Red Card (2 page)

T
he sweet
, stinging bite of my Jack and coke slides down the back of my throat, leaving fire and numbness in its wake.

If I'm going to have to walk this bloody red carpet, I may as well be pissed to shit when I do it.

"Mr. Ramsey, if you could just be careful, that suit is just a loaner and it's very expensive..."

The little assistant Lagerfeld sent to dress me cowered in the corner, afraid of even the words coming out of her own mouth. Good, she should be. I didn't earn this reputation by passing out rainbows and daisies.

"Do you even know who I am?" I shot back at her, tipping the amber liquid in the glass haphazardly. Her eyes followed it desperately. "I could buy 10 of these suits to wipe my ass with. I have enough goddamn money to buy whatever measly flat you live in and evict you. I'm Killian Ramsey, if you somehow forgot, and I have enough pull to get you thrown out of Britain on your arse by the Queen herself."

The girl visibly shook now, the overly done makeup on her eyes leaking down her face from the tears I'd put there. Good. I had appearances to keep up.

She ran from the room on a choked sob. I raised my glass to her retreating back and downed the rest of my cocktail, relishing the venom pooling in my stomach.

I don't even know why I agreed to shoot this tosser of a movie. Looking down, my brand new Rolex I was instantly reminded. I'd done it because I had been paid almost a million pounds to simply stand next to a hot, anorexic model and say three stupid lines.

The doors to my holding cell, or the room they'd locked me in before this red carpet, burst open, revealing my balding, rotund agent Jimmy Finch.

"Did you have to make her cry, Killian? Jesus, this was supposed to up your image! Now I'm going to have to pay her not to run to the tabloids. 'Ramsey Wipes his Arse with Lagerfeld Suits.' I can just see the headlines now!"

He finished his tirade by collapsing into a chair and burying his now reddened face between his hands. His belly protruded from the tight three piece suit he wore. At least the man had some taste, even if he looked like a bloody sausage.

I'd forgotten the other reason I was doing this. Apparently Britain's public didn't take too kindly to their star football player being a fucking wanker. Not that I cared. I didn't get paid to kiss babies and spoon feed people shite in speeches. I was paid to play football and win championships for my club and our country. And I did the job well.

"Calm down, Finch. I'll go out there, flash some killer smiles and make them all fall in love with me." I patted him on the cheek as I stood, buttoning my jacket and moving to the door.

Enough with this waiting shit. I wanted to walk this carpet and sneak out the side door before I had to actually watch this god awful movie. My bed and a willing lady of my choosing sounded like just the thing I needed right now.

Standing at my full six feet two inches, I know I'm not the tallest guy as I walk into the main room where the stars of the film are being primped, but I know I will get the most stares. I always do.

I'm London's bad boy footballer. The bloody bat out of hell jackass who is too attractive to hate. Even if I give you a reason to. Girls melt over the jet black waves, ice blue eyes, stubbled chin and stone-carved body. I merely look in their direction and they’re drooling like fucking Saint Bernards. 

Guys either want to be me or befriend me. Become part of my posse. Girls want to hop on my cock or get a ring on their finger. Little do they all know that I don't do mates or wives. Not anymore.

"Killian? Killian Ramsey?" I hear someone yell, and look to see a girl holding a clipboard walking the room. She's a PR assistant, I know one when I see one. The crazed look in her eyes while facing the daunting task of a premiere or event in full swing, is a dead giveaway.

I wait until she sees me brooding in the corner, not speaking up to make her job even a little easier. I'm an asshole, gotta play the part, right?

"...You couldn't even have put on a black dress? Jesus Christ, who let this bloody American in here?"

The tirade from across the room catches my attention, and I watch as one of the more senior public relations people verbally kicks the piss out of someone I can't see. I try to peer through the crowd to see the lowly specimen, an intern most likely, getting their ass handed to them.

The male star of the film, I forgot his name already even though he begged me for an autograph on the day I shot my part, moves and some of the people disperse, following his coattails to attend to him.

And then I see her.

The first thing I noticed was her height. Tall for a woman, if she were wearing those strappy, teasing heels they always donned, we'd be face to face. I could tell her legs were long, but under those plain looking jeans I couldn't see their shape.

