The Slam (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

ENDER

“There you are, son.” Dad cast me a darting glance over his shoulder before turning back to the stone fireplace that took up the entire wall of his study.

I crossed the room and sat down on the antique leather wingchair in front of his desk.

Dad picked up a fire poker from the hearth and started stirring the smoldering ashes.

Leaning back in my chair I watched him, noting the slight tremor in his right hand as he stoked the fire. “I can no longer pretend it’s not a problem.” He stared deeply into the flames. “It used to be a slight tremor in my thumb, sometimes my chin. But it’s gotten worse.” A pause. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

I said nothing, waited.

It seemed there were miles between us even though we were only a few feet apart.

He walked to his desk and pulled a Cuban cigar from its ornate silver case. His hands shook slightly as he removed the band, snipped the tip, and lit it. Settling down on his chair, he puffed on his cigar and began talking about business, his practice, money—always money, what he wanted me to do with my life.

I poured myself a scotch and drank in silence as he droned on and on.

“What’s your problem, son?” he said at last.

“You wanna know what my problem is?” I clenched my jaw. “You. You’re my fucking problem. And I don’t wanna join your damn practice.”

He took another puff of his cigar and blew smoke rings in my direction.

Pretentious prick. Bianca emasculates him and he turns around and tries to emasculate me. ‘Tries’ being the operative word.

“What do you want?” His words were muffled because of that damn cigar between his lips.

Anger burned down my throat.

He knows what I want. He’s always known
.

“Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t know. I want to turn pro. I want to quit college so I can work on my game full-time. Three years ago, I beat Phil Marr and he’s now ranked ninth in the world. I’ve crushed Ivan Dossier on the court and he’s now ranked fourth. That could’ve been me, Dad. That could’ve been me. Nike offered me a million-dollar deal to—”

“You think one mill is a lot?” He chuckled. “That’s nothing compared to what you could be making if you joined the practice.”

“You still don’t get it, do you? I had a chance to be top five, win Grand Slams. And I went to college for you. You!” I slammed my glass on his desk. “Not me.” Again, I noticed the tremors in his hands and forced calmness into my voice when I spoke. “Dad, I’m sorry you have Parkinson’s. I am, but every time I want to do something for myself, you’re there to pile on the guilt. You use your health to manipulate me, to manipulate Edric. And I’m fucking sick of it. I don’t even know why I care when you’ve been a shit dad my whole life. You sent us off to Camille’s every summer and then it was one marriage after another. You never gave two fucks about anyone but yourself or your damn practice. I’ve played in over a hundred matches and tournaments and you never came to a single one. Not one,” I said scornfully. “And you wanna know what’s fucking pathetic? I played like a beast, hoping you’d see how good I was. And I was good. I was fucking good. I was one of the top ranked junior players in the world, and even that was never good enough for you.”

“You want to know what’s good for you?” He puffed vigorously on his cigar and cursed because it would no longer draw. “Get your damn degree, go to med school, join the practice. Don’t be a loser.” There was no mistaking the mockery in his voice.

Even though I’d heard it all before, a muscle worked in my jaw. “I’ve heard you call Edric and me losers our whole lives. What sort of dad calls his sons born losers?”

He set his mouth in a grim line. “If you don’t finish college, you’ll be the loser who didn’t graduate.”

The last dregs of my patience faded and I rose to my full length. “I pity you, Dad.” My voice was quiet, steely. “I pity the man you are. The man you’ve become. The man you’ve made me become.”

He stared at me long and hard, his gaze mocking. Challenging.

Certain I could flip to rage again at the slightest provocation, I stormed out the door before I did something I fully regretted.

Chapter Thirty-Three

ADELAIDE

This place, this mansion… it was so massive that I had an entire guest wing all to myself.

It was liberating! Fabulously freeing! Most nights I lounged around in just my T-shirt, sitting hunched over the keys of a baby grand piano, eyes closed as my fingers flew over the instrument.

Plinky plonk plinky plonk plinky plonk
.

Okay, I never said I was a piano prodigy. Or that I could even play for that matter.

But I was determined to master
one
song. One. That was my goal.

And I was just playing a few chords before attempting to bang out a tune.

After all, practice makes perfect. So I practiced.

