Chapter 7 Bianca
BIANCA
What am I saying? I’m flirting with this guy, a person I barely know and someone I know is a player.
Ready to throw away my promise to be celibate, man-free, and drama-free for as long as humanly possible.
I’ve stayed strong for six months, barely leaving my apartment because the temptation only grew stronger over time.
“I could help you,” he offers, looking hopeful as he peers down at me, his hands on my hips. “Or maybe we can help each other.”
“Help each other?” My grip tightens on his biceps.
I’m completely feeling him up in front of all these people. I’m not even ashamed, and he seems to be enjoying it. I’ve never felt arms so big, and I imagine he could easily lift me off the ground.
He nods. “I’ll help you get back in the game, teaching you which assholes to avoid, and you can teach me how to be in a relationship without being such a self-absorbed dick.”
I laugh, but I like the idea. “I’m not sure anyone can be taught how to be in a relationship. Plus, I haven’t had much luck, so I don’t know if I’m the best teacher.”
For five years, I’ve had nothing but a string of shitty boyfriends.
One after another, parading through my life like an endless season of bad reruns just with a different leading man.
Kind of like in soap operas where they hire a new actor to play the same role. That’s been my love life in a nutshell.
“Well, one thing I know is assholes.” He smiles. “I can pick them out in a crowd in a few seconds.”
“Does it take one to know one?” I tease.
When I met Vinnie, I would’ve sworn he was a complete tool. But after the short amount of time I’ve spent with him, I’d say I was completely off base. I might still be right, though. Like I said…my asshole-finder is completely broken. But so far, he’s been nothing but a gentleman and sweet, too.
“I’ve never been an asshole, but that doesn’t mean I’ve always treated women the way they expected or wanted to be treated.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How does that not make you an asshole?”
“I never lie to them. I’m always honest about what I want. It’s their choice if they want to be with me, knowing what they know in advance.”
“Sounds romantic.” I shake my head and laugh again.
He grips me tighter with his fingers. “Maybe you can change me. Show me all the things I’ve been missing.”
“Gallo,” his friend, Clarence, yells from a few feet away, ruining the moment. “Get your ass over here.”
Vinnie sends his buddy a little nod before giving me his eyes again. “We’ll talk about this more later.”
I don’t know if the butterflies in my stomach are from excitement or my mind’s way of saying take a few steps back and do not get naked with this guy. My body’s all for the skin-on-skin action, having been denied for more months than I thought humanly possible. I can feel my resistance slipping.
The promise I made to myself is becoming less and less important.
I try to take a step backward, but Vinnie pulls me close again, keeping his arm around my back and his hand firmly on my hip. “Just remember, everyone in this room thinks we’re a couple.”
“Got it.” My body tingles with every step, soaking in his warmth and the feel of his hands on my body as we walk.
It’s not hard to pretend with him.
There are three couples sitting at the table, and all their eyes are on us as we approach. I can feel the weight of their stares as they appraise me. Maybe it’s just in my head. I always assume people who have achieved some sort of celebrity have a bit of snob in them.
“Bianca, this is Marquita, Clarence’s wife.” Vinnie motions toward a beautiful woman who oozes class.
Marquita dips her head. “So, you’re the one who’s trying to tame our young Vinnie.” She laughs and covers her mouth with her hand, showing off the giant diamond ring on her finger.
“He’s a tough one, but he’s mine.” I pat his chest, wishing I could slink away and out of the room. My smile isn’t genuine, but somehow, I keep it on my face until my cheeks hurt.
“Don’t listen to her,” a blond woman says as she waves her hand toward Marquita. “We’re excited to finally meet you. I’m Celia, Tre’s wife.”
Tre is the hottest player on the team. My brothers have his jersey and wear it religiously every Sunday during the season because they think it’ll bring the team luck. It doesn’t, but that doesn’t stop them.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say to Celia.
