Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 2

  “Thank you for making us breakfast. It smells so good!”

  “Not a problem, buddy. And thank you for setting the table.”

  I scanned my nephew up and down, fighting a smile. It was pretty clear Jackson had taken it upon himself to make his own wardrobe choices today. He paired his Christmas sweater with the bottom half of his Red Power Ranger costume, and had even added a dinosaur sticker on his chest.

  I picked up his Batman lunchbox and placed it next to him before pulling up the seat across from him.

  “I didn't have time to pack you a hot lunch today, but I made you some cheddar and apple sandwiches and some fruit gummies for a snack.”

  “That's okay. I like cheddar and apple sandwiches.” Jackson shrugged, digging into his plate.

  I flipped up his hair, feeling his forehead with the back of my hand.

  “You sure you're feeling okay today?”

  “I feel great, Aunt Carrie. I don't have a fever anymore, and I want to go to school. I miss my friends. But I miss Sally the most.”

  “Wow. And what's so special about Sally?”

  “Sally shares her Oreos with me at snack time.” Jackson drank from his Batman glass, emerging with a milk mustache.

  “So, you like this Sally, girl, huh?”

  “I guess, but I like her Oreos more.”

  “Gotcha.” I nodded, grinning. When my eyes landed on the untouched plate between us, the smile waned. “Where's your mom?”

  “Mommy is in my room. I think she's still sleeping. She must be really tired.”

  Over the years, Jamie had slowly moved herself into Jackson's room, even though she had a room of her own right next to his. Apart from grabbing some clean clothes, she could go for weeks without setting foot in her own room. Jamie camped out at Jackson's regularly, sleeping on a shabby cot next to her son's bed. But with her son's chronic asthma, pitiful immune system, and his recent susceptibility to seizures, it was understandable. The lengths Jamie went to ensure her son's well-being might seem extreme to some, but at the end of the day, it was commendable.

  Still, Jamie could definitely work on routine and her social media addiction. My sister exhibited some pretty damning qualities of what older folks attributed to a stereotypical millennial. Jamie had gotten pregnant when she was only 16, dropping out of high school not long after. She spent the first 2 years of Jackson's life sneaking out of the house to go underage-partying with her loser friends and left newly legal me to run back and forth to Jackson's crib while pumping out my thesis. But when Jamie turned 18, a few months after Jackson's 2nd birthday, his health started deteriorating.

  It was the wake-up call that finally got Jamie to yank her head out of her ass. She'd been inseparable from him since, presumably wallowing in guilt for neglecting her son for the first 2 years of his life. Thing was, with no high school diploma or any certification to her name, the best she could scrounge up was a dead end job at a fast food joint, barely making minimum wage. I picked up 90% of the bills and handled all of Jackson's medical expenses.

  “She fell asleep with her phone on her face again. This morning, I took it off her and put it on the table, and I tried really, really hard to wake her up, but Mommy said she wanted to sleep some more.”

  “That's okay, Jackson. Why don't you run upstairs and brush your teeth –”

  “Oh my goodness! Jackson, honey, you look so cute!”

  We were interrupted by a small flash to our left, followed by the irritating shutter noise of Jamie's phone camera.

  “I'm not cute, Mommy. I'm 5 years old now – I'm handsome,” said Jackson matter-of-factly. He jumped off his chair, carrying his dirty plate and glass to the sink.

  “Of course you are,” Jamie patronized him. She ambushed him by the sink, aiming her phone at him once more. “Smile for the camera, honey – I've got to show everyone how adorable you look today!”

  Jackson tucked his hands behind him and flashed the camera his best smile.

  “Mommy, are you done? I have to go brush my teeth now.”

  “Yup, all done.” Jamie stooped over and kissed him on the forehead. “You can go.”

  Jamie raked a hand through her blonde highlights and flumped down on her seat. She broke the yolk with her roll and munched into her bread, her eyes still glued to her phone. I gritted my teeth, clearing my throat loudly.

