Fair Game: A Football Romance (22 page)

Chapter Two

Violet

Jerk Magnet

I set my shopping basket on the conveyer belt with a thump, looking at the contents with new interest. Mom was right. I should have written a list. All the way from San Diego to Oceanside, I continued to remember things I had forgotten to pack. By the time we got here, I knew we had to make a quick swing through
Target
before checking into the hotel.

Mr. Methodical has organized every item by size and color to fit perfectly in the bottom of the small shopping basket. Who does that? And in two seconds, the same amount of time it would have taken me to toss them all in there randomly. But no, he has systematically arranged them to look like a basket in a
Target
commercial . . . better, actually.

The longer I look, the more interesting this becomes. I’m a software programmer. I naturally look for patterns and similarities when I’m working on a project, and there is more than one trend going on here.

Vitamins and Ibuprofen are in one corner, body wash and deodorant in another—yeah, I forgot my damn deodorant. Contact solution and Band-Aids are nestled in next to shaving cream and razors, and most amusing is the placement of the tampons next to a box of condoms. I can’t help but chuckle at that one.

This week is going to be the perfect opportunity for a much needed one-night- stand.

I suck at relationships. I notoriously choose the worst guys possible. I’m a jerk magnet, pure and simple. My last boyfriend, Luke, had a serious case of wandering eye. The piece of shit would blatantly check out other women and even flirt with them when we were together. One year later, I got fed up and ended it. He admitted he was a cheater—yeah, big surprise—and he told me I was too laid back. So when did
not
being an uptight nag become a deal breaker? Before that, I was in several short relationships, never longer than six months, which was just long enough for me to become bored and unchallenged.

“What are you staring at, Vie?” Mom asks.

“Look at this, Mom. That guy has my stuff organized by color, package size and category. It’s interesting but . . . weird.”

She looks into the basket and tilts her head. “What made you notice that?”

“I just do,” I say and shrug.

“He’s probably a Marine. Did you see how well dressed he was? He was dressed like he gives a damn. Your father used to be organized like that, and a snappy dresser too.”

I look at her with one brow lifted high. “He may be a Marine, but daddy wasn’t this anal. He liked things in their place, but this . . . this is strange.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure. He was a
very
tidy man.”

My basket rolls away, and the cashier dismantles the work of art my crash buddy created for me.

“He was an ass,” I say.

“Your father? He was most certainly not an ass,” she says, defending my dad.

“No, Mother, the guy who crashed into me and got all OCD with my stuff.”

“Oh, well yes, I guess maybe a little. He was really hot though,” she says, fanning herself with the copy of
Glamour
magazine that she’s been thumbing through since we got in line.

“Oh my God, Mother, he was at least fifteen years younger than you.”

“So?”

I huff and ignore her. I don’t want to hear any more about my mother’s new interest in younger men. Her cougarism is so uncharacteristic of her, sometimes I wonder if she’s really my mom. She’s a very attractive fifty-year-old woman. Sometimes, people mistake her for my sister, but I can’t see her with anyone but my father.

Dad was twenty years older than Mom, and he’s been gone for three years, but no man will ever compare to Major General Lamar Washington. Ever. He was honorable, strong, courageous, and above all, loyal to his country and his family. He was a true Marine.
Semper Fidelis
.

“Oh Vie, I was kidding—well, kind of. He
was
gorgeous, but you know I’d never steal from your pool of potential suitors. I had the love of my life for twenty-five years. I’ll never find another like him, and I want nothing more than for you to have that kind of love too, honey.”

I’m not worried about her thinning the fish in the sea. Like I said, I’m not interested. I just want to find someone to have meaningless sex with this week—simple as that.

A gust of warm wind hits me in the face when we walk through the automatic doors. I squint into the sun when we step into the parking lot.

“Mom, if you date somebody that young, please don’t bring him home for Thanksgiving, okay?”

She shoves my shoulder with the palm of her hand as we load my bags into the car together and chuckle.

