Knox (Sexy Bastard #3) (6 page)

“What team then?” Ruby asks, startling me out of my reverie.

I name the first one I can think of—actually the only basketball team I can think of off the top of my head, the Philadelphia 76ers. He was in town for the night, I add, getting into the story now. We hooked up all weekend, but he’s all the way up in Philly, so, you know, boo-hoo, I will never see him again.

Cassie leans back in her chair, tilting her head at me with a sarcastic expression. “Shelb, Philly isn’t in another galaxy. If your chemistry was that crazy, it’s probably worth getting on a plane sometime and seeing if there’s something else there.”

“Hell yes, and even if there isn’t—no shame in flying over a couple of states for a tune-up,” Savannah adds.

I shake my head. “No, we’re not . . . we’re not going to be seeing each other again.”

I look down at my knees, knowing I need to explain myself. And then it comes to me—a twist that explains why I can never, ever see him again. Only problem with this particular detail is it clocks in pretty low on the scale of truthiness. One hundred percent false, to be precise. Plus, if they ever find out who it really was . . . 

They won’t
, I tell myself. Then I take a deep breath and dive headfirst into the lie. “Turns out the son of a bitch is engaged—a fact he just didn’t care to mention at the time.”

“Oh god,” Avery groans. “That’s awful, Shelby.”

“Who is this jerk?” Savannah asks with real anger in her voice. “Did he even give you a name?”

“It’s gotta be either Ken Oransky or Jeremy Jonas—the only two 76ers who are currently engaged.” Shit, Cassie is a huge basketball fan, I should have remembered that.

Savannah jumps up, grabbing her phone. “Which one is it, Shelby? I’m not above leaving anonymous comments on a cheater’s social media feeds. We may not be able to sue the SOB, but we can take him to task in the court of public opinion.”

Oh shit.

I underestimated how quickly the tale of a misbehaving man could turn my crew into a pack of vigilantes. I look around and see my girlfriends practically bouncing up and down, almost gleeful in their zeal to punish this made-up scumbag for the crime I invented.

Shit shit shit
. I cannot let this ruin some poor innocent guy’s life too. Not to mention my reputation, if they actually act on this.

“Guys,” I spit out, thinking fast, “as a PR professional working in sports, I cannot let this get out. If it ever came back to me, it would be career suicide, seriously.”

I hold my breath, while Cassie and Savannah continue to scowl at their phones. My heartbeat thuds in my throat, practically audible over the sound of the collective held breath in the room. If they don’t buy this, I’m going to have to tell them the truth. No way around it. Would they forgive me?

“She’s got a point,” Cassie says, finally, after what feels like eternity. “Trashing a professional basketball player’s image and possibly ruining his relationship isn’t exactly a public relations win.”

“Ugh,” Savannah groans, “fine. I’ll lay off. But let the record show that I’m extremely pissed off at this jackass.”

Phew.
The vigilantes are standing down. I take a grateful, guilty sip of my wine.

“But now it’s even clearer that we have
got
to find you a better situation,” Cassie adds. “If you have a taste for athletes, why aren’t you going after one of those cute
single
Falcons on your roster?”

I wrinkle my nose, relieved to be moving on from the topic of New Year’s. “They’re a little bulky for my taste.”

“I don’t know, I’ve spotted a couple of tight ends in the huddle.” Ruby winks. “And I’m not talking about football positions, y’all.”

“We caught that, Ruby.” Cassie snorts.

“Maybe things will get spicy at your event this weekend.” Savannah swirls her wine around in her glass as if she’s a super villain plotting her latest takeover.

“Highly doubtful,” I mumble. “Don’t forget that my overprotective older sibling will be around to cockblock any potential love connections I might come across.”

I swear that guy has a way of smelling any potential action that’s coming my way. It’s a wonder Jackson didn’t sniff out the fact that something was going on between me and Knox up on that roof deck on New Year’s. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him somersaulting over the building with a fire extinguisher, ready to douse even the tiniest spark.

Big Brother really
is
watching, in my case. And Little Shelby is getting pretty freaking tired of being kept under lock and key. I think that’s part of why I went ahead with the whole Knox sexcapade, in a way. Maybe some part of me wanted to punish him for keeping too tight of a watch over me.

