Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (23 page)

Her intense dark eyes stare back when her profile pops up with a picture that I had stolen of her with my phone while we were in Baraide’s. I also notice the time, eight a.m. Fuck it. I want to see her. I don’t care if I wake her up. I don’t care if it’s weird that she’s the first person that I want to see today. Ayron Winters is on my mind and I want her in my bed.

“Hello?” Her perky yet sultry voice causes me to both groan and swallow. I imagine her in a two-piece sleep set, those long legs exposed.

“Good morning, sexy,” I nearly sing into the phone. This girl is taking all of my cool.

She giggles and I smile.

“I don’t know about sexy,” she offers, “but I’ll take your good morning.”

“Why are you underrating yourself?” I ask, diverting from my original plan to get her into my closet.

“What?”

“You heard me. Every time that I give you a compliment, you have some kind of comeback about how you aren’t as great as I think you are.”

“Well, I—I can’t,—I don’t,” she sputters.

“Do you think that I am a smart man?” I interrupt.

Silence invades the line and I have to check the connection.

“Yes,” she replies quietly.

“Well, know that I have excellent taste, and you are a hell of a woman.”

“Did you just call to take my breath away, or did you have a purpose?” she asks, and I can tell that she is smiling.

“Come have breakfast with me at my house. I’m cooking.”

Silence again.

I wish that she would have stayed the night with me last night and we were having this conversation in my kitchen already.

“I have a client at eleven, so I guess I can come. Text me your address.”

“See you in a few.”

Shortly thereafter, Ayron walks into my home wearing the smile that I remember and a pair of skinny jeans that I will never forget. Her bubbled ass sits higher than normal with the assistance of her wedged shoes. Her shirt gives cause to make me jealous. The solid colored V-neck T-shirt hugs her breasts perfectly and softly falls against her slim waist.

"You look like a better breakfast than what I have in the kitchen,” I say.

She rolls her eyes.

“Your eyes will get stuck that way,” I laugh.

She flips her hand in the air dismissively, a gesture I’ve quickly grown accustomed to. No matter her elegance, there is an underlying sense of street beneath, and I like it.

“My granny used to tell me that all of the time,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Remember that we are here to eat
food
,” she warns.

I place a hand on her waist and guide her through the living room.

She stops at the large, circular three-hundred-gallon saltwater fish tank positioned in the middle of the room. Blue lights illuminate the colorful fish that swim in grouped circles up and down between authentic rocks and created caves.

“This is beautiful.” She leans forward. I can see a small smile form on her lips as she watches the fish swim and swirl.

She is the first to notice the tank. Any family invited into my home view the tank only as another example of how well-off I am or as a piece of scenery. The fish have been with me since I got this place and began working at my father’s company.

“What are their names?” she asks, bending her knees and pushing her face closer to the glass.

“You really want to know?” I question. “Really?”

She looks up at me, the left side of her mouth lifting.

“I want to know more about you.” Her face is open and honest. I realize I actually enjoy talking to this woman as much as I enjoy looking at her.

I smile at her round face and bright eyes; her interest is a quick turn-on, an addition to the list of the other things that she does so wonderfully. I don’t usually tell people about my fish. Maybe it is the giddiness that I display when I speak about them, or the way that I named them, but there is always that disparaging look once I finish. The look that says,
You’re too damn old to be excited about fish.

“The two swimming together there.” I point to the lower portion of the tank. “Those are Sarabi and Mufasa.”

I wait for her to giggle at their names, for her to laugh at how childish I sound.

“What kind of fish are they?” she asks, her grin nearly spreading from ear to ear. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re Angelfish,” I tell her. “Sarabi is a Queen Angelfish. I liked her yellow and light blue coloring, and her electric blue trim inspired all the colors in my home.”

I describe it, sounding way more into it than I should, but I’ve already told her so much, showed her so much about who I am. I might as well let her know how I really feel about them.

“The others in the tank know she’s the queen, too. They literally move out of her way when she swims in their direction, and you can tell that she expects it, too.”

“I can tell just by the way she’s moving her tail,” she says. “Who’s her partner?”

“That’s Mufasa. They were adults when I bought them together and they were already mated,” I explain.

“Mated? Like married?” she says, while moving around the tank to watch as Sarabi lifts herself through the water.

“Yep. As beautiful as they are, they still choose a mate and stick with them for life,” I reply. “Don’t fuck with Sarabi. Mufasa doesn’t play about his girl.”