When we arrive at the hotel, we check in at the front desk and dump our bags in our room. We have ten minutes to get to the Marine Memorial golf course, where we are meeting the wedding party for nine holes of golf followed by dinner and, God willing, a lot of drinks.

In the lobby, we bump into my brother’s good friend, Kimber West. Kimber, my brother, Taye, his friend, Mattie, and I used to hang out in high school. I haven’t talked to her in a long time. She’s married to a Marine, and I heard she’s part of the wedding party, but she’s alone this afternoon.

“Hey, Kimber, how are you? My gosh, it’s been so long,” I say, side hugging the brunette bombshell.

“Oh hi! Gosh, I know. We need to do a better job of staying in touch.”

“I keep an eye on you through Facebook, you know,” I say, swinging two fingers from my eyes to hers in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

“Ah, that’s right. I heard you got your dream job. Congratulations.” Her genuine smile reaches all the way to her eyes, and she turns to greet my mother, “Hi, Mrs. Washington, how have you been?”

“Oh great, honey. It’s good to see you. Call me Lilly, though. Mrs. Washington sounds so old,” Mom whispers.

“Where’s Caleb? You guys must have gotten here early,” I say.

Kimber’s face falls when I mention her handsome Marine husband, Caleb.

“We’re divorced,” she says. Her eyes fill with tears, and I step in to hug her, muffling an apology into her thick hair.

“I’m so sorry, Kimber. I didn’t know.”

She hugs me tight and steps away sniffling. Mom hands her a tissue, and that’s when I notice the bump. It’s small but noticeable on Kimber’s slight frame. She’s pregnant. Her hands flutter to her tummy after she dabs at her eyes.

“It’s been a big change, but I’ll be okay. I’m just . . .” She tips her head back, trying hard to hold back the tears, but they start to flow, and I feel like I’ve torn a scab off a healing wound. I never saw anything on Facebook about her and Caleb getting a divorce, but then again, I don’t make it a habit to troll through my friends’ pages regularly.

Mom gathers her up into a comforting hug. She looks at me over Kimber’s shoulder with a question in her eyes and I shrug. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what’s going on. I can’t imagine Caleb leaving his wife, let alone leaving her when she’s pregnant. Maybe the baby is the reason for the divorce. Maybe Kimber cheated on him and she’s having another man’s baby. Maybe Caleb didn’t want to have kids. Maybe there’s something wrong with the baby.

About three hundred scenarios flash through my head before my mom and Kimber break their embrace.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I was past all this damn crying, but being here and seeing him again is harder than I thought it would be.” She wraps her arms around her waist above her pregnant belly, attempting to pull herself together.

I’ve had my heart stomped on and I’ve been humiliated by men, but all of my shitty experiences rolled up in one probably don’t equal the pain Kimber must be suffering.

“Don’t be sorry for crying. Come, we can go sit and talk for a while. It might do you some good,” I say, motioning toward the lobby.

“Oh no, no. I know you’re on your way to the golf outing. I don’t want to keep you. This weekend is about Mattie and Belle. I was going to try and play a hole or two, but I think I’d better go lay down for a bit instead.”

“For heaven’s sakes, Kim, we don’t mind missing golf to catch up with a friend,” Mom says.

“No, I insist. You’ll make me feel worse if you don’t go. I remember how much you love golf, Vie. Go have fun, and tell everyone hello for me, will you?”

“Of course I will, but are you sure? We could go sit in the restaurant and get something to eat.”

“I’m sure. Thank you though.”

Mom and I hug Kimber and watch her step into the elevator that will take her back to her room, where I imagine she will spend the afternoon crying. When the doors slide shut, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“My God, Mom, he left her and she’s pregnant.”

“We don’t know the whole story, honey. Let’s go. Maybe Caleb will be there and we can ask him what in the Sam Hill is going on,” she says.

“Okay, yeah. I think he’s a groomsman. I still can’t believe he’d do this. I can’t be held responsible if I kick him in the nuts, Mom.”

“Easy now, firecracker. Let’s hear him out before you do any nut kicking.”

On the way to the golf course, I keep trying to imagine how Kimber must be feeling. She’s alone and pregnant and sad, but one thought plays on repeat in my mind.

