One Night with a Quarterback

One Night with a Quarterback

Jeanette Murray

InterMix Books, New York

INTERMIX BOOKS

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UBLISHED BY THE
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ENGUIN
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ONE NIGHT WITH A QUARTERBACK

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

P
UBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / June 2014

Copyright © 2014 by Jeanette Murray.

Excerpt from
Loving Him Off the Field
copyright © 2014 by Jeanette Murray.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0698-17110-7

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For Judi and Angel . . . two friends who keep me grounded by making fun of my sweatshirts.

Really, they're not
that
bad.

Okay, yes they are.

Cassie Wainwright took a deep breath of the air inside the club. It smelled like freedom. And, okay, a little like alcohol and sweat. But if that's what it took to have one blessed night of mind-numbing escapism, so be it.

Her best friend, Anya Fisher, grabbed her wrist. “An hour, Cassie. No more. You don't want to show up tomorrow looking haggard. In fact, let's skip it. Let's just go back to the hotel and—”

“No.” She yanked her arm from her friend's grip. Tonight was about letting go. Forgetting the stress of finding out she had a father, a whole family she didn't know and who didn't know her. Tonight was about losing herself in the music and dancing away all the worry, doubt, and stress. That's all she wanted. One last night.

And it had to count.

She could hear Anya sigh behind her, barely. The noise from the speakers was deafening. It was perfect. Noisy, crowded, just the kind of place she could get lost in. Someone in the crowd bumped her, crushing her even closer to Anya, so close she could tell that her friend wasn't wearing a bra just from how she was squished up against her back.
What are good friends for?

She turned her head to the side and yelled over her shoulder, “If you don't want to be here, you can head back to the hotel. I'm not going to be mad.”

“And leave you out here on your own? Are you crazy?” Anya shook her head, long blonde hair getting caught in Cassie's dangling earring. They separated themselves, then wound their way to a tall cocktail table. She nearly crashed into a drunk woman, but managed to dodge her at the last second. “What's the plan, anyway? Get trashed and be hungover when you meet dear old dad tomorrow? For what? What good is that going to do?”

“Have you seen me order a drink yet?” Cassie's eyes scanned the crowd, squinting a little to see through the darkness, using the strobe lights when they hit the dance floor.

“No. Actually, I haven't. But if you're not here to drink then what—”

“There's a hole in the crowd. Let's go!” She grabbed her overly cautious friend's hand and raced for the open spot on the dance floor. It seemed like the entire city of Santa Fe was here. Hot, sweaty bodies pushed and pressed around them, then a gap would open up and blessedly cool air would waft over her skin before another wave of people crushed around.

She didn't care. Tonight was about letting her hair down and forcing Anya to do the same, even if it killed her.

No negative thoughts. Tomorrow morning would come soon enough.

She glanced at Anya and laughed when she saw her friend looking mildly repulsed as a stranger danced at her. Not
with
her.
At
her. The overly sweaty man wore a tank top and low-riding jeans that hinted he was one bad move away from being depantsed. And her friend looked like she was going to throw up.

“Shoo him away!” Cassie shouted through her own laughter. But her voice was lost in the boom of the music.

Anya shook her head, held up her hands in the classic, “What the hell?” sign. The poor sweetheart wouldn't have the balls to be rude to the clueless guy. He was too busy . . .
oh, my God
. Was he actually Voguing? Christ, Anya needed a rescue. Cassie reached an arm around her friend's waist and pulled her until they were pressed together, front to front. Looking at the Voguer, she shook her head sadly and mouthed, “She's with me.”

The guy had a moment of confusion, then it morphed into even more interest. The kind that said
Can I watch?
Gross. She shook her head again and turned them enough so that their bodies blocked him out of their little circle.

“Did you just tell that guy we were a couple?”

“Maybe, on accident.” She laughed again and let her arm drop. Anya, sweet, conservative Anya, would find that horrifying. And secretly intriguing. Following the beat, letting her body move how it wanted, she danced with a guy who came up behind her, not caring where his hands roamed. At least until they went for the money shot, and then she slithered around, wagging a finger playfully and found a new spot to dance in. The sweat poured down her face, hair stuck to her temples. Her eardrums throbbed at the constant assault. Her feet were screaming in the four-inch heels she'd shoved them into. It didn't matter. The whole thing felt like freedom personified.

