Fair Game: A Football Romance (90 page)

Chapter One

Liam

The ground under my feet of the outdoor venue vibrates with the beat while I manipulate the breakdown and bring in the latest European hook for the hundred thousand people who’ve paid to rave with me tonight. I fucking love my job. There aren’t many professions where people worldwide adore you. Women throw themselves at your feet, and the people you party with make Jordan Belfort’s lifestyle from
The Wolf of Wall Street
look like child’s play.

Somebody in the crowd screams, “I love you, Freedom!” during a break in the music, and camera flashes go off in every direction when I smile and pull my shirt off. I ball it up and hold it over my head before tossing it into the crowd that’s rushing the stage. They love my smile, but they love my abs more. I flip my headphone back off one ear and give them what they want. I smile so wide that I can feel my dimples piercing my cheeks. I pump my fist in the air along with the heavy pounding beat while the lucky people who are close enough to the booth snap pictures. Did I mention that I love my fucking job?

Tonight is bittersweet though. I’m going to wring every single second of happiness out of the time I’m here, because tomorrow, I go home to Los Angeles and my pretend but not-so-pretend wife, Amira.

“Hey!” My stage manager yells, and I feel the presence of someone directly behind me. Nobody is ever supposed to get in the booth, ever.

I turn to see who’s broken the security barrier, and standing behind me is a tiny woman in a bikini covered in glow in the dark body paint, glow bracelets, candy necklaces, purple-streaked hair, and ski goggles. Yeah, she’s one of mine.

I wink at her and motion to my stage manager, Steve, to let her stay. She’s a fan, and I love my fans—just not when they inject me with illegal drugs and marry me, which is what my wife did six months ago. I’ve never been able to prove it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“She wants to come closer—that ok with you?” Steve signs to me. I made my entire crew learn basic sign language so we can communicate easier during the long shows when the music is too loud to even yell over. Ever since my incident with Amira, I don’t let people get close in the booth. But this chick worked really hard to get in here, and despite all the paint and glowing clothes, she’s hot. I allow it just this once. I nod my head and motion for the petite raver to come closer, and she jumps to my side, clasping her hands together over her chest.

It’s become well-known that I don’t like people getting too close to me, although they don’t know why. This particular fan is schooled on my quirks. She’s keeping her hands to herself while we bob our heads to the music together. I look over, and she smiles a perfect set of white teeth. They glow in the dark under the black lights, reminding me of the Cheshire Cat in
Alice in Wonderland
. She asks with her eyes if she can touch me, and I give her a quick nod up and down.

The crowd goes insane when the moment is flashed on every big screen in the stadium. The light show pulses with the music, and I hear them chanting, “Free-dom, Free-dom, Free-dom!”

My little glow worm wraps her hand around my thick bicep and pulls herself into my side. I keep my other hand moving over the massive control panel to keep the music pumping and let her enjoy her moment in the spotlight.

Steve hovers behind us, waiting for me to dismiss the girl, but I’m enjoying the human contact for a change. Maybe because I know that this tour is almost over, and I’ll be going back to LA and my psycho, pretend wife. I’d love nothing more than to take this little thing back to my hotel and spend the night making her sweat that paint off her body. I’d turn my cock into a light saber, sliding in and out of her and claiming those curves all night long, but I can’t risk getting caught. I don’t cheat on my so-called wife. I’m not about to let her claim adultery and take half of my fortune.

As much as I can’t stand her, I have never so much as touched another woman intimately since Amira brought my playboy life to a screeching halt. When I divorce her ass, I’m not losing the career I’ve been building since I was fifteen. Her father swore he would destroy me if I aided in disgracing his Nigerian royal family by divorcing Amira. He was embarrassed enough that she married a lowly Caucasian American DJ, but to have this lowly DJ dump her would be reprehensible.

With that thought, I wrap my arm around my sweet, glowing fan girl and give her one last hug. I look at Steve and sign, ‘take her away’. She hugs me and happily bounces off with Steve, bobbing her head of wild purple hair to the beat . . . to my beat . . . to DJ Freedom’s beat.