I’d rather start out knowing that I’m doing it alone with no expectations. If I’m relying on myself, then only
I
can let me down, and I know I wouldn’t do that. Relationships are poisonous. They’re wolves in sheep’s clothing. Everything starts out all sparkly and full of hope, and just when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, BAM! Somebody cheats, or they’re bored with you, or worse, both. And then there are the commitment issues and the baggage. It never ends. There are a million excuses to leave a relationship, and only one good reason to stay: true love. Since I don’t believe in it anymore, I’m sticking with myself.

Chapter Three

Major

Clean White Shirt

I don’t really want to go out. I almost changed my mind. But the thought of the toffee-skinned beauty on her knees at my feet in aisle four of Target flashed through my mind when I was in the shower, and my enthusiasm was reborn.

The house is quiet as I re-iron a pair of black slacks and a button down white dress shirt that are fresh from the dry cleaner. My housekeeper, Edith, finished scrubbing the kitchen floor quickly when she heard me come in from my run earlier. She was humming a Spanish tune that I have heard her sing a million times before, but as soon as she knew I was home, she went on her way without a word.

I stand in front of a full-length mirror, slide my arms into the crisp shirt, and button each button, paying careful attention to the thread that was used to sew the buttons onto the shirt. I’m a stickler about loose threads. When I’m finished and there’s not a loose thread in sight, I slide my black slacks off the ironing board and step into them, making sure not to put a single wrinkle in them. I grab my pristinely shined loafers and head downstairs.

At the door, I slip on my shoes and stop to adjust a vase on the credenza in the foyer to the right just a smidge and find a few loose petals on the glass. Edith is going to have to make a more thorough inspection before she finishes cleaning the house tomorrow.

After sweeping the floor, gathering the petals from the credenza and cleaning the glass, I adjust the vase once more and head out to the Blue Water Bar and Grill.

The smell of fresh fish and beer is heavy in the air when I step inside the restaurant. It’s unusually busy as I make my way past the hostess.

“I see my party. I’ll show myself back,” I say when she shoots me a questionable look. Izzy nods her head when she recognizes me and turns away, immune to my good looks and charm. I don’t take it personally. I come here often, and I happen to know Izzy is gay.

“Major!” They yell and hold up what looks like shots of tequila. I take the empty seat where a shot is waiting for me.

“Garcia, Davis, thanks for waiting to order,” I say.

“We haven’t ordered yet. These are
before
dinner drinks so they don’t count. Sit down and have a couple,” Davis says with a slur.

I don’t drink the shot. I’m a whisky kind of man. Instead, I catch the eye of a beautiful brunette waitress and crook my finger at her. She approaches out of breath, balancing a full tray of drinks.

“Hi, is there something I can get you, Major?” she asks. I don’t drink here often, but I do enjoy dinner on weeknights when the place isn’t swarming with weekend partyers and golf enthusiasts.

She recognizes me and bends so that I can speak into her ear.

“I’ll have the usual, and if you’re available, I’ll have you later,” I say.

She blushes a lovely shade of red and smiles before she moves away. “Of course I can do that for you. I’ll have that right out, Major Steele.”

The guys are sitting with their mouths agape, eyes full of admiration. Watch and learn, boys. You’re with the master tonight.

“How do you do that, man? It’s so unfair. We’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes, and she’s gone by once to drop off our drinks. We haven’t even ordered our food yet, and you come waltzing in here and she’s like a dog in heat,” Davis says.

“She knows me, and I’m better looking than you.”

“Ah, no, you didn’t,” he says.

“See, Garcia? I told you we shouldn’t invite overachievers. They’re no fun,” Davis says.

“I dunno, Davis. I think I like being associated with Major. If I can go home with a piece of ass like that, I’ll wait for my dinner all night.”

“That ‘piece of ass’ is mine unless I find another one sooner. She isn’t off work until they close, and I’m not interested in staying out late if I don’t have to.”

“Damn, Major, you’re not playing around tonight, are you? Ready to drag one back to the cave already,” Davis says.

