Filfthy

C
OVER DESIGN
: Love N. Books

EDITING: The Passionate Proofreader

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F
ilthy mouth
. Dirty mind. Messy past. I’m no saint, and I hear my reputation precedes me, but you can’t believe everything people say.

I
’ve made
a living playing by the rules only when the clock is ticking, the ball has been snapped, and I’m cleat-deep in AstroTurf. But I screwed up last year. I went too far with the girls and the partying and the benders, and I created a PR sh*t storm for my team in the process. As a result, the team owner sentenced me to live in some gated, Floridian retirement village until I can “calm down.”

F
ootball is my life
, and I love my team. They’re the only family I’ve got anymore, so I’ll do what I have to do to stay where I am.

T
he rules are clear
: no girls, less booze, zero publicity stunts. If I lay low and repair my reputation, I won’t get cut. It’s that simple. Everything was going well. For the first time in my life, I was living by someone else’s rules . . .

. . .
a
nd then
she
showed up for the summer.

M
y next door
neighbor’s great niece is visiting, and it doesn’t take long for me to see Delilah Rosewood is the perfect mix of sexy and smart. She makes me want to break all the rules and get all kinds of penalties. She’s all curves and opinions and bee-stung lips, and I’m all trying-to-do-everything-I-can-to-convince-her-to-give-me-the-time-of-day.

B
ut there’s one problem
: she hates me with the passion of a thousand Florida suns.

D
elilah

I
’ve never been
great at first impressions. And in the seconds before the front door opens, I’m well aware this isn’t going to go well for either of us.

But here I am anyway.

Standing at the door of my great aunt’s next door neighbor, dressed in polka-dotted lime-green pajamas, arms folded, lips ready to berate the asshole throwing a party at two in the morning on a Wednesday, I’m ready to do this.

My fist stings as I pound on the heavy wooden door. The Florida humidity is doing a number on the mess of dark hair sticking to my shoulders, and for all I know, remnants of yesterday’s mascara resides beneath my lower lashes, but glancing in the mirror on the way over here wasn’t exactly a priority.

All I want is some sleep.

The door swings open, and a man the size of a linebacker wearing a neon green button-down drinks me in with an unfocused stare.

“Here for the party?” he asks, expression fading when he realizes I’m standing here looking like a crazy person.

“Are you Zane?” My arms tuck tightly under my chest.

“No,” he says. “Zane’s inside.”

He motions for me to come in, and I hesitate before going for it. I didn’t climb out of bed at two in the morning for nothing.

The guy pauses as we stand across from one another beneath a chandelier in a grand, two-story foyer better suited for executives than party-boy ballers. He hooks his hands on his hips and drags in a long breath.

“You
sure
you’re not here for the party?” His gaze narrows.

I point to my pajamas. “Do I look like I’m here for the party?”

I mean, honestly.

He smooths a hand down his chest before lifting it in protest, and then he smirks. “All right. If you say so.”

Another guy walks past, his polo a shade of evergreen, contrasting against crisp white shorts.

“What’s with all the green?” I wrinkle my nose. Great Aunt Rue mentioned once that her neighbor played football. “Is this a team color or something?”

The guy covers his mouth, stifling a chuckle. “Wait here. I’ll find Zane.”

About damn time.

A woman wearing a skin-tight bandage dress the color of Santa Claus’ suit saunters past, giving me side eye before lifting her nose and linking onto the arm of a man with huge arms and a matching red button-down.

Red and green? In May?

“Hi.” A man’s voice vibrates against my ear from behind, and I turn to find a devilishly handsome man reeking of beer and wearing a smile a mile wide.

I move back until I run into the wall behind me, but he follows. Placing his hand on the wall over my shoulder, he lifts a brown bottle to his lips and takes a drink, his eyes trained on me.

“Haven’t seen you before. You just get here?” he asks.

“Are you Zane?”

“No.” He shakes his head, his tongue grazing his lower lip as if he fully believes he’s seconds from feasting on me. “I’m Kai Santana.”

He says his full name like it should mean something to me. I’m guessing by his build and the size of his biceps that he plays football with Zane.

Maybe in certain circles, his name opens doors. And drops panties. But right now, he’s just another drunk asshole thinking he’s smooth enough to rival Casanova.

“What’s
your
name?” He leans in closer, his aftershave burning my lungs.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant right now.”

Kai laughs. “You really came to a party like
this
, dressed like
that
, and you’re going to play hard to get? Un-fucking-believable.”

“I need to speak to Zane.”

