Lady Balls Read online

  “Will you stop it already.” He moved around the bed, into her personal space, and took her hand. She tried to resist, but he was stronger. He stuck a business card in her palm. “Call her. She’s an executive producer at the station. She’ll be the one managing the documentary. You know, the one I wanted you to be in?”

  “The documentary,” she said, slowly. “You really do have delusions of grandeur, don’t you? Think I’ll just jump at this, don’t you? That I’ll be one more hot chick traipsing around your office in my teetery heels and too-short skirt so you can eye-fuck me all d—hey!”

  His kiss shut her up. It was nice, but when he broke away, his eyes were stormy. “Not that I mind too much, but having to shut you up by kissing you might get old after a while.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t want me to shut up so much. Maybe you’re just a big old, white male, sexist pig oppressor.”

  He let go of her arms. Kayla was tall, nearly five-foot-nine flat-footed, but he was taller—close to six-foot-six. He was also model-level gorgeous. Truly a specimen, with a thick shock of dark blond hair, those aforementioned killer eyes, full lips, that busted nose which made him just this side of imperfect. His shoulders were ex-football player broad, and it was obvious he spent plenty of quality time at the gym.

  And he was rich, she reminded herself.

  He was stinking rich. And he was trying to offer her an opportunity to change her life. She understood that. But something in her kept chafing at it.

  “Call her,” he said, touching the tip of her nose with one finger. He glanced at her closet door. “And get something nicer to wear for when you meet her, maybe?”

  She fumed as he stuck his feet in his shiny, white patriarchal, rich-asshole shoes. He was grinning at her, relishing her fury, the giant douche-bag.

  She smiled and yanked the scarf off her hair, letting if fluff out around her face like she was some kind of Angela fucking Davis. She’d admit to taking comfort in the power she could exert over him when she saw his gaze flicker down her body and up again.

  “Whatever. I’ll see ya the next time you’re slumming it at The Grange,” she said, naming the overblown bar where she worked, where they’d met. She smacked his ass, just to make a point. They’d had fun. It was over now. He could go.

  He glared at her, looking peeved that she hadn’t jumped into his neat and tidy little fantasy with him. “I’ll be the one in the slutty shorts.” She breezed past him into the hall then into the miniscule kitchen. She made a show of putting on the kettle to boil water, sat at one of the mismatched chairs, crossed her legs, and fired up Marlo’s iPad.

  “What, no goodbye kiss?” He stood at her shoulder. The temptation to stand up, to let him take her in his arms, put her on TV, give her a job, buy her a car, and maybe a trip to the hair salon was so great she had to squeeze her eyes shut and set her jaw against it. When he touched her shoulders, she yanked away from him and flipped him off without allowing herself a glance upward. She kept staring down at the blank tablet screen until she heard the apartment door close behind him.

  Chapter Four

  “Please, don’t, not the light,” she begged in her best begging voice, holding a shaking hand over her tender eyeballs a few hours later. “Marlo…”

  Her best friend and satanically evil bitch roommate chuckled and walked past her. Her footfalls reverberated up and down Kayla’s spine, pounding on her delicate eardrums. She yanked the blanket up over her head, but it was so infernally hot under there she gave up and decided she’d take the sunshine stabbing her brain in exchange for fresh air, such as it was.

  “What did I tell you about tequila?” Marlo sang out from the kitchen. “And I know you didn’t eat much yesterday.” She reappeared, holding out a mug.

  “Leave me to die,” Kayla said, closing her eyes and scrabbling around for the wet cloth that had been her true best friend for the past hour or two. “And take whatever that is with you before I puke my pancreas up on your shoes.”

  “Drink this,” she insisted, not moving. “And please tell me why in the hell it smells like day-old IHOP in here?”

  “Don’t ask.” Kayla groaned and took the mug, sniffed the hot, ginger and lemon infused water and sipped, hoping to drive the smell of maple out of her nose.

  Marlo dropped into the second-hand string chair opposite Kayla with a sigh of contentment.