The second thing I noticed was her hair. The palest blonde I'd ever seen, and it fell in long, straight sheets to the middle of her back. That was the kind of hair a man dreamed about. The kind you could twist around your fist and yank in earnest while plowing into her from behind.

I couldn't make out her features, but without even overhearing, I knew from her attire that she was pure American. Plain blue jeans flowed into short, scuffed cowboy boots and a dark red long sleeve with a logo on the front.

"Are you trying to get fired? You think you can just skive off work?" The senior manager boomed at her.

"I'm sorry...I just arrived from the airport, I still have my bags..." The woman, no, the girl, motioned to the floor where indeed, three overstuffed suitcases sat at her feet.

“No, no, those weren’t questions, dear. You are an intern, as low as low gets. You stay silent and do what you're told. God, bloody Americans."

I could see the girl's cheeks turning pink under the scrutiny of her new boss. The woman flipped through her packet of paper.

"You're shadowing Killian Ramsey tonight. Stay with him, keep him out of trouble, move him along down the carpet and then escort him inside for the watch party. And for god sakes, go down to wardrobe and get a bloody dress on. Tell them Cassandra sent you."

The girl looked dumbstruck, rooted to the spot and unaware that the entire room had just watched her get a thorough tongue-lashing. Her boss made me look like I had kittens and sunshine coming out of my arse.

"GO!" Cassandra screamed, her voice as high as a dog whistle. The girl scrambled, shouldering her heavy bags and moving in the direction someone pointed. At least someone had helped her.

A smug smile overtook my face. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad with this chick escorting me. She seemed like a fun source of American entertainment. I couldn't wait to fuck with her head. She'd get a taste of what this business was really like.

Twenty minutes later I was almost the last person in the holding room, as my handler hadn't come back yet. All of the other celebutards had been escorted up, where I could hear the dull roar of the fans outside begging for pictures or autographs. Or god forbid, selfies. I hated these events.

Hearing the clack of what must be heels, I turned my head, already annoyed at having been stuck down here.

The pure fantasy in front of me wiped all anger from my body, leaving me with a thumping heart beat and the beginnings of a hard on.

Long, toned legs that ran up, up, and up to a tiny waist and flat stomach. Big, beautiful tits, in disproportion to the rest of her slim body, bounced as she walked. The midnight black dress, too short for her lithe body, clung to her and rose up with each step, revealing thighs I would sell my soul, if I had one, to get between. That snowy blonde hair floated around her sexy form, and her rosy, pale flesh had my hands itching to leave marks on her.

This was not the shy, timid intern that had left the room. Her knockout body called out to my cock, which I had to readjust in the tight tuxedo pants before turning around fully.

"You're Killian Ramsey?" She guessed, her timid, twangy American accent sending another sizzle of desire straight to the cobra ready to strike in my pants.

I got my first up close view of her face, which only left my tool in more of a vise, straining and pulsing.

She had eyes the color of the pitch at Wembley, so green and unmarred that I felt like I could look straight through them. She peeked up at me through dark lashes as she nervously bit her lower lip. Someone must have swiped lipstick over them, because they were blood red and currently driving me insane. She looked like some sort of Nordic princess, or one of the elfish people in Lord of the Rings. Her high cheekbones pinked under my slow scrutiny, and then I noticed the beauty mark.

Right above the left side of her lip, it was sexy as all fuck, and I had to clench the muscles in my thighs and ass tightly to stop my tool from swelling. One thing at a time, Ramsey. Walk this bloody carpet, and then I'd be able to take my handler home and handle her. Yeah, tonight was looking up.

"That would be me, love. And who might you be?" I gave her my full sexy-bastard smile, turning up the wattage on my charm another notch. I didn't miss the heat that flashed in her eyes.

"I'm uh...Leah Watson. I'm an intern with 73Bulbs and I'll be handling your press tonight. So if you'll just follow me up..." She turned, giving me a nice view of her supple ass. I could grab that and ride it for hours.

My personal porno was ruined when she tripped, almost going down clumsily on her too-high heels as she staggered for the wrong entrance to the red carpet. I caught her elbow.