It’s not that Jackson doesn’t want me to be happy. I understand his protective instincts better than anyone.

They come from the worst day of both of our lives. The day that changed everything, forever.

Eight years ago, my freshman year of college. The day my cell phone started buzzing with urgent texts from Jackson in the middle of my late night econ study group. I stepped outside to call him back, and the world as I knew it flipped on its axis.

The road was icy. It almost never snows down here. It’s not like we have a ton of practice driving on that.

Mom and Dad had been out late at a party. Dinner at Joan and David’s. Dad was DD-ing, he hadn’t even had a glass of wine, even though Mom teased him that he could probably handle that and the ten-minute drive to our house. Dad was a stickler like that. Always played by the rules.

They left Joan and David’s at nine-thirty, with Mom promising to send Joan a note about dinner next week when they got home.

They never made it that far.

One bad patch of black ice and a few sirens later, Jackson was sitting in a hospital waiting room calling me, while the doctor offered him a cup of coffee, tissues, anything.

We were orphans.

From then Jackson and I were attached at the hip, the lone survivors of our tiny nucleus. I took a semester off from school to grieve, help Jackson sort through Mom and Dad’s things, pull myself together. We found out that our parents’ finances weren’t quite so stable as they’d seemed. After selling off assets to pay their debts, there was just enough left over to float half of my tuition,
if
I took on a sizable loan to boot.

I would never have made it through the next three and a half years without Jackson’s support. Emotionally and financially. Without even discussing it, he started covering my food and expenses, stepping into the caretaking void left by Mom and Dad. Every time I felt in danger of drowning in the chaos of my grief, he was the person I’d reach out to. The stable, steady voice on the other end of the line. The grownup in my life.

How he held it together, when he was grieving as badly as I was, I’ll never know. But I will be eternally grateful for him pulling me out of the hole I fell into that night.

But now? Things have changed. I’m no longer a college student. I’m a grown woman. I have a life of my own. A great career, an apartment I pay for.

And I’ve got needs, dammit.

I sneak a peek at my phone as the others debate whether to download the newest Jennifer Lawrence rom-com or settle in for our two-hundredth Bridget Jones viewing. I act like I’m just checking my email, but to be honest, I’m checking on the charity gala attendees.

Because Savannah’s suggestion has me thinking. Not about the action I could score from footballers at my event on Saturday—god knows I’ve got enough bad ideas going on as it is.

No, I’m thinking about an even worse, more dangerous plan.

After all, Knox and I are friends now. And friends go to other friends’ charity events, right? Especially ones that are supporting a good cause. And which will already be full of professional athletes.

Hell, it would be a huge opportunity lost if I
didn’t
ask Knox whether he might be able to wrangle some teammates into coming. My friends would probably find it more suspicious if I didn’t invite him, wouldn’t they?

Mentally, I tell myself that’s all it is. Good business. Athletes are generous donors, and this is an important cause.

Physically, my body won’t let me forget the way his hands felt gripping my ass as he lifted my legs around his hips. Or how his cock felt when he thrust into me that first time, filling me so tight I could hardly stand it.

Hell, even sitting in the car with him, his skin practically left burn marks on mine when he touched my leg, my arm, my hand.

But it’ll be fine. Jackson will be at the charity event. I’ll be working. There’s no chance we could get into trouble even if we wanted to.

We do
, my traitorous sex drive reminds me.

But hell, if we survived that car ride last week? We can make it through anything.

I
’d rather be kicking
it at my new place with some pizza and a six-pack. Instead I’m stuffed into a starched tux, awkwardly balancing a plate of miniature lobster rolls and a glass of bubbly as I sign autographs for a couple of Atlanta silver-hairs.

If there’s anything a professional athlete loves more than eating puny portions of food while wearing uncomfortable clothes, I don’t know what that is.

Oh wait. Literally anything else.

But I owe Shelby a favor for that crosstown real-estate tagalong, and this is how she decided to call it in.

