Indulgence (257 page)

The plane shuddered and made terrifying noises as it rose
into the air. He nearly leapt out of his skin at the touch of her palm on his
unknowingly white-knuckled grip of the seat arm. But he gave her a weak smile
and forced himself to relax. Running a hand over his days-old stubble, he took
a breath and closed his eyes again, praying the sheer force of his will could
maintain the aircraft’s ability to stay aloft.

Nicco hated flying. He had gotten used to it as a member of
three different European football teams and, for one brief shining moment, the
Spanish national team. But he certainly never enjoyed it.

“Whew,” the woman sighed and stretched her arms out, bumping
up against his shoulder. No accident, he knew. “Glad that part’s over.” Her
accent screamed American, but her chic dark suit and olive-hued skin spoke
equally of “
Latina
”.

“Huh,” he grunted and stuck ear buds in his ears in an
effort to ward off any further conversational gambits, not in the mood for
flirting, explanations, or small talk. He was Nicolas Garza, former star
attacking midfielder for Real Madrid, Deportivo, and most recently Valencia.
And now well on his way to utter soccer ignominy as part of a startup team in
the United States, in bloody Detroit of all places. Essentially, he’d been
forced into retirement and resented every cocky asshole of a rising superstar
who’d jostled him out of his position.

Harsh rap music filled the space between his ears as he
gazed out into the increasingly blue sky. Nicco put his aching forehead against
the small window. Images rushed at him, jumbled, like a movie stuck on fast
forward. Voices he never wanted to hear again berated him, still.

His agent, his erstwhile ex-wife, his own mother, all of
them yelling at him in various stages of pissed off at his seeming inability to
control himself, to stay out of trouble. Nicco winced, recalling the exact
moment his big-time agent handed him over to one of the agency minions with a
disapproving frown. Which hurt way worse than the moment the lovely, expensive,
ex-Mrs. Garza heaved an empty wine bottle at him, nailing him in the temple,
then stomped out yelling curses and promises about her attorney and alimony.

He sighed and kept staring out the window. She’d made good
on all of it, but he was shed of her, thank the blessed virgin.

Nicco closed his eyes and let the curse-riddled rap shove
out the one voice he wanted to hear so badly he could feel it deep in his gut,
like an insatiable hunger. A memory floated across his unsuspecting brain,
making him gasp and clench his hands into fists. A dark face, handsome beyond
imagining, soft full lips, an impish smile and sparkling deep brown eyes—all of
it, the complete package of his beloved, sexy, Leandro. The man who’d proven to
him what it meant to feel, to go beyond the raw physicality of sex and connect
on a deeper level.

“Shit,” he muttered, a familiar burn firing up behind his
eyes. He pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose as agony bloomed in
his chest.

They’d been together nearly six months, truly together.
Nicco wanted to come out, to claim the man in public, while Leandro cautioned
against it. They were both highly paid European soccer stars in the spotlight.
Despite attitude advances in some pro sports regarding gay team members, soccer
seemed to be the last bastion of homophobia.

Nicco had plenty of experience, sexually speaking—maybe too
much—before Leandro burst into his world. He rarely turned down a new
opportunity, and one of his favorite positions had been right between a lovely,
sexy woman and the hard, lean muscular body of a man. No big deal, he’d
thought.
My business how and with whom I get off.
He’d been proven very
wrong about that, among other things.

The plane bumped, jouncing Nicco’s head against the window
and sending a fresh jolt of visceral terror through him. But at least Leandro’s
face was forced out of his mind for a brief moment. He bent over his knees,
determined not to panic and leap up to pace the aisle, or puke. But both felt
fairly imminent. So he focused downward, saying his “Hail Marys” in preparation
for the no doubt impending plummet into the ocean.

“Hey.” The girl he’d been ignoring touched his shoulder.
“You okay? Want some water?”

Her hand dropped to his thigh. He stared at its
well-manicured tastefulness, complete with a silver band on her left ring
finger. His gaze traveled up her bare, toned arm, followed the slim line of her
neck to her jaw and lingered over her full lips.

