Bad Boy's Baby Part 2

"What do you have to say for yourself?" I asked.

Jack shrugged, those broad shoulders impossibly large. "Anything you want me to say, Kiss. Isn't that your job?"

"Don't call me Kiss."

"I thought you liked that nickname."

"I don't."

"It suited you."

How did he annoy me after only two seconds of conversation? The d.a.m.n nickname followed me. After the past Christmas party, I never wore the s.h.i.+mmering gown again, not after Jack p.r.o.nounced me his little Hershey's Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up in silver silk. The name was funny after two gla.s.ses of wine, but a respectable girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.

"Don't call me Kiss," I said. "I've told you before."

"Really?"

"Yes. Many times."

Jack tested my patience with a dangerous smile. "Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can't blame a man for becoming infatuated."

Oh, please. "So...you didn't get any action last night, and now you're laying it all on me?"

"You'll know when I lay on you."

That wasn't ever going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star quarterback's car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new. Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for three hours on the busiest bridge out of the city.

"Seriously, Jack," I said. "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

His expression hardened, as solemn as I could get him. "I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that's what happened."

I ignored the dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one. Jack's agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating bullets the size of footb.a.l.l.s to make it to the office before league president Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.

"Forget about the car," I said.

Jack's dazzling smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humiliate, not the only publicist willing to take his case.

"Forget the car?" He acted like that was the scandal. "It was a cla.s.sic. 302 V8 engine. Four speed manual transmission-"

I already learned football for this job; I wasn't taking a literal crash course in cars too. "Jack, the car doesn't matter. You had three women with you and the van driver had just dropped her children off. You are so lucky you didn't slam into a family with your...your..."

"My what?"

"Your...wh.o.r.e-mobile!"

"My wh.o.r.e-mobile?"

I waved a hand. "What would you call it?"

He shrugged. "My totaled, 1968 G.o.dd.a.m.ned Camaro! Wh.o.r.es not included."

"Oh, sorry." I wasn't. "What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?"

He smirked. "We were just taking a drive."

"A drive?"

"I was showing them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Might not kill you to try it once in a while."

His fun wasn't my definition of a good time. "Jack, that fun almost killed you."

"Only makes me stronger, Kiss."

"Only makes you look like more of a playboy."

Jack's words didn't have a shred of decency or humility. "We were just out for a drive."

I scrolled to a picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my laptop so he could see the screen.

"Why was your fly down?"

Jack tilted his head as he surveyed the photograph. "Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear boxers."

"You think?"

"I almost gave a free show." He took too much pride in the picture. "Believe me, this could have been a lot worse."

He was delusional. "How?"

"Seeing as I was nearly castrated, be glad we're talking in your lovely office and not the hospital." He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his career inconvenienced him. "I give a lot to charity already. The last thing anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my d.i.c.k."

"Too much information."

"Believe me, there's enough to spare."

"I didn't ask."

"You might, one day," he said. "Never know, Kiss."

"Neutering you might actually settle your a.s.s down."

"I'm never settling down."

"What a surprise."

Jack crossed his arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-s.h.i.+rt as it stretched against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to never go out without a suit. His ink-the raging calligraphy and lettering, words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past-didn't look like the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.

Me included.

"You realize how bad this looks?" I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my patience. "The restaurant you left was trashed. The waitresses humiliated. There's pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a different woman on your lap all night-"

Jack didn't apologize for any of it. "I'm not allowed to have a good time?"

"Your definition of a good time would entertain three men."

His jaw set. "Sorry my nights aren't a half a gla.s.s of wine, a thousand piece puzzle, and Netflix-"

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Kiss, you don't seem the party type."

"That's a compliment coming from you."

I was not explaining myself to b.l.o.w.j.o.b McCloseCall. For the past year as lead on his case, I'd tried my hardest to foster a professional relations.h.i.+p with the least professional man in the entire American League. No way I'd let that arrogant manwh.o.r.e get under my skin.

Or my clothes.

No matter how much he tried.

Jack laughed. "You need someone to take you out...and then take you home."

"Excuse me. We're talking about your s.e.x scandal first."

"Gotta have s.e.x for a scandal."

"Oh, good. I'll just put in the press release you were taking those three floozies to church."

