Escorting the Player (The Escort Collection Book 3)

C
opyright
© 2016 by Leigh James.

Published by CMG Publishing, LLC

Cover Design © 2016 by Cormar Creations

Editing by Theresa Cole at
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and Dana Waganer at
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C
HASE

I was just about to head to practice when my phone buzzed.

I groaned. My wife, who was a
magna cum laude
graduate of Brown University, was texting me about the state of our marriage…and the texts were written in sixth-grade gibberish.

Just fucking perfect.
She was leaving me this time for "realz". As for the rest of what she'd said…I had no idea what it meant.

This was my team's first day back and I didn't have time for this. Still, I had to do damage control. If there was one thing I'd learned, it was that Jess would not be ignored. I took a deep breath and headed to the bedroom, where I found her. She was playing with her long, dark hair and inspecting what appeared to be her entire wardrobe, neatly assembled on the bed next to an open suitcase.

"What do you want?" she asked. She sounded bored.

"Just thought I'd check in," I said, leaning back against the wall and crossing my arms against my chest. "Since you're leaving me and all."

She didn't look at me. "I told you I wanted that show. Since you pulled the plug, I've just been sort of…done."

"I know you're disappointed. But the timing wasn't right, just like the timing's not right for this." I jerked my chin toward the suitcase. "Let's sit tight before we make any decisions, okay? We just need to get through this season—it's important to me and you know it."

"That show was important to me and
you
knew it. I just wanted something for myself, for once." She started filling her Louis Vuitton suitcase with thousands of dollars' worth of clothes and I struggled to feel sorry for her.

"Are you serious?" I asked. She'd threatened to leave me so many times, I'd lost count. The packing was a first, though. She'd never actually packed.

It's not like I want her to stay.
It's just not a good time for her to leave. This was my season, dammit. I needed it to be perfect.

"You don't have to pretend to care," she said, carefully refolding a sweater. "If that's what you're doing."

I sighed. Maybe there wasn't ever a good time for your wife to leave you. But I was coming up on my final season as a quarterback for the New England Warriors. I had to focus on my team, not on the personal drama that was unfolding—or actually,
was
folding—in my bedroom.

"What do you want?" I asked. There had to be something. Her list of demands had kept growing—from an engagement ring, to a huge wedding, to a tricked-out Jaguar F-Pace and a ten-thousand-dollar a week spending allowance. And then the series. She'd
really
wanted the series, but I'd said no. I couldn't put myself on public display like that. It was bad for the team and for my reputation.

She was still having a temper tantrum about it.

Jess sighed. "It's too late now. And we should at least be honest with each other. We've been over for so long, we need a new word for over."

"I don't want you to do this."

She finally looked at me, her Botox-laden upper lip struggling to raise itself into a look of disdain.
She'd been so pretty when I met her.
"I'm sure you don't—it's inconvenient. But we both know it's not because you care about me. You don't care about anybody… Not even yourself."

I ran my hands over my closely cropped hair. "You're being crazy. What the hell are you even talking about?"

"I'm talking about football, Chase." She rolled her eyes. "That's the only thing you love. It's taken me this long to figure it out. Excuse me for wanting something more out of life."

Dismissing me, she went back to packing.

I numbly watched her. When I'd started dating Jessica, she'd fawned over me. She used to make me green smoothies. She used to give me massages…and hour-long blow jobs.

I'd confused that with being a nice person.

In retrospect, that was a reasonable mistake. You can think a lot of stupid things when you're getting a blowjob. But as soon as the ink was dry on our marriage license, it'd been all about Jess. No more smoothies. No more massages. She was too busy shopping and getting "refreshed" by her plastic surgeon. She only blew me when she was about to ask for something outrageously expensive. As soon as her mouth started heading for my happy trail, I knew to reach for my wallet.

She'd trained me well.

I'd been blind. A dumbass thinking with his Johnson. Being a professional athlete, I should've known better, but I'd honestly thought she loved me. Because who wouldn't, right?

This is where being a cocky son-of-a-bitch broke down.

Jessica didn't love me. She loved the limelight, the clothes, the big house. Once I figured that out, I'd put up with it because I was trying to keep things on an even keel. I needed to focus on my career. Now she was packing up her four-thousand-dollar suitcase to leave me right before the most important season of my life was about to begin.