“Yes, well I’m not planning on hanging out with you jarheads all night. I’m an efficient shopper. I can find what I want pretty quickly.” Shopping reminds me of Target, and Target reminds me of that curvy brown mind invader. Why does that woman keep cropping up in my thoughts?

Wendy the waitress has proven in the past that she can keep up with me in bed, even after a long shift on her feet serving food and drinks. She knows the deal—sex and nothing else—and that makes her a good choice, but I’m keeping my options open tonight.

Wendy breezes by and arches back when a large group tries to barge past her. She expertly balances her drinks, and I reach out to place my hands on her waist to support her. She looks down at me, her big blue eyes full of appreciation and a glimmer of desire, and I wink.

When she turns, I politely remove my hands while she passes out our drinks, saving mine for last. She stands close to my side, chatting with the boys and getting their food orders. She absentmindedly adjusts my tumbler of
Black Label
scotch whiskey until it’s exactly where she knows I like it. I still move it a little to the left. That’s good service. I service her well, so she takes care of me.

Our food is delivered remarkably fast, and Wendy keeps the drinks coming at a steady pace. When we’re finished, we make our way into the packed bar, where the music is loud and the people are louder. There are a lot of Marines in the bar tonight. There are usually a lot of Marines in Oceanside, but they’re especially thick in here tonight.

Wendy blocked off a section for three at the end of the bar with a perfect view of the entire place. She’s an exemplary employee, one of Blue Water’s best. Davis, Garcia and I take a seat and the bartender takes our order.

“Damn, thanks for the VIP seats, Major,” Garcia says.

“You can thank Wendy for that. She takes good care of me.”

“I think every woman within a ten-mile radius
takes good care of you
,” Davis says, holding his fingers up to make quotation marks.

“Well, I’m charming. What can I say?”

I scan the bar and notice that it’s full of younger women tonight. They tend to not understand the rules, but if I find one who doesn’t seem too clingy, I’ll consider her. If she can deal with sex being just sex with no strings, no exchanging of phone numbers and no cuddling, she’s a go.

The phone number thing is imperative. I don’t even bring my phone into the hotel room anymore after a crazy stalker got into mine. She called herself when I was in the shower. I had to change my number three times before I finally got rid of her.

I like to spend a couple of hours exhausting a woman in bed until she’s sated and her legs are Jell-O. When it’s over, it’s over, and we never see each other again. Unless you work in my favorite restaurant as a waitress, that is. Wendy’s an exception to my rules because she plays the game so obediently.

I lean my back against the wall at the end of the bar and look out over the crowd. No one in particular is catching my eye, but I do notice some fucking asshole groping a young girl who is making it very clear that she’s not interested in his advances. They’re standing in a small alcove where he’s all but got her cornered like an animal, and people are just walking by, intentionally paying them no mind.

My blood boils in my veins and my heart hammers against my ribcage. I’m on my feet and cutting across the dance floor before Davis and Garcia have a chance to ask me where I’m going.

I squeeze through the bodies on the dance floor, raising my arms over my head and turning sideways when some of them get too close. I would have much preferred to go around and avoid all of these sweaty people touching me, but a sense of urgency is driving me. The petite blonde cries out when the asshole presses her against the wall, but no one is close enough to hear her but me. The music is loud, and he’s got his pervert hand over her mouth now.

This guy is going to regret scaring this young girl. He’s not going to like what I’m going to do to him. I slide my thick forearm around his throat from behind, putting him in a headlock. His back is against my chest and I have the overwhelming urge to bite this fucker’s ear off. I could easily kill him. I’ve done it before in Iraq, but we’re not in Iraq now, and I have to follow the law that protects everyone, even scum like this guy.

This poor girl can’t be more than fifteen. She’s trembling from head to toe and tears are welling in her big brown eyes, ready to spill down her cheeks any second. How did she get into this position? How the hell did he get her alone?

“Unless that’s your baby sister and you’re trying to take her back to Mom and Dad, you’d better take your fucking hands off her right now.” My words are calm, cold and heartless. His body becomes rigid, and then he does the dumbest thing he could have chosen to do. He lies.