  “'Sup, Carrie?” Jamie looked up at me, raising her eyebrows. “You know, if you insist on facing your mornings everyday with a frown like that, you're gonna get wrinkles –”

  “Why aren't you dressed for work?”

  “'Cause my shift isn't till 2...” Jamie leaned towards me, pointing at my face. “You know you've got mascara booger all over your eyelids –”

  “I know!”

  “Jeez. Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed –”

  “Yeah, no, I nearly didn't wake up at all. I missed my alarm, and so did you. And guess what, you forgot Jackson's lunch – again.” I snuck another dreaded look at the clock. “Great. And now I've got 20 minutes to get Jackson to school and myself to work before my ass gets fired. You know Wattana's looking for any reason to –”

  “Well, I'm sorry for being such a bad mother, but I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.” Jamie rocked back on her chair and folded her arms over her chest.

  I did all I could to keep myself from rolling my eyes – I didn't have time for another one of Jamie's well-meaning, but sorely misguided “as a mother” speeches.

  “I'll have you know I worked like a slave this week – 3 8-hour shifts back-to-back. I was up all night getting Jackson's fever down and I forgot his lunch for once –”

  “Okay, first of all, I'm not even going to get started on how ignorant you sound right now –”

  “You don't even know how hard it is for a single working mother out there, especially one working for such criminal wages,” Jamie scoffed. “It must be so easy for you to talk down to me when you sit around in a fully air-conditioned office all day in front of a computer. I've actually had to stand on my feet multiple hours a day for 3 years now, working that register, just a slave to the corporation with no chance of a promotion –”

  “I wonder why that is!” My voice was dripping with sarcasm. “You show up late to work, you get called out for being on your phone all day, and you're settling! If you'd just listened to me for once in your life and just get your GED and your ass to community college –”

  “Mommy? Aunt Carrie? Why are you yelling?”

  Jamie and I jerked our heads towards the doorway. Jackson blinked at us, fingering the straps of his backpack worriedly. I rose from my chair and dumped the rest of my half-eaten plate down the trash, tossing my plate into the sink.

  “Don't worry about it, Jackson. Kiss your mom goodbye, and let's roll.”

  XXX

  I clutched my purse to my side and sidled past the open door of the Editor-in-Chief's office.

  “You're late, Toussaint.”

  My purple peep-toes screeched to a halt. I turned towards Wattana's open door with a sheepish smile. Her burgundy lips were pursed in a straight line as she leafed through her papers. As always, she was scowling like someone had just let one rip in the room.

  “Sorry, Tamara –”

  “Mrs. Wattana.”

  “Sorry, I mean, Mrs. Wattana.” I shrank back, biting my tongue. “It won't happen again.”

  “You better hope it doesn't –”

  “Hey, Tamara!” Evelyn, the insufferably bubbly intern, cropped up behind me. She wormed past me with a tray of food and set it on Wattana's table. “Buttermilk scones, sage honey, fruit parfait, and an Orange Julius. I toasted the scones, too, just the way you like them.”

  “Pft.” I snorted under my breath and pulled a face at the back of Evelyn's ponytail.

  “You're a godsend, Evelyn.” Wattana beamed, her face so radiant it could attract little forest critters. But when Wattana looked back at me, the l
ook was gone as quick as it came. “As for you, Toussaint, I –”

  Wattana's words were cut off by her ringing phone. I sighed in relief at the perfect timing. Wattana stopped, rolling her shoulders before picking up the call. She threw one last poisonous look in my direction and shooed me away.

  I hung my head and trotted down the hallway, making my way to the writers' offices. As I dragged my feet past a chorus of clicking keyboards and the jovial chatter of my colleagues, I felt like a solitary cloud of doom and gloom pissing on everyone's parade. And as soon as I stepped through to the writers' offices, the look on my face only soured more.

  Beyond the long cluttered tables of the shared workspace was the “corner office” Wattana so graciously bestowed on me 7 months ago. The office was a tiny desk 15 feet away from the dozens of aligned desktops, sitting right under the slope of a public staircase. Wattana had even furnished the office with a lamp and a derisive plastic ficus.

