Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (16 page)

“Sorry to tell you, but you are going to pay a sweet price for something nice,” Monique comments. “I pay more for my shoes than you pay at the community center.”

“Well, help a sister out with this bill then.”

“That’s why I’m trying to find you a man,” she explains. “A bill man is easy to find, because cute is not a requirement. In fact, the uglier he is, the harder he’ll work for you.”

Laughter is the only response that I can give, and I plop down in the center of the floor.

“The dream was nice while it lasted,” I sigh.

“No. Get up. You
can
do this,” Monique commands.

I shake my head; the moment had suddenly become stone boulders that are pushing me against the floor. Everyone and everything was changing.

“Since my granny has been gone…” I start, but realize there is more emotion there than I originally thought. I swallow back an urge to cry. “I feel like I’m spinning my wheels.”

Monique sat with me.

“And now Ms. Agnes is in the hospital,” I cry. “What if she doesn’t make it?”

“Ayron, a lesser woman would have fallen apart under the pressure that you’ve faced, but you came out a diamond, shining. You can do this,” she says as she puts her arms around me.

I lose the battle with my tears and hug her back.

“She doesn’t have any family, Mo, and I provide crappy insurance,” I expel before Monique hugs me. “I want to be able to help her.”

“Can I get you to think about you for a just a minute now and again?” Monique sighs. “Agnes has lived her life and lived it well.”

“I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t care.” I sniffle.

Her fingertips swipe at my tears.

“On the bright side, this is definitely the office for you. Even without the shrink couch, this place has gotten tears to fall,” Monique jokes. “I don’t remember ever seeing you cry.”

C
hapter 4-Devlin

I high-five my assistant Gloria as I head into my office.

The meeting had gone well in my eyes, regardless of what my sister’s fiancé Trevor may think. The board and leadership team agreed that my plan for expansion was sound, a viable contender with the plan put forth by my father’s golden boy.

I have never liked Trevor Harris, unlike my sister who claims to love him—so much so that she agreed to marry him. My older brother David Jr. doesn’t care either way about Trevor, as long as a lawsuit isn’t involved, but I had always seen him for the snake that he is. He’s played my family like a deck of cards, convincing my father to name him interim president, as the old man takes a less physical role in the day-to-day activities. He is smart, no doubt, but the number one spot is mine.

D.J., as we often call David Jr., enjoys being in charge of the legal department, and Dana does a hell of a job running PR and Marketing, so the obvious choice to take the throne is me.

Currently, I take care of the money, the making of it and keeping it. The lame excuse my father gave for putting Trevor in as interim leader over me was just the motivation I needed to get back on my game.

My door explodes open, followed by a furious Trevor.

“Don’t you ever interrupt my meeting again, boy.” Trevor comes through with fingers wagging. “Your daddy and your weak ass brother may allow you to be a prince in this place, but make no mistake—I run this in a way you never will.”

I scoff and allow his finger to stay there.

“I guess you thought I would flinch, but bitch ain’t in me, boss,” I snap without moving a muscle.

“We’ll see,” he replies, his face inches from mine.

“What you think you may run actually has my name on it. Family first,” I state.

“I am family, or haven’t you heard—I’m marrying your sister,” he shoots back. “And family or not, I don’t tolerate disrespect.”

“I came to you with the numbers first, but since you can’t see around your own ego or my name on the paper, you didn’t even listen.”

“I don’t have to listen because I know what is best.”

“Walk in my office unannounced again, and suffer the consequences,” I seethe.

“Who are you?” He laughs. “You are walking in shoes way too big for you, spoiled little rich boy. We all know that you don’t perform well under pressure when it really matters, right?” he says before adding more as he walks to the door. “At least your mother did.”

The composure that I was trying to keep falls away with the mention of my mother.

My body becomes a battering ram and I charge at him with the force of an angry rhino, knocking the tall man off of his feet.

I punch my fist against his face, fuming

* * *

T
he look
on my father’s face as he paces the floor of my home makes me feel like I am ten years old again. I never want to disappoint my father, but it seems inevitable.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he questions.

“He busted in my office and basically told me that he was going to take over the company,” I answer.

“Well, if your plan was to prevent that, it doesn’t look like it’s working too well,” he responds. I can hear the venom in his words. “I was worried about how you would take not being named interim president, but today you just proved that I made the right decision. You aren’t ready.”

I stand up and attempt to focus on the words coming out of his mouth.

“I’m not ready?” I repeat. “I was top of my class in undergrad and grad school getting my MBA. I started in the mail room at sixteen and I’ve studied every department in this company from the warehouse to corporate. This company is my
life
.”

“And that’s the problem,” my dad says, as though I am finally enlightened. “Son, I don’t want the only thing that people say about you at the end of your life to be that you were a great CEO. I want you to be a great husband, father, and human being.” He steps forward and puts his hands on my shoulders. “I worked so hard to make money that I missed out on living my life. It’s a life you still could have.”

Worry replaces the anger in his eyes.

“It’s all right. I turned out all right,” I tell him.

“No, son,” he says, looking me in the eye. “It’s not all right. The board of executives wants to fire you.”

His words are a punch to the gut.

“What about D.J. and Dana?” I ask. My siblings are a part of that board.

“D.J. is hoping to keep any ‘hostile work environment’ cases at bay, and Dana is standing by her man.”

I fall to the sofa, unable to comprehend what my father unloaded. My own family had turned against me. I knew that we were not as close as some families could be or should be, but in the end, I had always believed we stood up for each other.