Celia is beautiful but without all the surgical intervention like Marquita has. Her smile seems genuine and warm, which puts me a little bit at ease.
“Sit. Sit,” another woman says and pulls out the chair next to her. “We’ve all known each other for years and are excited to have someone new at our table for a change.”
“Thank you.” I slide onto the chair as ladylike as I can in a dress this tight. My usual drop and plop probably wouldn’t be a big hit with this crowd.
“I’m Marilou, and this big lug is my husband.” She bumps the man next to her, and I immediately know who he is from the years of sitting with my dad and brothers on Sunday afternoon.
“I’m Maurice,” he says, giving me a killer smile.
My belly’s flipping because I’ve watched these men for years, and they’re celebrities in my family.
“It’s wonderful to meet you all,” I say.
And it is, except for Marquita. Her face is so pinched, she looks like she just ate something sour. Maybe she just doesn’t like me or the fact that Vinnie and I are getting all the attention from the table and not her.
Vinnie sits next to me, moving his chair so our hips are touching. I’m momentarily breathless when his hand slides across my thigh before resting there.
“Champagne?” Marquita asks without moving her face because she’s had so much plastic surgery. I’m pretty sure it can’t move, no matter how hard she tries.
“Please.” I nod.
“So, what do you do, Bianca?” Celia asks as she rests her chin in her palm. “Are you a kept woman now that Vinnie’s signed his first contract?”
Clarence laughs. “Celia, I told you the boy doesn’t play for the money. He was already rolling in dough.”
I glance over at Vinnie, trying to hide my shock but failing. I figured he had some money. No one can buy a unit above the eighth floor in our building without a substantial bank account.
“It’s rude to talk money, especially other people’s money,” Marquita tells Celia as she pushes the champagne bottle across the table.
Celia rolls her eyes, and I can tell they aren’t the best of friends. I’m pretty sure no one at this table counts Marquita on their BFF list.
Vinnie’s unusually quiet, and I turn to him, wondering what’s running through his mind. He shrugs, giving me a halfhearted smile. “Tell them what you do, baby.”
He doesn’t even know what I do. We’ve spent so little time talking about our lives, the topic never even came up. Hell, I didn’t even know what he did until we arrived at the event tonight.
I grab the champagne bottle, keeping my eyes trained on the bubbly, filling my glass so I don’t have to see their faces. “I’m a writer.”
“Like a journalist?” Clarence asks.
Journalist is always everyone’s first thought when I say I’m a writer. I’ll never understand it. I think so many people believe no one can really make a living by writing novels, especially romance novels, but I do it.
I’m one of the lucky few.
I’m successful.
I shake my head and grab Vinnie’s glass and fill it too. “I write novels.” I glance upward, seeing the surprise on Vinnie’s face.
“I love a good thriller. Maybe I’ve read your work. What’s your last name?” Marquita asks, but I’m pretty sure she’s just asking so she can belittle me again.
“I don’t think you’ve read my work.”
There’s always this awkward moment. They’re so interested and full of questions, but as soon as they hear what I write, they’ll have nothing but judgment and disdain.
Vinnie’s hand tightens on my thigh. He’s so damn close to the promised land, I could explode if his hand moved up any higher.
Maurice lifts his glass, watching me over the rim. “You’re talking to a bunch of jocks and housewives, sweetheart. We barely write, let alone read.”
Marilou wraps her hand around her husband’s upper arm. “Honey, you know I read all the time. I have to do something to keep myself busy during the season.”
“I love when you read, Mar. I reap the rewards from all those words.” She gets a wink from Maurice.
I fidget with the stem of the champagne flute, remaining silent as I watch Maurice and Marilou. They’re cute together and so totally in love.
“Please tell me you don’t write murder mysteries.” Marilou rolls her eyes. “They’re so boring and predictable.”
“I write romance novels,” I blurt out because there’s nothing like ripping the Band-Aid off quickly to break the ice and get over the weird moment where everyone looks at me like I’m an easy lay.