What the fuck? Why not?

He’d do anything to ease the knot of frustrated anger in his
chest. Besides, sex relieved his stress—it was a well-known fact and something
he’d embraced as a much younger man. He’d actually pondered seeing a
professional about it—this near constant requirement for physical connection.

He allowed a smile to light his face and covered her hand
with his, giving it a squeeze, shifting his thigh slightly so her palm slipped
a little farther down into what could be considered a fairly intimate caress.
His body tingled in a distracting way, bringing a hint of legitimacy to his
grin. She met it halfway and tugged the blanket she’d had tucked around her
bare knees across his lap. He shifted the armrest between them up and out of the
way never removing his gaze from hers.

Stop, Nicco. Remember, you were going to leave this
behind. All the random hookups and bullshit that ruined your marriage and your
relationship with Leandro.

Ironically, it had been his ex-wife who’d broken the news
flash to the panting press. Nicco Garza was
maricon
,
el homosexual,
and had been for years. Nicco shook his head at the memory of her flawless
body, perfect face, and evil mind. The damn woman had participated in her fair
share of three-ways with him and women and other men. She’d watched him get
blown by both sexes. Observed him fucking a woman while simultaneously getting
ass-fucked by a guy.

Jesu
save him from hypocritical, jealous, vindictive
bitches. But no one had saved him. His reputation truly suffered once she
figured out that Leandro, a member of a rival team, ten years younger than
Nicco, had captured his heart, shoving her out of the picture once and for all.

His agent had been stoic at first, taking it in stride.
Nicco had always been fodder for the gossip-mongering press corps following
European soccer players’ every move both on and off the pitch. He was tall,
handsome, almost scarily talented, and knew his way around the party scene like
no one else.

He’d managed to keep his main obsession a secret, or so he
thought. Gay players in soccer were simply not tolerated. He understood that.
He also knew at least a dozen players between England, Germany, South America,
and Spain who held their own secrets close to their hearts. Of course, he would
be the one to be a pace setter, thanks to his cunt of an ex-wife.

Ghostly images of all the men and women who’d paraded
through his life and bed lit his brain as he moved close enough to run a finger
along his seat mate’s knee under the blanket.

“You’re nothing but a whore, Nicco. If there’s a hole,
your goddamned cock is in it.”
The last words of the only person he’d ever
truly loved echoed in his brain but he shut it out, deciding instead to take a
deep breath of feminine perfume—a heady mix of soft citrus and pure, spicy
lust.
Screw Leandro. He flew off in a plane that never brought him back. He
left me—and he was the one man who quelled my need, who calmed my whole self.

Fate,
they said.

Pilot error,
others said.

His lips found the woman’s neck and his fingers their
pleasantly warm target between her legs as his brain shut down, briefly
quieting the fury that had been building for weeks. The breathy sounds of her
satisfaction made music in his ears and the sensation of her soft palm gripping
him under the blanket forced the memory of the one face he yearned for, the one
voice he dreamed of nightly, up and out of his brain, at least for a few
moments.

Wrong
, his better self said.
Stop. Don’t do this
with this total stranger on a plane, under the noses of every other passenger.

Shut up
, his true self retorted.
Fuck off. Who
cares? Nobody. That’s who. Not anymore.

Rafael Inez glared at the man seated across from him, then
rose and walked to the door of his office. Nicolas Garza was a guaranteed pain
in everyone’s ass from day one. Rafe knew it, but he’d thought it worthwhile
since he got to scoop him up on the cheap. But now….

“Look, Garza, do what you want on your own time. We’re all
adults here.”

Nicco glared at him but stayed quiet. Rafe set his jaw. “I
know what they say about you, and I want you to know that I don’t care. You can
be a completely out-of-the-closet player on my team. I will fully support it in
public. The marketing department agrees with me. They even have…um….” Rafe ran
a hand through his hair. “There is some kind of search for the first active pro
athlete to come out. Sports Inc. has a crew ready to cover it, to show how
open-minded we all are. Or something.”