“Loyal and protective. I like that,” she says, shyly finding my eyes. “Nice names, by the way. ‘The Lion King’ is one of my favorite movies. I’ve been trying to go to the Broadway play for years.”

“Why haven’t you?” I ask.

“Never could afford the tickets, find the time, or snag an interested party.”

“You really should see it,” I encourage. “I’ve seen it twice already and loved it.”

I take a moment to watch as her eager gaze returns to the tank. With her hands propped on her knees, she turns her attention to another set of fish in the tank.

“What kind are those two? They move together,” she asks.

“Those are Simba and Nala,” I tell her.

“Cool,” she says. “I like Simba. He moves in zig-zags, never a straight line. That’s kind of cool.”

“Yep. He is Mufasa and Sarabi’s kid, so I felt like Simba would be a good name for him. I bought Sarafina and Nala later, and Simba paired with Nala.”

“Aww,” she coos with a genuine smile, before her stomach grumbles. “Sorry,” she says looking away.

“You’re hungry,” I acknowledge. “I can talk about my tank and my fish all day.”

I take her hand into mine. The soft and gentle hand. The one that had cupped my back yesterday and held onto me so tightly. Her skin is softer than I remember, like silk flitting through my fingers.

“I am a tiny bit starving,” she says sheepishly.

“Let me show you to the kitchen.”

I guide her through the hall into the large, open kitchen.

“Wow,” she gasps. “They could film a cooking show in here.”

“Thank you, I think,” I say, moving over to the stove to finish the food.

She walks through the space with wide eyes and smiling lips, touching, flipping, and turning anything that moves, as I scramble some eggs.

“Oh my God,” Ayron shrieks.

Forgetting about the food, I turn to her quickly. Had she hurt herself?

“What’s wrong?” I rush, examining her body for gushing blood or missing limbs.

“This is amazing,” she exclaims, holding up a pale yellow stoneware baking dish.

I sigh and return to the scorching eggs.

“My bakeware is amazing?” I question flatly before plating the eggs, thankful that I could save them. She had almost made me ruin them.

“Do you know how much a set of Tasty LaRue bakeware costs?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say. “I hardly ever use the stuff. I just told my assistant to buy the best. I don’t really look at prices.”

“Yeah. Well. Price matters for me, unfortunately,” she sighs.

The defeat that hangs in her voice causes me to turn and look at her. Her bottom lip moves in between her teeth as her gaze falls onto the dish, and she lazily drags a finger across it. She looks deflated and I feel like an ass.

“The set is nice, though,” she says, forcing a smile that seems more like a wince.

I pull the sausage and bacon from the oven and set them on the counter next to the pancakes that I had made earlier.

“Let’s eat,” I suggest, hoping that I can turn the tide of the downhill conversation. “Grab the pancakes and juice.”

She doesn’t gawk at my dining room like she had the other areas, just quietly places the food and drink onto the table.

I had killed the vibe. Earlier, she had been carefree with her excitement and feelings. I liked when she let me into her thoughts.

After placing the remaining dish on the table, I make her a plate of food and pass it to her.

For the first few minutes, we eat under the cloud of a strained silence.

“Do you like to bake?” I ask, hoping to resurrect the vital woman that walked through my door this morning.

“Yeah, but not in anything as fancy as you have in there,” she says, while focusing solely on the food.

“My bad for sounding like a jerk earlier,” I throw out between bites. Maybe an apology will help. I just want her to smile again.

“No,” she says, dropping the fork noisily onto the plate.

She looks at me. Her eyes sparkle under her golden eyeshadow and long dark lashes.

“I apologize. Money has been a real sore spot for me lately,” she admits.

“Anything that I can help with?” I offer.

A look of terror invades her face.

“No. I’m fine,” she assures. “I’ve got a plan.”

I nod.

“I do like to bake,” she adds with a dash of genuine cheer. “My grandmother used to bake these amazing pies. I mean ‘slap your momma’ good pies. Can’t say that mine come out as great as hers, but anytime that I need to feel her presence, I bake,” she says.

“I’ll have to try one someday,” I suggest, relieved that the conversation is making a comeback.

“Sure. The only odd part is that the worse that I feel, the better that they taste.”

“Well, I’ll take a happy moderately good pie over a delectable, sad pie any day. I like to see you smile,” I add.

Ayron and I finish breakfast cheerily, remove the dishes, and clean them without me saying anything else to dampen her spirits.

“I’m impressed,” she says, plopping her hands on her hips as I put away the last of the dishes. “You cook and do dishes? Amazing.”