“There will be a review in thirty days. Until that time, you are suspended,” he says. “I would take this time to do some soul searching, to think about your life. Actually, it’s required. The board is requesting that you attend some sort of counseling or therapy.”

“Counseling?” I repeat, as though the word is a foreign language. “We tried that when I was younger. It doesn’t work.” I stand up and pace the office.

“My work speaks for itself. What does therapy have to do with running a company? Mom had enough therapy for the whole family—it didn’t help her any.”

My father sighs.

“Those are the stipulations. If you want the review to go well and remain a part of the company, you have to do this.”

C
hapter 5-Ayron

I smooth down the skirt of my purple suit and make my way through the dimly lit restaurant to the meeting Dr. Tirash set up for me. I’d asked him for some extra work at the hospital, and while he’d been sympathetic, he hadn’t had any clients to send my way.

“I might have an unusual opportunity,” he’d said. He had spoken to an old friend about an important, confidential, and lucrative contract. He would only say that it was a hands-on opportunity and to dress as executively seductive as possible for the interview.

This did not fly with me at all, and I told him how I felt.

“I know, and I am sorry, but this is the only way,” he replied. “Just think of it as something you would only have to do to get your foot in the door. Later on, you can choose to do it your way.”

I begrudgingly accepted my fate and did what was asked of me.

My borrowed stilettos click against the marble floor as I am guided to my seat.

David Masters is the President Emeritus of the company that manufactures and distributes the majority of the hair care products currently on my counter, Masters in Style Products. I only recognized him from his pictures that were published for newspaper interviews with him. Sitting with his elbows propped atop of the table with his hands folded, I feel like I am meeting with the head of a cartel and not a businessman. His peppered gray hair and slick black suit complement each other, and his stern demeanor exudes a no-nonsense attitude. I have trouble imagining that he would have difficulty getting anyone to do as he asks.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Masters,” I say, stopping and stepping my open-toe heel directly in front of him.

I place a hand on my hip, like I remember the director doing when she came to my office last week.

He stands.

“Well,” Mr. Masters acknowledges as he stands and gives me the once over. “Dr. Tirash said that you were gorgeous, but he neglected to add breathtaking.”

I place my hand out for the stately man to shake. Instead, he places it between his hands and smiles.

“It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Masters,” I say as he releases my hand.

The hostess pulls out my chair and I take a seat in front of the stage.

“He is going to like you,” he says.

“Who is he, and why is that important?” I ask. “Dr. Tirash was very vague about what this job entails.”

“My son, Devlin, is a very smart and ambitious young man, but he is a bit too ambitious and has difficulty controlling his anger when it comes to his mother, who has passed, and our family. He had a blowup with an executive, and the board is requiring counseling—or his termination. He’s flat-out refused counseling in the past. We tried several doctors after his mother’s death and it just didn’t work out.”

“So how can I help?”

“Dr. Tirash was able to step in and act as a tennis coach. Dev never knew that he was actually working with a counselor.” He spoke slowly. “I would like for you to befriend him and teach him some anger-management skills and in thirty days present your findings of his progress to the board.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying

“You want me to lie to him.”

“I want you to help him, by any means necessary.” He gives me a stern look. “I’m willing to pay whatever it is that you need. If Dr. Tirash recommended you, then I know that you are top-notch.”

I think about Ms. Agnes and the beautiful office that I want.

“Sounds like a deal,” I say, shaking the man’s hand. “When do I start?”

“Tonight,” he says with a smirk. “You should head to the bar and look as though you are waiting for someone. Once you see that I am seated with my son, wait a few minutes and leave.”

“Leave? How can I work with him if I don’t meet him?”

The old man’s laughter is vibrant.

“My son loves women, but is very particular. If this is to work, then he has to want you.”

“You know that I am a licensed psychologist right, and not an escort?” I reiterate.

“I am quite aware, but for him to listen, he will have to like you, want you even,” the man says assuredly. “Dev is never late. Go to the bar. You can call me with any other questions. If he doesn’t approach you, this will never work anyway.”

I slide away from the table and nearly gallop to the bar. How do I get myself into these things?

A few minutes after sitting at the bar, a familiar-looking, tall and muscular man strolls through the entrance.

My gaze trains on his caramel eyes and I am transported to the memory of a similar-looking man that I unabashedly rubbed my body against in a club. Fear and anticipation pump through me. Will I really have to be in the company of the man who made my body explode with a single caress of his lips across my neck?

Without incidence, the caramel-eyed man from the club finds his way into a seat in front the elder Masters, and it strikes me like a match against a box. My caramel dream is now my client.

Playing it cool is hard to do when the thought of a man can set your body on fire. I look at my phone a few times and then the door. I play like I am dialing a number and stretch my legs against the length of the bar chair.

The restaurant is extremely popular amongst the posh crowd, so I watch the pretty rich people scoot across the room in small groups looking like ads for Banana Republic or American Eagle. Pinched-faced young adults flock in a large group through the restaurant wearing jeans with button-down shirts, and I prepare for my exit. The large group will make an excellent cover. Obviously, Devlin Masters, my caramel dream, doesn’t feel the need to approach me as his father had wished. Mission failed.

I pay the bartender and rush out of the restaurant with haste. It’s all for the best. There is no way that I could have been of any consequential service to someone who causes torrential rains between my thighs with my clothes on.