Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance Page 9

  “What is up with you? I've been standing here for the last 5 minutes, just watching you stare at your screen.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry about that, I –”

  “Don't care,” said Su Ling breezily, flipping her hair over shoulder as she sashayed back towards her cubicle. “Hernandez wants to see you. And I'm off to lunch. Toodles.”

  I got up from my chair and headed for Hernandez's office, flattening the creases on my ruffle button-down and skirt along the way. From the other end of the door, I could hear the clanking of silverware and the indistinct voices of the commentators of a sports game. Taking a deep breath, I knocked and poked my head through the door.

  “Mr. Hernandez? You wanted to –”

  “Sit down,” Mr. Hernandez barked, wiping his mouth on his napkin bib.

  I closed the door quietly behind me and pulled up the seat across from him.

  “What's this about, Mr. Her –”

  “Bosworth tells me Ms. Goldberg's mysteriously come down with a case of cold feet.” His voice was no longer raised, but the frost in his voice was all the more ominous. “Do you want to tell me why that is?”

  “Huh. Not a clue.” I leaned back in my seat, poking my lip with my finger. “I'm just taking a shot in the dark here, but maybe she wised up, started doing a little more research on the companies instead of just taking Bosworth's word for it –”

  “Enough.” The spot of mushroom sauce he'd missed on his twitching mustache was all I could look at. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “I never said –”

  “Because I've got news for you, sweetheart.” Mr. Hernandez leaned closer towards me, panting. The whiffs of garlic was making my eyes water. “Your holier-than-thou attitude is exactly the kind of thing that's going to sink you in this business. You wanna be a hero? Fine, be my guest, but mark my words – I will not let you take this company down with you.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about, sir,” I maintained my story, gazing at him innocently.

  “I wouldn't be so smug if I were you. If your old man wasn't a golf buddy of mine, I'd fire your sweet little ass right on the spot. But if I hear another complaint about you again, even Daddy won't be able to help you. Now, get the hell out of my office.”

  XXX

  “Hi, can I get a chicken Caesar's salad to go, please?”

  “Certainly. That'll be 13.99.”

  I handed my card to the girl at the cash register and reached into my purse for my buzzing phone.

  “Damn it.”

  Xavier's name flashed on the screen. Gritting my teeth, I swiped left and rejected the call. My jaw only clenched tighter as the screen lit up once more. 5 new message notifications had come in since I'd cleared my inbox this morning.

  Against my better judgment, I tapped on the first message.

  “Baby can we please just talk? We can't just end things like this. You were the one who always said there's nothing we can't work out if we just talked. You're being selfish and immature –”

  I tapped on my screen furiously, deleting all the messages. I was gripping my phone so tightly, my fingers were starting to go numb. I don't know why I even bothered. I knew Xavier would just be spewing his usual attention-seeking bait, and I let myself get reeled in, anyway.

  “Brooklyn? Brooklyn Cunningham?”

  I slipped my phone into my purse and turned away from the counter.

  “Yes? How can I –” My pensive squint popped wide open. “Daymond?”

  Daymond Armstrong leaned against the cake fridge with a wide, friendly smile. The only thing that rang any bells were those almond, cool-green eyes. Gone was his dirty rat-tail, thrift store leather vests, finger-less leather gloves, and studded jewelry. I was staring back at a full-grown, good-looking man with a clean buzz cut and well-groomed stubble, dressed in an unbuttoned Henley and dark jeans. The poorly-done skull and flames tattoos he once flaunted on his arms were now retouched with exquisite shadowing and detail.

  “Wow, I haven't seen you in forever!” I gave him a quick hug. “How are you? Do you still live in New York?”

  “Thanks. I am.” Daymond smiled stiffened slightly. He lifted an eyebrow. “Not much of a football fan, huh? I'm a linebacker for the Jets.”

  “You're kidding. You too? And they say New York's the biggest city in America. This is so weird. I don't see anyone from high school in ages – other than Tab – and now it's like I'm running into one of you every week –”

  “Tab?” Daymond interjected, shifting his arm on the fridge. “You mean Tabitha, that girl in all those plays and musicals?”