Pulling her flush against me, I felt the intake of breath she sucked in as her breast bone pushed against me. Taut, hot nipples grazed me through the material of my jacket, and my cock gave another violent twitch. She was barely breathing as I smirked like a jackass catching its prey.

"Who's handling who know, love?" I winked and her cheeks turned a shade of raspberry. I inhaled her American scent, sweet and natural.

Yes, tonight was going to be aces.

I
've been
in 82,000 person stadiums with the roar of the crowd deafening any thought or feeling. I've been in front of ESPN, Fox and NBC cameras, positioned just where you could see the dutiful girlfriend in the corner of the shot. I've rushed the field with thousands, and I've been front row to some of the greatest college sports victories in this lifetime.

Absolutely none of that compared to this.

There must be a million people in this tiny square in the middle of London. Leicester Square, as the James Bond look-alike driver had told me. This was where all of the big movie premieres happened apparently, and I had just been thrust into my first one.

My head was spinning. I felt like I needed to pee, sleep and vomit all at the same time. That, or my skin was one big live-wire of adrenaline.

Thousands and thousands of fans eager to catch a glimpse of their favorite movie stars lined the streets behind the metal barricade. Cameras flashed everywhere while paparazzi and journalists screamed their throats raw with requests for the celebrities to turn this way or pose like that. A long, red carpet flowed through the streets and around the square, all the way up to the entrance of the Empire Cinema and Casino.

I heard the celebrities around me dropping names; Hermes, Dior, Balmain, Tom Ford, Versace. I knew these were designers, but other than their names I couldn't tell you a single thing about fashion. That was evident enough in the choice of clothes I'd brought across the pond. My suitcases were filled with plain jeans, slacks and a frilly blouse or two.

Peering down at the skintight, gorgeous black business dress I'd borrowed from the wardrobe department, I knew I would need to go shopping ASAP. I hadn't even grabbed a coat from the room downstairs, and here I was standing out in the January cold in a sleeveless dress. Not that I could feel my limbs with the mix of jetlag and pure anxiety running through them. I was so out of my element it was laughable.

I felt a breath on my neck, but couldn't even concentrate due to the circus carrying on around me.

"How did you even get hired here? You look like a lost lamb, about to get slaughtered."

I suddenly felt everything. The heat wave rushing down my spine, pooling in my belly and spreading out across my core, leaving my panties damp and my thighs twitching. I felt the embarrassment, scalding and painful, wash over my cheeks. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, alerting me to the danger that lurked just behind me.

That danger was Killian Ramsey. And if I was the lamb, he was the butcher. I'd known him for all of three minutes, but I knew he was the sort of man I should run in the other direction of on sight.

I turned, seeing his eyes — the color of a melting iceberg flecked with indigo — dip down to survey the ample cleavage this dress was providing. He was lethal with his cocky good looks. And that accent, good lord. He would bring any woman to her knees, and I bet he did just that on a nightly basis. And I had no upper hand, I had no idea who he was or why he was famous, something I truly regretted not studying up on now.

Up until two months ago, I never took my career seriously. And now it was my only option. I should have researched, learned the players, the reality stars, the movie legends on this side of the world. I had to excel at this. I had no other option.

But for now, I had to focus. I would take time later to do some research. I threw Killian a hard look and turned without a word, surveying the other handlers and how they were escorting their celebrity down the carpet. They'd pose them against the backdrop, give the star about five minutes in a certain position, and move to a media member. I studied each movement, trying to memorize the reporters they allowed to ask questions, those they passed and those they gave a canned, PR answer to.

Thinking back on any of my educational training was useless. Most of it wasn't real life experience anyway, and I hated to admit I'd half-assed it. When had I become this person? I didn't even have an identity anymore.

Thankfully, my former self had experience with this. I'd been where Killian and these other people were. Being from a state where the only thing going for it was college football in the fall and rodeos in the spring, dating the new football god had put me in the spotlight beside him. I'd had microphones shoved in my face. I'd had my picture snapped in the grocery store in yoga pants. I could do this.