  She narrowed her eyes at the look on her friend’s face. “Do not even begin to tell me that you’re in now love with that bartender from work.”

  “I am totes in love with the bartender from work.” Marlo hugged her legs to her chest. “Or anyway, in lust. He was pretty awesome. Very talented down south, you know.”

  “Oh dear Jesus,” Kayla muttered, sipping and admitting that the concoction did, indeed settle her poor, abused esophagus.

  “No, seriously, he is … just … wow.” She sighed.

  Kayla groaned. “Well, I had a good time too.” She rubbed her eyes and made a concerted effort to recall much beyond that last shot of tequila and the sensation of J.D. lips on hers, the rasp of his stubble against her cheek. “I mean, I think I did.”

  “I sure hope you did.” Marlo stared at her, head cocked. “I mean, you and Aunt Jemima really did a number on the kitchen floor.”

  The doorbell sounded, making both women jump. No one they knew used that thing. It was probably a fire hazard anyway. “Can you?” Kayla waved, then dragged the no-longer-cool cloth back over her aching eyes to hide the fact that she was about to cry. She didn’t bother to wait and see if Marlo got up or not. It no longer mattered.

  She, Makayla Jean Franklin, former soccer superstar darling of the known universe, had gotten ass-face drunk with a total stranger in a suit, let him kiss her in some alley and again on the street in front of her building, and had wanted him to do more, a lot more. And had convinced him to do … whatever he’d done to her, despite his nice guy declarations.

  She sipped, then choked on it at the bright, white memory of … whipping cream. As in the kind you spray from a can. As in spraying it onto J.D.’s bare skin and licking it off. Her very own man-shaped dessert. “Oh God.” She sighed, eyes closed against the mortification of what she’d done. She’d be lucky if she ever heard from the man again.

  Now that her memory was helpfully heaving these little gems into her brain pan by the shovelful, she recalled it all—how unbelievably funny he’d been, but yet so god damn … hot. And those lips… She had never, in her entire somewhat experienced sexual life, been kissed like he had kissed her. She touched her lips, reliving it for a split second before forcing herself to let it, to let him, go. As he most definitely was—gone. Especially given what a morning glory she’d been.

  She shifted on the couch, not even relishing the pleasant soreness between her legs anymore. The words “hung like a horse,” hovered around her consciousness, making her even angrier. She clenched her jaw, which made her head pound worse. To combat it, she took long, deep breaths, channeling all the therapy sessions she’d endured after breaking her leg. Focusing on the sound of the creaky ceiling fan above her, Kayla forced herself to relax.

  “Holy shitballs, sister. You must have done something pretty special.”

  Kayla sat up, mouth agape, wishing that the evil hangover dwarf would stop hitting her in the temples with hammers, trying to figure out how a giant bouquet of expensive-looking, out of season flowers was walking around their apartment on what appeared to be her roommate’s legs.

  Chapter Five

  “Mr. Baxter?”

  “What? I’m busy here.” J.D. looked up from his past half-hour perusal of absolutely nothing on the desk in front of him and cursed himself for being an asshole to his new assistant. “I’m sorry, Matilde. I’m just … what is it?” He ran a shaking hand down his face and forced himself to get a grip. He had shit to do. Real shit. Not whatever the hell it was he’d been doing since laying eyes—and a lot more—on Makayla Franklin.

  Matilde, a slight wom
an of Hispanic descent, eyed him then touched her tablet screen. “How did it go with Makayla?”

  He flinched so hard at the sound of her name, his hand connected with his empty stainless-steel water bottle, which sent it clanging to the expanse of marble floors. It rolled until it touched the toe of Matilde’s practical, navy blue, work pumps.

  Without a word, she picked it up. “I’ll take this to the kitchen.” She waited a second. “So … it was a no go with Makayla.” She phrased it as a statement this time.

  “No. I mean … yes. I mean… Just … put a pin in that for now, okay?”

  “Okay. Should I call her myself? Perhaps schedule a tour? She could meet the new producer and—”

  She stopped when he put his hand up. “I’ll handle it. What else?”

