Red Card (3 page)

I pretended not to hear him. "Are you going to walk this carpet, or am I going to force canned answers on every reporter while you get drunk like a bum on this corner?"

He stalked closer to me again, walking me backwards until my back was, yet again, up against the wall. He'd heard my warning and completely cast it aside. Killian was clearly not the type of man who took orders. But what he failed to realize was that I was a girl who was done taking them as well.

"I'll let you off the hook for now, even though you're so wet I can smell your sweet scent from here. But you owe me. I don’t willingly capitulate to others demands. But you seem different, with your sweet, naive American attitude. I like that. Don't think I'll forget this debt."

And with that he pushed off the wall, calmly and confidently swaggering back around the corner to where his adoring public waited.

With a long inhale, I took a moment to collect myself. I think this city would show me what I was made of after all, and then I could show the world.

I
woke
with a shout and a cry, feeling the sweat coating my flesh and the tears drying on my cheeks.

Jesus, another bloody nightmare. It seemed I barely closed my eyes these days without having the demons haunt my sleep.

Sitting up and planting my bare feet on the floor, I heaved air into my lungs until I felt solid enough to stand. Not only did the vivid horrors mess with my mind, they took everything out of me physically as well. They left me fatigued and stripped, and I always knew there was no getting back to sleep after them.

Looking at the clock, I thanked what little luck I had left that at least it was five in the morning and not earlier.

Purple and gold light began to fill my flat as the sun rose, casting highlights and shadows over the sleek, modern designs of my bachelor pad.

I'd bought the place four years ago, after everything had gone to shit, and it was one of the only places I enjoyed being. Right in the heart of London, I'd bought the penthouse in one of the high rise buildings in Canary Wharf. It overlooked the bustling business districts and right out onto the Thames.

I padded across the dark hard wood floors that covered the expanse of my 3,000 square foot home. Everything besides the bedroom, bathroom and closet was an open floor plan. Walking through the wide archway of my bedroom door, I viewed the space, clean and white with modern lines and stainless steel. Grey microfiber couches and chairs faced a 72 inch flat screen in the living room space, and the all-white, 12-person dining table lined the wall made of windows that led out to a wrap-around balcony.

Not that I ever had 12 people over. I didn't even think I liked 12 people. Hence why I never invited one person over.

The space was beautiful and masculine all at once. It wasn't homey, but distant and detached. Cool. Kind of like the facade I masked my own self with.

Reaching into the fridge, I pulled out one of the pre-bottled CRUSSH smoothies the company had stocked me with. This morning's juice was their Breakfast Blend, with 21 grams of protein and 10 grams of fiber. With a training and game regimen as packed as mine, I needed all of the extra help I could get. My diet and exercise plans were specifically tailored by the best professionals in the business, all with the goal to make me the best bloody football god this country, and the world, had ever seen.

Sitting on a metal stool gulping down the cold liquid before what would be my even earlier workout thanks to my nightmare, I couldn't help thinking about the blazing evergreen eyes I couldn't manage to get out of my head.

I'd only known her about 12 hours, spent only about two of those actually with her, and yet she'd captured my attention more than any female had in the past five years. She was a complete enigma.

So girlish, with those doe eyes and tentative smile. Yet a complete woman, those cock-hardening curves and mile long legs had been replaying in my brain since I'd glimpsed her in that skin-baring dress. So shy and star-struck, or so it seemed, yet a bossy man-handler with a feisty attitude in the times when she needed it most.

I felt myself harden to the point of pain. When she'd come around that street corner, that mass of silky blonde floating all around her perfect, almost elegant, body, I'd had to restrain myself from pulling her into a nearby alley and stripping her naked. Whether she consented or not. I could see the desire in her eyes as I pinned her to the wall, could feel those tight buds harden and press into my expensive suit. The fabric of her dress must have been chafing them, and oh god that thought has my balls drawing up tight to my body.

But Leah Watson also wasn't the typical London party girls I dealt with.

