Lady Balls Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2019 Liz Crowe

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0022-9

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Melissa Hosack

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  LADY BALLS

  Liz Crowe

  Copyright © 2019

  Chapter One

  The day her entire universe changed, all Kayla had to do was walk out of the tiny bathroom in the apartment she shared with her friend, Marlo, and she'd popped a sweat. Which made it almost impossible to drag the skimpy shorts and halter top she had to wear for work onto her damp skin.

  On that afternoon, mere hours before fate began playing its tricks, temps hovered in the low nineties even in the coolest part of their fourth-floor apartment. Kayla attempted to corral her hair into a work-approved red bandana while her roommate leaned in the bathroom doorway, holding a battery-operated fan in front of her face. She was getting good at claiming it as her au natural look, now that it had grown from its Teeny Weeny Afro stage into her current Fuck It This Is Me Get Over It one.

  "How did I get to this place?" she whispered as she stared at herself in the cloudy mirror. She’d never been vain, or in any way prone to staring at herself for long, but lately she’d been obsessing over the state of her skin—dry and in need of some direct attention. Not to mention her body, which had lost its peak condition, thanks to her last year plus a few months spent feeling sorry for herself. "Damn it, Marlo, we look like nickel hookers, not waitresses."

  She tried to tug her black halter down and the hip-hugging jean shorts up. She was no prude. She’d played soccer for too many years, changing and showering in front of all sorts of people. But this … this was the lamest of lame comedowns.

  Kayla let her gaze flicker back to the image in the mirror. Her wide-set dark eyes, high cheekbones, naturally arched brows and full lips stared back at her. She frowned. The image frowned back. She really ought to start using make-up, but the years she’d spent forgoing such things in favor of stealing a bit of rest around practices and games had left her with an innate laziness when it came to doctoring up her looks.

  Kayla turned away from the unpleasant vision of herself. "Stop staring at that dickhead's damn Facebook page," she demanded, turning sideways to observe her body from that angle. She blinked back tears. She hated her life.

  Hated. It.

  "I'm not."

  "You are. I know you are. Close it up. Enough obsessing already."

  Marlo sighed and rolled onto her back. "Why did he…?"

  "Enough," Kayla insisted, flopping down next to her and taking her hand. "Repeat after me: Devin is a dick. Devin is a dick. Devin is a—"

  Marlo yanked her hand away and got to her feet.

  "He's not worth it. Remember what you kept telling me after Antoine hopped into bed with Tricia? While I was laying there with no knee, and no future?"

  Her friend sighed, swiped at her eyes, and shot Kayla one of her classic wicked grins.

  "Let's get laid tonight," Marlo said, wigging her hips into the slutty shorts. They were both working a double, parading around half naked, convincing beer snobs and asshole hipsters to order more of the award-winning IPAs and lagers or whatever the hell it was they were supposed to say about them.

  "Nice idea but for the distinct lack of a prospect."

  "Well, that's my goal. You can be all negative Nancy, but I am feeling it, girl. I’m gonna score and he’s gonna be hung like a horse. Watch me."

  "No, thanks," Kayla said, depressed all over again as she got back up to make another attempt at controlling her wild-ass hair.

  ****

  The bar was swamped by five o'clock, which was no surprise. Kayla worked as fast as she could, slinging the beer and disgusting bar food with what she thought was a fair bit of rapidity and the proper amount of attitude. She was the opposite of in the mood, which really helped her cope with annoyances like her manager, Brad, who seemed to spend the better part of her every shift staring at her tits.

  But now, here she was, pausing with four huge pints of beer in one hand and a plate of disgusting, orange-cheese-like-substance-covered nachos in the other. Her. A former soccer superstar. The one who was going to take the women’s national team to … oh hell. It didn’t pay to dwell.

  Nope, this was her shiny new reality, in her redneck Daisy Dukes and black halter top, customer eyeballs crawling all over her. When her face burned in its familiar self-pity-party pre-teary-ness, she set her jaw, plunked the beers down in front a group of random dudes, all the while leaning over just enough to provide a good view, then headed back to the bar, clearing tables on the way.

  And then … it happened.

  Or rather he happened.

  Some douchebag with a smart phone stuck to his ear rounded a blind corner and plowed straight into her, sending the contents of all those not-quite-empty glasses of random booze all down the front of her halter top. He’d hit her weak side, the one that had ruined her future as a soccer super star. She sensed herself falling, watched it from a distance in horrifying slow motion. She knew she was about to break the damn glassware too, because landing on her bad knee always made her crumple like a Victorian hysteric.

  Resigned, drippy, and clutching the glasses for dear life, she heard the razzing of a group of assholes all the while preparing to hit the deck. Until a strong hand gripped her upper arm, keeping her upright.

  "Hey, sorry, whoa…" A gravelly voice hit her ear, sending an inappropriate shockwave to her brain.

  She stepped forward with her other foot, which forced her to lunge into him while still hanging onto the empties.

  He smelled like sun and outdoors with a hint of soapy cologne. Why she even noticed this, she had no idea. But damn. He smelled really great. She heard his rumbly laugh as she leaned a second too long to be considered polite.