Lips pressed together, concentrating hard, I played with laser-focused attention, my fingers dancing over the piano keys…

Plinky plonk plinky plonk plinky plonk.

“The fuck you playing?” Ender stalked into my guest wing like a black cloud darkening a blue sky.

Plinky plank plank bloOnGGGGG.

“Ender!” I chided. “You messed up my tune!”

The next thing I knew the lid of the grand piano was banged shut. Then, with expert hands, he grabbed me around the waist and set me atop the piano.

“Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major,” I said with aplomb.

“What?” he said distractedly, parking his backside on the piano bench.

“You asked me what I was playing,” I explained. “I was playing Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major.”

Roughly, he pulled me toward him and spread my legs.

Now I was perched on the edge, just above the piano keys.

Saying nothing, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against my stomach.

It was strangely intimate. Sighing, I laid my hands on his head and sifted my fingers through his thick, dark hair. “What’s going on, Ender?”

He breathed deeply. Exhaled. Finally, he lifted his head and looked into my eyes. “I didn’t fucking choose this.”

“Choose what?”

“This life. This path.” He took another deep breath, and then the words came tumbling out. “I didn’t choose to go to college. My dad made that decision for me. I wanted to turn pro after high school. I had signed on with an agent and Nike offered me a deal. A month later, Dad got diagnosed with Parkinson’s and everything after that has been on his terms. He wants me to join his practice and I could give a fuck about that. It’s not what I wanna do with my life.”

“If you want to turn pro, excuse the Nike pun, but why don’t you just do it?”

“It’s not that simple.”

I smiled. “Maybe you’re the one with ladyballs.”

He wasn’t smiling. “It’s too late now.”

“You’re still young, Ender. And you can still make it in the big leagues.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Rafa, Fed, Djoko, Murray, all the top players—they all skipped college and turned pro. No agent wants to touch a four-year college grad who doesn’t fit the blueprint for tennis success.”

“Hmm.” I pursed my lips. “McEnroe went to Stanford.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t graduate.”

“Sanguinetti went to UCLA, so did Billie Jean King. And John Isner went to Georgia. He’s made no secret of his Bulldog pride. The days of teenagers winning Grand Slam titles are a thing of the past. The average age of players currently in the Top 10 is twenty-eight. Only one player in the Top 100 is under the age of twenty-one. You don’t see any young players dominating the US Open and all the Grand Slam tours the way they used to. And to me, that means there’s no exact in-your-prime years anymore. You have more time to figure out your longevity, your game, your body.” I shrugged. “Being young, gifted, and talented in tennis is not enough. With a few exceptions, the big leagues have become an adult-driven endeavor for the physically, emotionally mature.”

“So you’re saying I should finish college?”

“No,” I said. “College is all specialized, and the only thing a college education guarantees you is a college degree.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Know your options—
truly
know them—and then make your own decision. An informed decision. Don’t base your life choices off emotions.”

“Adelaide.” He held my gaze steadily. “I don’t know how you do that…”

“Do what?”

“Redefine the problem for me. Break it down in black and white.”

“You’re welcome,” I said coolly. “Now, about your dad… Parkinson’s symptoms vary from person to person and can sometimes take years to progress to a point where they cause problems. I’m not trying to diminish his illness in any way, I’m just saying that
you
have time,
he
has time,
both
of you have time to figure things out… to work out the kinks in your relationship.”

He scowled. “We don’t have a relationship and we never had one to begin with.”

“Ender,” I said in a teasing voice. “Is this why you’re always such a boiled cabbage? Because you have daddy issues?” A bubble of laughter escaped me. “I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “It’s just that all along I’d assumed you were grumpy because you had Crohn’s disease or some sort of gastroenterological disorder.”

He frowned. “Why the fuck would you think I had a gastro disorder?”

“I just thought you were suffering from something that kept you constipated at all times… you know, because you had that perma-scowl on your face.” I smiled. “Like you do now.”

His frown deepened. “And you think that’s funny?”

“No,” I said briskly. “Not at all. Let me give you some perspective.” I inhaled sharply before continuing. “Both my parents are in jail. Piper has never even met her dad. Miguel’s mom passed away last year. She had breast cancer. And let me tell you about the male honeybee. They’re called drone bees. A drone bee is not produced as a result of sex. It develops from an unfertilized egg. Because queen bees are capable of parthenogenesis, which is a natural form of asexual reproduction sometimes known as virgin birth, drone bees have no father. Only a grandfather.”