For one, she was American. Which meant that she had absolutely no idea who I was. And if I didn't already find her bloody sexy, the fact that I was every bit as much of a mystery to her as she was to me made my cock twitch even harder.

Thanks to the media, I was used to dealing with chicks who knew way too much about me. They either wanted to soothe me over my tragic past, or fuck me stupid over my bad boy reputation. And the fact that I was Windingham FC's brilliant striker? Women were spreading their legs like modesty was going out of style.

But not her. She'd pushed me away, told me no and shut me up. Three things that no woman, as a matter of fact no person, had been able to accomplish in five years.

It would only make it that much sweeter when I finally thrusted in between those model legs and fucked her to kingdom come. Because if there was one thing I didn't let go of, it was a challenge. The world had already dealt me a shit hand, no sense in lying down and taking it. No, when the universe punched me in the face, I was the type of man who said "Fuck you, and may I have another?”

I would show that little lamb exactly what kind of big bad wolf I was. An idea started forming in my head as I walked into my closet, which was probably bigger than most average Londoner's flats. Pulling on loose workout clothes and my earbuds, I rang Jimmy as I exited my penthouse and descended the various floors on the elevator.

"Ello, this is Jimmy." His gruff voice choked out on the other end of the line. He’d probably been sleeping, but then again, I didn’t really care.

"Jimmy, it's Kill. Do me a favor? Call 73Bulbs and request that my handler from last night be placed on my account exclusively. I want her at every event I attend, all of my post-game pressers. Everything. Got it?"

There was a silence on his end. "Uh...sure Ramsey. Say, what's this all about?" Jimmy's accent was more Scottish than British, making every word sound garbled and questioning.

I purse my lips, annoyed as I hit the street that I'm not already off the phone yet. "Do I pay you to ask questions, Jimmy? Just get it done."

I hang up, rolling my neck and preparing for the short three kilometer jog to the gym. The gym, where my ridiculously expensive trainer gets paid way too much for kicking my ass. But it’s all worth it.

Coldplay starts crooning about a head full of dreams, and I slip into my pace, rounding the foggy, early morning streets of London's business districts. Determined, slick businessmen make their way into the steel and metal skyscrapers that stand out against the murky gray sky. Street workers, homeless people and the occasional late night-clubber stumbling home dot the landscape, adding to the reasons why I love this city.

It’s where I was born and raised, in the poor suburb of Tottenham, which had only gotten worse over the years. Unless you were part of any of the number of gangs residing in the area, you had zero protection. I'd lived in a flat smaller than the square footage of my now-bathroom with my mum, who raised me on her own and worked three jobs to support us. My early childhood hadn't been easy by any means. Luckily, someone had shined down and bestowed a talent for football on me.

By the time I turned 9, people noticed my talent and I was enrolled and living full time at Marlow End, Windingham Football Club's academy. I got out of the dingy streets of Tottenham, took some pressure off my mum and lit up the football world. On the eve of my 16th birthday, I was the youngest player ever signed to a professional team.

With my signing bonus, I moved my mum out of the ghetto and out to Manchester, where she was just far enough away that I didn't have to see her but knew she lived  a comfortable life. We'd never been especially close.

And I'd moved into a slightly less flashy flat in Zone 2. I was a little shithead, determined and full of fire and life. Not that I wasn't a tosser now, but I no longer had the appetite for life, people and this city that I once did. Not since Eve.

Just the thought of her name sends a gut wrenching, heartbreaking agony through me.

Breathing harder than I should for a measly two miler, I pull up short at the gym and check my watch. If I get in a three hour workout, I can reward myself by calling on one of my many
friends
to come over this afternoon. Nothing like a good round of fucking to rid my mind and heart of thoughts and feelings I swore to lock away a long time ago.

L
ondon police
and ambulance sirens don't sound the same as American sirens.

Not that Norman, Oklahoma is anywhere near a crime filled city, but I've heard my fair share of emergency vehicles taking drunk college kids to get their stomachs pumped or rid their systems of drugs. But that didn't hold a candle to the interruptions I'd had in my attempt at curing jet lag.

