Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (32 page)

Joseph started out his career doing exactly what I do. As a fixer. A man that other men hire to make their problems go away by any means necessary. He worked in the mailroom of a law firm where a then young and upcoming lawyer named Jack Mills hired him to make a paternity suit go away for one of his clients. No experience required. Jack thought he saw something in Joseph's eyes that told him that the problem would be handled. And it was. Joseph never talks about the details of how he handled that case, but rumor has it that he beat the crap out of the woman's younger brother until she agreed to recant her statement and drop the paternity case for a ridiculously low settlement. Something disrespectful like a settlement for a thousand dollars. It was the best beating Joseph ever gave in my opinion. It changed his life and mine in the best way possible. Sometimes I think he forgets that.

With the increased popularity of the Internet, cell phone use, and social media, it was easier than ever for the public to find out all about the trouble celebrities were getting into. This was great for Joseph's new consultant business, because he was gaining the reputation of being one of the best in the business. When it became glaringly obvious during my high school years that I inherited Joseph's natural tendency to fuck somebody up with little remorse, I then became his protégé. His heir apparent. Or more accurately put, his muscle. I do the shit that he no longer wants to do. The dirty stuff. The rough shit. But the reason why Joseph is still one of the most highly sought after fixers on the East Coast is because of his ability to handle problems swiftly, quietly and without loose ends. The Carl incident almost fucked up his pristine reputation, and Joseph never forgets mistakes, especially when he's not the one making the mistake.

Carl was a two-bit dealer who was selling weed to a very popular teenaged Disney star, who he later decided to blackmail when the kid started using another dealer. I didn't understand why he was resorting to blackmail over one lost customer, but it wasn't my job to understand why idiots do what they do. It was my job to get him to see reason very damn quickly. Joseph's kind of reason. Unfortunately just when I thought Carl and I were coming to an understanding, he spat in my face. Something I don't take kindly to. So I pummeled him ... again. And just when I thought to myself for a split second that it wasn't my fight, that I should walk away and have Joseph find somebody else to deal with him, he managed to muster up the strength and the balls to tell me to "Go fuck yourself, you piece of trash."

And that was it.
 

Something snapped inside of my brain. Something old and festered, that I preferred to keep locked away deep inside of me, rose up front and center. And that's when I kicked Carl's ass one last and final time, until I made sure that he couldn't say one more fucking thing out of his swollen, bloody mouth.

During that final beating, my heart was racing as my fists hit the side of his skull, my breathing was heavy as I cracked and kicked in the sides of his ribs, and my nostrils were flaring like a wild animal's as I paced and circled around his limp body waiting for him to make a move. I felt alive and powerful as if it was an out of body experience. There was a definite high I felt when I was in the middle of a fight, but this was different. He'd called me trash, and like I said something snapped. I wasn't trying to fight him; I was trying to finish him.

Yet when I was done, and my breathing slowed, and I took a really long look at the man lying stock still in a pool of his own blood, I didn't feel justified or powerful or alive anymore. I was scared. Scared that I had killed the little fucker, and that I had enough blind rage inside of me to actually have done something like that. It hadn't been a fair fight. It hadn't been a fight at all. So I just felt like shit. Dirty. Like there was a layer of grime that no matter how much I wanted to, I just couldn't seem to get rid of. Like there was something really wrong with me that everyone could see. That my father could probably see.

Joseph fined me for my Carl fuck up. Three thousand dollars, which was a hell of lot of money for me back then. He said I needed to cover the costs of all the people he needed to pay off to make sure this stayed out of the news and off any do-gooder police detective's radar. He explained that normally it would have been five thousand dollars, but that I'd need the extra two grand to move out of his house in the next seven days.
 

Joseph also lectured me. Every day for three days. He wanted to make it very much clear that this was a business he built from the ground up, and that he wasn't going to let his "off-the-rails bastard son ruin everything that he'd worked so hard for." He emphasized that control was the key ingredient to his success, and that I needed to stay focused and show no signs of weakness ever again. He told me that he never wanted the ugliness of what we were sometimes forced to do in our work to ever show up on his doorstep. To dirty his clean life. His clean life with Juliette. And because I couldn't totally be trusted to keep those things separate and apart, I'd need to live somewhere else.

***

I HEAR THE SWEETEST LAUGH that I've ever heard.

The laughter of an angel.

It's floating above the murmur of all the voices in the room, distracting me from my father's disapproval, and I know instantaneously that it's her. I also know that if it's a man making her laugh like that, that I'm going to politely drag his ass out of Joseph's party and kick his ass until he begs for his mommy.

My father was right.

I sure as hell can't be trusted.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ELIZABETH

THE MADISON ROOM IN THE Albright Bar & Steakhouse has a very small makeshift dance floor, which is kind of weird, because it's such an upscale place. One would think that they could do better. In fact the dance area looks like it consists of only about fifteen linoleum tiles, definitely not up to the standards of the rest of the restaurant, but it's clear that my family is going to do their damnedest to make it a party. I must admit, I kind of like them for that. Everyone in here is practically rich, but they're still a lot of fun. Not stiff like most of the people I know back home, who are barely making their mortgages but act a hell of a lot snootier.
 

Juliette must have weaved some of her party magic and convinced the restaurant to pipe in one of her special iPod playlists through the room's speaker system. I'm pretty sure it's the same playlist she was exercising to earlier. It's full of old radio hits. Most I recognize thanks to my mom, but a few I don't.

I'm laughing heartily at a thin woman with a silver gray bob and a tasteful blue floral dress on named Aunt Joan who is telling me a funny story about each person that gets up to dance. Aunt Joan must be tipsy, because she is sipping on something called an Old Fashion and telling the same stories twice, but they're funny nonetheless.

Then I feel the prickle again.
 

