Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (6 page)

Chapter Five

Maddox

The next morning…

“Mr.
Walcott, this is your wakeup call,”
a chipper female voice chirps into my ear
when I manage to find the hotel phone in my pitch black room. “It’s 6 a.m.”

“Fuck,”
I mutter, rolling onto my
back, “You kiddin’
me?”

“Um…Nope.
I’m afraid not,”
the
woman laughs nervously, “Up and at ‘em!”

“Don’t
‘up and at ‘em’
me,
Little Miss Sunshine,”
I
bark, regretting the last round of tequila shots I bought for my blackjack
table at the casino last night. I fucking love tequila, but it doesn’t always
love me back, fickle bitch that it is.

I’m
pretty sure I hear the woman on the phone swallow a sob before she hangs up.
Why are people always bloody weeping around me? I’m not
that
fucking
scary, for Christ’s sake. Not unless you’ve messed with one of my brothers at
The Firm, or owe me a spot of cash, or have looked at Rosie funny even one
time…

Thanks
to a lousy case of jet lag, I barely got to sleep last night. I had to hang
around downstairs at the casino instead to try and tucker myself out. I’d say
that strategy backfired, but hey—nothing to do but own it. It’s not like I need
to be in the prime of my life to keep up with the Yanks at practice. I lumber
around the dark suite, still more or less asleep as I slip into my cold-weather
running gear. I need to go sweat out some of this booze before I head to
practice, or I’ll never hear the bloody end of it. A nice run along the
boardwalk should do the trick just fine.

My
hotel is part of the Tangier Casino, located smack in the middle of the action
in Atlantic City. It’s one of the casinos that’s still doing pretty well in
this town, which god knows isn’t a given these days. The tanking economy in
this place is why The Empire have come to be in the first place. Turns out,
Dale Tucker used to be a casino man himself, but ran out of luck after
Hurricane Sandy wrecked his main joint. Instead of shelling out to repair his
casino, he decided to round up some investors and turn his prime Atlantic City
lot into a football stadium instead. Talk about high stakes gambling.

Stepping
out of the Tangier’s front doors, I break into a light jog as I head for the
beach, marveling at how quiet the place is at this hour of the morning. I guess
that most of the hardcore revelers have finally turned in by now, though even
they’re small in number since it’s winter and all. In the daylight hours, the
only people shuffling around the casinos are sad old senior citizens, parking
their walkers next to the slots and staying there all day. Fucking depressing.
No wonder Tucker wanted out of the casino game.

But
for right now, it’s just me, the sky, and the sea. Some days, I think that’s
all I really need…
Though
a new sports car every once in a while is pretty nice too.

Chapter Six

Poppy

It’s
surprisingly mild as I step out onto the deck of my borrowed seaside bungalow.
This particular stretch of the Atlantic City boardwalk is pretty residential, and
so quiet this time of year that I can enjoy a cup of coffee on the porch
without being hit on by a bunch of drunken frat boys. I make it a rule to get
hit on by as few bros in my life as possible, thanks. It must be at least 50
degrees, I decide as I sip my morning cup of joe—unheard of for February in New
Jersey.

Still,
I’m not complaining. I even ventured to bring my yoga mat out here with me this
morning. I could use a nice, good stretch before beginning my day in earnest.
Today will be my first on the job with The Empire. I need to be ready for
anything that comes my way. Taking one last big sip of coffee, I set down my
mug and step onto my yoga mat, bringing my hands together over my heart.

Yoga
was a wonderful discovery for me after my soccer injury. Unable to run for
extended periods, I found solace in being able to get in touch with my body in
this new way. Actually, I find that I’m more in touch and in control of myself
than ever, thanks in part to my yoga practice. It also probably has something
to do with finally admitting that I was living a lie, staying hitched to my
emotionally manipulative ex while secretly hating everything about my life. I
try and be as honest with myself as possible these days, about what I need,
what I want, what I think. I’ve worked so hard to listen to myself, it would be
a shame to lose touch now.

I
breathe in deeply and start moving through my sun salutations, though the sun
has yet to crest over the billowing clouds rolling over the horizon. I let my thoughts
and worries drift away as they come up—this is as important a part of yoga as
the asanas, or poses, themselves. I breathe out my parents’
continued disappointment
in me. I breathe out the sexist nonsense my new boss keeps hurling my way. I
breathe out my jitters about sharing space with Maddox Walcott once again.
Soon, I’m feeling so energized about the day ahead that I stand up from my mat,
step down off the front porch, and make my way across the boardwalk, toward the
sea.