That’s the thing about being a romance writer.
Everyone always assumes I’m some sort of weird nymphomaniac, when I’m the exact opposite.
No one makes that assumption about a person who writes crime novels.
They don’t think they’re a career criminal based on the words they put on paper.
It’s exactly the opposite for romance. We’re all slutty harlots, writing from our vast experience of opening our legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry.
Vinnie’s fingers dig into my skin as he gives me a proud smile. “That’s my girl.”
“Oh my God. I love romance. I devour them. What’s your name? I must read your books,” Marilou says as the other women gawk at me like I’m some kind of whore, as expected.
“Bianca May.” I smile, knowing I should be proud of everything I’ve accomplished at my age.
I am.
I’m prouder than anyone will ever know, but it’s the way people’s opinions of me form as soon as they hear “romance” that still punches me square in the gut sometimes.
“Shut your mouth.” She gasps. “I’ve read all of your books. You’re one of my favorites.”
I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “Really?”
It’s still shocking when anyone says they love my words. Every novel I finish, there’s always doubt in the back of my mind that it’s good enough or that my readers will enjoy it.
She nods excitedly. “Tempted by Fate is my all-time favorite.”
“We have a famous author at our table.” Maurice holds out his champagne glass and tips it in my direction. “Do you get your inspiration from Vinnie?”
“I get inspiration from everything and everyone around me.”
“Is writing lucrative?” Marquita asks because, of course, the stuck-up bitch is obsessed with money. “I’ve heard so many stories about how writers can barely afford to pay their bills.”
“It can be,” I tell her and bite my tongue because I want to tell her to fuck off.
“What do you do to support yourself financially while you write?” she asks with a small smirk because, again…she’s a bitch.
I don’t usually like to talk about my success and money, especially in front of strangers, but she’s such an asshole, I can’t think of anything other than putting her in her place.
On top of that, I’m sitting at a table filled with professional football players who are paid in the millions.
They won’t faint at the figures I’m about to throw around.
“My last book made a little over a million dollars.” I stare straight at Marquita, hoping she chokes on the champagne she’s raising to her lips. “In the first month,” I add to drive that little uptight-bitch dagger right into Marquita’s heart.
Vinnie rocks back in his chair like he’s stunned, and right on cue, Marquita chokes on that damn fancy champagne.
“Wow,” Clarence says. “Who knew there was so much money in romance.”
I nod, feeling the knots in my stomach finally start to loosen. “It’s the hottest-selling genre on the market, with a ravenous and dedicated readership. I have a wonderful publisher, which helps.”
Marquita dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin, careful not to smear her perfect makeup. “Huh,” she mumbles into the cloth.
Clarence covers her hand, silencing her before she says another assholish thing. “You must be popular to bring in seven figures with your work.”
“She’s the best,” Marilou tells him. “She’s done book tours around the world, and people line up outside the store when her new book releases. She’s a rock star.”
My face heats at her compliment. “I do okay, but I do it because I love it, not for the money.” I’ve always tried to remain humble, preferring to be alone with my computer and words instead of having readers fawn over me.
Marilou waves her hand at me. “She’s being modest.”
Vinnie leans over, bringing his mouth right next to my ear. “I’m going to have to read your books now. I want to crawl inside your dirty mind a little bit.”
I want to correct him. Tell him that my books are fantasy and nothing more. They’re fiction, after all, filled with happy endings and a lot of sex. They’re nothing like my real life.
“I think she’s a keeper, Gallo,” Clarence tells him. “Hold on to this one as tight as possible. It’s not often you find a driven, successful woman who’s willing to put up with our bullshit.”
“I plan to, Clarence. I plan to,” Vinnie says in a low, husky voice, sending goose bumps across my skin.
I’m so screwed.
How am I going to meet my deadline with the hot baller next to me trying to creep into my bed?