“Damn right it is.” Drew speaks with the same intensity he has in the huddle. “Don’t date women who abuse the English language. You need a woman who reads. Like, a lot,” he adds, with a thump on my shoulder and a wiggle of his brow. His fiancée is a big-time reader.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Axel says.
“Of course you’d say that. You’re a writer,” I point out.
“But I don’t see you disagreeing, Gabe,” Milo adds, then lowers his voice. “And you shouldn’t. Because women who read are usually a lot more…fun.”
There’s a twinkle in his blue eyes. He doesn’t sleep and tell—none of us do—but his message is clear.
A well-read woman is more fun in bed.
Hmm.
Maybe a bookworm would like to be bent over the bed, fastened to the headboard, or tied to a chair. Would take a hard smack to her ass and beg for more.
“I like fun,” I deadpan as Drew gathers the cards. It’s his turn to deal.
“Then maybe focus on that. We’ve got less than a week till training camp,” Drew says, a leading tone in his voice as he brings up our trip to San Diego.
A week sounds perfect for a rebound. But if I go for a rebound, I don’t want someone who’ll shout you kinky fucker at me at the end of the week. It was bad enough the way Brittany stormed out. What if a woman comes up to me on the football field and does that for the media to hear? Shudders.
“It’s my last year, though, so it’s best that this old dog stays focused on the game,” I say, with a resolute shrug. “No distractions.”
“And sex is both distracting and dangerous, man. You could get injured screwing in the shower,” Axel offers helpfully.
“Dude. Do you work to be a buzzkill, or does it come naturally?” I ask.
“I’m just saying. It’s a thing. Be careful, old dog,” Axel adds, with a smart-ass wink.
And ouch. Like I don’t already know that, in football years, I’m as old as Yoda. “Hey, now. I don’t want to hear about sex injuries till I’m way past forty. Maybe even fifty.”
Drew sets down the deck and lifts his glass of beer. “Let’s drink to staying healthy in your final year. No football injuries and no dick injuries. Just getting banged up on the field.”
Laughing and rolling my eyes, I lift my beer and toast to football. At least she always likes it rough.
After taking a drink, I set the bottle on the table. As Drew shuffles the deck to deal the next round, my gaze strays to the window where a sexy-as-sin brunette chats on the phone as she walks a little dog down the street.
The woman’s got a swing in her hips and a pouty fullness to her lips. She looks like a piece of candy, all effortlessly delicious in tight jean shorts, cut off and raggedy sexy, and a purple halter top that shows off her pierced belly. I’d like to peel that top off her, lick a path between her tits and down her stomach, then tug on her belly ring with my teeth. As I stare unabashedly a little longer, she starts to look damn familiar.
She reminds me vaguely of picnics, barbecues, Thanksgivings. Then, a Christmas party. A moment under the mistletoe, maybe.
Wait.
Hold the hell on.
Is that…?
No fucking way.
Another memory flashes before me of Ellie Snow. One of the times I babysat her.
3
A THING FOR BAD BOYS
Ellie
I dread calling my mom back, but I hung up on her when I got into my house. I used my pee-mergency as an excuse, but I’m a little freaked out over any news about my ex.
Still, I have to know the score. I grab a pair of pink flip-flops—with a flower between the toes—then shove my feet into them.
Except, this shirt is a little gross. I did drive in it all day. After a quick freshen up, I tug on a purple halter top, then leash up my leading lady and hit the road.
Our first walk in our new town. Too bad I’ll have to use it to get the lowdown on my ex. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I stab Mom’s contact name, my gut swirling with worry.
I’d heard rumors that LGO had picked up a series about my infamous ex-boyfriend—Dexter Longfellow, aka Fabio. The timing couldn’t be worse professionally.
Mom answers on the first ring with a relieved sigh. “There you are. I was getting sick,” she says.
“I was only gone for a few minutes,” I reassure her as I turn down the block toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard. “What’s going on with…” I gulp, then woman up and blurt out the name I wish I could avoid. “Fabio’s List.”
“The Hollywood Scoop ran the piece today that LGO officially picked up the documentary. They’re going to run it in the fall, the story says. Rikki Finch is the reporter, and she’s never wrong.” My mom is apologetic, as if it’s her fault the show was greenlit.
My nerves speed through me like they’re on the Jumbotron race car track at the ballpark. “Mom, do you think the producers are pissed that I turned down their request to do an interview for it? Can they mention me by name without my permission?”
“They better not, or they’ll answer to me for it.” I can picture her shaking a fist at the sky. Her mama-bear ferocity eases some of my worries. It always has. “But who’ll want to watch this rubbish?” Mom continues. “Your show is going to be so much better,” she assures me. “I have zero interest in viewing a salacious tell-all about a chiseled model who conned hundreds of thousands of dollars from women he found on dating apps. Quelle horreur.”
I clear my throat and lift my chin. “He didn’t con me, though.” I don’t take just some solace in knowing that. I take all the solace in that.
“Of course not. I raised you right,” Mom says proudly. “Still, I’m going to organize protests against the show. And you can focus all your energy on The Dating Games.”
The show I wrote and am producing for streaming giant Webflix starts shooting later this month. It’s why I moved to Los Angeles. But the reality is, my last boyfriend went to prison for swindling women he met online. When word leaked a few months ago that a production company was shooting a salacious doc on his romantic duplicity for Webflix’s rival, Hollywood tongues began wagging.
Right when I’m about to launch my new career, from actress to TV writer-slash-producer, the last thing I need is a trail of tawdry ex-shenanigans to follow me.
“I’ll just say no if the producers ask me again,” I say firmly. Like I said no to my ex when he told me he needed money because he was supposedly in danger. Some bad guys were after him, he’d claimed.
Please.
I kicked his ass to the curb, but I still don’t want to appear on camera or be named as one of his exes. It’s one thing for a few producers to know—quite another for all the industry. I want a clean slate as I start my new gig. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously as a woman in Hollywood without a link to a scam artist.
“This is a sign you need to focus on dating good guys,” Mom says, putting on her helpful tone.
Oh gee, that thought never occurred to me.
“Yes, Mom. I’m going to check the good-guy box on Boyfriend Material when I get on the apps in LA.”