“And you’re telling me this, why?”

“One—it’s a cool story. Two—if you think your family is dysfunctional, be glad you’re not a bee!”

Ender shook his head but he couldn’t hide the smile playing around his lips.

“See,” I said serenely, idly toying with a strand of his hair. “You can have daddy issues without being a difficult sourpuss.”

“A sourpuss?” There was a hint of laughter in his dark, entrancing eyes. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson just for saying that.”

“A piano lesson?” I wet my lips and swallowed hard as I felt that familiar tug between my thighs, the sweet nudge in my clit every time he looked at me.

Silence hung for a moment.

Ender was breathing hard now. With an impatient growl, he gripped the inside of my knees and splayed me wide open.

My breath hitched. I was slick with moisture, drenched with it.

“Mmm.” He made a throaty sound. “Always no underwear and always so wet for me.”

“Ender…”

“I’m gonna eat the fuck out of your pussy,” he whispered hoarsely.

God. That sounds terribly frightful
, I thought, especially since I was still recovering from the recent assault of Cade’s tongue attacking my vagina like a giant snail.

But the moment our gazes tangled, I knew.

I knew things would be different with Ender.

Without breaking eye contact, he ran his tongue along the full length of my labia, his breathing slow and deep and thick.

A soft, unraveling moan fell from my lips. Oh, it felt good.
So good
.

Ender watched me, piercing me with his heated stare as he tongued me with a slow and sensuous torment, rooting deeper and deeper into my drenched folds.

I watched him too, his blade-cut face drenched with desire as he took his time with me, learning my body, taking cues from my soft whimpers and quickened breathing, finding the precise lap of his tongue that made me moan his name.

“Ender.” Moaning softly, I tunneled my nails through his hair as he
lapped and lapped and lapped
… with tantalizing strokes, taking his sweet and precious time. Taking all the time in the world, all the time in the galaxy, all the time in the solar system.

Ahhhh
. My limbs felt wonderfully, blissfully languid. I drifted to that dreamy place, floating on the delicious sensations as his tongue stroked my labia in a hypnotizing rhythm while his thumb worked my clit in devilish circles.

More. I needed more. Without taking my eyes off him, I yanked my shirt over my head and my breasts slipped free, jiggling.

His deep groans of appreciation vibrated around my vulva, shooting straight to my core, and he slipped a hand to knead my breast, caressing the hardened nipple with his calloused thumb.

All the while he
laved and laved and laved
with sweet and undivided attention until I heard myself calling his name over and over in dazed repetition.

With shameless abandon, I curved my pelvis upward, pressing my heat against his delicious tongue, seeking more, demanding more. “Ender.” My voice was high and thin, his name on my lips both a plea and a demand.

He gave me more.

My breasts lifted and fell with feverish breaths as I looked down, panting at the sight of his head buried between my quivering thighs, those perfectly sculpted lips drenched with my juices as he ate out of me with a hungry, heated demand.

Every inch of my skin gained pleasure from the wet glide of his tongue.

It became too good. Too much.

“Ender…” My breath came in shallow gasps and my fingers tangled in his hair, fisting, grasping. “I can’t… I can’t—”

With a fierce growl, he curled my leg over his broad shoulder and my other foot slipped, hitting the piano keys.

I heard the sound of broken chords as my instep pressed against the keys, my toes curling as he
lapped
…

And lapped…

And lapped…

And lapped…

And lapped…

And lapped…

The sharp cry I heard piercing the air was my own as my hips gave a sudden jolt and I felt myself convulse under his tongue.

Wave after wave, my juices flowed and he devoured me, lapping and laving, swallowing and drinking up my release.

His large hands skimmed upward, squeezing my breasts as he slowed the stroke of his tongue, gently caressing in sweet waves, easing me back down.

Pleasure continued to quake through my body and my climax went on for several seconds. Trembling against the aftershocks, I pressed my foot against the piano keys and my toes quivered as the tremors continued to ripple through me, coaxing something that resembled a melody from the piano.

It wasn’t Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major.

But it was a classical masterpiece.