  I ducked my head under the slope and dusted off the flecks of white paint all over my desk and floor. The heavy feet plodding up and down the stairs all throughout the day added crumbling paint and plaster to my cup of tea. Believe it or not, this was a step up. Last month, it got so bad I had to start wearing a helmet, just in case.

  “I know that face.” Sloane, the style editor, placed a mug of black coffee on my desk and slid it towards me. “Here you go – you look like you need this. Wattana still giving you a hard time, huh?”

  “Well, she's –” I groaned, my nostrils flaring as a pair of feet pounded up the stairs above me. “Holy shit, this must be what a gopher feels like. I don't get it. I never miss a deadline. I work overtime. I always do more than what's asked of me –”

  “Yeah, but Wattana did walk into her man trying to feel you up at the office Christmas party,” Sloane pointed out lightly.

  Sloane was right. For my first 3 years at The Daily Dirt, I was soaring high in Wattana's good graces. I started out as an intern, then to a junior writer, sucking it up and spawning click-bait articles on celebrity gossip and nonsense fodder. Wattana used to bring me up to the front of the room in staff meetings, praising me for the 30% traffic increase while jealous colleagues threw daggers at me with their eyes. Then, about a year ago, I worked up the courage to ask Wattana if I could start covering politics and actual current events, where my heart truly belonged.

  Wattana initially agreed, but quickly retracted that offer when she found her husband cornering me in the copy room with his hand up my dress. The week after that, Wattana assigned the upcoming presidential election to Lisa Wiener and tasked me with the full coverage of some second-rate reality star's 4th wedding. Since then, my growth in the company has been less than promising. I'd been a Senior Staff Writer for 2 years now, with promotions whizzing over my head one after the other. If this wasn't such a stable paycheck that was keeping our heads above the water, I would've flipped this place off and skedaddled ages ago.

  “And I never asked for any of that. The guy's a slime bag. I tried over and over again to explain what really happened, but Wattana just wasn't having it.”

  “What can ya do, people hear what they wanna hear.” Sloane sighed, turning away from my desk. “Alright, I gotta get back to work.”

  “Me too. Thanks for the co –”

  “Toussaint? Touissant!”

  I jolted off my chair, promptly smacking the back of my head against the overhead staircase.

  “Dammit!” I grumbled, massaging my throbbing scalp. “What does she want now?”

  “I don't know, but I'd pick up the pace if I were you.”

  I jogged out of the office and back down the hallway towards Wattana's office. She slammed down her phone and flicked her bangs out of her eyes. I shut the door behind me, my heart laden with anxiety.

  “Sit.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Wattana.” I took the seat across from her, gripping my knees for support. “I'm sorry, but my sister and I overslept, and I had to take my nephew to school –”

  “Quiet. I have a new project for you.”

  “Oh.” My eyes lit up. “Is it the piece on Congressman Coleman's fraudulent charity? I heard Lisa's vacationing in Bali –”

  “Not quite. And don't you worry, Wayne's taking care of that.” Wattana leaned back in her chair and crossed her leg over the other. “I just got off the phone with Abigail Schwartz, a publicist for the Detroit Daggers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The team's been struggling with some bad press lately, so they're looking for a couple of feel-good articles to sway their publicity in a different direction. You'll be granted access to follow the team around for 2 months.”

  My shoulders sank along with my heart. The hateful glimmer in Wattana's eye was undeniable. This was the ultimate fluff piece – she knew it, and she knew that I knew it, too.

  “Thanks for thinking of me, Mrs. Wattana, but I know absolutely nothing about football –”

  “Even better. Let this be a learning experience for you.” Wattana's lips curled in a smug smile. “I'll need an 800-word article every 3 days to promote the different players, and an in-depth final piece on the team at the end of the job.”

  “I – I don't know –”

  “I see. Well, I was about to say that I was going to consider taking a look at the email proposals you've been sending me if you complete the job, but if you're not interested –”

  “I'll do it,” I blurted, nodding determinedly.