Kai’s expression fades, and he glances over my shoulder, scanning a roomful of beautiful blondes, exotic brunettes, and fiery redheads. I follow his line of sight and see nothing but a sea of mostly green, a fair amount of red, and a handful of yellow.

Oh, god.

I’m at a stoplight party.

And I’m dressed in head-to-toe green.

“You don’t want Zane.” Kai turns back to me, moving his hand to the side of my face. His fingertips trace my jaw, and my entire body freezes. He’s completely invading my personal space, acting like he owns it, and my therapist-in-training monkey brain can’t conjure up the appropriate response to save my life. “Anything Zane can do, I can do better, angel face. Know that.”

My lips purse, rubbing together as I stare into Kai’s obnoxiously beautiful seafoam green gaze. I didn’t even know eyes could be a color like that. Removing my stare from his, I visually trace the length of his muscled, tatted arm before gripping it gently and guiding it away from my person.

I step out of his space, and judging by the frown that replaces his smug little smile, he takes the hint.

A clock on the other side of the foyer reads two fifteen. I know this house is over-the-top large, but it shouldn’t take this long for Ash to locate Zane. I’d be better off looking for him myself at this point . . . if only I knew what he looked like.

“Can you find Zane for me, please?” I zip my spine and force a positive tone into my voice.

Kai’s face darkens. He’s annoyed. His barreled chest rises and falls as he stares at me, takes another swig of beer, and releases a groan.

“Fucking Zane.” He shakes his head. “Find him your own damn self. I’m not his little bitch.”

I sense some contention there that I’m not in the mood to explore, so I let him walk away toward a throng of beautiful women dressed all in green.

“Excuse me.” A blond Hercules dressed in a t-shirt the color of sunbeams taps me on the shoulder.

Thank God. I’ve never been so happy to see someone in yellow in all my life.

“Hi.” A breathy sigh of relief passes through my lips. “Are you Zane?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I just heard you were looking for him. I saw him in the kitchen a minute ago.”

Hercules has kind eyes, and he keeps a safe distance from me. I feel immediately at ease in his presence already.

Glancing around, I return my stare to his. “I’ve never been here before. Can you point me that way?”

He nods and motions for me to follow him. As soon as we approach a packed crowd blocking the threshold to the backside of the house, he reaches for my hand and pulls me against him.

We make it through to the other side and step into a crowded kitchen. Beneath crumpled bags of chips and half-empty wine bottles, I spot a hint of white marble counters.

“He was here just a second ago.” Hercules drags a meaty hand through his sandy blond waves and exhales. “I’ll be back in a second. I’ll see if I can track him down for you.”

The kitchen is surprisingly vacant, though the sound of pumping music rattles against the windows in the breakfast nook. A string of party lights outside illuminates an expansive covered patio and in the distance, girls in green bikinis are lounging in pool floaties as a guy in yellow board shorts does a cannon ball.

I rise to my toes, attempting to see over the crowd of people blocking the doorway. Knowing my luck, Ash found Zane and led him to the foyer, but I can’t see that far anyway. I decide to stay put. Hercules seems a little more even-keeled than the other two anyway. I trust he’s going to do what he says.

An emerald-clad man and woman stumble into the kitchen, their hands gliding into dangerous territory and their lips fused together with sexual superglue.

It’s just the three of us, and it’s beyond painfully awkward for me, but I can’t leave in case Zane comes.

“Oh, my God, that feels amaaaaazing,” the girl pants, completely oblivious to my presence. “Oh . . . oh, yes . . .”

From the corner of my eye, I see his hand making quick movements between her thighs, and her fingers are wrapped loosely around a red Solo cup. She’s one earth-shattering orgasm from dropping it and spilling it everywhere.

“God damn, you’re tight,” the guy breathes. “I’m
packin’
down there, sweetheart. I don’t know if my cock will fit.”

She giggles and reaches for him, pulling him on top of her.

My cheeks warm, my legs threatening to run me right out of here if this goes any further. It feels wrong to be an accidental voyeur.

Without any warning, the guy sweeps his arm across the counter, sending half-filled cups and cans of beer flying, half of which spill down my top.

I pull in a sharp inhalation, cold beer soaking through my pajama top, and stand paralyzed, watching them take things to the next level mere feet away.

Hercules returns just in time to see the aftermath as the guy lifts his moaning girl toy up on the newly cleared counter.

“Hey, hey, hey.” My new friend storms to the couple. “Not in here. Take it somewhere else.” He returns to me, grabbing a rag from a nearby drawer and dabbing at my shirt. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I take it from him, opting to handle the clean up myself. “They were, um, really into what they were doing. I don’t even think they noticed me here.”