And I just stood there, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

A
VERY

"Lila." I nudged my sister's sleeping form, which was sprawled out across my bed.

"Stop," she mumbled and rolled over.

"You're supposed to go to work. You have to get up."

She either pretended to not hear me or couldn't hear me, I didn't know which. She'd been out until the early hours of the morning, doing God only knew what. I looked at the clock—she needed to be in Harvard Square in twenty minutes.

"Lila. Please. Rent's due, remember?"

She pulled the covers over her head and ignored me. She was going to get fired from yet another job. This one was Jamba Juice. The last one was Starbuck's. She'd gone from getting and losing jobs in the city's high-end restaurants to getting and losing jobs in the city's chains. She was so pretty, with her long, wavy blond hair and perfect skin, that she often got hired on the spot.

Then the trouble would start.

I looked at the five-foot-six, one-hundred-thirty-pound pile of trouble hiding under the blankets on my bed. Even though Lila was my older sister, I was the responsible one. I was the one who'd always taken care of her, even before our mother died. But she didn't seem to appreciate it. She treated me like a nagging, over-protective parent—except when she was trying to wheedle an allowance out of me.

I went out to the tiny kitchen and grabbed the portable safe I'd recently bought. I hated to spend the money on it, but I didn't trust my sister with cash in the house. I entered the combination and counted the money inside. One thousand dollars, courtesy of my last assignment.

Our rent was due in two days—nine-hundred ninety-five dollars.

It looked like I was going to be eating five dollars' worth of Ramen noodles—and
only
five dollars' worth of Ramen noodles—for the foreseeable future.

At least all my hooker clothes would fit.

Way to find the upside, Avery.

I bit my lip, thinking of my hooker clothes.
Escort clothes.
The madam had lent me two outfits for the assignments I'd done. One was a mini dress and thigh-high boots. The other was a filmy black dress that my tits had practically hung out of, much to the delight of the John.

I was going to have to call Elena again. I needed another assignment, fast. I didn't want to do it—not calling her, not
any
of what happened after that. But I'd made thirty dollars on my last waitressing shift. Our landlord had already started eviction proceedings against us twice. And since Lila didn't appear to be getting out of bed anytime soon, and I didn't want to start sleeping in a cardboard box on the sidewalk next month, I didn't really have a choice.

I checked the time. If I could get Lila up and throw some clothes on her, she might only be ten minutes late for her shift. Maybe it was salvageable. I hustled back to my room, throwing the door open dramatically, hoping to rouse her.

But she was already awake. She was sitting up on my bed, smoking a joint.

"Jesus Christ, Lila!" I wailed. "Put that out and go to work."

She shook her head and exhaled, causing a greasy, gray cloud of smoke to hang over my bed. "You should seriously try weed, Ave. You need to chill."

My heart sank. She just didn't get it. "I
need
to pay our rent."

She shrugged. "So go call your agency. They paid you a ton the last time."

She inhaled again and I saw ashes fall onto my bedspread. I fought back the desperate urge to smack her. Or cry. "That's really nice, Lila. You go ahead—just stay in bed with your joint. Don't you worry about getting fired from another job. I'll go sell my body for money so you can
relax
. I'll take care of everything." My voice was dripping with sarcasm, but my sister looked largely undeterred.

"Promise me you'll take care of her," my mom said. "Some people just need…help. Your sister's one of them."

My sister who was smoking a joint on my bed, about to be fired from her fifth consecutive job.

Lila exhaled and coughed a little. "Don't be so dramatic," she said. "I mean it, Ave, take a hit."

I crossed my arms against my chest. "I'm about to hit
you
."

My sister giggled. "Don't be mean," she said, her voice turning into a whine, "I hate it when you're mean."

"Then don't force me into it." I sighed. "Seriously…can you
please
get dressed and go to work?"

Guilt flashed in her eyes. "The thing is? I don't actually
have
a shift today. Something happened with the manager, and I had to tell her to go to hell…"

I sighed, listening to Lila's latest tale of getting fired and how it wasn't her fault. But in the back of my mind, all I was thinking about was calling Elena.

I was going out on another assignment. Whether I liked it or not.

C
HASE

I drove to our first scheduled workout of the season, a dull headache throbbing as I navigated the highway. Eric, my best friend and agent, called me on the way in.

"How's my favorite client?" He sounded like he always did—as if he was cruising around Los Angeles, the sunroof to his SUV wide open, living the good life of a top talent agent.