“I think that guy is trying to get your attention,” Anya yelled through the din. When Cassie couldn't see anyone, her friend pointed out and up.

There, on the stage next to one of the big speakers was a guy who had several girls standing behind him. In various forms of dress—from jeans and simple tanks to miniskirts and hooker heels—the females giggled and waited off to the side.

“He's waving at you to go up there. Do you know him?”

Cassie shook her head, curious, watching the man point toward a set of stairs off by the side.

“Don't go. Turn your back. Pretend you didn't see.”

She gave Anya her best
Are you shitting me?
look. “He probably just wants a few girls to dance on stage for a bit, like eye candy or something. Looks like fun to me!”

Anya grabbed her arm. “Don't leave me alone in this crowd. I'll never find you again and then I'll have to kill you.”

“Then come with me. He'll take us both or nada.” Not waiting for Anya's reply, she grabbed her friend's wrist, bumped and maneuvered her way to the stage, staring straight up at the guy who had been waving her over. He wore a black blazer over a graphic tee and fashionably distressed jeans, and she'd put him in his late thirties or early forties. Most likely, he was either the club manager, promoter, or partial owner.

“Hey, sweetheart. Want a break from the crush?” He smiled down at her, one corner of his lips tilting up more than the other. It looked practiced, like he spent an hour in the mirror before coming to the club rehearsing his facial expressions.

“Depends. What's the break come with?”

“Just a couple of minutes dancing on one of our platforms. As long as you want, you can get down anytime.”

She held up Anya's hand like a ref announcing the winner of a boxing match. “What about my friend? We're a package deal.”

He studied Anya over, who muttered, “creep” in Cassie's ear.

Then he shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. Stairs are right behind the deejay there. Watch your step.”

They worked their way over behind the turntable booth, gave a friendly smile to the tired guy flipping records, and walked up the dark stairs.

“This is the worst idea you've ever dragged me into.” Anya dug her fingernails into Cassie's arm.

“What crap. We've done way dumber shit.”

“You say that like it's a good thing. Why do I let you drag me around and get into all this trouble? Why?”

“You know, you ask that just before every single thing we do? And nothing bad has happened yet.” Cassie paused in the wings of the stage, adjusted her tank top, then did a little mini-squat to make sure her butt wasn't hanging out the back of her jeans. “Body check. Everything covered?”

“So far. But come on. Why the hell are we going to dance up on platforms like go-go dancers? We'll look like strippers.”

“Don't take any money. It doesn't count if you don't take the money.”

“Did Dr. Phil tell you that?” Anya snapped.

But rather than answer, Cassie walked out on stage and waited with the other girls to be guided to a spot.

“What if we fall off?”

She gave Anya a reassuring smile. “I'd be willing to bet there will be several knights in shining denim and graphic tees just waiting to catch you and help you to safety.” She paused and studied her friend's face in the strobe light. “Okay. Truth time. Are you honestly freaked out? We can walk right back down the stairs.”

Anya shook her head. “I really don't know how you talk me into these things. But if you're going, I'm going.”

She gave her friend a quick squeeze. “That's why I love you.”

* * *

Trey Owens tried to take a sip of his beer, only to have the bottle clank against his lips. He hissed in pain and annoyance.

“Sorry, dude,” someone muttered from behind the elbow the stranger had bumped.

“Right.” Trey switched the bottle to his other hand and ran his tongue over his teeth for a quick check.
All good.
“I'm sure you are.”

But the rude weasel was already gone.

“Look at it like this,” Stephen said with a smile. “He didn't recognize you. Clearly, the disguise is working.”

“I feel like freaking Clark Kent in these stupid things.” The fake frames his friend Stephen had forced him to wear felt foreign on his nose, and the flashing lights reflecting in the lenses were about to drive him insane.

“But not one girl has squealed at you,” his friend pointed out helpfully, taking a swig of his own beer. “Nobody's running down plays, or giving you shit for interceptions, or trying to form lines for autographs. The glasses plus the dark equal a decent enough disguise to get you out of the house, you hermit.”