I
wrap my hands around the boardwalk railing, watching the waves roll in off the
ocean. The sky is lightening with every passing moment, and in this moment it
feels like anything is possible. An honest-to-god smile breaks across my face,
and I lift my arms up to the sky, closing my eyes as I let the salty air
cascade over me.

“You
waitin’
for
someone to round out your Titanic fantasy?”
someone calls to me from down the
boardwalk, “Cause I sure wouldn’t mind getting behind you.”

My
arms turn to lead as I drop them to my sides, feeling my entire body going
stock still. That voice is still seared into my memory—I’d know it anywhere.
Should I ignore him, or confront him? I knew we’d have to come face-to-face
sooner or later, but I was hoping it would be in a professional setting, surrounded
by other people. Buffers. But now, it’s just the two of us, out on the
boardwalk at the break of day. Alone. I’ve only been alone with this man once
before, and we know how that worked out.

At least check to make sure it’s actually him before
you freak out,
I urge myself.

Inch
by inch, I pivot toward the rich, gravelly voice. Tendrils of fog snake across
the boardwalk, yet to be burned off by the sun. All along the shoreline, sleepy
beach houses and hotels have yet to stir for the day. But the broad, balanced
form emerging from the fog, advancing toward me with utter confidence, is awake
and raring to go. And even though I knew it was Maddox from the second I heard
him speak, the sight of him still hits me like a punch to the gut. He was a
handsome young man when I last saw him in the flesh, but since then he has
hardened. Evolved. In his late 20’s, there’s nothing pretty about Maddox
Walcott, now. Just pure, distilled masculinity.

He
grins as I turn toward him, his face flushed with the exertion of his run. He’s
clad in some high quality winter gear, though it’s barely necessary on a balmy
morning like this. When you’re that hot to begin with, overheating must be a
real risk, huh? I’m keenly aware of my own attire—some skin-tight yoga pants
and a loose cotton tank. It doesn’t escape me that I was wearing almost exactly
the same thing the last time we had a…um. Heart to heart. But as Maddox comes
closer, his smile remains neutral. Unsurprised. Wait a second…
does he seriously not
even recognize me? My nerves give way to mounting indignation. I know it was a
long time ago, but come
on
, buddy. 

“Fancy
meeting you here, Walcott,”
I
call to him, leaning against the boardwalk railing.

The
sound of my voice wafts down the boardwalk and reaches his ears. By the time he
registers my words, he’s barely ten feet away from me. Maddox stops dead in his
tracks, his face finally transforming with the surprise of recognizing my
voice. His full lips part slightly as he trains his gray eyes on my face, then
my body. All at once, it hits him full on.

“Abrams?!”
he exclaims, completely
astounded.

“Hey,
Mad,”
I
reply, charmed by his exuberant surprise, despite myself.

“Holy
fucking shit,”
he
crows, striding forward to close the space between us, “Am I dreamin’
right now? Is it
seriously you?”

“It
seriously is,”
I
confirm, very aware of the fact that barely a foot of space separates us now.
He’s almost too gorgeous to look at, full on. His transfixing eyes, the sheer
enormity of his body, the staggering presence and confidence he exudes. It’s
like I’ve got a contact high or something, and I haven’t even touched him yet.

Yet?!
I implore myself,
What
do you meant yet?!

“What
the hell are you even doing out here?”
Maddox goes on, shamelessly raking his
eyes along my body, “You look fucking amazing, but the way. Sexy as ever.”

“Uh.
Thanks, Maddox,”
I
say, trying my best not I stammer. “I’m actually living here now. Moved down
from New York City for the job.”

“No
shit. I moved here for a job too,”
he laughs, casually letting his hand brush
my shoulder blade and he leans against the railing beside me. I have to swallow
hard to keep from sighing with delight.

“Yeah…
I know you did,”
I tell him, inching away
just slightly to preserve my sanity. “I follow the news, you know.”

“Ah.
You’ve been tracking me then, have you?”
he grins rakishly, his gray eyes flaring.

“You’ve
been all over the news, lately,”
I remind him, annoyed by his presumption,
“It’s not like I have a Maddox Walcott Google Alert set up on my phone.”

“I
wouldn’t judge you if you did,”
he
laughs, shifting to close the space I just put between us, “I’m pretty hard to
forget.”

“Just
pretty good at forgetting, though,”
I shoot back, before I can stop myself.
Dammit. I didn’t want to get into any personal shit with him. Ever.

“What’re
you talkin’
about?”
he snaps, straightening
his back.

“Nothing.
Just forget I—”

“Are
you pissed at me or something?”
he
laughs, “For what, not sending you a box of chocolates after we—”

“A
text would have done the trick,”
I reply coolly.

