci: Like Scotty?
Cassandra: HELL NO. I’m keeping him. At least for now.
Helene: Which finally brings me around to the original point of this little chat.
Cassandra: Oh, right. Um…I think you should go for Wilson.
Traci: Oh my lord.
Helene: Farm Boy? I don’t think so, hon.
Traci: Listen, I gotta go. Our ride’s gonna be here in five.
Cassandra: Oh yeah, I saw that email finally. You know, I don’t like that cow.
Helene: Who? The PR chick?
Cassandra: She’s hardly a chick. She’s ancient—I’m guessing pushing 50.
Traci: I like her. And she’s turning 37 next month as a matter of fact.
Cassandra: Well my inner cougar radar clangs every time I catch her eyeballing my sweet Scotty. I’m sure she’s got the wets for him. I heard she used to be married to some banker suit—he was just in Hour Mag as a “hot silver fox bachelor.” Maybe I go for him, see how she likes it.
Helene: If they’re divorced she probably won’t give a crap.
Cassandra: Oh, you never know. He probably dumped her because her snatch was all wobbly and dried out.
Traci: You are evil. Emily’s nice and she told me she would just as soon date a prancing monkey than actually go out with one of the BJs. She’s probably right.
Cassandra: Fine words from the new arm candy hanging off that hot number, Hunter. And you’re welcome by the way, bitch.
Traci: Hunter is about as dumb as a bag of hammers.
Cassandra: So? You angling to be First Lady or married to a rich, hot soccer player? Besides he’s top notch in the sack. Great at oral, probably the best after my Scotty of course—oh wait, Nicco! He was the best at oral. Too bad he switched teams for good.
Helene: You are the biggest whore.
Cassandra: You’re just jealous. So what about Wilson?
Helene: I’ll think about it. He’s so tall.
Cassandra: Yeah. He’s a goalie. And just think! If you’d taken my advice about Brent you’d be going out with us all dolled up like a fairy. I love dressing up!
Traci: She knew I wasn’t over Brent. She’s a real friend. And he’s not bringing anybody, Hunter told me.
Cassandra: Girls, you know how they treat us. So I say, take advantage, get your own self some fine tail, have a great time with as many of ‘em as you want until you find The One. Like I think I have now. I think he’s gonna ask me soon.
Helene: Well, I’ll believe that when I see it. I’ll tell you one thing Cassandra, you hurt that nice ginger’s heart and you’re gonna have a fight on your hands with the rest of us.
Cassandra: Girls, I gotta go. See you in a few T. We’ll send you pix H—poor old thing. Go on over and keep Sam company.
Helene: I can’t look her in the face anymore. You know that.
Traci: Am I really the only one of us who hasn’t fucked her boyfriend yet?
Cassandra: Unless you count the dried-up old prune of a PR flack, yeah. I think so. But I hear he likes making Coop sandwiches so maybe you and she can double-team the poor kid.
Helene: Oh, hey, have you heard about the girls’ team coming in?
Cassandra: Yes. I don’t care. Jock girls will not threaten us I assure you ladies. Now I really must go. My sweet man awaits me.
Declan looked up, dazed from the rush of information he’d just absorbed in less than three minutes. Coop—Cassandra had been with him his first week. That was just three, maybe four months ago. Right before Declan had asked her to move in with him in a fit of ill-considered nest-building, which she had done, while insisting he help her keep up the rent on her place for some reason. He shook his head and wiped a shaking hand across his lips.
Nicco? Was the best at “oral?”
Emily was divorced from some rich, silver fox banker?
Emily.
Was divorced.
Declan sucked in a breath and glanced up to find Cassandra standing in the doorway facing away from him. Her diaphanous dress, combined with the soft light from the bedroom, left nothing to his imagination. He curled his hands into fists and fought the onrushing pure silence that preceded an epic bout of temper. It wasn’t a good sign. And didn’t help his lowlying headache either.
He got to his feet and walked slowly through the silence in his own head and across the dark walnut kitchen floor until he stood behind her. Without a word or even a whisper, he turned her around, shoved her up against the wall, and slanted his mouth over hers. She made a small noise down in her throat and wrapped her arms around his neck when he ran his hands down her sides and to her ass, then up to cup a breast and pinch her nipple. Anything to drown out all the words he’d just read—about him, about her, about all the other men—his teammates—that she’d fucked, even while supposedly she was with him.
He had nothing in his brain but the word: mine. It drove him, forcing all thoughts of finesse right out ahead of it. With a grunt, he unzipped himself, yanked her panties down and tossed her onto the bed.
“We don’t have time,” she protested with a pout.
“Shut up and roll over,” he said. Even he didn’t like the scary tone of his voice. He kept a hand on her shoulder and pushed again when she tried to wriggle out from under him. A little flicker of fear hit her eyes, making him flinch, bringing back the memories he had crushed into a tiny box and hidden from himself for the past three years. But then, the fear turned into something else. She smiled at him in a way that both relieved and sickened him. He fisted his cock and pointed. “Roll the fuck over. Now.”