After the premiere, and my frustrating handling of one Mr. Killian Ramsey, I'd been so exhausted I'd almost just curled up on a doorstep in Leicester Square. My internal clock was off, I'd worked almost two hours on my feet, plus the travel to and from, and all of this in a strange city.

Killian had propositioned me to come home with him, and after I’d politely refused him, I’d stumbled to the nearest tube station and proceeded to get thoroughly confused. I hadn't yet purchased my underground rail pass, or as Londoners called it, an Oyster Card. Only four people laughed at me as I tried to lug my suitcases through the turnstile as the security guard screamed and blew his whistle in my direction. I was escorted out of the station and dumped on the sidewalk, where I finally hailed a cab and cried quietly in the backseat all the way to my new address.

By the time I made it to Paddington and pulled up in front of the apartment building on Gloucester Mews, I was like one of the zombies from that gory TV show on AMC everyone loved. Pale and haggard, stumbling and mumbling through the motions as I loaded myself on the elevator, or the lift. I only sat in there for 10 minutes before peering into the hall, only to see the “Lift Under Repair" sign.

Seven flights up, finding the only bed unoccupied in the four person apartment, and I was dead to the world.

That was until three London police cars decided to flick on their endless, incessant sirens. Even seven floors up it felt like they'd taken the lights off of the top of their cars and shoved them into my eardrums. I'd tried fitfully to fall back into that sweet, REM heaven, but my body wouldn't allow it.

Grudgingly sitting up and taking in my surroundings, my eyes fall to the clock on one of two dressers. Seven a.m. My second day in London and I hadn't seen any part of the city and was still living out of suitcases. Although I guess that wasn't exactly true. I'd seen parts, and people, in the city. Just not the ones I'd bargained for.

For some people that would be fine. I’d only been here two days. But I was a person who liked order and a plan. I had none of those at the moment.

I was in the second of two bedrooms the apartment, or flat, held, and from what I gathered from my late night zombie walk, all three of the other beds were spoken for. I could see the mess of brunette tangles sprouting out of the comforter on the bed on the other side of the room. Other than that, I'd encountered no forms of life yet.

The room was painted a fresh white, as was the rest of the apartment from what I could tell. It was furnished with two simple twin beds, two oak dressers and on the far wall sat two open closets with four shelves each. The other room I'd checked last night was exactly the same.

While my side was completely empty, the unknown girl had clothes and shoes everywhere. Crazy colors and patterns, different lengths and styles. She might be just the person to help me pick out my new European wardrobe. Her wall was adorned with One Direction posters and "Keep Calm" sayings, while several opened and unopened packages of something called HobNobs littered the desk.

Swinging my legs out of bed and onto the laminate hardwood covering the entire place, I noticed I still had my dress on from the premiere. Jesus, I was a wreck. And this trip was supposed to make me more sure and confident of myself. I wasn't off to a great start.

I unzipped my bag as slowly and quietly as I could, grabbing at the first pair of lounge pants and T-shirt that I could find. Even though she was clearly as asleep as Briar Rose, I still felt uncomfortable getting changed in this room. I'd never had many girlfriends, that's what happened when you dedicated your entire life to a boy, and I also wasn't very brazen. It had taken me years to even allow Taylor to see me naked with the lights on, and even then I would beg for them to be off.

I didn't even know why I was still thinking about him. This trip was about me, not him. My life wasn't about him anymore.

Tip toeing out of the room, my eyes fell to the equally sterile living room. Black pleather couches, white walls, a few textbooks or a charging computer here and there. It was a college student's residence. Temporary and sprinkled with the tell-tale signs of a place to crash between classes and parties. Exactly what I needed right now.

I turned in search of the bathroom, it had to be around here somewhere, until a voice made me jump out of my skin.

"One night here and already she's doing the walk of shame. Slow clap for the new girl, everybody." I turned, my gaze falling on a redhead so beautiful that I actually thought for a second she might be Christina Hendricks. Had it not been for the thick Irish accent and less voluptuous curves, she could have passed for the Mad Men actress.