“I
don’t remember receiving any texts from you either, sweetheart,”
he remarks, “It’s a
two-way street, isn’t it?”

I
glare up at Maddox Walcott in the gathering daylight. I guess he’s technically
right. I never did reach out to him either after our tryst in the exam room all
those years ago. But he was off becoming an international soccer star. What was
I supposed to do, see if we wanted to meet at Starbucks sometime? Our lives
went in completely different directions. He skyrocketed into fame, fortune, and
lifetime of fantastic sex, and I got married for all the wrong reasons and have
basically written off relationships ever since. Getting in touch just seemed
pointless.

And
yet here we are again. Just two people, standing on a boardwalk. With no one
else around. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say I recognized that glint in
his eye.

“Hey,
no hard feelings on my end,”
Maddox
says, his voice low and smooth. “I’m just happy as hell to see you again. I
mean it, Poppy. You look unbelievably incredible.”

“Why
unbelievably?”
I
ask, feeling my voice go raspy around the edges. Goddammit, why am I even
engaging with him? Why can’t I help but respond to every little move he makes,
every word, every touch?

“Oh,
you know,”
he
goes on, letting his eyes trail down my petite body once more as he subtly
shifts to standing before me, “Life can take its toll on a person.”

“On
a body, you mean?”
I
challenge him, feeling my pulse pick up as he stands mere inches away from me.
Even after all this time, being close to him feels familiar. It’s like it was
just yesterday that we were nineteen and twenty-six, going at it on that exam
table in the dead of night. A low, pounding pressure pulses in my core, and I
press my back firmly against the railing to steady myself.

“I
suppose I am talking about bodies, yeah,”
Maddox goes on, his voice getting closer
to a growl with every syllable. Though we’re out here in the open, he’s looking
at me with eyes that belong behind closed doors. “And yours in particular.”

“Well.
You’ve held up pretty well yourself,”
I manage to whisper. My rational mind
starts to come loose at the edges, like a tarp ripped away by a fierce wind.
Only now, it’s Maddox Walcott’s fierce, fiery gaze that threatens to tear away
my sense completely.

“So.
Poppy…”
he
murmurs, running a daring hand down my bare arm. “Are you staying down here
with your husband?”

“No,
I’m not,”
I
breathe, my eyes locked onto his.

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Filthy
pack of bastard children?”

“No,
you asshole,”
I
laugh, giving him a playful shove. I feel my breath stick in my throat as he
catches my hands against his firm chest. My fingers rest against those hard
panes, rising and falling with his every breath. Maddox wraps his fingers
gently but decisively around my wrists, looking down at me with a hunger I know
all too well.

“So
you’re saying there’s no one in that beach shack over there that would be
opposed to me taking you inside and fucking you the second the door slammed
behind us?”

I
have to clench my teeth together with all my might to keep my mouth from falling
wide open. The world beyond Maddox’s gorgeous face goes fuzzy as I try and
process what he’s just said. Who proposes an impromptu fuck after eight years
of silence? And why am I so tempted to just give in and go for it? What the
hell am I supposed to do now? Maddox guides my hands to his waist as I struggle
to find words, placing his own hands firmly on my hips before sliding them down
over the smooth rise of my ass…

“Fucking
hell!”
he
grunts, as I elbow him swiftly in the stomach, “What was that for?”

“We
can’t do this,”
I
tell him, shoving my hands through my hair. “We absolutely cannot, do you hear
me?”

“You
could just say that, instead of trying to break a rib,”
he says angrily, “In case
you haven’t heard, I have to train for an entire MLS season in less than a
month.”

“As
a matter of fact, I
have
heard,”
I shoot back at him, “Do you want to
venture a guess as to why?”

“You
follow the team…?”
he
shrugs, looking at me like I’m a crazy person.

“I
work
for the team,”
I
say through gritted teeth, my hands balled into angry fists. Leave it to Maddox
to not even know who’s on his coaching staff.

He
stares at me blankly for a long moment, trying and failing to process this
information.

“So
you’re like…what…in marketing or something?”
he guesses.

“Sonofabitch,”
I mutter, turning away
from him for a second to take a breath. He doesn’t even remember that I was
getting my PT doctorate when we last met?

“What,
not marketing then?”
he
goes on, “Social media or whatever the—”

“I’m
your trainer,”
I
snap, whirling back around to face him, “You know, just like I was when you
fucked me last. I’m the Empire’s Assistant Athletic Trainer, you prick.”

That
one takes him quite a bit longer to wrap his head around. I can watch the cogs whirring
in his brain—he’s a damn good striker, but doesn’t have much in the way of book
smarts, if I remember correctly. Finally, he holds his hands up to me, as if
keeping any more jarring information at bay.