Okay, I can’t say that’s the
only
reason I agreed to come. Watching her ass sway in her slinky, skin-tight party dress definitely has an appeal. Not to mention seeing her in full pro form, the bright sparkle in her eye as she tosses her long hair this way and that, chatting up the players, expertly borderline-flirting while still maintaining her dignity as she accepts the checks they’re passing over to her for the donation fund.

I’ve watched more than one guy, halfway through chatting with her, hastily tear up the check he’d already written and dash out a new one—presumably for much more cash than he’d planned to donate.

She’s got a way with the guys, what can I say?

Though, when the defensive linebacker’s eyes linger a little too long on her assets after she waves him goodbye, and he exchanges a pointed
I’d tap that
look with one of his teammates, I have to clamp my fist around my champagne glass in order to resist the urge to smash it over his thick skull.

I think that’s enough bubbly for me tonight.

Deep breaths, Knox
. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her, let alone getting tempted into protective violence on her behalf. She’s not mine, after all. She’s free to hook up with whomever she wants. Who knows? Maybe meathead linebacker there is her type.

At least this event has given me the chance to break the ice with a few of my blockhead teammates—Derrick, Hunter, Johnny, and Rick Menks, the gruff outfielder who’ll be my best insurance when I pitch one of those meatballs right down the middle of the plate.

Not that I really give a rat’s ass what those tools think of me. But at least I want them to know that I’m not fazed by the juvenile hat bullshit.

I see them loading up their plates at the seafood buffet and give them a thumbs up from across the room.
Don’t forget to donate the required minimum $500, dicks
, I think as we exchange grins.

Meanwhile, their stupid hat videos have kept on coming, with no sign of my cap working its way back into my possession. I’m going to need that before pre-season starts, or they’re gonna be real fucking sorry.

Keeping an eye out for Shelby, I walk over to a corner of the room to eat my tiny gnome-sized portions of food in peace.
What is this
? I examine what appears to be a pink and white slice of cake, then take a bite.

Urgh. Salmon tartare.

I’m attempting to disguise the fact that I’m rolling up half this food to pitch into the trash, when an olive-skinned brunette in a backless emerald mermaid dress slides up beside me. Dirty martini. Legs up to her ears and the kind of perky little tits that don’t require much in the way of support. I can tell, thanks to her plunging neckline. I’m pretty sure she isn’t wearing any panties, either, judging from how low her dress dips down in the back.
Hello there.

“You’re Cooper Knox,” she says.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that, ma’am.” For some reason, my eyes dart across the room to locate Shelby. There, by the slot machines. Her plump lips curl around a shrimp, right before she bites into that juicy morsel, and I have to swallow hard, tearing my eyes back to the mermaid here.

Luckily she doesn’t seem to have noticed my inattention. “What are you doing at a gala for the Atlanta Falcons?”

“Maybe I’m looking to follow up my trade with a historic cross-sport switchover,” I respond.

“That would be quite a gamble.” She smirks.

“Well, it is supposed to be a gambling night.” I gesture at the blackjack tables and slot machines. And at Shelby, lighting up the room in a thousand-watt gold dress that’s almost a match for her personality. For someone with such a petite frame, she’s got a pretty stellar ability to fill up a room.

Just then, when I’ve been forcing myself not to look all night (well, as much as I humanly can resist), her eyes flash to mine. For a moment I freeze, a dog caught eying up the food he knows he’s not supposed to eat.

Then she flashes that grin in my direction for the first time tonight, and I swear to god I feel the jolt of it all the way into my crotch. Her head jerks sideways, just a fraction, but I understand what she means.

Come here
.

“Excuse me,” I say to the nameless brunette, with hardly a glance to spare. “Gotta go say hello to a friend.”

“See you around the neighborhood,” she says as she pops an olive into her mouth.

I’m a fucking moron.

Why am I walking away from a perfectly good prospect for a woman I can’t pursue as anything other than a friend?

On the other hand, how could I resist a summons like that?

I’m halfway across the room, to the corner where another footballer has caught Shelby up in a conversation, when Cash and Ryder slap my back in unison, both of them looking fairly ridiculous in their own monkey suits.