“I have some awesome people that come to help take care of the major stuff. I don’t do windows,” I joke. “Speaking of help. I need your assistance in my bedroom.”

She looks at me through narrowed, almond-shaped eyes.

“I already told you, thirty days, Devlin.”

“Not for that,” I chuckle. “Unless—”

“No,” she reinforces. “I’m not going back there.”

“Let me show you the house, which includes my bedroom. After that wonderful meal, I just thought that you would like to help a friend out.”

“No funny stuff,” she demands as she moves forward with me.

“I cross my heart,” I tell her, mimicking a cross over the left side of my chest. “I just need to get you to my bedroom.”

Her footsteps stop.

“I need your help with clothing options,” I explain. “If you see what I have, maybe you can give me your opinion about what I should buy."

“You don't need me. You can afford a personal shopper,” she says.

“I trust you,” I add. “If I hire one of those fancy people from a stylist company, they will have me walking around in short pants and a woman's cardigan.”

“Can’t you pick out your own clothes?” she smirks.

“Any suit, tailored or off the rack, I got it. It’s this ‘every day I'm not going to work’ wardrobe that I have none of."

She pushes out those pretty lips to the side as though she doesn't believe my story.

“Just wait until you see my closet and then you’ll understand,” I insist.

The trip to my bedroom isn’t an easy one. There are several halls lined with expensive art, twist and turns, and a set of stairs. Stepping into my bedroom with this beautiful woman almost changes my mind. Seeing my empty bed and having her soft hand inside of mine makes me want to slip inside of her.

I turn to face her and take her into my arms quickly.

She gasps when I pull her face to mine, taking in her full lips and tongue as though they belong to me. She doesn't resist. She doesn't move back. In fact, she takes control. Her tongue explores my mouth with small juts before tracing my lips. I like assertive Ayron. The warmth of her is titillating, sparking a shock across the tip of my dick. To have her so close to me in a place so familiar makes me want to get familiar with her body. I know every inch of my home, every corner, creek, and crack. I want to know her body in the same way.

To keep my sanity, I pull away from her. Desire flows through me with intensity. Today I have a mission, and it’s not making her break her thirty-day promise. The surge in the head below my shoulders will not overpower my will to have a new wardrobe. She has somewhere to be, and when I get inside of her, I want us to have all of the time in the world.

Her brown cheeks redden when I pull away.

I place my hand in the air for a high-five and she complies, slapping my hand with a giggle.

“That’s what I’m talking about. Kiss me, girl,” I tease. “Don’t be shy about it. You already know that I want you. It’s nice to see that you got a little fire in there for me, too.”

“Let’s see your closet,” she smirks, turning to walk into the open door of my wardrobe area.

Each movement of her hip is a testament to the beauty of the female body.

I shake my head.

“Your closet is bigger than my whole living room and kitchen combined!” she hollers.

I mouth a quick prayer for strength to resist having her right then and there.

Ayron eyes the rows of clothing, then the shoes and accessories stationed on an island in the middle.

“You are one neat man, and you truly do not own a single pair of jeans,” she says, still perusing my things.

I had never given a woman full access to my life, but something about Ayron makes this seem all right. I currently have a suite on standby at the Indigo Hotel, a boutique hotel downtown. That’s as far as any woman has ever made it.

“I do not own jeans. We wore uniforms in school and I’ve worn a suit everywhere since I left.”

She shook her head.

“When do you have fun?” she questions.

There was that question again. Fun? Why is that so important? What does fun bring but regrets?

“Like getting sloppy drunk, or watching sports? No time. Time is money and I don’t waste money,” I school her and lean against the accessory island.

“What’s the point of all this money if you don’t do anything with it? Why are you working so hard? Who are you going to leave it to?”

Now it’s my time to stutter, to think.

“I mean, I guess that someday I will have a family. I don’t—I just need some everyday clothes right now. Okay?” I finally spit out.

“I’m driving then,” she says. “I got places to be today, unlike someone.”

“Hit me where it hurts,” I joke. Then it hit me. “See, I’m joking. Fun.”

“We need to work on your definition of fun,” she assesses, slapping my shoulder.

This is going to be a good day.

C
hapter 13-Ayron

The sterile hospital room is full of life despite Ms. Agnes’s failing health. Monique and I had filled her temporary home with balloons, flowers, and pictures, but nothing could replace the zeal that she provided.

Laughing, I plop down on the firm hospital bed next to the woman who had been much more than just an assistant.

