Chapter 1 #2
to assert some dominance of my own.
Finn
There’s a lesson I learned early on in life: sometimes you have to suffer through shit. Best buck up and get past it as quickly
as possible. As a football player, there’s a lot of shit I suffer through: physical pain, mental exhaustion, mind-numbing
questions from the press, rigorous diets, lack of personal time. Looking at it from the outside, you’d wonder why the hell
anyone would actually want to be a pro football player. Answer: because it is the best fucking game on earth, and I kick ass
at it.
But there are days like today, when I’m asked—ordered—by my team’s marketing director to pose for a calendar, when I really
question my devotion to football.
I’ve been told this is for charity, which is the only reason I agreed.
Even so, I give to charity. I use my face and my name to promote causes that protect children, the disadvantaged, and the abused.
It’s one of the best things about my fame.
But striking a pose for a beefcake calendar makes me feel like a right fuckwit.
To top it off, I’m standing outside the photographer’s door with three of my teammates, and he isn’t answering. I pound on
the metal door with the side of my fist, and the sound echoes in the wide stairwell. This is technically my day off. I could
be napping, soaking in the tub—don’t knock it till you try it—or playing Call of Duty.
Then again, if he doesn’t show, we don’t do the shoot. No skin off my nose. “We get the time wrong?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Nope,” says Dex, my center. “In fact, we’re a few minutes late.”
Perfect. We’re sitting out here with our dicks in our hands. “The photographer had better not be having some sort of artistic huff.”
Dex shrugs, looking bored. “Maybe he’s on the can or something.”
My starting wideout, Jake Ryder, seems more interested in cracking jokes.
Jake shouts at the door again, banging on it with his fist. “Dude! Nip it off and open up!”
If I wasn’t so distracted, I’d be embarrassed. I pace and eye the stairs. It isn’t too late to get away.
Unfortunately, the door whips open. A woman stands there, looking pissed and kind of scary. She’s thin and tall, maybe five
foot ten, which still makes her six inches shorter than me. Her eyebrows are arrow straight, not something I’d normally notice
on a woman, but it gives her such a fierce expression, as if she’s an Amazonian ready to do battle, that it’s hard to ignore.
Or maybe it’s that she’s glaring like she’s deciding which one of us she wants to dismember first.
As if she hears my thoughts, her dark gaze snaps to me.
I swear, I feel it down to my balls. She’s not pretty.
Her narrow face and high-bridged nose are too severe to be considered pretty.
Long straight hair, inky black at the roots and magenta at the tips, gives her a Goth girl vibe as does her black tank top and jeans.
A tattoo of dogwood flowers, done in black lines, runs along her left upper arm.
In short, she’s the type of female who has stayed clear of me for my entire postpubescent life. I’ve stayed clear of her type
as well. Call it cliché; I don’t care. It’s just a simple truth that women like her have never had any interest in guys like
me, and I’ve never given her type a second glance.
Even so, my blood quickens. Her intense stare holds power. And power is something I respect.
I hear it in her husky voice when she finally speaks. “Nip what off, do tell?”
That’s a sex voice, the kind that wraps around a guy’s dick and tugs. I absolutely do not need to respond to her sexy voice.
Especially since she clearly considers us nothing more than a bunch of unruly boys.
Take charge. Control the situation. It’s what I do. Always. I step forward, bringing her attention back to me. “We’re here for the calendar shoot.”
Her upper lip curls. “Well, I certainly didn’t think you were here for the little league group shot I have scheduled later.”
Cute. Really cute. Wait. What?
“You’re the photographer?” Dread punches my gut.
“Let’s not be a cliché, eh, pretty boy?” she scoffs with obvious annoyance.
Prickly heat fills my gut. I’ve been called that my whole grown life. I’m used to it, and don’t really care when the guys
tease me about my looks. But hearing it come from this woman pisses me off, as if I’m nothing.
Ryder snickers. “She’s got your number, sweet cheeks.”
No, she doesn’t. Not even a little. But she thinks she does, which fucking irks. “Hey now, we were told our photographer’s name was Chester Copper. Excuse me if I assumed it was a man.”
She flinches as if smacked, and a little crinkle forms between her brows. “I go by Chess. I’ve no idea how your PR manager
got my full name.” It sounds as if she aims to find out.
I don’t envy the poor sap who let her full name slip. But I do like that I’m getting to her, too. Turnabout is fair play, honey. “Probably because they do background checks to weed out the freaks.”
Chess responds with a bored roll of her eyes. Now that I’m close enough, I can see that they’re bottle green, the color deep
but crystal clear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that particular shade, and it makes me want to keep looking.
I have no idea why I’m even noticing. Her appearance has no bearing on how she’ll do her job. At my side, Jake stirs, his
brows pulling together. “Chester Copper . . . That’s kind of like Chester Copperpot from The Goonies,” Jake adds, looking around at all of us. “Remember that movie?”
Our photographer utters a ripe curse that has me fighting a grin.
“Yeah, that’s a cool flick,” Rolondo says to Jake. “Little dude who played the lead grew up and played Samwise Gamgee. Man,
talk about a sad sap. As if I’m gonna toss myself into the fires of Mount Doom ’cause I gotta boner for a hobbit.”
Dex, who has remained silent until now, shakes his head with clear disgust. “He was on a quest to help Frodo save Middle-earth
from Sauron, chucklehead.”