“Dude, why are you cockblocking your own game right now?” Cash jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward mermaid girl. “You just walked away from the hottest chick in this room.”

I beg to differ,
I think, but thankfully manage not to blurt out loud.

“Also the only chick in Atlanta willing to give it up to a former Yankee,” Ryder helpfully points out.

“Hey, don’t get mad at me because your shit got tied down and your days of playing the field are a distant memory.”

Cash snorts. “This what you call playing the field? More like letting the opponent walk. Looks like you could use some pointers from an experienced professional, bro.”

I let that one go. Over his shoulder, I’m firing
sorry
eyes in Shelby’s direction. Luckily, she seems to have finished up chatting to the most recent player, and she’s working her way in this direction.

“Hey, have you guys checked out the burlesque show yet?” Ryder interrupts, jabbing a thumb at the far corner of the room, where they’ve set up a small stage. A crowd has started to gather, and there’s already one girl out front strutting her stuff in a corset and garters.

“Burlesque,” Cash repeats. “Is that French for stripper?”

“No way. It’s a classic dance form. I mean check that shit out.” Ryder points, just as the dancer does a deep backbend into a flip that even I have to admit is pretty impressive.

Cash snorts. “Classic dance form. Is that what you tell Cassie when she catches you googling it at midnight?”

But Ryder just smirks. “Cassie’s the one who told me about it, actually. Don’t get jealous just because you’re uncultured.”

“If that’s culture, I’m fucking nobility,” Cash counters.

“Are you? I didn’t realize Savannah was a duchess,” I interrupt, unable to resist, even though I’d rather pull myself from this conversation and go rescue Shelby, who has been detained yet again, this time by the same defensive linebacker who was ogling her earlier. He’s standing way too close to her now, and from the annoyed expression on her face, she is not into it.

I’m opening my mouth to excuse myself when I hear Jackson’s name. Speak of the devil—or rather, think filthy things about the devil’s sister.

“Where’s Jackson?” I ask, a little too quickly.

Ryder and Cash both lift their eyebrows at me. “Wow, you missed that whole thing, didn’t you?” Cash says, laden with sarcasm.

Shit.
He’s right, I stopped listening entirely. “Uh, no, I just meant—”

But it’s too late. Ryder’s sidling up to me and following my gaze. “Okay, which one were you scoping out? Hottie in the red?” He points at a brunette standing just a foot away from Shelby. Way too close to the mark for comfort.

“I was watching the show,” I admit with a grimace, pointing at the distant stage.

It is rather distracting, I gotta admit, now that a full troupe of twelve dancers have swung onto it in full football regalia, doing a kickline as they strip off one pad at a time.

Cash rolls his eyes. “You’re hopeless. Anyway, Jackson skipped out on us. Figures, the bastard guilt-trips us into coming by talking about how important it is for his little sis, then he doesn’t even bother to show himself.”

“The fuckin’ nerve,” Ryder agrees, though good-naturedly enough, since he does seem to be enjoying the fourth martini he’s downing.

“What’s his excuse?” I ask, trying to play it cool, though my pulse is galloping. No Jackson = no big brother watching over Shelbs = no one to get suspicious if she and I happen to rendezvous somewhere a little more private . . . 

“Eh, private audience with some big-shot investors. Multibillionaires, million-dollar deals, yadda yadda.” Ryder breaks off mid-sentence to beam at someone behind me. “Hey, great party, Little Shelby!”

I whip around as fast as possible without dislocating something, and sure enough, there she stands, just inches away from me, her gold dress even tighter and hotter from this angle, since I’m tall enough for a tantalizing view of the low neckline.

On the other hand, I much prefer her tits free of fabric. It’s the only way you can really appreciate her pert little nipples, and the fistful of juicy breast around them.

“Hey, you guys made it!” Shelby flashes grins at all of us, though her glance at me is particularly pointed. Oops. I think she caught me checking her out. “Thanks for coming,” she adds, her voice darker this time. Warning.

“Sorry to hear Jackson couldn’t make it,” I reply, with a faint smile to indicate that no, I am far from sorry to hear he’s absent tonight.