"I've been better," I admitted. "I'm pretty sure Jessica's moving out today."

"Shut the fuck up," Eric said. "For real this time?"

I took the turn that would lead me to the enormous stadium. "Seems like it. She was packing when I left."

Eric let out a low whistle. "I don't know whether to say sorry or…yay."

"Ha ha." My headache got incrementally worse. "I don't know, either."

"Did you call Mickey yet?" Mickey was my attorney. The one who'd begged me two years ago to do a pre-nuptial agreement, an idea that Jessica had completely shot down with the aid of crocodile tears.

I laughed. "Not yet. He's gonna have a field day with this."

"He told you so," Eric said.

"You all did," I admitted.

"Even your Mom, dude. You should always listen to Martha."

I groaned. Of all the phone calls I was dreading, the one to my Mom was at the top of the list.

"She warned you."

My headache moved to between my eyes. "I know—okay? You don't need to be so sanctimonious. Last time I checked, you weren't exactly a relationship guru. It's not like your wife's perfect—oh wait, that's right, you don't
have
a wife."

"Neither do you, apparently." He started to laugh and I couldn't help it, I did, too. Then I thought about all the money Jess was going to be looking for and all of the shit she was probably going to start, and the laughter died on my lips.

"Talk to Mickey and call your Mom—not necessarily in that order," Eric ordered. "And buddy, I wouldn't tell anybody else about this if I were you. Let's see if Jess is there when you get back. If not, maybe we should think about getting out in front of this."

"Huh?" Eric was a schemer. He was usually two steps ahead of me in that department, which was why he'd made partner at a top talent agency at thirty years old.

"We should maybe leak something to the press," Eric explained matter-of-factly. "Let the story out a little bit at a time so we can control the message and the tone."

My gut twisted. This was not the sort of press I'd been hoping for this year. "Huh."

"Call Martha," Eric instructed again before hanging up.

I pulled into the parking lot at the stadium and took an Advil. It was still morning, but the day had completely gone to shit.

And it was about to get worse. I hit my mother's number. "Hey, Ma."

She clucked her tongue as soon as she answered. "Well, the world-famous quarterback remembers to call his mother for once. How's my favorite son?"

"I'm your only son," I groaned.

"Aw, honey, you're still my favorite boy. Just like your sister's still my favorite girl."

I steeled myself. "Well, your favorite son has some news."

"What's the matter?" She was quiet for a second, her mom-radar probably going into overdrive. "Is Jessica trying to get you to go to Boca Raton for the holidays again? I swear to God, Chase, if she pulls that this year—"

"She's leaving me," I interrupted.

My mother snorted. "If I had a dime for every time that ungrateful gold digger threatened to leave you…that'd be a lot of dimes, dear."

I grimaced. "She's packing, Ma. Feel free to say 'I told you so'."

"I
did
tell you so—and that's because I'm always right. But I'm still sorry." Martha seemed to consider the news for a moment. "So, who is it?"

"Huh?"

"The guy she's leaving you for?" She sounded as though she were being patient with me.

"What?" I asked, feeling dazed. "I don't think that's what's going on—"

"Jessica's not leaving you and your piles of money and your mansion in Wellesley because she needs personal space," she said, interrupting me. "Of
course
there's someone else."

I squeezed the bottle of Advil. I would appreciate it if my mother was wrong, for once.

"Don't you worry," Martha clucked. "No matter who it is, nobody's better than you. Anyways, good riddance to bad rubbish. I always thought that Jessica was like that Ursula from
The Little Mermaid
—she could make herself appear beautiful, but underneath it she was ugly.
Real
ugly. Like, run away screaming ugly. You remember Ursula, don't you, honey? The bad witch who was an octopus?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I groaned. "I never saw
The Little Mermaid
—"

"Oh, of course you did," she said, sounding exasperated. "And
Cinderella
, and
Sleeping Beauty
…you watched all the princess movies with me and your sister. Remember?"

"I gotta go, Ma," I said, holding onto the ibuprofen for dear life.

A
VERY

I called in to AccommoDating while I was on break at the
Sizzling Ranch
. "Hey. It's Avery Banks."

"Nice to hear from you again, Avery," Elena, the madam, said politely. "What can I do for you?"

"I need an assignment." I bit my lip.

"When are you available?"