  “Yup. The one and the same. She's on Broadway now.”

  “Oh, cool. Good for her.” Suddenly, he straightened up, glancing around him skittishly. “So, I'm taking you heard about Warner? How you holding up?”

  “Oh. That.” I looked down at my feet, tugging at my sleeves. “Yeah, but I don't –”

  “I'm shocked, I mean, I work with the guy. Sure, he's a little reckless, but I could never imagine him doing something like that. Has he said anything to you?”

  “No.” I leaned against the counter, scratching my nose. “I haven't seen him since prom.”

  “Oh. Makes sense. That's probably why you didn't know I was playing for the Jets.”

  “Yup,” I answered quickly, desperate to change the subject. “So, how's your brother doing?”

  “He's fine.” Daymond inched towards me, touching my arm. “You know, if you ever need to talk about anything, maybe we could get a drink sometime.”

  My skin prickling, I pulled my arm away from him.

  “Yeah, I don't think –”

  “Ma'am, your order's ready.”

  “So? Whaddaya say?” Daymond flashed me his remodeled pearly-whites, looking at me expectantly.

  I grabbed my salad, stepping around him with a polite smile.

  “Sorry, I've gotta get back to work. It was nice seeing you again. I'll see you around.”

  Chapter Seven: Ace

  2016

  “This is Warner. Don't know if the cops have got my phone tapped, so call this number if you need to reach me. Get back to me with an update as soon as you can.”

  I slid my phone into my back pocket and stepped into the shade of the red oak tree.

  It was the cliché of a perfect day. The skies were clear and bluer than ever, the breeze crisp and refreshing as it rustled through the red and gold leaves of the trees. But as beautiful a day as it was, the heavy, somber emotion hanging thick in the air was nearly tangible.

  About 50 feet away from me, dozens of people in all shades of black congregated around a glossy, rich brown casket. An old priest with tinted glasses and a purple stole draped over his black gown stood in front of the casket, reading from his open bible. Next to him, a large woman in a glitzy black dress sang, backed with a string quartet. Her hauntingly beautiful voice floated through the open space of the cemetery.

  “Like a comet, blazing 'cross the evening sky, gone too soon.

  Like a rainbow, fading in the twinkling of an eye, gone too soon...”

  I took a long swig from my flask, gasping.

  Genevieve's sobbing howls were so guttural. So aggravated. She could barely stand on her own 2 feet. Even from a distance, I could see her flushed cheeks and puffy eyes through the veil of her black hat. A tall, slender man with thinning white hair had his arms around her, holding her upright. Spotting the perfectly round bump protruding from her dress was another twist to the knife in my gut.

  I took another drink from my flask.

  Across from Genevieve and her family stood the whole team, along with Coach and both Dubois men. They stood with their hands folded in front of them in stony silence, their eyes fixed to the grass. Not one single attendant dared to look in Genevieve's direction.

  I finally brought myself to look through the easels of framed pictures set up behind the priest. The first was a black-and-white picture of a blond, blue-eyed baby in a tub surrounded by
toy ships and rubber ducks. The next was a picture of a grinning, shaggy-haired kid in Little League football getup with the number “87” on his uniform, holding his helmet to his waist. It went on to show a picture of him and Genevieve on their wedding day with a backdrop of a beach at sunset. There were more pictures of him with his family and some with his college buddies. The last was a shot of him on the Super Bowl turf, pumping his fists triumphantly in the air.

  It was then that I felt this weird itch in my throat. Ever since Whitaker showed me up at that Browns game, I became more and more resentful each time his name came up. To the point that it may have consumed me. I never wanted to share that spotlight, and when I started getting greedy, I ended up pushing myself out of the beam completely. I think I've always known that it was never the dude's fault for doing what I could have achieved, and that's what I couldn't handle.

  And with all this resentment I created and was drowning myself in, I'd forgotten he was people, too. He was once a kid full of dreams, hopes, and promise, with a family that loved him. He had his own set of boys that he ran with in college. And no matter how much we jerked his chain around, the man found himself a good, loyal woman. For fuck's sake, he's got a kid on the way. The man was living his dream; most of us would be lucky to be half as happy as the guy truly was – and he deserved every bit of it.