Chapter Two

Liam

Amira didn’t pick me up at the airport. I wasn’t surprised. I arrive home an hour later than planned, drop my bag on the floor by the door, and head to the bedroom to change and shower. The bright California mansion is quiet other than the thump, thump, thump of Amira’s feet slamming onto the treadmill in the home gym upstairs. Nice . . . she forgot to pick me up at the airport because she’s working out. Typical fucking Amira. She could at least pretend to be a good wife if she’s going to live in my house.

I pull my t-shirt from the back of my neck over my head with one hand and toss it on the bed, toe off my shoes, and make my way into the en suite bathroom. Amira’s thumping has stopped. I’m sure she’s coming to hit me with some heavy manipulation tactics. And if today is anything like the night three months ago when I passed through town on tour, she’s probably about to spread on a thick layer of seduction. That’s how Amira plays her derelict game.

“Hey, handsome. I thought I heard the door.”

I glance back into the bedroom and see Amira standing there, sweat dripping down her face. She has a water bottle in her hand and she’s dabbing her neck with a towel. Dressed in a pair of tiny workout shorts and a sports bra with no makeup, she almost looks sweet . . . almost.

I am the only person she allows to see her without makeup. I’ve never understood why, because she’s drop dead gorgeous without cosmetics. But unless she’s going to be at home, she smears that shit all over her face the second she’s out of the shower, every day without fail. She told me her father began demanding she wear a full face of makeup when she was twelve ‘to make her prettier’. What an asshole.

“You were supposed to get me at the airport.”

I drop my pants and turn my back on her to step into the shower. The hot water pelts my skin from five different showerheads. I place my hands on the wall and lean forward, dropping my head between my arms, and moan with relief. The twenty-two-hour flight was grueling, and it’s left me stiff and feeling grungy.

“I’m sorry, baby. I could have sworn you said you were coming home tomorrow and—you know—I was working out to stay in shape for my man,” she says with a shrug.

My manager texted her three times yesterday, and we spoke on the phone last night, but it’s not worth arguing with her about it.

“Amira, one of these days, you’re gonna have to get it straight that we are not the happy, loving married couple that you’ve dreamed up in that whacked out little brain of yours.”

She opens the shower door, letting all the cool air from the room inside. I shiver, and she misinterprets my reaction. Foolishly, and despite my harsh words, she thinks she is the one causing the goosebumps on my flesh. She couldn’t be more wrong.

“Oh, baby, you don’t mean all that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Do you want me to make it up to you now, or later? Or maybe now
and
later.”

Her unique voice is smooth and seductive. It would have any other man on his knees, but this woman has done me wrong from day one. Right now, I’m really fucking tired, and all I want to do is go to bed.

I straighten up, keeping my eyes closed, and ignore her sex-a-thon invitation and begin to wash my hair. When it’s obvious I’m not going to take her up on her offer, she steps into the shower and closes the door. I hear the click of the shower gel bottle behind me, and then I feel her hands sliding over the tight muscles of my back.

“You don’t have to be such a baby, Liam. I mixed up the days. It’s no big deal. You had your crew with you, and somebody obviously brought you home. Now that you’re here, let me take care of you like a good wife.”

Her soapy hands slide around to grasp my thick cock. Her fake breasts press against my back while she begins to pump her hand up and down. I’m hard as fuck in seconds, and it pisses me off. I don’t want to want this woman. She’s a self-centered, conniving brat, but my body betrays me as she does the thing she does best. I’m so exhausted that I relax and just go with the flow—the slippery, wet, pulsing flow. When she slides one hand down to cup my balls, it’s time for me to take control.

“Turn around,” I command. She stops stroking my cock.

“Now.”

I don’t have to say it twice. She turns at the same time I do, and I pull her hips back and press my hand on the center of her back to bend her over. She grasps the edge of the stone shower bench, and I slide the head of my cock along her slit, teasing her until she’s soaked and panting.

“Liam, God, what are you fucking waiting for? Just do it already,” she says in her whiney Nicki Minaj voice.

Potential hot shower sex is ruined in one short sentence. The sound of her annoying tone was bad enough, but ‘just do it already’? I’d rather do it myself. I let go of her wet, round ass and turn back into the shower spray.

“Li-um!” She shrieks and stomps her foot like a spoiled child.

“Get out, Amira. I’m done with you.”