  Without missing a beat, she moved on, like the pro she was.

  J.D. reminded himself that he was lucky to have her for the zillionth time, and to pull his head out of his ever-loving ass and get some work done. He’d messed up his first meeting with the woman he’d identified as the ideal focus feature for the station’s new documentary—the one he’d used to lure LeeAnn Thompson away from her former employer, a much larger production company than his.

  Messed up—a great way to think about it. Since that was exactly how he felt, after the bizarre, drunken encounter he’d had with her in lieu of anything resembling a business meeting about a sports documentary. He groaned and rested his pounding forehead on the desk, willing the moment back when he’d moved from interested in, to obsessed by, her.

  It was up to him to fix this. He still wanted her for the documentary project—he’d promised LeeAnn he’d get her for it. He and his still-fledgling TV station needed the cachet that something serious about women in sports would give him. It was time to bust through the wall of all the behind-the-hand snickering that still went on about him, an admitted former playboy NFL player, and his project—a sports station with all women in front of the cameras and almost completely behind them as well.

  Which meant, of course, that he had to put himself back in front of her—of Makayla. And he was a little afraid of what he might do if he found himself there again.

  “The MLS commissioner is on the phone again. He wants to—”

  “Yeah, I know what he wants. More god damned money.”

  “Yes, well…”

  J.D. glanced out of the window of his penthouse office, his mind already wandering in ways he’d never experienced, at least not when it came to women—or more precisely, a particular woman. He got up to pace the room “Anything else?”

  “Well, yes, actually. Your, ah—”

  “There you are!”

  J.D. winced and cursed his luck—or rather his lack of it, or perhaps better to curse his own stupid choices with women before he turned to face the music. “I asked you not to come here without letting me know first,” he said, keeping his voice level. His head felt foggy, his brain soft and mushy and full of one thing, one woman. A woman who was not the painfully thin one in her Dior suit and Jimmy Choos currently hanging out in his personal space.

  “I know, but she just had to come here and show you something. You know how she is.”

  J.D. locked eyes with Lisa DeAngelo Baxter, a one-time model and cheerleader who he’d had the extreme misfortune of knocking up while in his NFL rookie season. She was as gorgeous as ever, but in a brittle way he’d not taken fully into account that first heady year as a pro football player. She’d been angling for the Mrs. Baxter job, and he’d been warned about her. But he’d never paid attention to what anyone advised when it came to women, and he hadn’t been inclined to start then.

  To his detriment, of course. But for one thing.

  “Daddy!”

  He grinned at the sight of his daughter, Gwen. “To what do I owe this honor, Future Soccer Star?” He caught the girl mid-leap when she jumped into his arms.

  “She wanted you to see her new outfit,” Lisa said, taking a proprietary seat in one of the white leather chairs in his conference area. “God knows it cost a fortune. And now it’s got grass stains on it, but whatever.”

  “All right, let me inspect you.” He put her down, unable to stop grinning at the precocious six-year-old, kitted out in her new soccer club gear.

  She put her ball on the floor and propped one cleated foot on it, striking a fierce pose that gave him yet more hope that she wouldn’t succumb and turn into the pink and sparkly princess thing her mother kept trying to force on her.

  He’d agreed to marry Lisa before the girl’s birth, mainly because his mother would never have forgiven him otherwise. Thanks to his success in the league, they’d lived well for four years before he’d caught Lisa cheating on him with one of the assistant coaches. Their divorce was amicable enough. He had plenty of money to make sure she and the girl never lacked for a single thing. And he took his responsibility to ensure their creature comforts seriously.

  Lisa had taken to hanging around a bit too much lately, however. Using Gwen as an excuse to pop in, or to interrupt his life in other ways. She’d also been dating a former teammate of his, and made sure to post the requisite social media photos with the guy, knowing he’d see them. He had an entire staff of people paid to monitor the internet for any word about him, or his station, or the sports they covered, so he got daily reports about her flings, vacations, and rotating crop of paramours.