“You don’t believe me? Just look.” I whip out my phone and scroll through the selfies and pictures that Denise Baraide took of me before I attended the gala with Devlin.

Agnes’s eyes pop open and she repositions her bed so she can get a better look.

The gala had been a week ago, but today is the first day that Agnes seems like herself.

“This reminds me of a Lena Horne number. Classic and sexy, but not slutty,” Agnes reviews my wardrobe. “And look at that smile.”

“That’s what I said, Ms. Agnes,” Monique pipes in. “She was cheesing so hard over the phone that I could hear her dimples grow.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I had a good time,” I dismiss, but my grin won’t be denied. It creeps up without warning.

“Did you know she was dirty dancing with him before he became her client?” Monique adds. “She can lie to herself all she wants, but he’s more than just a client.”

“It’s strictly all for the betterment of him. Devlin is really a great guy, just a bit too impulsive,” I explain. “Once he has his review hearing, I won’t ever see him again.”

Opting to discuss happier news, I change the subject.

“On a different note, I spoke with the realtor about the office space and filled out the application to get the ball rolling.”

This is the scary part, starting something new. I have to remember that this is for the better, even though I want to storm down to city hall and demand that they leave what is left of the community center just the way it is.

“Don’t forget about the Rhonda Raven Show, the taping is in two weeks.”

Other than the show, I have to keep Devlin out of trouble for fourteen more days, and move my entire practice to a new location.

“I forwarded the office calls to my cell phone,” I tell the ever-worried Ms. Agnes. “Between Monique and me, things are being handled.”

“Yep,” Monique chimes in. “I’m keeping her straight. You just focus on getting better.”

Monique works as a freelance computer programmer and analyst. The girl is smart, even though she sometimes feels like it is better to hide it from the world.

A polite knock on the door interrupts our conversation.

“Good morning,” he says, entering the room with a familiar smile.

My breath catches in my throat at the sight of Lance wearing his white coat.

Monique groans.

I had not seen him since he left me years ago. I had been a mess after my grandmother’s passing, still working odd hours at the hospital with no focus or drive. He didn’t care to comprehend my pain, he just wanted me to get over it, be the girl I was when granny gave me hope.

“Ayron?” His eyes fill with recognition. “What—how—it’s nice to see you,” he finally says before walking over and hugging me.

“Ms. Agnes works at my practice and I—”

“Dr. Tirash told me that you finally got your practice going,” he interrupts. “I really want to see you again, Ayron. We have to catch up. Over dinner maybe?” he inquires.

I can tell that Monique has something to say about this from the twisted look on her face.

“Sure,” I speak too easily. “It would be nice to catch up.” There is no truth to those words. I don’t want to see him again, but I was taught to say nice things to people.

“Great.” His face brightens and he takes my hand into his. “I really want to talk to you.”

“As soon as you get me fixed up, doctor, I’ll try to make that possible,” Agnes chimes in. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

“I know that you are,” he adds. “Thankfully, with the surgery, you should be able to go home soon,” Lance assures Agnes.

Lance had always been a good bull-shitter. He’d led me to believe that he actually wanted to marry me and have a family. But the way his left eye twitches and he runs a hand along the back of his neck lets me know all I need to about Agnes’s condition.

His spindly arms are nothing like Devlin’s bulging biceps, and his smile is a disproportionate mix of constipation and surprise.

He was a prize, or so I thought, someone I was supposed to consider myself lucky to have. Every time I talked about Lance becoming a physician, there was a gleam in my grandmother’s eye.
Two doctors in the family,
she would say, beaming.
He is going to take good care of you.
Looking at the scrawny man who left me crying on a bathroom floor after my grandmother’s funeral, I now find him reprehensible. For once, my grandmother had been wrong about a person. He didn’t take care of me. He wasn’t there for me. Money isn’t everything.

Ms. Agnes and Monique, who have relatively less, were there to support me, and are still here to support me. He doesn’t even deserve an eye roll.

My rolling eyes delight Devlin and have become a game between the two of us.

I smile at the thought of Dev and the time we had spent together over the last week. A carnival, an aquarium, a museum, he had taken me some place different every night. I hadn’t had this much fun since, never. I feel like I’ve known him longer than a couple of days. We’ve talked every night and seen each other every morning. I drive out to his place for breakfast.

“This procedure will allow for at least seventy-percent function,” Lance rattles on to Agnes, but I wish there was a different doctor explaining this than Lance.

He looks over to me and winks.