  We could argue all day about who had more talent, but it didn't matter. He had the drive and commitment I didn't have, and that's what counted. I was the only one who fucking refused to see it. And now he was gone. Robbed of everything else he could have been.

  “Warner? Hey, Warner!”

  Baldwin emerged from the crowd, stalking angrily in my direction. The startled priest stopped his eulogy abruptly, prompting all appalled gazes to shift towards me. I stepped out from behind the tree, spacing my feet apart.

  “Baldwin, don't do this. Not here. Not now –”

  “Gentlemen, please!” The priest called out from the back, his eyes darting back and forth between us. “This is a funeral, for crying out loud! There will be none of this –”

  “You got a lot of nerve showing your face around here.” Baldwin's shoulders were visibly shaking with rage. Spit was frothing in the sides of his mouth. “Are you trying to get your fucking ass beat? 'Cause we can go right the fuck now –”

  I could hear Coach and Dubois' voices in the back as they started towards us.

  “Back the fuck off, Baldwin,” I hissed, taking a step back from him. “You're making a scene. I'll leave, but if you touch me, I swear I'll make your head spin so fast –”

  “Guys, guys!” Out of nowhere, Armstrong pushed his way out of the crowd, sprinting past Coach and Dubois. “It's okay, Coach. Mr. Dubois – I got this.”

  Armstrong caught up with Baldwin from behind and whispered something into his ear. Baldwin was glaring at me and breathing jaggedly through his flared nostrils, but he finally backed off. He shot me one last scathing look over his shoulder and slunk back to the crowd, his shoulders slumped. The grumbling priest shook his head, returning to the front.

  “Sorry about that,” said Armstrong softly. “But I think it's best if you leave. Emotions are still running high, as you can probably tell. But hang in there. It'll simmer down soon.”

  “I – yeah, thanks,” I muttered, furrowing my brows. “I'll do that.”

  But as I turned around, Armstrong put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey, man, if you ever need to talk, just give me a holler.” When he saw the quizzical frown on my face, he quickly added, “I know we've never really hung out, but I figured you could use some company. Just looking out for ya. After all, we do go way back.”

  I paused, thinking hard. To say it was weird that Armstrong was being so nice to me was a fucking understatement, but he was looking back at me with a straight face. Behind him, I could still feel the team's hateful eyes digging into me. And when my eyes met Hardwick's for a brief second, he turned away from me. That said, his doleful, downcast eyes looked more sad than they were angry.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I think I'll take you up on that.”

  Chapter Eight: Brooklyn

  2016

  “Roll up to the party with my wheels on fleek, wheels on fleek, wheels on fleek,

  Get your girl and her friend and we can freak all week, freak all week, freak all week...”

  “Seriously?” I groaned, draining my daiquiri. “How has this song not faded into obscurity yet – where it belongs? I had to pretend to like this godawful song for months. Months, I tell you!”

  “Sorry, Brooks, bad luck. They've got a new DJ tonight.” Tabitha leaned over the railing, hiccuping as she pointed out the DJ booth. The DJ bopped along to the music behind his laptop, his light-up shades flashing obnoxiously. Tabitha screwed up her nose. “One that deserves to have his license revoked, if that's a thing.”

  “Tell me about it.” I grumbled, setting my drink down on the table. “X-Dawg. Pfft.”

  “Come on, look on the bright side,” said Tabitha cheerfully, nudging me lightly in the rib. “I've spotted more than a few hotties tonight. That guy with the blue suit in the VIP lounge wouldn't stop eyeing you.”

  “They're alright,” I replied sulkily, slouching my shoulders.

  “Fine, enjoy your pity party.” Tabitha rolled her eyes, smiling. “I'm gonna go refresh our drinks. Be right back.”