  "Yo, Baxter!" She heard some other male voice nearby. "Nice catch. Reel her in and bring her over here."

  The man, whose warm hand still gripped her elbow, raised one eyebrow at her. She blinked, acknowledging that he was, in a word, a perfect specimen. Tall, broad-shouldered and slim, with a model-worthy face boasting a trace of stubble. And, of course, he was wearing a damn suit. Her fantasy weakness—men in suits. This felt a tad contrived, even to her own overheated brain. But she decided to go with it, at least for now.

  She’d gone so long without a man’s direct attention she sometimes thought she might declare herself re-virginized. Or maybe that would be re-virgined. Whatever it was, she was feeling it now, with Mr. Man’s deep blue eyes boring into her like a couple of laser beams.

  She pulled her arm away and tried to resume a semblance of dignity, even as she got a whiff of the sour beer soaking her halter top. As if reading her mind, Sexy Hero Man’s gaze dropped to her exposed stomach, then lower. She sucked in her gut, then stopped, furious with herself for even thinking she had to do such a thing.

  Yeah. Okay. Fuck this guy.

  “Excuse me,” she said, making her way past him and brushing his suit-coated shoulder in the process. The shock of the contact almost sent her tumbling once again. Which only served to ramp up her anger at herself, and at him … at his stupid, sexy, awesome perfection. And her own wimpy, girly reaction to him.

  “Wait,” he said.

&
nbsp; She turned, still clutching the glassware to her chest like a shield, nearly deafened from the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

  “I’m sorry. Can I … make it up to you?” He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets, his expression no longer predatory, more like embarrassed little kid.

  “Stop it,” she said, her voice croaky. She cleared her throat and started backing away from him.

  “Stop what?” He advanced toward her, keeping about half a foot of air between them. “I mean, I’m not … shit.” He ran a hand around the back of his neck, his nervousness making her want to giggle. What man who dared to walk on this earth looking like that had any reason to be nervous around her?

  “Yo! Kayla!” The sound of Brad’s sharp voice made her flinch. She tried to relax as they maintained a weird locked-eyes thing while the busy restaurant traffic flowed around them. Her sense of unreality ramped up a thousand-fold when he moved into her personal space bubble and leaned toward her ear.

  “I’m sorry. Can I buy you a drink later? When you’re done working?”

  “Baxter! Dude! I told you to snag that hottie and bring her here,” his friend called from what she assumed was their table.

  Kayla used the momentary distraction to take two full steps away from him. He was way too tempting. She was way too needy. But she had no time for or interest in some kind of a hookup. Although her body was sending her clear, opposing signals. Ones that urged her onward, made her want to flirt, to drink, to drag him home with her. She shook her head, and by the time he’d addressed his loud-mouthed table-mate, she’d managed to escape into the crowd.

  Four hours later, she and Marlo sat with shift drinks in hand. Her collision with Mr. Perfect earlier, combined with one kid and his milkshake, plus a drunk couple arguing at the bar, meant she’d had to change her shirt. The restaurant’s logoed tank top wasn’t quite as tacky-sexy as her uniform, but it came damn close. But at least it didn’t reek of her life’s sadness, like the damp halter she’d stuffed into her backpack.

  The rest of the staff had completed their closing tasks and gone, many of them planning to meet up later at a local dive bar that catered to the late-night service crowd. She and Marlo were in the process of talking themselves into joining them, while Marlo flirted with the cute new bartender.

  “Oh hey, man, sorry, but we’re closed,” cutie bartender said to someone the split-second Kayla felt a full-body chill that had nothing to do with the door being open.

  “I know.” A voice that was somehow familiar and not at the same time hit her ears, drifting into her brain and filling it like so much fog. She closed her eyes. Marlo nudged her leg. When she didn’t respond, she got a smack on the arm for her trouble.

  “Ow, bitch,” she said, glaring at her friend while ignoring the presence of the man who’d sent her into such a stupid tailspin earlier.

  He’s come back.

  He’s actually come back.

  She rotated on the barstool’s vinyl seat and leaned against the bar with both elbows, appraising him. He had his suit coat slung over one shoulder. His crisp blue dress shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, silky tie loosened but still knotted. She allowed herself a few seconds to peruse his facial features. Eyes, huge and too blue to be true. Lips, fuller than any man had a right to possess. Nose, ever so slightly imperfect, as if it had been broken.

  He smiled in a sort of slow, lazy, I-know-you’re-checking-me-out sort of way that made her scalp tingle. She frowned at him. “What do you want?”

  “Jesus, Kay,” Marlo said in a loud whisper. “What’s up your ass?”

  But Mr. Hot Stuff was nonplussed. He stuck a hand into his pocket and cocked one hip, looking way too adorable for a grown man. “Yeah, Kay, what is up your ass?”

  She hopped off the barstool and wandered over to him, letting her hips sway more than was necessary, but after minimal food and a couple of beers she was feeling no pain. “You just think you can wander back in here, like so much sex-on-a-stick and I’ll follow you anywhere?” She was shocked at herself.

  Kind of.

  But not really.