"As soon as I'm done with my waitressing shift. I'm free tonight," I said. My stomach roiled with nerves.

"I'll see what I have coming in," Elena said smoothly. "I'd love to get you working some more. The other clients were very pleased with you."

"Thank you," I mumbled. I shoved the images of the other clients forcefully from my mind. Then I went back to work, my hands shaking.

A girl I waitressed with had told me about AccommoDating.

"My sister went to a wedding this weekend," Kylie had said, while we were cleaning the chain restaurant's equipment and readying for the day.

I'd smiled at her, trying to be friendly. "Oh yeah?"

"Uh-huh. She said it was high-class, all the way. She got flown to an
island
. In the
Caribbean.
All expenses paid. It was a bunch of billionaires or something." Kylie wiped down the soda machine and simultaneously tossed her thick, curly ponytail over her shoulder. "'Wouldn't
I
like to meet a billionaire', I told my sister. You know what she said?"

"No," I answered. I didn't know Kylie that well, but I liked her. She was always talking, always had a story to tell. I appreciated that. Her friendly chatter helped pass the long shifts at the restaurant.

Kylie moved on to the coffeemaker and wiped it almost violently. "She told me it'd never happen—that I'd never get a billionaire because I'm not pretty enough. And 'cause I talk too much."

I gave her a consoling look. "I'm sorry. It's not true—you're very pretty. It's just sister shit. I have one. She can be mean, too."

Kylie gave me a conspiratorial look. "Mine's a
hooker
," she said in a low voice. "So you'd think she wouldn't be such an uppity you-know-what, but she still is."

I was completely taken aback. "For real?" I asked, finally.

She nodded. "For real. I shouldn't say she's a hooker. She's an
escort
, is what she calls it. She gets wined and dined all the time. The wedding she just went to? One of her escort friends was the
bride
. She married a billionaire who was one of her clients."

"Wow." It was all I could think of to say.

"You should do it," Kylie said, nodding at me. "You've got the look. Perfect skin. Rocking body. All that blond hair and those big blue eyes. And you're quiet, unlike me."

I laughed, but it came out bitter and sharp. "I don't think I'm…qualified. Sexy isn't really my thing, you know?"

Kylie tossed her ponytail over her shoulder again. "My sister got paid ten thousand dollars for one night once," she said. "I think you could fake the sexy for that."

I felt my jaw drop. "So why don't
you
do it?" I asked, wondering if she was just teasing me.

She grunted. "Maya said she'd blackball me. She said I seriously talk too much and she doesn't want to be associated with me at work. But I'm not kidding, girl. If you want the number, I'll give it to you. Maybe you'll marry a billionaire and set me up with one of his friends. Or eventually put in a good word for me at the agency."

I shook my head. "I don't think I could do it. I'm too shy. And I'm not exactly, uh,
experienced.
" I felt my face flame.

"You're a
virgin
?" Kylie's eyeballs looked as though they might pop out of her head.

"No," I said quickly. "But I've only ever had one boyfriend. And he was pretty…vanilla."

"Think about it." Kylie shrugged. "I know you're broke. I've seen you stealing crackers to eat."

My face got even hotter. I
did
steal packages of crackers; I pretended that I had to go to the bathroom and stuffed them into my mouth as often as I could. I was always hungry, shaking from the emptiness inside me. Kylie had seen me. She'd known, and she felt sorry for me.

Being poor was so fucking humiliating.

"In case you change your mind," Kylie said. She scribbled something onto a cocktail napkin and slid it into my apron. "It'd be nice to be able to eat three squares a day, right? And it's
gotta
beat waitressing."

I'd pulled out the napkin after my shift. It had the name and number of the agency.

I didn't call for a few weeks. Not until Lila got fired from her third consecutive job and had started burning through my limited supply of cash at an alarming rate. There hadn't even been enough money for Ramen.

Hunger could drive you to crazy things.

And then there was my sister, who seemed to be getting even more adrift. She was my responsibility, my family. I needed to take care of her. I hadn't been able to save my mom, but Lila was going to be another story.
If only she'd cooperate.

So I called the service. I'd taken a couple of clients. Neither of them were that bad, but I'd still cried afterwards. It was just that I'd always tried to be a good girl. I'd tried to be a good girl my whole life, and still, I couldn't get ahead.

And it didn't seem to matter to anyone.

Except to me.