Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (40 page)

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Bonus Book 2

Wicked Boss

— Part 1 —

Written by: Christina Clark

Copyright © 2016

Disclaimer.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All Rights Reserved

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One: Jolene

The sound of my graphite stick scratching against the white canvas of my sketchbook never failed to comfort me. With my butt as broke as the next poor sap stuck in the quicksand of student debt, this was probably the closest I could get to “relaxing.” As I carefully colored in the shading of an apple, I reached over to the kitchen counter next to me, blindly groping for my glass of water. Proving not all women were infallible when it came to multitasking, I promptly knocked it over. Water soaked into the messy stack of old bills and scrapped sketches.

“Damn it,” I grumbled, scolding myself under my breath. “Real smooth, Jolene.”

I grabbed a rag and swiftly swiped across the countertop, gaining on the stream creeping toward the plate of barely-eaten breakfast I swore I'd clear up hours ago.

“Christ on a cracker – my sweet, innocent eyes!”

My roommate, Vivienne Santos, stood in the doorway of our apartment. A theater major, she tended to overreact sometimes. She stared at Gary Griffin, my model for the day. His hunky SFSU quarterback physique was sitting butt-naked in our living room with his hands trussed up over his head with handcuffs nicked from the Props Department.

“Oh, well hello to you sunshine,” I chirped, giving her a half-assed salute as I tossed the rag back into the sink. “You're home early. We weren't expecting you for at least another hour.”

Shielding her eyes like a vampire entering a room with its curtains drawn at noon, Vivienne crab-walked inside and booted the door shut behind her. Gary's ears perked at the extra commotion in the room. Twitching his nose frantically, the old-lady scarf blindfold loosened over his eyes and slid down the bridge. He spat out the picture-perfect apple stuffed inside his mouth, his eyes squinting as they adjusted to the light.

“How you doing, Vivienne,” Gary greeted her before turning towards me. The golden ring around his eyebrow jiggled as he groaned, “Come on, Jolene, I've been sitting here for over two hours now. I'm sweating in spots I ain't even know existed. We done here?”

“And you've been a real trooper,” I commended him, stopping the rolling apple with my foot. “My readers everywhere thank you for your service.”

“Oh, please,” Vivienne cackled, throwing a towel over Gary's lap as she untied his wrists. “Your readers are a bunch of nerdy pervs. Now that you've added pictures to those filthy stories you've been writing, your reader base has doubled. Defense rests.”

“Hey, I resent that,” I laughed, gathering my belongings off the kitchen counter before Vivienne could berate me. “And I'm sure my readers do too. I think they prefer the term – erotica connoisseurs. Want something to drink, Gary?”

“Finally,” Gary grumbled as he rose from the floor, cracking his head from side to side. “A beer sounds good.”

“TOWEL!” snapped Vivienne, turning away from him huffily. “My roommate may be an avid producer of soft-core porn, but this here is a strictly PG environment, thank you very much.”

“Sorry,” Gary apologized. He was back in his baggy purple hoodie and sweats within seconds, making himself at home on our couch.

“So how'd that audition go?” I asked, yanking open the fridge door and pulling out three ice-cold Coronas.

“I thought it went pretty well,” said Vivienne with a disheartened sigh, swatting at Gary's legs propped up on the coffee table with our mail. She plopped down next to him, her shoulders sagging as she slowly removed the bobby pins holding her Hepburn-esque topknot together. “It would probably suck a little less if the director could just be straight with me, ya know? 'Sorry, Ms. Santos, but you're just several shades too Filipino-brown to cast as Fantine for Les Miserables.' But whatever, I'm hanging in there. There's an opening for Waitress #2 next week on Days of Our Lives and you bet your ass I'm gonna balance the crap outta that tray.”

“That's the spirit,” I smiled, handing them the beers. I opted for Vivienne's stability ball, bouncing towards them and parking next to the couch. “Thanks to Gary's humping escapades with that sexy divorcee librarian at school, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be able to wrap up the last chapter of The Bookkeeper tonight.”

“Glad to help out anyway I can,” said Gary. The smirk on his face faltered. “You sure you've got the names and everything changed, right? I can't have Agnes implicated in this – she could lose her job.”

“No worries – it doesn't even take place in the same century,” I assured him between large gulps of beer, licking the flavorful tang from my lips. “I've got you covered.”

“This ain't her first rodeo. Where do you think she gets all her inspiration from?” Vivienne chipped in. She answered her own question without skipping a beat, fanning herself with our mail. “All you unchaste, God-less sinners around her of course. Y'all need church.”

“You're one to talk,” I scoffed, picking up Gary's sweaty undershirt to attack her with it. I began reciting stories she's inspired to my blog followers off the top of my head. “Rattle My Cage, Three Nights in Tokyo, The Casting Call –”

“Gross!” Vivienne whined, pulling the undershirt off her face and flinging it back at me. She missed by an inch as I ducked, sneaking in a high-five with Gary. “I was channeling Sr. Mary from Catholic school. Pretty good, huh?”

“Meh.”

“So you write all this kinky stuff, but you don't have a boyfriend?” said Gary, changing the subject. He ripped a shameless burp as he set his beer down on the coffee table.

“No, I've had to survive boyfriend-less for four years now after my last serious relationship in high school,” I retorted dryly, patting down my arms and legs with mock shock. “And would you look at that? Looks like I'm still alive and kicking.”

“There's a coaster right there! What are you, an animal?” said Vivienne, kneeing Gary hard on the thigh. Facing me, a sly smile crept across her lips as she wiggled her eyebrows. “And don't let our girl Jolene here fool you – she's gonna be diving right back into the market sooner than she thinks.”

“What are you babbling on about now?” I chuckled, unclasping the clip on the opened pack of beef jerky on the table.

