Bad Boy's Revenge: A Small-Town Romantic Suspense (31 page)

“What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked.

Jack shrugged, those broad shoulders impossibly large. “Anything you want me to say, Kiss. Isn’t that your job?”

“Don’t call me
Kiss
.”

“I thought you liked that nickname.”

“I don’t.”

“It suited you.”

How did he annoy me after only two seconds of conversation? The damn nickname followed me. After the past Christmas party, I never wore the shimmering gown again, not after Jack pronounced me his little Hershey’s Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up in silver silk. The name was funny after two glasses of wine, but a respectable girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.

“Don’t call me
Kiss
,” I said. “I’ve told you before.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Many times.”

Jack tested my patience with a dangerous smile. “Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can’t blame a man for becoming infatuated.”

Oh, please. “So…you didn’t get any action last night, and now you’re laying it all on me?”

“You’ll know when I lay on you.”

That wasn’t
ever
going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star quarterback’s car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new. Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for
three
hours on the busiest bridge out of the city.

“Seriously, Jack,” I said. “What the hell happened?”

His expression hardened, as solemn as I could get him. “I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that’s what happened.”

I ignored the dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one. Jack’s agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating bullets the size of footballs to make it to the office before league president Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.

“Forget about the car,” I said.

Jack’s dazzling smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humiliate, not the only publicist willing to take his case.

“Forget the
car
?” He acted like
that
was the scandal. “It was a
classic
. 302 V8 engine. Four speed manual transmission—”

I already learned football for this job; I wasn’t taking a literal crash course in cars too. “Jack, the car doesn’t matter. You had
three
women with you and the van driver had
just
dropped her children off. You are so lucky you didn’t slam into a
family
with your…your…”

“My what?”

“Your…whore-mobile!”

“My
whore-mobile
?”

I waved a hand. “What would you call it?”

He shrugged. “My
totaled
, 1968 goddamned Camaro! Whores
not
included.”

“Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t. “What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?”

He smirked. “We were just taking a drive.”

“A drive?”

“I was showing them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Might not kill you to try it once in a while.”

His
fun wasn’t my definition of a good time. “Jack, that fun almost killed
you.
”

“Only makes me stronger, Kiss.”

“Only makes you look like more of a playboy.”

Jack’s words didn’t have a shred of decency or humility. “We were just out for a
drive
.”

I scrolled to a picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my laptop so he could see the screen.

“Why was your fly down?”

Jack tilted his head as he surveyed the photograph. “Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear boxers.”

“You think?”

“I almost gave a free show.” He took too much pride in the picture. “Believe me, this could have been a
lot
worse.”

He was delusional. “
How
?”

“Seeing as I was nearly castrated, be glad we’re talking in your lovely office and not the hospital.” He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his career inconvenienced him. “I give a lot to charity already. The last thing anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my dick.”

“Too much information.”

“Believe me, there’s enough to spare.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You might, one day,” he said. “Never know, Kiss.”

“Neutering you might actually settle your ass down.”

“I’m never settling down.”

“What a surprise.”

Jack crossed his arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-shirt as it stretched against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to never go out without a suit. His ink—the raging calligraphy and lettering, words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past—didn’t look like the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.

Me included.

“You realize how bad this looks?” I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my patience. “The restaurant you left was
trashed
. The waitresses
humiliated
. There’s pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a different woman on your lap all night—”

Jack didn’t apologize for any of it. “I’m not allowed to have a good time?”

“Your definition of a good time would entertain
three
men.”

His jaw set. “Sorry my nights aren’t a half a glass of wine, a thousand piece puzzle, and Netflix—”

“
Hey
!”

“Sorry, Kiss, you don’t seem the party type.”

“That’s a compliment coming from you.”

I was
not
explaining myself to Blowjob McCloseCall. For the past year as lead on his case, I’d tried my hardest to foster a professional relationship with the least professional man in the entire American League. No way I’d let that arrogant manwhore get under my skin.

Or my clothes.

No matter how much he tried.

Jack laughed. “You need someone to take you out…and then take you home.”

“Excuse me. We’re talking about
your
sex scandal first.”

“Gotta have sex for a scandal.”

“Oh, good. I’ll just put in the press release you were taking those three floozies to
church
.”

He rapped a hand on the table. “They weren’t floozies.”

“What were their names?”

His cocksure smile faded. He gnawed a lip, but I stopped him before he furrowed his brow.

“You’re unbelievable, Jack.”

“One was…Sophie?” He shrugged. “Then there was Halter-Top…and…uh, Blondie.”

“Great.” I scrolled my email again. “That makes my job easier. Anonymous sex. Fantastic.”

“Technically, it was supposed to be an anonymous
foursome
.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “What might have been...”

“I hope you aren’t this insufferable around your teammates.”

“Kiss, you’re getting off easy. With them, I’m much worse.”

The door opened. I stood, welcoming my boss as she escorted Jack’s agent inside. Jolene blushed the instant she greeted Jack, though she’d never have any luck with the quarterback.

Then again, he humped anyone who crossed his path. God only knew who Jack Carson’s next target would be. I pitied that future girl with her night of meaningless, animalistic sex in the arms of an athletic, masculine god who wanted nothing more than a couple hours of utter passion and no regrets.

At least…I thought I pitied the girl.

Maybe.