"Let's go." It was a command to the earth-meltingly gorgeous male smirking at my back. I hoped my voice carried the determination I felt.

I strutted across the carpet, pointing to a spot and motioning for Killian to stand on it. He raised a dark eyebrow, and the stubble on his chin rippled when his lips tipped up in an egotistical grin, but he moved to the spot.

He thrust his hands in the expensive looking suit pockets, and I could make out the rock hard muscles barely being contained by the smooth fabric. He wasn't overly built, but he had an athlete's body. I‘d know one if I saw one anywhere. Lean and carved, he looked built for speed but could probably take a hit or two.

Moving in front of him like I'd seen the other handlers do, I smoothed his suit, flattening the lapels and dusting the shoulders. I could feel his wolfish grin on my face, and fought hard to maintain what professionalism I could.

"Smile please, Mr. Ramsey."

I looked up, trying to beg him with my eyes to cooperate. They couldn't have given me an easy celebrity?

I was met with raw hunger and unfiltered lust that hit me square in the chest and blew through my nerves. What the hell? I stepped away on shaky knees out of the photographers' shots. Running my hands down the dress, I was surprised to feel sweat coating them.

Once the photographers realized Killian was set up against the backdrop, mayhem broke out. They shouted three times as loud for him, more than any other person on that carpet. The fans went nuts, bumping and shoving until one of the metal barriers fell over. Security guards rushed to the leak, stemming it and holding people back.

My mouth dropped open in astonishment, who the heck was this guy?

He stood tall, unaffected by the chaos he was causing. That jet black hair was short on the sides and long on top, curled back and then forward in that classic British way. A constant smirk remained on his full, panty-dropping lips, although I noticed it never reached his eyes. He was the definition of sex and in-control.

I gulped, trying to clear the sudden dryness in my throat.

Moving back towards Killian, I eyed the first reporter I'd seen handlers ushering their clients to. His microphone was stamped with The Daily Mail logo. Okay, I knew that publication. Perfect first target.

I grabbed Killian's elbow in what looked like a gentle prodding, but I was squeezing his bicep beneath his suit. He needed to cooperate, and somewhere in the back of my mind an alert was sounding that he wasn't going to make it so easy.

We walked to the reporter, whom I nodded at, giving him what I thought was a confident signal to begin asking Killian questions. When he started to talk, I gave myself a pat on the back for doing something right.

"Killian, nice to see you here tonight. There has been a lot of speculation since that incident with Roman Judarsky on the field last week that you might be suspended indefinitely. Do you have any further comment?"

Killian's back went rigid, all of the muscles in his wiry form expanding and contracting. I could feel the raw anger pouring off of him. I glance over to see the muscle in his jaw tick, and I have that sixth sense I sometimes get that things are about to go terribly wrong.

"Piss off, you bloody wanker." Killian spits at the reporter, his words like venom flying through the air. Well, that didn't take long.

The reporter has a smug smile on his pale, lumpy face, and I just know that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. So I had a bad boy on my hands. Not that I couldn't have told you that from the moment Killian pinned me up against his solid abs.

He stalked away, ruining multiple pictures and shoving people aside as he stomped down the carpet like a fully grown man having a four-year-old's temper tantrum.

Shit. This reporter was about to go send Killian's mouth-off out into the YouTube universe, where it would surely go viral.

Without thinking, I grabbed the mic. "That was off the record, by the way. But here is something you can print. Killian Ramsey continues to focus on his career, and excelling at it in any way possible. He has no further comment on the situation last week."

The world came rushing back to me in all of its noise and light, and I realized I'd just given my first official PR statement. Not that I remembered forming words, because I'd literally just blacked out.

The reporter now wore a surly and crestfallen expression, knowing that if he used his first tidbit from Killian, he'd probably never get close to a 73Bulbs client ever again. He'd have to go with my canned answer. I gave myself a mental high-five and basked for a second in my victory. I'd actually done something right.

Looking around, my cloud nine emotions plummeted out of the sky like an angel condemned when I realized I'd lost my client. Killian was nowhere to be found. Shit.