Nicco’s gaze never wavered from his. His square jaw
clenched, which was the only indication Rafe had that the man had even
registered his words. He leaned on his desk, staring at the one guy he had
hoped would help build his team. Nicco would—could—bring a level of maturity
the Black Jacks desperately needed, riddled as they were with raw rookies.

“A show pony, then. That’s why I’m here? The bad boy likes
boys but look how cool we are in America. We embrace him. Fuck you,
patrón
.”

Rafe gulped. He had not wanted this little wrinkle. The
crazy bitch running the marketing department practically had a public orgasm
when he’d told her he’d gotten Nicco signed.

“Oh god, he’s that gay one, isn’t he? That is
awesome
!”

Her gang of seeming teenagers that made up the huge
promotions department for the team had concocted all sorts of media ops for the
guy. Rafe had glanced at Jack Gordon, his boss in this venture and his
brother-in-law.

Jack had been frowning at the whole frenzy. Rafe had tried
to explain to the tall, thin woman, recruited away from an internet social
networking company on the West Coast to run all things marketing for them in
Detroit, that getting out in front of the curve on the “gay athlete thing”
might not be the best focus during their inaugural season. They had enough to
worry about. Bringing the bright light of scrutiny over such a controversial
topic made Rafe more than a little uneasy, contemplating what it could do to
the team’s dynamic.

She’d been allowed to run with it, at least to the point he
was now telling Nicco about it. And the conversation was going about as he
expected—straight into the shitter. He switched to Spanish, hoping their mutual
native tongue could help them work this out, albeit his being what Nicco
probably considered bastardized South American.

“Nicco,” he kept his voice neutral. “I won’t do anything you
don’t want to do with this. Trust me. I’m here to lay it out for you, to see if
you’re interested in playing poster boy for gay pro athletes. I don’t like it
and don’t think the team needs it this early, before we even play a game.
However,” he straightened, remembering why he’d been pissed off at the man
already, “I will not tolerate psychotic groupies hanging around my practices.”

Nicco raised an eyebrow, his lanky body relaxed, showing no
sign of stress over the fact that he had just been asked to do something no pro
athlete who currently played had managed to do: to come out as gay, then simply
resume his position on the team as if nothing had happened.

“Seriously,
patrón
….” Rafe said, getting even more
irritated by the man’s obtuse stance. “I don’t know who she is or where you
picked her up between Spain and Michigan, but tell her if she shows up at my
practice again, making a scene trying to get to you, I will call the police.
And you, my confusing friend, are back to the farm leagues of Europe. I don’t
need this bullshit distraction, and neither do you. It is immaterial to me what
kind of sex you have and with what gender. All I ask is that you keep the
crazies away from my field and your teammates. We clear?”

“Ah, the farm leagues.” The tall, handsome Spaniard
stretched his legs out in front him, not taking the hint that Rafe wanted him
out of the office. He spoke in his accented English, as if rebuffing Rafe’s
olive branch via their common language. “I thought that’s where I already was.”
Rafe shook his head to keep from punching the cocky shithead in the pie hole.
“Besides, aren’t you just filling in until the
real
manager is hired?”

Rafe clenched his jaw and tried to keep his cool. “Think
what you want. I’m telling you now that this team will be run like the pros.
While I will tolerate WAGs, I will not put up with a psychopathic freak job you
picked up on the fucking plane. Got me?”

His high-priced, somewhat over the hill, superstar attacking
midfielder stretched his arms over his head and got to his feet. The taller man
walked straight into Rafe’s personal space.

Typical
.

Rafe stood his ground. He’d played against this jerk in a
World Cup qualifier the year before the career-ending injury that landed him
alone in the American Midwest. The Black Jacks had deep pockets, thanks to the
investors in town who wanted the “real deal” when it came to this particular
sport, but he’d been careful to find a lot of American-based rising stars and a
handful of European near has-beens like this one. He’d taken a calculated risk,
signing Nicco Garza. He’d be damned if he’d let this fucker intimidate him.