“He what?” Her voice sharpens, if possible, even further. “I thought he was with you guys.”

“Ohhh shit, now you’ve done it,” Ryder hisses, in what he thinks is under his breath, but due to the amount of martinis he’s had, is an all too audible tone.

“He sends his regrets,” Cash interrupts, in an attempt to save the day. Way to give me all the pertinent details, guys. It’s not like they warned me Jackson hadn’t told his sister he’d be skipping out.

“He’s supposed to make a freaking speech!” she whisper-shouts, low enough that the passing party guests won’t be able to hear, at least. “In . . . ” Her eyes dart to the nearest clock. “Ten minutes. I introduce him as the architect who helped with the downtown renovations, he introduces our head coach Mike, Mike introduces Joe ‘Banjo’ Davis, our big-name star of the night—it’s a whole
thing
. Shit.” She’s got her phone out even while she’s ranting, texting someone. Probably Jackson, to flip out at him.

God, add insult to injury, why don’t you, Knox? First you bang the guy’s sister, then you sic her on him when he’s got a really good reason to have to miss an event that, understandably, she needed him at. “Maybe someone else can do it?” I suggest, clamping a hand over hers to stop her from panic-texting.

The moment our skin touches, though, I realize it was a mistake. Touching her in front of the guys was a terrible idea. Surely they must be able to see the way her pupils dilate, her hand starts trembling in my grip, and I can hardly stay on my feet, the urge to whip her against me and drag her out of this casino is so strong.

“No one else can do it; there isn’t enough time to prep anyone else, they’ll need speech notes, and they’d have to be a big enough name that we’d have a good reason for slotting them into the introduction lineup.” Her hand twists in mine, like she’s about to curl her fingers around mine.

I let her go like dropping a hot plate, but it was a moment too late, a moment too slow. Ryder doesn’t notice, thank god, drunk as he is, but Cash’s gaze follows our hands, and then wanders up to my face, a puzzled expression on his. I force a huge smile to cover. “Lucky for you I’m here, then, isn’t it?”

“You,” she deadpans, with a less-than-enthusiastic expression. Okay, so I didn’t expect her to be overjoyed about having to make this last-minute change, but she could at least seem a little bit grateful for me volunteering to save her shapely behind.

“Yeah. You go on, say that Jackson couldn’t make it because he’s busy being a successful architect, which is after all what we keep him around for, but that that’s no problem, because you’ve got the newest addition to Atlanta’s star roster of athletes here instead.”

“Don’t push it,” she grumbles, but her shoulders relax, and she drops her phone back into her handbag, which is a relief. She must see some merit in the idea. “Okay,” she relents, with another nervous glance at the clock. “We can probably work with that.”

“Have fun,” Ryder calls to me with a wink, Cash still oddly quiet and serious, watching us over his shoulder as Ryder drags him back toward the bar for refills.

Oh, I will
, I resist saying, my eyes drawn irresistibly back to the bombshell beside me, and the almost thankful expression on her gorgeous as hell face.

Then I think about what exactly I’ve just gotten myself into. Public speaking. On a stage in front of hundreds of Atlanta’s elite. In less than ten minutes. At the very important charity event that my
friend
has put together, which could likely make or break her budding career.

Did I mention it’s in less than ten minutes?

“Come on,” Shelby barks, all business now. I have to admit, her boss face is sexy as hell. She grabs my wrist and drags me behind the main stage at the front of the room. There’s a small room off to one side filled with sound equipment, chairs, old mics, and a series of backdrops and props that the casino must provide for the people who rent this area, depending on what they’re using it for. I can’t say I want to know, when I pull out a neon pink rocking horse and plop a seat on her.

Shelby props her pert ass against a computer desk next to me and pulls out a series of handwritten notes on a tiny legal pad. “Okay. This shouldn’t be too bad, I promise. We should be able to cut your part down to just a minute or two. Start out by saying that Jackson couldn’t be here because he’s hard at work managing a new purchase that everyone in Atlanta will love him for, yadda yadda, that’s why we like the guy. Then add that you’re so glad you were here to fill in, because you’ve been wanting to say how welcoming you find this town –”