“She’s my girlfriend, man, back the fuck off,” he says, but the girl’s eyes are wild with fear as she shakes her head back and forth.

“I’m calling bullshit on that,” I say and tighten my hold on his throat. He gasps and groans while I consider crushing his esophagus. Garcia and Davis appear behind me.

“Major, sir, he can’t breathe,” Davis says.

“He doesn’t deserve to breathe.”

“Maybe so, sir, but he’s turning blue. I think you’ve made your point,” Garcia says, and I turn my head to the side and glare at him. Garcia’s face morphs from concerned to fearful when he sees the black hate in my eyes. He steps back, and I swing the idiot asshole around by the neck and shove him toward the exit.

“Make sure that little girl is okay and get her back to her family,” I say to Davis. He turns to the girl and begins to talk to her in a soothing voice as I move away.

I’ve already dragged him to the entrance of the restaurant when the little cocksucker starts to come around. He hasn’t learned his lesson yet. He starts thrashing around like a fish out of water, yelling that he’s being attacked, when the manager approaches us with a security guard.

“Evening, sir, how’s your night going?” I ask as if I weren’t holding a piece of scum in a headlock.

“Fine, Major Steele. What’s going on here?”

“Oh this?” I say, looking down at the cradle robber. “Nothing, just putting out some trash that was stinking up the place.”

He lifts one eyebrow and juts his chin toward the door, giving me his blessing, and I take the piss ant out and throw his ass down on the grass.

“Keep your hands off little girls, or I’ll cut them off. You’ll never touch one again or jerk off looking at their pictures on the Internet, you fucking pervert.”

He rolls over in the grass and groans with his hands around his own neck, panting. I’d like to kick him in the balls, but I don’t. I am a Marine. I have been for twelve years, and I am disciplined. I can keep myself in check, although this guy is really testing me.

I walk past the manager and his ‘security’ guard on my way back into the bar. “Keep an eye on him and don’t let him back in. He had a young girl cornered in the bar, manhandling her.”

I don’t stop to chat about what happened or give any details. I just join Davis back at the bar.

“Damn, Major, I thought you were gonna snap his neck,” Davis says.

“I wanted to,” I say. “Was she all right? Did Garcia find her parents?”

“Yeah, they were in the restaurant lobby looking for her. They were just about to announce that she was missing over the PA.”

“I should have made sure the manager called the police. That man is dangerous, and I don’t even want to think of what he would have done with that girl if he’d made it out of here with her.”

I’m a hard-ass fighting machine, but when women and children are in danger of being victimized, it makes me nauseous. I have a younger sister, and we had a very difficult childhood, to put it mildly. I was protective of her because I had to be. We weren’t even safe in our own home.

Garcia approaches, grinning from ear to ear, “You’re the man, Major. That guy nearly shit himself out there. They called the cops, but he ran off. I don’t know if they’ll find him. If he’s got any brains, he’ll run home to his mama and never show his face here again.”

The bartender appears and asks me if I need another drink and tells us all our drinks are on the house tonight. Davis whoops and Garcia orders two expensive foreign beers for himself.

“I’ll have another scotch—make it a double.”

“You got it, Major. Coming right up.”

“This night just got interesting,” Davis says.

This night just got dangerous. The adrenaline in my veins is still pumping, and I’ve had more to drink than usual. I’m not drunk—far from it—but I do need to relax and try to forget about the piece of trash that most likely got away. If he tries to hurt another innocent girl, it would be partially my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to break his neck so fucking badly, I could have waited for the police to arrive.

The bartender slides my drink across the bar and then a napkin with writing on it that says,
I love a hero. Dance with me?

“It’s from the lady at the other end of the bar,” the bartender says, and I look up to see where he’s pointing.

Standing with a couple of other women is a tall blonde who, by the world’s standard, is stunningly beautiful, but to me, she’s average. I prefer my women a little thicker and brunette, but she’s inviting me to dance and she appears to be available now as opposed to three a.m. when Wendy will be off work.