I felt the burn of shame and embarrassment start to steal over my cheeks, my tongue stuttering and getting stuck inside my mouth.

"Don't worry lass, Heidi is the house slut, and from the look of you, there is no way you'll take her title. Shame you have to room with her though, gets a bit loud that one."

My mouth fell open at her brash remarks, and she giggled quietly as she sipped her tea and read the morning paper while she sat, propped up on a silver metal stool at the white kitchen counter.

"I...uh. I had a last minute work thing when my plane landed." I replied lamely, pointing to the skintight black dress I still donned.

Her eyes flicked to me again, filled with mistrust and amusement. "Whatever you say, love. I'm Bridget Callihan. Irish born, London transplant studying to be a nurse at Hale. Don't drink my English breakfast tea or leave the toilet seat up and we'll get along just fine."

Her bluntness left me grasping at straws and gaping at her. I would need to speed up in this city it seemed like. I already felt six steps behind in every conversation.

"Leah, from America. Oklahoma to be exact. I'm studying public relations. And I really was at work last night. Brutal Force, you know the movie? I worked the red carpet."

That caught Bridget's attention. She flicked her long auburn ponytail over her impossibly slim shoulder and eyed me flirtily. "Really now? Which celebrities can you hook us up with?"

"Why are you screaming?" I turned again, seeing a petite strawberry-blonde rub the sleep out of her eyes as she walked out of the bedroom I wasn't staying in. On closer inspection, magenta streaks ran through her shoulder-length hair.

"Emma Stewart, this is the new girl. New girl, this is Emma Stewart." Bridget made introductions, her melodic accent swimming over my ears.

"Did you walk of shame already, love?" Emma inspected my outfit as she moved to the teapot and began lazily filling a mug of her own.

"No...Jesus...I had work unexpectedly!" I could feel my blood boiling in my veins now at being judged. Especially when I’d just explained myself to Bridget. Not that I thought she believed me.

"Alright, don't get you knickers in a twist. You look rather nice actually, is that designer?" She eyes the dress and begins to poke at the material.

"Emma is a design major, ignore her grabby hands." Bridget doesn't even look up from the article she's reading.

I maneuver out of her grasp. "I'm Leah, by the way. Yeah, it is designer. I got it from this wardrobe department in Leicester Square, I was there for a premiere."

She smiles. "Oh! Brutal Force, lucky, lucky girl. Did you meet anyone cute?”

I look down at my sweats, wanting desperately to change, but wanting more to connect with my new roommates.

I walked over, taking a seat on the stool next to Bridget. Emma busied herself making oatmeal, and I studied her. She was tiny, like a punk rock Tinkerbell. She had a British accent, or so I assumed, and she had at least five earring holes in each ear.

"I had to handle this guy. Sounds more sexual than you'd think. Basically, what people in my position do is walk celebrities down the red carpet, make sure they don't go off script or get photographed in the wrong position. My celebrity last night was some guy named Killian Ramsey?"

Emma drops her bowl of oatmeal on the floor, cracking it and sending mushy breakfast food all over the laminate. Bridget chokes on the sip of tea working its way down her throat. Well, this will certainly get me some bonding time.

"You touched Killian Ramsey?! You...you talked to him?" Emma was spluttering, mouth agape and spoon still in one hand.

"Um, yeah? Who even is he? An athlete? Seemed to be making a bit of a big deal of himself..." I trailed off, saying that last part under my breath.

Apparently Bridget heard me though. "Um, that's cause he is a big deal. The biggest deal! He's only like, the most successful, knicker-meltingly hot football player in the entire world. Jesus, you Americans need to get with the times."

"God, I used to think about him when I went downtown. Still great fodder. Those Puma ads? Jesus, I might have to go pull those up." Emma licked her lips and started clearing the oatmeal off the floor.

Uh, what? If Emma was talking about what I thought she was talking about, I'd just given her images for what Taylor's frat brothers used to call the "Spank Bank." Gross.

