Not that Sam didn’t like to be well informed. People would be surprised if they realized just how informed he really was. Most thought he was merely a dumb jock, and in many ways he probably was, but there were some things he was definitely smart about. Especially anything that dealt with old civilizations.
The Mayans. The Incas. The Egyptians. The ancient Greeks and Romans. Fascinating mother fuckers, all of them. Seeing as how there was nothing in the paper referring to any dead civilizations— no new museum exhibits, no new archeological symposiums planned this week—Sam closed the paper after reading the scores on the sports page. Throwing the paper on top of the table, he picked up his coffee cup and chugged down what was left of the Colombian brew. Glancing absently at the newsprint he’d just cast aside, his eye was then snagged by a photograph on the front page of some naked guy—and oh baby!— wasn’t that Senator Green, the guy running against his old pal Harry, standing behind him?
Grinning, Sam picked up the discarded copy of the LA Times again and took a closer look at the picture. Man oh man, must that loser be embarrassed! He actually felt kinda sorry for the guy. Maybe he’d have his people contact the dude and recommend a plastic surgeon friend of his who specialized in penis enlargements. This picture would do wonders for Harry’s campaign and all, and for that Sam was grateful, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t afford to be generous. After all, this loser would probably never score again with the ladies after they caught wind of that photograph. Sweet Jesus! Sam was suddenly thankful he’d been born hung like a bull.
The photo having peaked his interest, Sam decided to read the article in its entirety. He grunted his disapproval when he realized the naked guy with the little worm was a NAM protester. Let him find his own plastic surgeon, damn it. He couldn’t stand those people. And he definitely didn’t appreciate how they cashed in on the familiar term of NAM at the expense of men like his dad who had fought and died there. None of these pussies would have fought there. They were too busy bemoaning the fact that they were born privileged and misunderstood to anyone who’d listen.
Sam’s stomach clenched when a particular paragraph gained his attention:
Three people were arrested on assault and battery charges, including Senator Green’s aide, Webster Carr. Carr, 35, allegedly blackened the eye of fashion photographer Gwenyth Jones in an effort to wrestle her camera and the incriminating photographs from her (see picture on 10-b). Jones, 27, is the sister of Harry Jones, the incumbent Green’s chief rival for the upcoming senatorial election.
Gwen? He hit little Gwen? Sam’s free hand unconsciously balled itself into a fist as he flipped to 10-b. Carr better pray he hadn’t hurt her too bad. Otherwise, he just wouldn’t be liable for his actions.
His jaw tensing in anger, Sam located the photograph and caught his breath. Cupcake’s face was black, blue, and puffy as a blowfish.
Carr was a dead bastard.
From the way the photo had been snapped, it was hard to make out much of Gwenyth’s face aside from the pummeling it had taken. He noticed, however, that her hair was still sleek and long, pulled up on top of her head in that sexy, come-hither topknot she’d always favored. Damn, but the sight of the pudgy little vixen could still make him hard enough to split a diamond into halves. ‘Course, he wasn’t sure she was still pudgy since the photo was only a mugshot of her face, but it didn’t matter. Gwenyth Marie Jones could make Sam “The Slam” Tremont hard as a baseball bat even if she weighed in at 300 hundred pounds, sported a beard, and wobbled around on a gimp leg. Always could.
Sam reclined back into the chair and hiked his legs up onto the desk. Crossing them at the ankles, he allowed himself to think about Cupcake for the first time in many years.
There had always been something between them. Something special. Something more than friendship, although that had been pretty damn good too. Sam knew that Gwen had loved him when she was a girl. That much would have been obvious to anyone with half a brain. He still grimaced whenever he thought back on how badly that lyin’ ex-wife of his had belittled Gwen to her face.
And he’d let her.
God, but he’d never forgive himself for the way Stacy’d hurt her. He wondered if Gwen had forgiven him either.