I rub the back of my neck gently with my fingertips.

It can't be. It can't frackin' be.

"Hello again Duchess."

I raise my head and meet a set of coal black eyes that are pinning me to my seat.
 

"Hi," is all I manage to squeak out.

He continues to stand there, gazing at my mouth, while Aunt Joan looks between the two of us like she's watching a tennis match. Heat is emanating off the back of my neck, and I'm breaking into a slight sweat. You'd have to be an idiot not to notice how he is affecting me, and Aunt Joan seems like she's far from being anyone's idiot.
 

Did he follow me or did he actually come looking for me? I know that I should be frightened by his stalkerish tendencies, but instead I'm gushing wet because of it.

"Let's dance." He says in a thick voice.
 

It's not a question or a request but more like this is what we're going to do now. I can't refuse. My body won't allow it.

"All right."

There's a weird mid-tempo song playing which makes me wonder how we're going to dance with each other. It's not slow enough for a slow dance, and it's not fast enough to dance apart normally. The decision is taken out of my hands when he gently pulls me into his arms and starts to gently rock back and forth to the beat of the song. One of his massive legs slides in between my two quivering ones, and his moves are smooth and strong enough that he rocks my body along with his which only encourages other much more x-rated thoughts to pop into my head. Especially when I feel something rock solid poking me in my abdomen.

"What are you thinking about right this second?" He lowers his head to whisper in my ear.
 

Your intoxicating smell.
 

How hard you are.
 

"Popcorn." I blurt out. Really Elizabeth?
 

"Popcorn?"

"It's my favorite snack." I'm a bumbling embarrassment to every woman on the planet right now.

"You're hungry right now?" He asks incredulously.

I giggle. "A little."

"No one fed you in here?" He chuckles when he asks me that.

"I missed most of dinner when I was having a glass of merlot with a certain stranger earlier."

"Then I owe you dinner." He grins. "When do you want to collect?"

I can't help but blush from his forwardness, especially when he pulls me closer to him. I smell whiskey, chocolate and an additional scent that is completely unique to him. He could bottle that shit up and sell it.
 

Stay focused Elizabeth.

"I don't have dinner with strangers."
 

I say no to dinner, because let's be realistic here. What on earth does he want with me? And what on earth would I do with him? I'm a basket case. A mess.
 

And he's, not.

"You think we're still strangers? Ok, let's fix that problem right now. Tell me five things about yourself." He points his finger at me and orders. "Go."

"Five things? That's not going to really change things."

"It'll change everything." He says resolutely.
 

Everything he says is frackin' sexy.
 

Both of his hands slip lower to the base of my spine. He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of my jeans and lets his hands loosely lay on the top of my ass as we continue to rock to the song that's playing.
 

Everything he does is frackin' sexy.

"I love popcorn–" I say breathlessly forgetting that I've already mentioned that.

"I already know that. Five other things." He urges.

I start rattling off stats like a complete moron.
 

"My favorite color is yellow. I love dogs, not cats. I graduated in the top ten percent of my high school class. I'm an only child, and I don't really know anyone here tonight."

"You crashed the party?" He smirks with approval.

"I didn't say that exactly–"

"Where are you from?" He interrupts.

"Uh-uh. I gave you my five things. It's your turn."
 

I'm not sure where that burst of confidence came from, but it's probably the most Bitsy like thing I've said in his presence since we've met. Finally! I was a leader in high school, a force to be reckoned with in college, and now I'm a budding entrepreneur. I'm not some mealy-mouthed virgin who melts at the sight of every badass who crosses my path.

I think I hear him growl in protest at the base of his throat. I'm not so sure that he likes how I threw things back into his court, but I'm not going to budge. I'll just quietly keep dancing with him until he answers me.

"All right. My favorite color is blue. I own an Alaskan Malamute named Mr. Tibbs. I hated high school, and I'm an only child too."

"That's only four." I point out.

He doesn't reply but instead starts to rub a few strands of my curly ponytail between his fingers, and I attempt to hide the smile that's widening across my face against his chest. Ok, maybe I am acting like a mealy-mouthed virgin.
 

"Mr. Tibbs?" I ask to break the trance that his stroking of my hair is placing me in.

"He has crystal blue eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea and he's mean as shit. You'll see when you meet him."

When I meet him? I smile very brightly to myself because I like the words, even though I know he only wants to get in between my legs. He made that quite clear earlier.
 

Our song ends, but another mid-tempo song I've heard on the radio about ten years ago begins.

"Old people and their music," he snickers. "I hate this crap."

"We can sit down if you want," I offer.
 

Maybe he's sick of dancing with me, but he keeps his grip firmly around my center, while we keep rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the song. I'm beginning to really like how I feel inside his embrace. His one leg wedged in between my two. My head tucked underneath his chin. How close I am to all his hard edges.

"I'd really like for us not to be strangers." He says in a gravelly voice that I could very well become addicted to. "Did my five things work?"

"Four things–" I correct him. "And no they didn't work. I've met you twice, you've told me four random things about yourself, but you forgot the most important."

"What's that?"

"Your name. Remember I don't eat with strangers or talk to strangers." I grin.

"Well what will you do with strangers?" He asks with a glint in his hard, obsidian eyes.

"Nothing." I say as if it's the hardest thing I've ever admitted to in my life.

"I'd like to change your mind about that Elizabeth."

"I don't think so." But I want him so badly, that my mouth is practically salivating.

I start to notice several pairs of eyes on us as we dance, but don't think much of it, because the stranger's lips are directly above my ear now causing me to block out any further distractions.

"This stranger is seriously considering bending you over one of these round tables in front of all the rest of these people, and giving you the privilege of calling me whatever name you choose, while I make you come hard with my fingers, then my tongue, then my cock."