She shot him one of her patented Cassandra bossy-sexy looks, got up on her hands and knees and wiggled her ass. Fury tinged the edges of his vision a scary, blood-red color. Digging his fingers into her bony hips, he yanked her closer to the edge of the bed and shoved into her, hard, fast, and again, pounding, fucking, and ignoring any noises she made. Her pussy was so very tight, so perfect, like a velvet vise around his dick. It got wetter as he kept thrusting in and out, getting off and not giving a shit about her.
The climax came shooting up his spine and hit the base of his brain with a roar that he let loose into the room, shuddering and thrusting, never wanting to exit her body but at the same time wishing he could pull out, wash her off him like dirt, and escape her clutches.
After what felt like an hour, he was emptied out, heart and soul. He draped himself over her back, noting that he’d sweated through the stupid vampire shirt.
She was breathing fast, and amazingly enough, he could tell she’d come too. Her vaginal walls flexed and pulsed around him, getting so tight it actually hurt for a few seconds until she relaxed and scooted forward so he had to pull out or fall over on top of her. She rolled over, blue eyes gleaming, one strap of the stupid fairy dress ripped. She propped one foot up, giving him a view of her bare pink pussy, nicely covered in his own fluid—the cream pie shot, he thought randomly as he stumbled away, also thinking “no condom,” thirty seconds too late.
“Shit, goddamn it, fuck.” He zipped up and dropped into a chair, head in his shaking hands. The adrenaline from the post–temper induced rough fuck had rushed out of his system along with every ounce of sperm he possessed, he figured. Leaving him trembling and wishing he could jump out a window to get away from her.
“Baby, that was pretty special,” she cooed. She stood in front of him now, fingers running through his hair.
“No protection,” he choked out. They had never once skipped the condom step at her insistence. Even after he’d gotten tested for anything nasty and asked her to do the same, both of them coming up clean. She used a diaphragm, but forgot it half the time. “Are you—I mean…could we…” He gulped. The last thing on this Earth he wanted was a kid.
She lifted his chin, leaned down, and kissed his cheek. “I’m fine, Scotty. You worry too much. Let’s go…time to party. Unless…” She straddled his lap, making him groan with a renewed, scary rush of lust. “I’m game. That was awesome.”
“Get off,” he grunted, pushing her a little harder than necessary before wincing and getting to his feet, gathering her in his arms and apologizing before she could react.
“Baby, Cassandra, I’m sorry. I was…I don’t know.” He figured he’d confront her later about all the Coop, Nicco, other bullshit.
Or maybe not.
She’d said he was “The One,” after all. Maybe she had it out of her system. Maybe this was what he needed.
Maybe you are a bigger idiot than Jason and Hunter combined, you fucking full-on fool. Just because you’re scared not to have her around doesn’t mean you should keep at this stupid charade. This woman is…
He shook his head. “Here,” he said, taking her hand and putting the jeweler’s box in it. “Got these for you. Wear them tonight.” He took a deep breath. “Please?”
She opened the box and squealed before pulling out a pair of sapphire and diamond drop earrings. Her eyes filled with tears and she wrapped her arms around him, bringing him that strange combination of relief and disgust. He peeled her off him before he did something really dumb, like fuck her again, or punch her so hard she’d have to wear sunglasses to hide the bruise.
Oh. Fuck. No. Get a grip, Dec. A grip, man. That is not you. That’s your dad, remember?
“Terminally positive outlook,” that’s what they say about you. That is you now.
“I love you, Cassandra,” he said, his voice surprising him with its strength.
“You too, Scotty.” She resumed the business of being Cassandra, the queen of the WAGs, as she slipped the earrings in, cleaned herself up in the bathroom, then emerged with a fresh pair of panties and a grin. “Car is five minutes away,” she said, tapping his phone. “Party time, love.”
He nodded, speechless and hollowed out and nursing a small kernel of hope that he’d get to see Emily tonight.
Chapter Six
Emily
It was a sick miracle she’d managed to arrive in costume, on time, and with enough spare minutes to snag a gin and tonic from the bar. The booze went a long way toward calming her zinging nerves. The whole strange scene with Declan earlier still rattled around in her brain, not to mention the evil glares she’d absorbed from that über bitch Cassandra.
Sophie’s parting shot about getting laid had stuck fast in her consciousness, making her recall the pool boy’s eager and utterly wrong amazing-ness. Emily clenched her eyes shut, forcing away all thoughts of the two sweaty, illicit quickies she’d snagged, all the while knowing damn good and well Marcus was getting deeper and deeper between his girlfriend’s thighs.
“Oh, shit, you scared me,” she said when a cold hand touched her bare shoulder. “Hey, coach, pull up a barstool before the thundering herd arrives.” The tall, model-handsome Turkish head coach dropped into the barstool next to her with a loud sigh. “I hear that,” Emily said, holding up her half-empty drink.
“Tell me again, Madame PR, why we do these things? And on weeknights, no less?” He nodded to the bartender. “Water, thanks.”