“Naw,” Rolondo insists. “He wanted Frodo bad.”
My grin grows. Get these guys talking about movies and they’ll go off on a never-ending tangent. Something Jake knows as well.
He makes a noise of impatience. “Hello? Can we please get back to The Goonies and Chester Copperpot? You know, that old dude they find all shriveled and crushed by a boulder?”
Chess flushes pink. “Yes, I know,” she grinds out. “My parents met at a draft house viewing of the movie. They expected a boy, and since my grandma had already embroidered all my baby blankets . . .” She shrugs as if bored, but I don’t miss the tension in those slim shoulders. She’s pissed.
“And they actually named you after a Goonies character?” Dex asks, horrified.
“Yes.” Her voice is tight and pained.
I’m torn between kind of loving her parents and thinking they’re nuts. On the one hand, big points for originality. On the
other, who does that to a girl?
Rolondo murmurs something about crazy white people under his breath, clearly not low enough because Ms. Chester abruptly turns
and strides into the studio with those long legs of hers.
After exchanging looks, we follow.
The loft takes up half the floor of the building. It’s an enormous space of exposed old brick, well-worn plank floors, and
industrial black grid windows. There’s a living area with brown leather couches and one of those coffee tables that are made
out of a gnarly tree trunk. An old farm dining table is set opposite a gourmet kitchen.
It reminds me of my place, and I have an odd sense of homecoming. Some of the guys don’t care about their spots as long as
there’s a massive TV and a good couch, but I do. Our homes are our havens—God knows we’re barely ever there—so we should have
a place we enjoy.
Chess stops by a big pedestal table that holds football equipment: pads, footballs, our team helmets, even some shin guards
and tape.
I guess we’re doing dress-up, only I don’t see any uniforms. The back of my neck begins to tingle the way it does when I’m
about to get sacked.
A slim guy with a bushy red beard hustles out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a yellow fedora and a lime-green skinny-pants
suit with brown pinstripes. Nothing out of place for NOLA. In an odd way, it makes me relax a bit.
“I’m James, Chess’s assistant. Sorry about the delay. We were on the balcony having a smoke.” He grins, and his gaze slides over Jake nice and slow. “Or I was. Chess was just keeping me company.”
Jake frowns in obvious confusion, as if he’s not sure if he’s being checked out.
“They don’t need a play-by-play excuse, James.” Chess doesn’t glance our way as she inspects the props. “Changing room is
to the left. Strip down, and James will get you oiled up.”
All the air sucks out of the room, and I hear a distinctive pop in my ears. My guys stiffen as well, their eyes going wide
with obvious shock.
“Oiled up?” I can barely get the words out from between my clenched teeth. This is just fucking peachy. PR failed to mention
anything about stripping. “You fucking with us?”
Her expression is bland as ever. “When I fuck with someone, he knows it, Mr. Mannus.”
Oh, I bet they do. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s left claw marks on some poor chump’s balls. My own balls tighten in sympathy.
Jake, who has never been one for self-preservation, laughs. “I love this chick.”
Green eyes flash beneath severe brows of justice. “I am not a chick, Mr. Ryder. I am a woman.”
Rolondo makes a faint, mock crowd-roar, and Dex elbows his side to shut him up.
“With a job to do,” she adds with such disdain that I can’t keep quiet.
“Let me guess,” I drawl. “You’re obsessed with finally finding One-Eyed Willie.”
Jake chokes on a smothered laugh, and Dex runs a hand over his beard, clearly hiding a smile.
“Man,” Rolondo mutters. “You’ve gone and done it now.”
I’m pretty sure I have. A hint of warning trickles down my spine, but I’m too irritated to heed it. We’ve been played, and now we’re expected to strip like good little boys? I don’t think so.
Chess slowly walks my way. I’ve had offensive coaches stare me down with less intensity, but they’ve never made my heart rate
speed up and my skin heat. It’s unnerving, but damn if I’m going to let it show. I set my hands low on my hips and wait for
the inevitable explosion.
She stops in front of me, close enough that I catch a faint whiff of sunshine and earth, as if she’s been sitting in a garden,
soaking up the light. Our gazes lock. I expect her to rip into me, and maybe she’s going to—her lips part as if she’s about
to. But she doesn’t speak. She just stands there as if frozen in place.
A weird shift pushes through the room. I don’t know what the fuck is happening. My focus narrows down to her, nothing else.
The warmth of her body radiates outward and buffets mine. It’s as if she’s easing a hot hand down my abs. The sensation is
so intense, my balls lift and my dick grows weighty and full.
What the actual fuck?
I can’t move. All my brainpower has gone south to take orders from my rising dick.
Said dick is insisting that we get closer. He wants a formal introduction.
No, no, no. Not happening.
I pull in a deep breath, and my brain gets scrambled further by her scent. I am in serious trouble here.
I’m almost grateful when she finally speaks, but her bedroom voice doesn’t help matters much. “Let’s be clear, Mr. Mannus.
You’re in my house now. We have a job to do. I’ll do my part, and you do yours.” Her dark eyes search mine. “Make all the
dick jokes you want. They won’t save you.”
No, I suspect they won’t. Like an inevitable collision with a charging linebacker, I suspect Ms. Chess Copper is going to
take me down and make me feel it. Bitch of it is, I’m not sure if I hate the idea or kind of like it.