  When Tabitha left, I leaned against the second floor railing, gazing down at the rowdy partiers below me. The packed dance floor was a colorful, throbbing mass. Multicolored paint was splashed across their faces and exposed body parts. Some had their clothes ruined from the paint, while others opted to simply go without. And as the lights of the club dimmed, the mass illuminated the dance floor, the chaotic colors of neon paint glowing brightly in the dark.

  “You rang?”

  A beefcake in a cobalt-blue suit walked up next to me, resting his elbows against the railing.

  “Excuse me?” I frowned, my forehead puckering. “Do I know –”

  “'Cause that sweet ass sure is calling out to me.”

  “Uh-huh. I'm sure it is.” I straightened up and edged away from him, but I was a tad amused. “Just curious – has that ever worked out for ya?”

  “No, not really,” the guy admitted, grinning as his lecherous, narrowed eyes swept me up and down. “But I've been watching you all night, so I thought I'd take a shot. I'm gonna be straight up – you're sexy as fuck. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I'm flattered, well, sort of, but no, thank you.” I smiled at him stiffly.

  “Then, uh, you wanna dance?”

  “No, thanks. I'm waiting for a friend, but you have yourself a good night, sir.”

  “Come on, just one –”

  “Brooks! Hey, Brooks! Look who I ran into at the bar!”

  The music was so loud the floor was quaking, but when Tabitha returned with Daymond and Ace, my ears started ringing. Even in the dark of the club, I could see how red and sweaty Ace's face was. His loosely pulled back hair was tousled and the collar of his shirt crumpled, but he was still sexier than any man I'd seen in the club tonight. But as internally conflicted as I was, the guy next to me seemed doubly flustered.

  “Whoa, sorry, Warner.” The man jerked away from me like he'd been zapped, bowing his head. “Didn't realize these were your girls.”

  “We're not anyone's –” I started, but the guy had already booked it.

  “Hey, Brooklyn.” Daymond nodded at me, smiling. “How you doing tonight?”

  “Daymond and I are gonna hit the dance floor,” Tabitha announced, hooking her arm around his. She winked at me knowingly. “We'll see you guys later!”

  “Tab, wait –”

  But Tabitha and Daymond whirled around and left. And when Ace cozied up to the spot next to me, goosebumps sprouted all over my arms. I fingered the cold steel of the railing nervously.

  “You – you look amazing tonight,” Ace whispered, leaning close to me. The sour smell of whiskey floode
d my nostrils. “I missed you. Sorry, I haven't called. I got caught up at work. I was gonna call you when I got back from San Francisco, but I got a little...preoccupied.”

  “It's – it's fine.” I adjusted my bustier crop top, still keeping my eyes on the crowd below.

  “Well, how've – how've you been?”

  “I've been good,” I answered him matter-of-factly. “Xavier and I broke up.”

  “Really?” His glazed eyes brightened for a second, but it quickly disappeared when he started swaying back and forth against the railing. “I mean, I'm sorry to hear –”

  “Jesus Christ,” I sighed, chewing on my tongue as I finally made eye contact with him. “How hammered are you?”

  “Please – I'm – I'm fine,” he slurred with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I haven't even gotten started –”

  I swung out my hands instinctively, catching him as he tipped towards me.

  “I rest my case,” I grumbled, helping him to his feet. I tried to pull away, but he held onto me.

  “I know you've heard.” Ace's warm breath tickled my earlobes. “I can tell by the way you're looking at me.”

  An icy blast shot through my veins. I started going a little dizzy with all the thoughts and questions bouncing off in my head. Was he about to confess? Right here, right now? He was nowhere near a coherent state – there was no way he should be running his mouth right now. Sure, half of me was absolutely dying to know, but the other half was terrified to hear him go on.

  “Yeah, but let's not do this right now. Not here – not when you're this drunk –”

  “Please – please Brooklyn, will you listen to me?”

  My shoulders tensed up, but I clamped my mouth shut.

  “I didn't do it. I'm being set up.”

  It was boggling my mind. There was a glimmer of crystal clarity in his warm brown eyes. What's more, the steady conviction in his voice shook me. But still, this wasn't the time.

  “I'm sorry, Ace, I don't know what to say. We'll talk about this later –”