"I'm sorry about this," she whispered. "As soon as I get him back in the game, everything will change."
I shook out the balled-up t-shirt, folding the damp spots in on each other until it formed a smooth rectangle. "Don't apologize." I wrapped my arm around her waist, kicked her feet apart, ran the t-shirt over her slit. "But I'm not letting you leave here with a sopping wet cunt, Stel."
She rested her forehead on my shoulder as she released a breathy laugh. "Thank you." Her phone started vibrating again but I didn't stop. No, I wasn't rushing this job. "I think. I need to review the girl power bylaws on this one."
"Nope," I replied, my hand still working between her legs. At this rate, I'd have to scrub the scent of her off my skin. "The regs are clear. This belongs to me."
19
Stella
Nothing good happenedat The Liberty Hotel. Nothing I'd ever witnessed.
The old jail-turned-hotel hot-spot seemed to shout "trouble be found here" and tonight was no exception.
As Flinn promised I would, I found McKendrick in Alibi, the trendy drunk tank-slash-watering hole, kicked back at the end of the bar. His body consumed as much real estate as possible. His arms were draped over stools on his left and right, his legs were spread wide enough to block anyone who tried to pass without his express desire. And three members of the hotel's security team loomed near him, physically separating him from the other patrons. And there were plenty of them, all edging against the human barricade to get a look at—and a photo of—Boston's reigning bad boy ballplayer.
At the other end of the bar sat Orrille Whitelock, a recently retired NFL wideout I'd repped through a PED scandal a few years back. He held a rocks glass in one hand, a bag of ice pressed to his eye in the other. The stools around him were missing. I was hoping they were removed to give him space and not as a result of damage. These guys could afford a few stools without issue but neither of them needed to add bar brawling to their résumés.
I nodded to him but that was all he was getting from me tonight. He wasn't paying me and I didn't clean up after athletes for the fun of it.
"Hey, lady," McKendrick called as I waded through the crowd.
"Here I am," I replied. Even at a distance I noticed his lip was split and swollen. "As requested."
He gestured to my dress with his beer bottle. "Did you get all fancy for me? You didn't have to do that."
"Sorry to get your hopes up but this is not for you." I glanced around, hoping to find an adult in the room. Head of security, management, anyone. The bartender tipped his chin up in greeting but offered nothing else. When I arrived at McKendrick's side, I said, "Pay your tab. Whitelock's too. We're leaving."
He draped his arm around my shoulder. "I'd do that, honeycakes, if I had any cash." He aimed a surly glare across the bar. "But don't worry. Whitelock's picking up this round."
"The fuck I am," Whitelock called. "Not after you fuckin' decked me, dude."
"I'll add it to your bill." I yanked my corporate card from my wallet, pointing at both men as I slapped it down on the hardwood surface. When the bartender approached, I said, "These two gentlemen are finished for the evening." I glanced over at Whitelock. "Head on home now, Orrille."
He was a nice guy. Truly. He made tons of bad decisions but he was a nice guy.
"Maybe I wanna press charges," he yelled, loud enough for the whole damn bar to hear. "Maybe I'm not done with you, McKendrick."
"We're friends, Orrille. We don't need to call the cops." I leveled a pointed stare at McKendrick's split lip. "I don't think it makes sense to spend the night filing charges and giving statements when you could be"—I tipped my head toward the throng of women willing to kiss it better—"somewhere more pleasant. Don't you agree?"
Whitelock grumbled to himself and then slammed his glass on the bar. He craved attention just the way McKendrick craved it. Giving him that attention wasn't the solution. Not tonight. But that was the trouble with athletes who'd lived most of their lives as superstars—they didn't know how to exist without a constant feed of praise and adoration. They didn't care if that adoration came in the form of negative press or acquiring a bad reputation. When the drug of choice was fame, it didn't matter where the fix came from as long as they got it.
To be fair, I didn't know how I'd transition from playing in packed arenas before thousands of screaming fans and signing multi-million-dollar mattress spokesmodel deals to being a semi-regular person who used to be famous. I wasn't sure I could adapt to that rise and fall, the momentary luxury of people tending to my every need and maintaining my body like it was a machine, followed by nothing. Retirement wasn't nothing but it was a big drop off from the intensity of a decade in the NFL.
Part of me wondered whether McKendrick worked this hard at screwing up because he wanted to get out of the game. If he wanted to play, he had another six or seven good years in him. But it seemed like he wanted the fall, wanted the sudden drop into semi-obscurity.
I signed the check and pocketed the receipt for my expense report before motioning to McKendrick to follow me out. He grumbled too and left Whitelock with an earful of foul parting shots, but he walked with me—and the security team—through the hotel's front lobby.
"There will be videos," I said as we waited for the car service to come around. "Videos of whatever led to Whitelock's shiner and your split lip, and the hearty goodbye you gave him just now."
He tugged a beanie from his back pocket and pulled it low, past his eyebrows. "And your fuckin' point, lady?"
"Oh, no point. Nothing to worry about here." I gestured toward the car as the driver pulled into the portico. "Though I will ask you to refrain from using the phrase cum-dumpster when we visit the elementary school in Chelsea later this week. Gotta know your audience, Lucian."
The security team moved forward to open the vehicle's doors and shuffle us inside but McKendrick wasn't having it. He pushed one of the men away, yelling, "You wanna swallow those teeth or what? Back the fuck up."
"Seriously," I hissed at him. "Just get in the car."