Sam’s large, callused fingers absently brushed the outline of Gwenyth’s face as he studied the only link he’d had to her in ages. He hadn’t felt right going back to the Jones house after he’d married Stacy. His ex-wife had known straight up how he’d felt about Gwen and he’d owed it to Stacy at the time to make a go of their marriage. How was he to know she’d faked her pregnancy?
Besides, Stacy had called him a pervert for even thinking of Gwenyth in that way, and at the time, Sam had agreed. She’d only been sixteen after all. Not that Sam had been much older.
After the divorce, Sam had been afraid to call Harry and try to patch things up between them. He didn’t know whether or not his old pal would accept him back into the familial fold. So he’d taken the coward’s way out and done nothing. Sweet Jesus, but was he still payin’ for it now. He truly missed Harry. They’d been tight since grade school. Sam was just glad he’d worked up the nerve to call Harry again after he’d seen his picture in the paper. It would be good to hang out with his old pal again.
Sam studied Cupcake’s photo more intently. Damn, but he missed her too. He ran his thumb over her cheeks, knowing good and well that if she smiled, those adorable dimples would pop out and bedevil him all over again. Grunting with remembered satisfaction, he then ran his index finger over her glossy mane of hair. The photo wasn’t of the finest quality, but he knew what the silky stuff would look, smell, and feel like in person.
Shiny and light brown with golden, sunny highlights. Ahh yeah. And it would be satiny to the touch, and smell of strawberries too. He couldn’t eat a strawberry to this day without getting a semi hard-on.
All that hair would go great against her tanned skin and her big green eyes. The contrast between Cupcake’s vixen tresses and the demure innocence of those wide jade eyes could do to him what no other woman could ever hope to.
Sam cursed himself a fool when he felt the familiar ache take over his groin. What an ass he was! Cupcake’s face was battered and broken and here he was getting all hot and erect just looking at her. Fully erect, he qualified, glancing down at his lap.
No wonder he had always taken such great pains to steer clear of Gwenyth in the past. Sweet Jesus! He would have been arrested if he’d done half the stuff he’d wanted to do to her back when she was sixteen. And fifteen. And …oh God … he refused to think back further than that. Fifteen. Fifteen was as far as he’d admit to. Okay, alright damn it, so she’d started growin’ those huge breasts around fourteen. But he hadn’t allowed himself to really look at them until she was fif—no sixteen. Definitely sixteen. Almost sixteen?
Sam stilled when a thought struck him. He was already planning to attend Harry’s campaign dinner at the University of Tampa in a couple weeks. Maybe Gwen would be there too. Hell, of course she’d be there! She and Harry were tight, always had been. Cupcake would never miss an opportunity to be there for her big brother.
Sam smiled when another thought came to him as bold as it pleased: Gwen wasn’t a little girl anymore. Cupcake was all grown up.
Sam’s groin grew heavier. Sweet Jesus, he couldn’t wait to get back to Tampa.
Chapter 3
After paying her fare, Gwenyth alighted from the cab and slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. She walked at a leisurely pace toward Sherry’s Place, a diner she frequented in Culver City whenever she happened to be in the LA area. The eating establishment’s eccentric staff and owner reminded her of the old episodes of Alice that still occasionally ran on TV. Her favorite waitress Liz even looked like the woman who played “kiss my grits” Flo on the situation comedy.
As usual, a long line of hungry patrons was waiting on the curbside for seating in the trendy dive. Groaning, Gwenyth shuffled to the back of the line, preparing to wait her turn. She wasn’t patient by nature, but Sherry’s cooking was worth the inconvenience.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she bided her time in the same courteous, stoic manner as the rest of the patrons. Bored, her mind soon wandered to this morning’s photo shoot at Vantry Sportswear. She had been delighted to call back home afterwards and let Grandmama know that the first session had gone extremely well and that the assignment was turning out to be a highly enjoyable experience.
“I’m so glad to hear it, sugar,” Verlene had enthused. “How long do you expect the whole shoot to last?”