Trying to dash off to find the British Prince of Moodiness proves difficult in the six inch stilettos the stylist had strapped onto my feet. I didn't wear clothing like this. I was the Oklahoma girl-next-door, cute and pretty in my sundresses and boots. I didn't do skintight, short or heeled. I could hear the snickers of the handlers around me as I stumbled like a baby calf off of the carpet in search of my responsibility.

Turning down the block and moving away from the mayhem, I spotted a tall figure in the shadows. I'd read enough about Jack the Ripper before coming over here to be spooked, but then I saw the shine of a metal flask being raised to the lips, and I could only take one guess to who that was.

I marched up, as best as I could in the shoes. "You need to come back and walk the carpet."

Killian's sky-blue eyes twinkled with sly amusement and barely restrained anger in the darkness. "Oh, and you're going to make me, huh America's Sweetheart?"

The smell of what I'm sure was overly-expensive whiskey blew across my face as he exhaled. He pretended to give an air of nonchalance, but I could read his body language better than he thought I could. He was so coiled and tense, he gave a cobra ready to strike a run for its money. Rage and sorrow poured off of him in waves, blanketing the dark side street in misery so abundant that I could feel it down to my bones. And something else. I don't know why it struck me, perhaps because the emotion was running through my veins as well. But this man...he was lonely.

"You're cheeky, I like that." He raised the flask in a salute to me and tilted his head back as the amber liquid disappeared into that appealing mouth.

Damn it. This bad boy with a bad attitude was not going to ruin my career or my time here. I was done letting people decide the future for me, sweeping me along in the current just because I let them.

I knocked the flask straight out of his hand, sending little droplets of whiskey all over us. "Listen you jackass! I don't know who you are. In fact, I don't care if you're the Prime Minister of this country! This job is really important to me! I'm taking this shot and succeeding at it if it means I have to put my blood, sweat and tears into it. And some London bad boy parading his pissed off attitude around for the world to see is not going to stop me! So button your jacket, plaster a smile on, and get on that carpet!"

My breathing was ragged, all of the energy I'd saved up to get through the event spent. Jetlag, homesickness and heartbreak were taking over, and I could feel the pull of all three from the inside out.

The leer on Killian's face only proved that my tirade was all for nothing.

And then he moved. It was a blur of motion and speed before my back was against a brick wall. He'd pinned me, like a wolf circling in on their prey. Nervous tremors washed over my flesh, and I could hear the roaring in my ears. I was half-afraid he would actually rip my throat out for speaking to him that way. The other half of me was too incredibly aroused to care.

"I am bad. But I'm not a boy, I'm a man. Have you ever been with a man, little lamb?" He chuckled darkly, leaning his entire form into me and pinning my hips with his hands. "No, I don't think you have."

His unrefined strength held me against the wall even as I tried to squirm. My breath was coming out in labored puffs, the sweat trickling down the back of my neck starting to frizz the hair falling there. I could feel my knees quake and the lustful stirrings starting below my waist. I pressed my thighs together, to stamp them out or make them continue I didn't know, and Killian gave a victorious sneer. He knew exactly why I'd rubbed them together.

When I didn't answer his probing question, he removed a large hand from my hip, leaving his other there, massaging and kneading the flesh that lay just underneath the flimsy material. His fingers dove into my long blonde locks and pulled, not violently but harsh enough that I felt the tug throughout my body. It shocked me when I felt a flood of warmth as my clit twitched in my thong.

His stare pierced me, challenging me to look him in the eye as he pulled my head back so he could force me to do just that.

"Should I show you just how good it is to be with a bad man?" His gaze dropped down to my lips, and I was dizzy in how much I wanted him to plant his mouth on mine.

A new round of cheers sounded from around the corner, and I was suddenly whipped back to reality.

What the hell was I doing? God, I was predictable. I'd let a man dictate my life since I was 17-years-old, and here I was in a new country, trying to prove myself in a new job, letting another man control me from the word go. I was done being everyone's sacrificial animal.

"Get your hands off of me." Finally finding my voice and my resolve, shoving Killian away with a push that sent him stumbling over the sidewalk's curb.

Astonishment stole over his face, but he masked it with what looked like ignorant amusement. "Yes, you're a very cheeky one."