And of course Killian played sports. Because apparently I was some sort of magnet for jerks who liked to play with balls for a living. I couldn't have been paired with anyone else? I groaned at my bad luck.

"So tell us, what was he like? Is he as much of a player as The Mirror makes him out to be?" Bridget leans forward, giving me that look again. I can't tell if I like her or am afraid of her, but I find myself amused at her personality.

"Full of himself, and yes. I'm going to go change." I shrug and smile, turning to complete my initial mission of changing. I wasn't spending any more time on useless athletes.

I
was sorting
my clothes and shoes out in the living room around noon when Heidi finally emerged from our bedroom.

After setting up my laptop on British time and settings, I'd checked in with my family, who was understandably freaking out after not hearing from me for a day after my plane landed. My mother had threatened to call Interpol and my father had gone all Liam Neeson, even going so far as to quote, "I have a special set of skills."

After double checking my classes and installing the 73Bulbs email from instructions someone had handed me last night, I had nothing else to do. Not being able to unload in the bedroom due to my slumbering roommate, I began to organize in the living room.

In the middle of folding a pile of shirts, I looked up as the exact replica of a 1990's Cindy Crawford walked out of my new bedroom door. I did a double take, swiveling my head like the voyeur I knew I had become. I just couldn't help it though.

Even after being at the premiere last night, surrounded by dozens of beautiful people and celebrities, none of them held a candle to my new roomie. Great, as if I didn't feel homesick and alone in a strange new city, now I was insanely jealous of this girl I didn't even know yet.

She had long, shapely legs, even longer than mine, and a waist so small in her skintight pajama tank that I wondered if she used one of those asinine waist-cinchers that celebrities back home did. Her skin was a deep brown, like she'd just spent the better half of a year on an exotic beach in France or Italy. My flesh felt pale at the best of times, but around her I would probably look translucent. Her face was full of deep, rich browns, pouty, mauve lips, and that type of exotic beauty that can only be achieved through birth. And to top it all off, she had the hair all girl's dream of. Rich chocolate brown with streaks of gold, tousled with just the right amount of volume. It looked like she'd stepped off the runway rather than just rolled out of bed.

I wasn’t usually envious of other people’s looks, but right then I felt like cowering in the corner I was so insecure. Guess my oblivious self-conscious side had finally met it’s match.

"Are you the new roommate?" Her voice was mix of breathiness and British. I was instantly even more jealous.

"Yes, I'm Leah...Leah Watson. I'm starting at Hale in a week." Hale University was one of London's best colleges, and I was lucky to even have made it in for the semester after my last minute application.

"Heidi Frye. I'm in the engineering school." She folded her long bronzed legs underneath of her on the stool and grabbed a mug to pour some tea. She looked like all of those Pinterest pictures you saw with those skinny, perfect girls. And on top of it all, she was smarter than me. "Hang on, was that you bumbling about early this morning? What, did you get lost on the way here or something?"

Now the entire apartment, or flat as Bridget kept calling it, knew about my late night entrance.

"Yes, I had to work actually, right when I landed. I hadn't been expecting it, but 73Bulbs called and-"

"Did you say 73Bulbs? You're working for Cressida? Oh lord, bless your soul, love! That woman is a monster!"

I blinked at her knowledge. "You know Cressida?"

She flicked her long, highlighted hair over her shoulder and smiled, her white teeth gleaming across the living space. "Know her? I once saw her dump an entire iced latte over a messenger's head. I'm a model, I've done some work with and for some of her clients. I move in her circles, so to stay, and that's one woman you want to obey and then stay away from."

Of course Heidi was a model. I would be surprised if she wasn't. "Thanks for the advice. I didn't see her at the premiere last night."

She places her half-drunken cup of tea down, hops off the stool, and begins to remove her tank top as if I'm not even there. I get a glimpse of the swell of her boobs before I avert my eyes to the floor. This girl's boldness makes me look like a nun.

"I'm going for a run in Hyde Park. You should come with me. No girl abroad should be sitting inside folding clothes on the second day of her across-the-sea adventure."