“Wow, you haven't heard yet, have you?” said Vivienne, her eyes twinkling in excitement as she reached for the remote and switched on our TV. “Brad Hastings and Tanya Fairchild just filed for divorce! It's all over the news – I mean, '#BranyaEndofAnEra' has been trending on Twitter all day.”

“Oh, really?” I said coolly, crossing my leg over the other to keep them from bouncing in my building excitement. “I haven't heard.”

Vivienne switched the channel to Bay Talk, a local, third-rate ripoff of the brassy, but irresistible TMZ. A snarky host in intentionally disheveled sweats and frosted tips that should have died in the early 2000s graced the screen.

“Did known homophobe, rapper Slo-Mo, spend the night with a male prostitute? And what was a donkey doing in the room? Find out more later. But now, it's time for that segment you know you've been waiting for – Let's Talk Bae at Bay Talk.”

“Classy show,” Gary remarked, shaking his head.

“Shh!”

“Sad, sad day for Branya fans everywhere. It's finally happened – after months of trial separation, billionaire Bradley Hastings of PosteHaste Media and pop-country superstar Tanya Fairchild are throwing in the towel and calling it quits! The couple filed for divorce this morning, and as per yoozh, Bay Talk crew was one of the firsts on the scene. Hastings slipped away from us in the parking lot, but Tanya was more than happy to spread a little love.”

The screen switched to unsteady footage an obnoxious crew member most likely snagged off his crappy phone camera. The petite Tanya appeared on screen, hobbling on ankle-breaking pumps en route to her car. She showed off her jealous-inducing curves and suspiciously modified chest in an all-white Versace pantsuit with glitzy tassels on the shoulders.

“Ms. Fairchild! Tanya! Bay Talk here – how you holding up? Anything you wanna say to our viewers?”

Tanya fluffed her Old-Hollywood blonde hair as she turned towards the camera, flashing a phony, pearly-white smile.

“This is such a difficult time for me, but I'm just hanging in there. I just have to say thank you so much for the outpouring of support to all of my fans on Twitter and Instagram. You're all angels, and I love you all too, my Fair-children! You know, it's like I said in one of my best-selling singles – 'You can't break me, I'm like a free bee, I'm my own me.'”

“That's – that's deep, Tanya. Now, do you think –”

“Now that's some audacious self-promotion right there,” Vivienne smirked, rolling her eyes as she turned down the volume. “Well, good-frigging-riddance.”

I held up my beer over my mouth casually so they couldn't see me cheesing uncontrollably behind them. I had to admit, I wasn't sure why some publicized celebrity breakup was the highlight of my day so far.

“I don't swing that way, but if we were the last two dudes on Earth, I'd have trouble saying no,” said Gary, his pressed lips down-turned approvingly at the screen.

The muted host was now speaking wordlessly next to a candid shot of Bradley Hastings in a tailored cranberry suit. Casually leaning against an expensive car as he sipped on his coffee, he was unfairly attractive with a legendary portfolio to match. Hollywood swept in on his rags-to-riches story just last year. The biopic on the 33-year-old media mogul with Matt Bomer as its lead even found a place in the Top 10 Box Office hits. Still, it was a silly crush, and with me religiously taunting Vivienne for her tendency to fan-girl over her boy bands and Hollywood hunks, I couldn't crack my exterior.

I turned to Vivienne, raising my eyebrows as I noticed her drumming her fingers along a white envelope she held turned away from me. Her lips disappeared behind her gleefully clenched teeth. She looked like she was about to physically burst with the information she stored inside of her.

“Got something there?”

“Okay, okay, I was gonna wait till later, but I'm dying here,” she grinned, tossing the envelope onto my lap. “You've got mail.”

“Holy crap, no way,” I breathed, my eyes bugging out at the black-and-red logo of PostHaste Media.

I pulled out the letter from the already-open envelope, scanning the contents intently with a slacked jaw.

“Sorry, I know, it probably wasn't cool of me to go through your mail,” hasted Vivienne as she clapped her hands giddily. “I just couldn't wait, you've been talking about it all day. Congratulations! You got the internship!”

“YES!”

My heart thundering in my chest, I sprang up from the stability ball without warning. Striking a celebratory pose, I began to cabbage-patch around the living room. Vivienne joined me, our harmonized screeches bringing Gary to his feet.

“O-kay,” said Gary, draping his stinky undershirt over his shoulder as we danced around him. He gave me a quick fist bump before snaking past us. “Congrats, Jolene. You deserve it. Y'all have a good night now.”

The door swung shut behind Gary, leaving us to bask in my small, but desperately needed triumph.

Chapter Two: Bradley

“Looking good guys. You're doing the Lord's work here, removing all traces of La Diabla.”

“Get rid of it all – burn all that crap to the ground, I say!”

Kevin Miller and Michael Goldstein, my bonehead college buddies, stood on either ends of the double stairway to our grand entryway. Their hands tucked under their armpits as they leaned on the handrails, they watched with great amusement as men in matching overalls carefully hefted Tanya's antique vanity dresser down the steps. I shook my head, grinning as I waved them off to the side.

“Get your smart asses outta the way so these fine gentlemen can carry on with their work, please,” I announced, letting out a sigh of relief as they unloaded the vanity onto the landing unscathed. “I can't have a single scratch on any of Tanya's belongings or I'll have my ass handed to me on one of her Royal Copenhagen plates.”

“I believe that,” the supervisor muttered, directing the others to the back of the U-haul parked outside the front doors. He pulled off his snapback and wiped off the sheen of sweat on his fully inked head, complaining, “Don't know how she got her hands on my home number. She must've called over ten times last night and filled up our machine threatening my family in the most creative ways, too. I finally had to disconnect the phone line so the missus and the kids could sleep.”