  He shrugged. “Maybe.” He leaned into her ear. “You game?”

  She closed her eyes, loving the sensation of his hot breath on her neck. “I don’t even know who you are,” she insisted, every inch of her skin on fire with something that scared her, even as it drove her to keep her body closer to his than was appropriate.

  “I’m J.D.—Jon David. And I came here tonight to find you.”

  “You did, huh?” Kayla’s mind reeled, but he smelled so … good. And he was so … gorgeous. She took a deep breath, then a big step back and away from him. “And what in the world might a guy like you want with me?”

  His smile widened and he held out an arm. “Let’s go get a drink somewhere … else, and talk about it.”

  “Dude, you could be the next Ted Bundy for all I know. I am not going anywhere—”

  “Oh my freaking God, you’re J.D. Baxter!” Marlo squealed.

  Kayla whirled around to stare at her friend. “You’re drunk,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No, seriously, Kay, that’s … he’s … I mean…”

  Kayla frowned. Marlo was not the tongue-tied type. If anything, she was the type who always had something funny or sassy to say in any situation. She sensed her face flaming as she stared at Mr. Awesome—J.D.—again.

  “He’s the guy who owns the sports station. The one with the women.”

  “Oh, right,” Kayla said, crossing her arms over her breasts. “DSN. You’re the sports chick harem guy.”

  J.D. frowned. A couple of lines formed between his brows, making her want to rush over and press her fingertips against them. Then to let them trail along his square jaw, to let the stubble tickle her cheek.

  Oh boy. This was bad. She needed to exit this scene, and fast.

  She lifted her chin, waiting for his response before she bolted.

  “I’m not a harem guy. But I did found and now run DSN, Detroit Sports Network and yes, all the sportscasters and color commentators, plus a majority of the producers and support staff are female.” His low, growly voice sounded ever so slightly defensive. His lips remained downturned as he fixed her with that intense blue stare again. “And I’d like to buy you…” He glanced around her to where Marlo was still perched on her barstool. “You and your friend, a drink.”

  Kayla heard Marlo’s sharp intake of breath.

  J.D. crossed his arms, mirroring her stance. “Can I get a break here, or what?”

  “Why did you want to meet me?” Kayla insisted, already relenting in her head, already jumping several steps ahead and picturing him—feeling him—naked and in her arms.

  “I’ll explain that when we get out of here.” He held out an elbow. “If I may escort you and your friend? I know a place…”

  Chapter Two

  Kayla stood fast—too fast as it would seem. The room did a lurching three-sixty so she sat back down hard, biting her tongue in the process. Her would-be hero sat with his arm draped over the back of the booth, watching her.

  God, but he smelled so good. She leaned in close, then away, which made the room spin. She was drunk. She knew it. She also knew she should get up and walk out of here alone, now, before she made a grievous life decision error.

  "I’ve heard something about tequila and clothing," he said, picking up the shot glass and a lime slice. He raised a light brown eyebrow while she tried very hard not to launch herself across the tiny table at him.

  Marlo wandered over, hanging off the cute bartender guy’s arm. The Alley Bar, where they’d all ended up, was dim, dark, and about as divey as they could go. The patrons were a mix of neighborhood regulars and service workers. Oh, and plus this guy. Her odd-yet-perfect companion for the evening.

  She glanced over at him to find not exactly to her surprise that he was staring at her. She flopped back in her rickety seat and took another shot of booze, chasing it with a squeeze of lim
e, never taking her eyes off his.

  The whole thing felt way too surreal, and now she was polluted drunk, thanks to all the tequila shots. But her booze-addled brain was making the stupid fly out of her mouth, on some kind of defensive mode.

  "You do this a lot, do you? Pick up sorry ass waitresses and ply them with tequila so you can—?"

  J.D. leaned forward so fast she couldn't move even if she’d wanted to and laid the sort of knee-melting kiss on her that was the stuff of Marlo's favorite sex novels.

  Of course, I am drunk, so what do I know from good or bad kisses?

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him pull her to her feet, never breaking their lip lock. Nothing existed but him and his mouth. Well, plus the hand sliding up her bare arm to cup her neck as his other reached around her ass to pull her closer.

  A girl could get used to this, she thought, dreamy and listing to one side even as he broke the kiss and stared at her, his hands cradling her face like some kind of TV hero. She spent a few seconds trying to make his two faces form back into one without much success.

  He leaned in to take her lower lip between his teeth which tipped the whole too-good-to-be-true thing into uncomfortable territory.

  She pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. “Wait, you said you came to find me tonight. You never told me why.”

  “I wanted to see if you’d be willing to—”

  “You know what, never mind.” Kayla turned and tugged him toward the door. Even as she was doing it, she felt as if she were watching someone else giggling and stumbling around on a deserted sidewalk with J.D. Baxter, ex-football superstar, now owner of the newest, buzziest, most successful sports networks since ESPN had opened their broadcast doors.

  They crashed out into the alley, all hands, lips, teeth, and tongues. “Wait, wait,” he said, pulling away, wiping his lips, his eyes shining. “I can’t … I mean, I want to but … you’re kind of drunk.”