He had a point. In his first two years playing in the NFL, there had been little notice of him. As second string QB for the Arizona Cardinals, he hadn't warranted any attention. But his move to lead quarterback for the Santa Fe Bobcats . . . that had been a game changer, both on the field and off.

There were days—weeks, months, years—when Trey wished he'd been born to be a semi-anonymous defensive lineman. Or third-string kicker. Anything but the quarterback. There wasn't a more visible position out there, and his luck had stuck him front and center.

“Look, you were the one griping about having a zero-based social life in the past few years thanks to the mobs that attack you every time you go out. I thought it was at least worth a try. It got you out of the cave. And frankly, it's working.”

Stephen—one of the aforementioned semi-anonymous linemen, had dragged him out after lambasting him for being a “fucking monk” in recent months.

“You're right. I know.” He took another cautious sip of beer, this time making the entire way through without being bumped. “It just feels so shitty. Is this my life? Espionage and secrets just to get a normal night out?”

“Welcome to the big show.” At that, Stephen's eyes caught elsewhere, and Trey followed the line of vision.

Vision was one word for it. On a platform about three feet tall, two women danced. Both wore jeans and heels, but the blonde's shirt covered up to her neck and down to her elbows. And she looked like she would rather be tossed in a shark tank than up there on the platform. The brunette, on the other hand . . .

Damn, she was a horrible dancer. He smiled a little before taking another sip of beer. Terrible, actually. If she was dancing to any sort of rhythm, it was only the one in her head. Her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks in sweaty strands, her arms looked like they were seizing, and her head bounced around like a balloon on a stick. But she was having a fantastic time, and her enthusiasm drew him in, made her impossible to look away from.

Upon further glance, he realized they weren't the only ones dancing on raised platforms. Dotted throughout the club were small circular stages, where presumably, a promoter or someone had pulled girls up from the dance floor and put them up on stage. The other women were eating up the attention with a spoon. Slithering bodies, roaming hands, pouty duck lips—and who the hell lied to women and said duck lips were sexy?—they were putting on a show for the men.

Brunette and Blondie, on the other hand, were having fun together. Not in the flirty,
we're girls so let's dance sexily all over each other
way. But in the fun, sweat-dripping, hip-bumping, laughing full out sort of way.

The sort of way that had him stepping closer to watch . . . along with a dozen other men. But if the brunette realized the crowd she drew, she didn't show it. No eye contact but with her friend, no come- hither glances, no winks or nods at all.

Was he insane to wish she'd pick him from the crowd and focus that energy on him?

Short answer: most likely yes.

“She's hot,” Stephen said, leaning in a little to be heard.

“Yeah, she is,” he muttered, taking another swig of beer to cool himself down.

“But she looks terrified up there.”

“No she doesn't.”

Stephen stared at him a second, then back to the platform. “Ah. You've got eyes for the other. You know me. I like blondes.”

Just fine with Trey. More chance for him. As the errant thought crossed his mind, he watched as the sexy brunette in the tank top tapped her friend on the shoulder. With a silent nod to each other, they both sat down and scooted off the platform.

He was a half second too late, and several other men rushed to aide her, grabbing her elbow, her shoulder, something tangible to assist. Her friend wasn't lost for admirers either. The blonde smiled shyly, but ignored them for the most part. The brunette gave them easy grins, a thanks, then walked off without speaking to any of them.

Trey took two steps after her before he realized what he was doing. He wasn't there to score. He was there to enjoy a night out in anonymous fun.

Meeting a woman could be fun, right?

Anonymous, even. It might actually be a good test, to see if his pathetic disguise would hold up under closer scrutiny, like a one-on-one conversation.

“Where you going?” Stephen asked.

“Research,” he answered, and followed the horrible, hot dancer.

* * *

Cassie leaned over the bar and waved to the bartender. He held up a hand without looking in her direction, signaling he'd caught her in his peripheral vision. She spun and leaned her elbows on the bar and grinned. “Fucking fantastic.”

Anya looked less convinced. “That was terrifying.”

“Terrifying how fun that was! Unwad the panties, Anya.” When Anya's lips twitched, she knew she was golden. “Besides, I noticed a few guys rushing to your side when you got down.”