  “Excellent. Now, if you just happen to unearth some dirty laundry, don't be afraid to air it out. This is 'journalism' after all. You know what our readers want from you. And do whatever you can to get close to Kingsley Kelly – he's the star. I'm sure you'll have no problems reeling him in with your charm.”

  Wattana spat out the last word bitterly, steepling her fingers.

  “Yup. I will. I've got this, Mrs. Wattana.” I was exuding with false confidence. “You won't be disappointed.”

  “I'll have Evelyn forward you the details. You start tomorrow. Now get out of my office.”

  Chapter Three: Kingsley

  Sloppy sucking noises echoed down the length of the empty communal shower. I rested my back against the icy wall tiles, my chest heaving as I savored the hot lips wrapped around my cock. My hip jutted forward and back, nudging the back of her throat with my angry red tip.

  When my eyes peeled back, I was met with a pair of intense dark eyes and long dusky lashes. Farrah's sweet, elfish face was a sweaty mess. I cupped her chin in my palm to steady myself, observing as the shape of my dick poked the slick insides of her cheek. Her eyes were welling up as she retched softly on my cock, staring up at me for desperate approval.

  Farrah eased her mouth off my cock. Still cradling my balls with one hand, she reached over to the dispenser and pumped some soap into her palm. I took over for the meantime, jerking myself off as I watched her.

  Farrah dropped my sack and whipped her kinky red hair away from her face. She clasped her hands together and began glossing her swaying tits with the liquid soap. I clicked my tongue appreciatively, close to salivating at the suds trembling off her pure, almost black skin.

  “Do you like what you see, my King?” Farrah purred. She lowered her eyes and circled the dark areolas of her thick baby-bottle nipples.

  “The King likes what he sees...” I flicked my chin downward, motioning to my cock. “But you know the royal dick don't like to wait... What you gonna do about it?”

  “Of course. You know I'd do anything for the King...”

  Farrah giggled and lifted her slippery tits. She straightened herself on her knees and leaned forward, sandwiching my dick in her sticky, sudsy cleavage. The back of my head knocked back against the wall tiles. My toes curled in and out as she suffocated my cock with the fucking spectacular jiggle of her natural double Es.

  “Down on your back. Hold those tits together.”

  I pinned her down and climbed on top of her. Farrah caught
her tits and pushed them together, craning her neck off the ground to watch. I wedged my cock between her jugs and started ramming in it and out of her cleavage. She bobbed her head forward and stuck out her tongue, brushing it across the slimy head each time my dick pummeled her chin.

  “Fuck, I'm gonna blow –”

  “Give it to me good, my King,” Farrah taunted me, waggling her tongue. “I want your hot, sticky load all over my –”

  I hunched over and slammed my hands on the ground next to her. A hearty load squirted out of my cock, hitting her between her eyebrows and her left cheek. As I got off her, catching my breath, Farrah sat up from the floor. She fluffed the back of her hair and stuck out her tongue, dragging it across the cum slowly oozing down her face.

  “Mmm.” Farrah sighed dreamily. She started blending my splooge into her face. “They say a man's cum does wonders for your skin. I can only imagine what Kingsley Kelly's godly specimen could do for me.”

  I took a step back from her and sucked my teeth. My horniness often impaired my judgment. It made me colorblind to flagrant red flags and deaf to all alarm bells. Now that my dick was empty, the waves of regret came crashing in at full speed.

  “I could be wrong here, but I'm pretty sure that's how you get pink-eye.”

  All Farrah did was gaze up at me, just sitting there wearing a mask of my jizz.

  “Yeah, okay, uh, why don't you get yourself washed up, and I'll go get us some towels.”

  “Okay. Don't be long, now!”

  I shuffled away from her and headed towards the lockers.

  “Yo, King! What it do.”

  My main man, Odell Kahale, burst through the swinging door with his gear bag strapped over his chest. He looked like he'd just gotten back from the gym. His dreadlocks were tied back and his tank was dashed with sweat marks. I reached for his hand and pulled him in for a chest bump.

  “What you doing here so early?”

  Before I could answer, the hissing sounds of running water drifted in from the shower.