“Assholes. They’re not even associated with the team. Not sure how they got the invite.” He rolls his eyes, blowing a puff of air through tight lips. “How’d you get invited? Or are you here with someone?”

“I’m not here for the party.” I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. “I’m staying next door for the summer with my great aunt. I just came by to ask Zane if he could keep the noise down.”

God, I sound lame. Words like that should never leave the lips of a twenty-four year old, but someone needed to come over here, and it was either Rue or me. And a little old lady has no business wandering into a party like this at two in the morning.

Hercules bites his bottom lip and winces. “Oh. Sorry about that.”

“I flew in a few hours ago,” I say. “I’ve been traveling all day. My head is pounding. I’m sleeping on a ridiculously hard mattress with really flat pillows that overwhelmingly smell like Aunt Rue’s lilac perfume, and all I want is a little bit of sleep, but all I hear are drunk people screaming and music pulsing.”

He laughs, studying me.

I tug on the hem of my pajama top. “The green is just a coincidence.”

“So you didn’t come here looking to hook up, then?” He tilts his head, but his smiling eyes tell me he’s teasing.

“Not. At. All.” I hand him the beer-soaked rag, and he blindly tosses it in the sink behind him with stunning accuracy. “I haven’t seen a lot of people in yellow tonight. What’s your story?”

He shrugs. “Just coming out of a long-term relationship. Wasn’t sure if there’d be anyone here tonight worth wearing green for.”

“Cautious. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Something like that.” Hercules lets his gaze fix on mine a little longer before exhaling and gently hitting his hand against the counter beside me. He offers a bittersweet smile and steps back. “All right, well, Zane will be here in a sec.”

With that, he is gone, and I feel bad never having asked his name. He was the least asshole-ish man here tonight, and I wish I could’ve thanked him for not treating me like a piece of meat.

Once again, I’m alone in the kitchen, and I’m half tempted to start cleaning up because standing here twiddling my thumbs is only making me more riled up with each passing minute.

With my back against the island, I watch the clock.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

People flit in and out of the kitchen, passing through, grabbing drinks.

I yawn and check the clock again.

I haven’t even met Zane de la Cruz, and already I’m convinced he’s a giant asshole for throwing a ridiculously obnoxious party on a weeknight, no less, and for keeping me waiting, which I’m positive he’s doing on purpose.

And the stories.

Oh, lord, the stories.

He’s
the one getting Aunt Rue so worked up all the time. I have to hear about it every week during our Tuesday night phone chats.

Aunt Rue claims he’s been nothing but trouble since he moved into their little gated community, and as the president of the Laguna Palms Home Owner’s Association, or HOA as she calls it, she gets the pleasure of dealing with him every time he refuses to trim his hedges to the covenant-required height or the time he painted his front door in team colors or the time he answered the door with nothing but a sock on his privates and a smirk on his face when Aunt Rue interrupted his three o’clock three-way.

She says he won’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and it’s a miracle the Gainesville Cougars haven’t kicked him to the curb already.

No wonder she can’t stand him: he’s made it his personal mission to live a life of hedonistic defiance.

I blow a strand of hair from my eyes and unhook my arms. I can’t stand here doing nothing a minute more. Stacking red Solo cups into other red Solo cups, I dump them into an overflowing trash can at the end of the island. Next, I move to the chips, crumpling up the empty bags and tossing them as well.

Some miscellaneous plates and silverware fill the rest of the island. I stack them neatly and place them in the left side of the kitchen sink before searching the cabinets for a bottle of cleaner for the spills on the counter.

Lastly, I stoop down to the mess on the floor, a clean rag in hand, and sop up the spilled beer and wine covering the dark wood floor courtesy of the crazy exhibitionists.

A man clears his throat. “I was told the maid wasn’t coming until noon.”

I look up, my gaze landing on a bulge the size of Texas hiding behind clinging, sun-faded, olive-green chinos.

A tan hand reaches down, palm open wide.

Swallowing the dry lump in my throat, I place my hand in his and allow him to pull me into a standing position. My lungs gasp for air as I attempt to find my balance as a delicious, woodsy scent invades the space around me.

This man oozes sex appeal. He doesn’t even have to do anything but stand here, looking at me the way he is, and my knees buckle.

No one, and I mean
no one
, has ever done this to me.

I’m quite embarrassed actually, and my cheeks are giving it all away.

My stare lands on a crisp white-shirt that clings enough to show off washboard abs, and then I lift my gaze to the bare flesh of his sun-kissed chest, accentuated by a V-neck only someone looking like this could pull off outside of a fraternity setting.