“You didn’t even start with me! How can you be gone for so long and not want to fuck when you get home? Unless you’ve been sleeping with someone else . . .” She shoves my shoulder from behind, but it doesn’t even move me. She’s all of one hundred and ten pounds to my two hundred of solid muscle. She thinks she’s tough because she works out seven days a week and studies Krav Maga, but she’s no match for me.

“Amira, I’m warning you.”

“’Warning me? No way. You’re fucking someone else, aren’t you? Hell, I’ll bet you just fucked your way through Europe on your tour. You know if I tell my daddy about this, your career is over,” she says.

That’s it . . . I’ve had enough. She tricked me into marrying her and moved into my house unbeknownst to me when I was on tour. She treats me like a hired hand unless she wants sex and spends money like it’s water on shit she doesn’t need. And now she’s accusing me of cheating when I’ve been keeping my shit on lockdown for six straight months! Fuck this fake ass marriage. I want out, and I want out now, reputation and fortune be dammed. I can’t be legally bound to this woman for another minute.

I slowly turn until we are eye-to-eye. I’m fighting the rage burning inside my chest. When she sees my expression, she takes a step back . . . first smart move she’s made today.

“First of all, I shouldn’t have to be faithful to you, because we both know you tricked me into this fucking joke of a marriage. Second, you’d be screaming my name right now if you knew how to speak to me with respect. And third, I haven’t touched another woman for the past six months. I may not remember marrying you, but there are pictures of the ceremony on every Goddamn website all over the Internet that prove I did. I’ve been true to whatever vows I exchanged with you, but right now? I’m done. Your dad can’t ruin my reputation anymore. I’m a fucking international superstar in my business. And it’s worth giving you half of everything I’ve broken my back to earn just to get rid of you. I want a divorce.”

I had no intention of confronting Amira with this shit today, but she provoked me, so there it is, the raw, unabridged truth.

Amira gasps and reaches out to touch me but changes her mind. She closes her hand into a fist and pulls it back, cradling it against her body.

“You don’t mean that, Liam. You love me. I know you do. You’ve had a long flight, and you’re just tired.”

She opens the door of the shower and continues reassuring herself out loud, something I suspect she learned as a child to ease the pain of her father’s severe criticism.

“You just need dinner and a good night’s sleep. You will be good as new tomorrow.”

She pauses with the shower door open. Steam billows out into the bathroom, instantly fogging the mirror while she continues to delude herself out loud.

“You don’t want a divorce, handsome. Get cleaned up, and I’ll go order some dinner.”

She wraps a towel around her body, leaving me alone to finish my shower while shaking my head. She’s crazy, and at times like this, even a little pitiful. But now I’m angry as fuck, and I have a massive hard on to take care of by myself. Thanks, Amira. Thanks a lot.

Chapter Three

Liam

I don’t even have to pack a bag. My shit’s still by the door. I throw on some jeans and a
Freedom
t-shirt from an old tour, grab a brand new, all-white pair of Adidas from the stack of boxes in my closet, and slip out the front door.

Amira is still on the phone ordering dinner when I quietly close the front door. Damn woman refuses to learn how to cook. She orders out every meal unless she’s drinking one of the hundred-dollar energy drinks her personal trainer sells her. I’ve never met a woman with so much potential and such low self-esteem. It’s a constant battle for her to be more beautiful, more in shape and more popular, but her father has been crushing her spirit her entire life.

Three months ago, I had to make a short trip home during my tour, and I found Amira living in my house. She got a locksmith to let her in when she told him she was my wife and she’d lost her keys.

After a long afternoon of arguing and screaming about the validity of our marriage, we sat down and talked. I saw through her nasty bad girl façade and learned that when she was growing up, her father had verbally abused her. He wanted a son to carry on his legacy, but there were complications when she was born and her mother had to have a hysterectomy. He blames Amira for something she has absolutely no control over, and he’s destroyed her self-image. As angry as I was for everything she had put me through, a tiny part of me felt bad for her, so I told her she could stay for a little while, even though she could have afforded to stay anywhere she wanted in LA. And I slept with her.

That was a colossal mistake.