He rapped a hand on the table. "They weren't floozies."

"What were their names?"

His c.o.c.ksure smile faded. He gnawed a lip, but I stopped him before he furrowed his brow.

"You're unbelievable, Jack."

"One was...Sophie?" He shrugged. "Then there was Halter-Top...and...uh, Blondie."

"Great." I scrolled my email again. "That makes my job easier. Anonymous s.e.x. Fantastic."

"Technically, it was supposed to be an anonymous foursome." He crossed his arms behind his head. "What might have been..."

"I hope you aren't this insufferable around your teammates."

"Kiss, you're getting off easy. With them, I'm much worse."

The door opened. I stood, welcoming my boss as she escorted Jack's agent inside. Jolene blushed the instant she greeted Jack, though she'd never have any luck with the quarterback.

Then again, he humped anyone who crossed his path. G.o.d only knew who Jack Carson's next target would be. I pitied that future girl with her night of meaningless, animalistic s.e.x in the arms of an athletic, masculine G.o.d who wanted nothing more than a couple hours of utter pa.s.sion and no regrets.

At least...I thought I pitied the girl.

Maybe.

Jolene sat at my side, unable to look at her client. Her crush on Jack was so awkward she let me take the lead on the case even though I was still her a.s.sistant. The hotshot quarterback was a thorn in our side, but if I could keep him out of trouble, I'd get a well-deserved promotion. I wasn't stopping until I got the partners.h.i.+p in Jolene's company and became the best publicist in the city.

"Finn." Jack nodded to his agent. "How you holding up?"

Finn wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and juggled a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. "Just got off the phone with Coach Thompson."

Jolene and I braced for the worst. Finn pulled his phone from his pocket. His hand left sweat prints on both the cell and mahogany table. I offered him a gla.s.s of water. He declined, sipping the Pepto instead.

"Let me guess." Jack wasn't intimidated. Did anything ever bother him? "He's disappointed." He held up a hand and started counting on his fingers. "He's panicking that I'm hurt. He's demanding that I stay out of the spotlight. Wants me to drop the lifestyle. He's p.i.s.sed about the women, about the wreck, about the late night. He won't say a d.a.m.n thing about the teammates who actually invited me out. The blame rests solely on me."

Finn nodded. "You left out most of the profanity."

He gestured to me. "The ladies have delicate sensibilities."

I declined to respond to the a.s.shole.

It was only eight AM and already Finn loosened his tie. "Jack, you are the leader of the Rivets. On the field and off."

"Bulls.h.i.+t," he said.

"That's your responsibility, Jack."

"Last year, I broke two single season records and tied for another three. That's where my leaders.h.i.+p lies. My nightlife doesn't matter, only if I can get the team to the champions.h.i.+p. And I did."

"And you lost."

Finn said what we all thought, but it was nothing Jack wanted to hear. The chair toppled as he stood. He loomed over us with a dark scowl that made the tattoos on his arms darken in the artificial light of the conference room.

I knew he didn't belong trapped indoors like this. A man like Jack needed to vent his frustration on the field, in the gym, or in the bed of a beautiful woman.

Or three of them, apparently.

It was easier to judge the manwh.o.r.e when I wasn't imagining what he'd do to the lucky woman.

Jack extended his arms, tightening his muscles. Broad. Powerful. "I'm paying all of you a s.h.i.+t ton of money to represent me. So f.u.c.king represent me. You want to pretend I'm some beacon of moral responsibility, f.u.c.king tell people I'm a d.a.m.n saint. Earn your salaries like I do every G.o.dd.a.m.ned Sunday. Until then, I'm out of here."

"Jack..." I called to him before he reached the door. The phone rang as he grabbed the k.n.o.b. "The League is calling. You have to talk to President Bennett."

"Son of a-"

Jolene answered the call and pressed her fingers to her lips. She plastered on a twenty dollar smile and greeted the president as if they were old buddies instead of the monthly target of Frank Bennett's rage against Jack.

"Frank...how are you?" Jolene immediately flinched against a hail of profanity from both the phone and Jack slamming into his seat. "We've been waiting for your call. I have you on speaker with Finn Smith, Mr. Carson's agent, and my a.s.sistant, Leah Williams."

"I remember."