Jolene sat at my side, unable to look at her client. Her crush on Jack was so awkward she let me take the lead on the case even though I was still her assistant. The hotshot quarterback was a thorn in our side, but if I could keep him out of trouble, I’d get a well-deserved promotion. I wasn’t stopping until I got the partnership in Jolene’s company and became the best publicist in the city.

“Finn.” Jack nodded to his agent. “How you holding up?”

Finn wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and juggled a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. “Just got off the phone with Coach Thompson.”

Jolene and I braced for the worst. Finn pulled his phone from his pocket. His hand left sweat prints on both the cell and mahogany table. I offered him a glass of water. He declined, sipping the Pepto instead.

“Let me guess.” Jack wasn’t intimidated. Did anything ever bother him? “He’s disappointed.” He held up a hand and started counting on his fingers. “He’s panicking that I’m hurt. He’s demanding that I stay out of the spotlight. Wants me to drop the lifestyle. He’s pissed about the women, about the wreck, about the late night. He won’t say a damn thing about the teammates who actually invited me out. The blame rests solely on me.”

Finn nodded. “You left out most of the profanity.”

He gestured to me. “The ladies have delicate sensibilities.”

I declined to respond to the asshole.

It was only eight AM and already Finn loosened his tie. “Jack, you are the leader of the Rivets. On the field and off.”

“Bullshit,” he said.

“That’s your responsibility, Jack.”

“Last year, I broke
two
single season records and tied for another three. That’s where my leadership lies. My nightlife doesn’t matter, only if I can get the team to the championship. And I
did
.”

“And you lost.”

Finn said what we all thought, but it was nothing Jack wanted to hear. The chair toppled as he stood. He loomed over us with a dark scowl that made the tattoos on his arms darken in the artificial light of the conference room.

I knew he didn’t belong trapped indoors like this. A man like Jack needed to vent his frustration on the field, in the gym, or in the bed of a beautiful woman.

Or three of them, apparently.

It was easier to judge the manwhore when I wasn’t imagining what he’d do to the lucky woman.

Jack extended his arms, tightening his muscles. Broad. Powerful. “I’m paying all of you a shit ton of money to represent me. So fucking
represent
me. You want to pretend I’m some beacon of moral responsibility, fucking
tell
people I’m a damn saint. Earn your salaries like I do every goddamned Sunday. Until then, I’m out of here.”

“Jack…” I called to him before he reached the door. The phone rang as he grabbed the knob. “The League is calling. You have to talk to President Bennett.”

“Son of a—”

Jolene answered the call and pressed her fingers to her lips. She plastered on a twenty dollar smile and greeted the president as if they were old buddies instead of the monthly target of Frank Bennett’s rage against Jack.

“Frank…how are you?” Jolene immediately flinched against a hail of profanity from both the phone and Jack slamming into his seat. “We’ve been waiting for your call. I have you on speaker with Finn Smith, Mr. Carson’s agent, and my assistant, Leah Williams.”

“I remember.”

Frank didn’t mince words. He also didn’t greet us because he had no reason to say hello. We had hardly hung up the phone since the last conversation. This scandal would result in the same meeting as before. Just like the last call. And the call before that. And the meeting before that…

Every conversation had the same concerns: booze, women, and bad decisions.

It was easier to represent players who were actually in trouble with the law. At least the public could believe they were legitimately remorseful when they got caught with the cookie jar. Jack had his hand up too many skirts to look like anything but an unrepentant womanizer.

“Carson there?” Frank’s voice bit over his name.

Jolene pretended not to notice, though she raised her eyebrow at me. “Yes, he is, sir.”

“Hungover?”

Jack snorted. “I wasn’t drinking last night.”

Frank laughed, cold. “Well, what
restraint
, Carson. Should we hold a parade in your honor?”

This wouldn’t be a pleasant call. Frank Bennett wasn’t intimidated by Jack’s abilities or successes. The new league president didn’t care about ratings. It was our luck that he was committed to bringing
professionalism
back to the league after countless problems with drugs, domestic abuse, and allegations of interleague cheating.

“I suppose you heard the news,” Jolene said. “We’re pleased to report that Mr. Carson is not injured and neither were the other passengers in his car.”

“
Passengers
?” Frank spat the word. “I think that’s more respect than those
whores
deserve. Please tell me you didn’t pay for their company, Carson.”

Jack’s hand curled into a fist, but he forced a smile. The smirk didn’t make him friendly.  “I’m man enough to earn my women, Frank.”

“You man enough to own up to this mistake?”

“That van driver was at fault, the police said—”

“I don’t give a damn what the
police
said, Carson!
You
were in the accident.
You
were photographed bleeding. The other car doesn’t matter. They weren’t the multi-million dollar quarterback more concerned with what’s in his pants than his surroundings.”

“Do you want me out of my pants…or would you prefer I crawl up your ass, Frank?” Jack lost his temper. Already. “I’m the one who got in the accident. I’m the one who totaled a very expensive, very
rare
car. Where’s my
are you okay, Jack?
Or
Are you hurt?
”

“Now you listen here you little punk—”

Finn nervously spoke. “Let’s focus on the issue at hand.”

“This issue?” Frank practically snarled into the phone. “The
issue
is that the star quarterback for one of the most prestigious teams in the league is out every damn night picking up women, getting into trouble, and now recklessly driving and wrecking his car—”