My ringing phone interrupts Lance’s lingering gaze on my breasts. Agnes is speaking to him, but he is so selfish that he can’t even bother to give her his full attention.

“Excuse me,” I say, looking at the phone that Devlin had provided before stepping into the hallway.

“Don’t head too far, Ayron,” Lance calls after me.

“Truth or Dare?” Devlin propositions when I answer.

I laugh at his non-greeting. Hearing the smooth, velvet tone of his voice has become a need. A craving that circles through me whenever I’m not speaking with him.

“Neither,” I answer. Playing a game with Devlin could be dangerous for the both of us. Telling the truth may mean losing him forever.

“Truth or Dare?” he insists. “You know I can be persistent.”

“Dare,” I answer. My rule may be able to prevent issues with whatever task he concocts.

“I’m glad you said that. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a car.” His suave words slide around me, sparking every place on my body that his lips had been.

“How do you know that I’m not busy today?” I tease. “Maybe I can’t just join you at the drop of a hat.”

“I know because you told me that you were having a late lunch with a friend today, which you never identified as male or female, and didn’t have any clients for the evening,” he responds.

“You listen well, Mr. Masters,” I congratulate, recalling the hours we spent on the phone last night.

I had woken up to the hum of his breathing, since we both had reverted to teenagers and didn’t want to hang up the phone.

Lance had never known what was going on in my life. Ever. The only time he became interested was when he was ready to show me off to someone. My life only mattered when it made his look better.

I survey the bright white hospital hall and decide not to tell Devlin about what is going on currently.

Dragging Agnes into this will only make my departure harder. In a few weeks, this charade will be over.

“I’m with Monique still, but there’s a bookstore on Elm Street,” I tell him, and look at my watch.

“Be there in an hour,” he says.

“Are you asking or telling?” I respond with a smile.

“Daring,” he replies. “See you soon.”

He is a man that gets what he wants and I find it exciting that he happens to want me.

“Ayron,” Lance calls as he enters the hall. “I know this is kind of awkward, but it has to be more than a coincidence that we bumped into each other now.”

He takes my hand in his, but it feels flat, cold. No tingles, just his clammy flesh.

I snatch my hand away.

“Don’t do that,” I snap. “Don’t act like you left things pleasantly. Like we decided to just end things as friends.”

“I really want to see you tonight,” he says.

“Out of respect for Ms. Agnes, I didn’t curse your ass out while we were in her room.” I point a finger at his nose.

“Does your man already have you booked?” he questions.

"I don't have man,” I answer, but a twinge of guilt shoots through me. How would Devlin feel about me saying that?

"You don't have to lie,” he says, stepping forward. “I saw a social media post of you and the billionaire guy Devlin Masters."

“So is that what this is about? You see that somebody else wants me, and now you remember me?”

"It's not like that,” he implores, stepping forward. “You look different. You
are
different. Just the way you stand has changed. I almost didn't recognize you in the picture because of how bright your eyes were and the ear-to-ear smile.”

“Did it occur to you that you never gave me a reason to smile?” I ask with more attitude than I expected.

“Ha.” Lance releases a guttural scoff as he unnecessarily straightens his white coat. The sincerity and sweetness drain in seconds. “Let’s get this straight, Ayron. You were the cause of your own unhappiness. All the moping and the tears. People die. It’s life, but as soon as your grandmother’s life ended, the entire spark in yours died as well.”

“You can’t speak on that since you didn’t stick around long enough for me to even move through the grieving process,” I snap, moving closer to him. “And FYI, you killed whatever joy I had inside a long time before my granny passed, with all of your fucking snide remarks and condescending looks.”

It was always about keeping up appearances for him. Back straight, hair neat, clothes conservative. Shake hands, fake smile, be a good little girl for his pinch-nosed mother and rod-stiff father. The pedigreed and multi-degreed Rodgers were always socially upward and upwardly mobile.

“Obviously, you’re the same little gutter girl that you’ve always been. I thought that maybe the billionaire cleaned you up a little, taught you how to speak as a lady. But I was mistaken.”

His words cut deep. For a good portion of my life I traveled in worlds that I could never have access to, only watch and sometimes serve. No matter how friendly they had been, there was always the presumption that because I had less money, I was less than.

“You’re even more mistaken if you think that your opinion matters to me.”

With that, I turned on my heels and walked down the hall away from him. I turned for a brief moment, only to see him standing there, with his mouth open, staring back.

* * *

H
aving
the last word with Lance empowers me, so my entire drive to the bookstore I have Beyoncé blaring and my neck rolling.