  “Daddy, you’re not paying attention to me.”

  He laughed and picked Gwen up, swinging her around to his shoulders.

  “Don’t do that, honey,” Lisa said, between checking her phone. “You’ll get your Daddy’s nice suit all dirty from your shoes.”

  “They’re cleats, Mama. Should I get down, Daddy?”

  He held on to her calves. “Nope. I like my suits dirty as long as it’s you making them that way. Want to go watch some TV in action?”

  “Yes! Yes! Let’s go!”

  “No, baby, sorry. We have to get home. Mama has—”

  “A date,” the girl finished for her. “Can I come home with you, Daddy?”

  He sighed and stared at the two of them reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk. “No, Gwen. Not today. I have a late night here and need to get ready for some big meetings tomorrow.” He set her down on the floor, his heart heavy at the sight of her watery eyes. He’d never considered himself fatherhood material, but this girl had caught him—hook, line, and sinker—from the get-go and he never shirked when it was his weekend to spend with her.

  “Next weekend, sweetie, remember? Daddy will have you over then.” Lisa leaned in to him, giving him a whiff of expensive perfume and desperation.

  He moved away from her, willing her not to make a scene here, in front of Gwen.

  “Mama misses Daddy,” she said instead, pulling the girl between them in a way that made him wish he had a dollar for every time she’d said that in the past month or two. She wanted something, he could tell.

  “Cut it out, Lisa,” he said, keeping his hands jammed into his trouser pockets in an attempt to keep his cool. “You promised me you wouldn’t do this.”

  She blew out a breath. He studied her for a few seconds, right before forcing himself to recall how she’d nearly brained him with a chunk of expensive crystal when he’d demanded a divorce. He’d sworn off monogamy at that moment, and had enjoyed the next few years, fucking his way through the legions of women who’d turn up at games, hover outside various locker rooms, linger around his hotel doors—never once without sporting at least one condom, of course. The day he’d left the NFL, thanks to one final concussive sack, had been the day he’d decided to leave that life behind as well.

  “Daddy, pay attention!”

  He crouched down to meet his daughter’s deep blue gaze.

  She had her lower lip stuck out now and her arms crossed over the club logo she’d been so proud to show off to him earlier.

  He tugged at her lip until she giggled, then smiled. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.
I have some work to do next weekend. Will you mind hanging around here a little next Saturday?”

  “I love it here!”

  “I thought so.” He rose and met Lisa’s gaze. “Nice to see you as always, Lisa. Now if you don’t mind…” He pointed to the open door. His chest ached and his head was pounding like it always did when he was faced with the error of his early days in the league. The error that had led to the one thing in this world he gave a shit about, of course. But right now, his skin was crawling with anxiety and frustration, and thanks to his new-found obsession with Makayla, it was a thousand times worse.

  He clenched his jaw against Lisa’s fingertips as they grazed it, and then his lips, before she kissed him in a way that used to work with him. Damn women. Damn women will be the death of me, he thought as he dropped into his Eames chair and tried to train his focus back on what mattered.

  After an hour, he gave up and touched a button on his desk.

  Matilde appeared at his summons.

  “I need a massage,” he barked. “Give Jill a call. See how soon she can be here.” He leaned back in his seat and propped his Ferragamos on the glass top desk, already anticipating the massage. It was one of the many perks he’d allowed himself to enjoy since purchasing the old news station, spending a minor fortune renovating everything, and launching his dream business. While he’d been fighting the uphill battle against gossip and sniggering nay-sayers for the last three years, he felt pretty damn good about it.

  But he needed to close the deal on this documentary about women’s professional sports for this year’s Emmy season, bad. His own weak knees about seeing Makayla again be damned. She was the key to the whole thing. It was time to put on his big boy pants and get this done.

  The door opened, revealing the woman who would provide him with the one thing he needed to get through the rest of the day. “Hiya, J.D.” she said, as she set up her table.

  “Hey, thanks for coming on short notice.”

  “Of course. You’re my favorite client after all.” Her dark eyes twinkled.