She took my pity and sexual attraction for love, and that encouraged her delusions. Now, she was sure that we were a happily married couple. For such a smart guy, I can be a total fucktard sometimes.

Before I knew it, I was getting bills for things I hadn’t ordered and she was redecorating my house. I sent people by the house to kick her out—twice—but she just waved our marriage certificate around like a golden ticket. I gave up and decided to wait until my tour was finished to deal with her. And now that’s what I’m doing . . . sort of.

I’ve got my bike between my legs on the winding road, with the warm wind in my face, before Amira even hangs up the damn phone. I don’t know where I’m going, but wherever it is had better have a big ass bed, because I need to get some serious sleep.

Steve is my stage manager, but he’s also my best friend, so when I show up on his front step, he doesn’t ask questions. Without a word, he arches one eyebrow high, leans around to look at my bike parked in the driveway, and then down at my bag before swinging the door open wide. The stage crew has been taking bets on how long the marriage scam would last. I hope Steve was the one to choose six months, because this so-called marriage is over.

“So lemme guess: you got in a fight because she didn’t pick you up at the airport?”

“No, we got in a fight because she’s an ill-mannered, disrespectful, over-indulged brat and I’m through with her.”

“Wow. Ok. Well, it’s about fucking time, man.”

Steve leads me through the house and out back to his deck overlooking the ocean, where he fixes himself a drink and offers me a bottle of water, but I decline. I just want to go to bed, but I have manners, unlike my wife, so I sit and talk with him for a few minutes.

“Ya know, this is probably one of those moments in your life when it’s cool to have a drink, Liam.”

I developed a serious aversion to alcohol when I was five years old. I watched my father punch my mother in the face so hard it knocked her out cold.

“It’s all right. I knew this was coming. It’s not like this marriage is real. I can’t believe I let this shit go on for so long. I was just too busy with the tour to deal with her and her father and a divorce.”

“What about your PR chick? She’s gonna flip her shit when she finds out you did this without a warning. And what about Amira’s old man? He flat out threatened to ruin you if you divorced his little Nigerian princess. Dude, you’re screwed.”

“I’ll worry about it later. Do you mind if I just crash for a while? I can’t even think straight right now.”

“Sure, take one of the spare rooms. Felicia is out of town visiting her parents with the kids. She won’t be home for a couple of days.”

“Thanks. If I don’t wake up before she comes home, come get me.”

Steve chuckles and whacks me on the back before I scoot the chair away from the table and drag my ass through his beautiful beach house to bed.

I’m disappointed that Felicia and the kids are gone. Steve’s wife is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, and I love his kids. They’re awesome. I’ve never been much of a family man kind of guy, because of my lifestyle, but if I could have what Steve has, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I used to dream of having a big brood of kids. I especially wanted a son, so I could name him after my baby brother who died when I was five. But being a DJ came naturally. Things just fell into place with my career after a while, and I abandoned the idea of a wife and kids.

I choose the bedroom that faces the front of the house, where there is less sun and more shade. I need a room dark enough to sleep during the day, because I wasn’t kidding about sleeping until Felicia and the kids come home. I’m that fucking tired.

I power off my phone, throw my clothes on a chair in the corner, slide into the California king sized bed, and pull a pillow over my face. How the hell did I get here? How did my awesome, carefree life turn into such a damn nightmare?

Three words: Amira Oni-Wild.

PR chick and Mr. Oni be dammed. I’m getting out of this mess, no matter what the world or Amira’s father think of me. I’d like to see him try to destroy me now. I’ve had two albums go double platinum since he made that threat. I’ve become the worldwide phenomenon, DJ Freedom. I don’t think anything an oil tycoon could say or do would sway the dedicated fans and ravers all over the planet who love my music.

I’d pay good money to see my little glowworm from last night smearing glow in the dark body paint all over the stuffy dignitary, Mr. Oni’s, ebony skin during a meeting with the secretary of state. That would be abso-fucking-lutely priceless. I’d have a photographer take a picture of the moment so I could blow it up and hang it over my bed. I hate that man, I hate his threats, and I hate that he raised a daughter who is so fucked up that she would drug someone to trap them in a loveless marriage just for attention. It’s just like my mother used to always say: Bad attention is better than no attention, and Amira is a classic example of that notion.