“It’s all part of the master plan—to ingrain the team into the very psyche of the town. To make the two seem as one. To prove that our overgrown boys in men’s bodies are worthy of the discretionary income they demand from the populace. And to—”
“All right, already.” Metin held up both hands. “Sorry I asked.”
Emily nodded when the bartender gestured to her empty glass. Why not smooth out her edges before taking responsibility for promoting every single smile, glance, dance move, sip, bite, and any other activity undertaken by twenty or so men dressed up as sexy vampires while their wives and girlfriends pranced around in barely-there fairy suits. She tugged at the hem of hers, self-conscious of her legs, non-tanned and not nearly as toned as they used to be. The whole working every day thing did cut into her former exercise regimen. She took a sip of her second drink. “Where’s Mel?”
Metin finished his water and stood, stretching his arms over his head while Emily attempted not to gawk at the way his naturally bronze-colored skin shone against the bright white of the silly costume shirt. “My lovely wife told me in no uncertain and unrepeatable terms she would not be caught dead wearing the thing you people sent to the house.”
Emily winced. The costume decisions were above her pay grade. She wouldn’t have chosen such slutty ones, but no one asked her. Once the WAG brigade showed up, there would be plenty of female perfection on display to match the team members in their half-open Dracula shirts. “Yeah. They’re pretty awful.” She touched the headdress thing she’d plopped onto her hair.
Metin grinned and shrugged. “And our youngest is home sick, anyway. She had the perfect excuse to stand me up.”
“She’s not worried about…you know…” Emily waved her hand at his half-exposed torso. “You’re pretty edible and this place is gonna be crawling with hot chicks any minute.”
Metin threw his head back and laughed so long and loud, Emily couldn’t help but join him. She’d only met his wife a couple of times and had caught rumors of his sad history. She knew Metin and Melanie kept their distance, not really socializing with the team the way the marketing people would prefer them to. She’d been surprised to find out they lived in Ann Arbor and that Metin’s wife owned her favorite downtown breakfast joint, Ayden’s Café.
“What’s so funny?” Rafe Inez, the other coach, a slightly older but no less disturbingly hot Argentine, wandered up to the bar, cape draped over one arm, his wife Maureen holding on to the other. She’d skipped the hairpiece and wings but was rocking the fairy dress, Emily noted with admiration.
“Oh, nothing much. Just Emily worried about me getting my bones jumped while Mel is home with a sick kid.”
“Now that is funny,” Rafe said, signaling the bartender.
“Hi, Emily,” Maureen said, giving her a one-armed squeeze. “I think we must have shopped at the same store.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, rattling the cubes in her glass and talking herself out of a third drink. “You look incredible.”
“So do you. Frankly, we’ve got it all over the youth contingent, I think. And I’ve staked out my spot for the night. Rafe?” She held out a hand.
“Yes, my dearest,” he said, taking it and putting to his lips. Emily admired the two of them together. She was obviously older but they were a natural couple, comfortable in their skins, confident in their relationship. Emily tried not to be jealous.
“I’m sitting here for the duration. You go and play daycare worker. I think your charges are arriving.” She jerked her chin toward the huge entrance where a line of cars had appeared.
Emily checked her phone—7:45 on the nose. Well planned, if she did say so herself. Her boss, the skinny infant with the stripper name Emily had forgotten for the moment, came trip-tripping around the corner on heels so high they were cartoonish.
Maureen raised a dark eyebrow at her. Emily got up to intercept the woman and steer her toward the entrance to greet the players and their dates. She motioned for the official photographer to get ready, then opened a set of doors at the far end of the entrance hall to let the press inside.
By the time the last player and his date, if he had one, made it into the foyer, the place echoed with deep laughter and high-pitched screeches, pressing in on Emily’s eardrums. She made a quick survey of the vampire and fairy crowd, noting those already on their way to drunk and which couple seemed to be in a snit.
“Hey, where’s Gabe?” someone shouted.
“Over here,” the boyishly handsome blond man called out, fastening the strings of the costume cape around his neck. “Sorry, Emily,” he said, giving her a quick squeeze as he passed by. “Kid crisis.”
“No problem. Lil not gonna make it?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s over there.” He pointed. “But she’s not feeling too hot.” The man’s greenish-brown eyes narrowed as he watched his very pregnant wife wander over. The crowd of men wolf-whistled and cat-called. The lovely Lillian Frietag flipped them all off then gave Emily a hug. “You all right, babe?” Gabe cupped his wife’s elbow. “Wanna sit?”
“No, that doesn’t help. Getting out of the house does, though. Go on, get in the picture.” She shook him off and stood next to Emily while she got the group arranged so the photography could commence. The men hammed it up, while the women posed like the models some of them were, and the rest wished to be. Emily noticed that the usual prankster and troublemaker Jason seemed strangely subdued, keeping off to one side and staring at someone, his dark eyes flat.
Great. Just what she needed—drama before the event even started.
“Hey, Jason, move closer, will ya? Pretend like you like these assholes?” She motioned for him to join the group for one more photo.
His jaw clenched, but he did as he was told. They all did. Listening to and obeying the great gods of promotion were two ironclad clauses in their contracts.
