Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (with bonus novel!) (17 page)

“Oh, you prefer things hot?”

She doesn’t bite at all, not a single hint of expression. “How’s the suit?”

I run my hands down my chest, my sides, consider grabbing my crotch but decide that might be taking it a little too far for Elsa the Ice Queen. “A perfect fit. How’d you know my size?”

I notice the champagne flute she’s holding is still full, more for ornamentation than fun.

“We have all your measurements on file,” she replies.

“Measurements?” I glance down between the table and my pants. “
All
of them?” She walked right into that one.

She looks down for a moment before holding my gaze again, little given away. “I’m here for business, Mr. Fortes.”

“Andy, please.”

“Andy,” she corrects. “I hope there’s no…
confusion
about that.”

I put my hands up. “No confusion, but we are allowed to get to know one another, aren’t we? After all, we will be working in close proximity.”

“I look forward to it.”

God, she’s giving me nothing to work with here. Most girls would have their hand down my pants by now, but Sara Young remains a human Bermuda Triangle. What’s it going to take?

I undo the top button of my suit jacket, get casual. “Let’s start over. How’d you get this gig?”

I have the impression she wants to leave, but she’s not rude. No, someone in her position can’t be. They’ve got to remain personable at all times. “I originally worked for Caliber as a designer, working my way up to become PR Manager. It’s a dream job.”

“So you’re a fan of Formula One then?”

“Honestly? No. I have no interest in motor racing, but I do enjoy travelling. What better way to see the world?”

Sitting on my cock.
“Cooped up in hotel rooms and press conferences?” The thought of being locked up with her in a hotel zoom stiffens my dick further. Any more of this and I’ll be walking around the party with a pyramid in my pants.

She leans forward, her breasts compressed together. “I’m just happy to be here.”

The conversation falters and for the first time in a long time I’m speechless, not a single thought entering my head.

Bail.
I pick up my glass. “I’ll leave you to it.”

I’ll leave you to it?
My brain backfires immediately, but it’s out there now. Her mouth opens and I wait, hopeful, but her lips press back together, whatever she was going to say gone.

I make my retreat, furious at myself for failing to make progress, but I will.

I always do.

I’ll take the championship
and
I’ll take Sara Young. There’s not a single thing that’s going to stand in my way. Not Steven, not fucking Ikea Carl and certainly not a lack of perseverance.

Sara

Melbourne was hot, but Bahrain’s a freakin’ frying pan. Heat rolls off the track in waves. Andy and Carl walk ahead in linen shirts from the Caliber summer catalogue. They could almost be twins from the back. It’s exactly the kind of panty-melting perfection the brand needs. I look left to Andy’s butt, right to Carl’s. It’s butt tennis, back and forth, back and forth. Hell, I could play all day.

I take a break from team duties to meet suppliers over lunch. Bahrain is a beautiful city, the architecture leaning towards the extreme and obtuse, a giant art gallery, culture mixing with futurism.

The funny thing is, I constantly have to stop my mind from wandering to thoughts of Andy. It’s stupid. He’s arrogant, a player. Those lines? I mean, who’d he pull those from? Barney Stinson?

They were kind of working for a moment there.

Yes, a moment—misguided and foolish. It takes more than a bit of swagger and a good suit to win me over, not that I’m ever going to wind up as a scribble in Fortes’s black book of sexual conquests. I’ve seen the kind of girls he goes through and I definitely
do not
want that badge of honor for my belt.

Back in the safety of the hotel, I take a long shower, let the water and a lone finger take care of my rampant libido. My last lover was a shady guy I met in a Chicago bar after too many rusty nails. Suffice to say, that didn’t end well.

Pity it wasn’t Andy.

I mentally slap myself for the thought. I look down at my fingers, still lingering over the juncture of my thighs. “And you guys… tsk, tsk.”

I’ve got bigger things to worry about than Andy’s ‘measurements’. There are press kits to compile, an email inbox heading for the quad digits and a wardrobe of clothes to assemble. No one said it would be easy. The jetlag was an unexpected pain in the ass, but so far things were going as well as could be hoped. This is what I’ve always wanted, to become the Carmen Sandiego of the fashion world. I thought keeping boys like Andy and Carl on a leash would be hard, but so far neither has made my life difficult. Carl, especially, is the epitome of a gentleman, which makes me question his air-headed choice of girlfriend. I mean, really, who dates a girl whose biggest hit is ‘My Ass, Your Ass’?

I towel my hair dry and open the wardrobe. The press conference before qualifying is two hours away.

“My darlings,” I tell the assembled wool and cotton, pleats and cuffs, “time to get to work”.

*

I bump into Steven on the way to Andy’s suite.

He smiles, eyeing my chest. I don’t think the guy knows my eyes are in my head. “Sara, how’s everything going?”

“Well.”

“Caliber’s happy?”

“They are.”

“The boys are behaving themselves?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

Eyes up and… there we go. Yep, that is my face.

“Well, if you need any help, especially with Andy, you let me know and I’ll whip him into shape.”

Steven may be the Goodall Team Manager, but I can’t imagine he’d be able to whip anyone into submission, let alone Andy. Rumors were rife of the tension between the two of them last season. As early as this morning people were speculating on social media that Andy’s already shopping around for a new team.

I look past him, holding a pile of clothes. “Sorry, I’ve got to…”

Steven steps aside, eyes dropping again. “Sure, go through.”

I squeeze past him and make my way up to Andy’s suite on the top floor of the hotel. I don’t know how he managed the best room at The Domain. The thing has to be upwards of ten grand a night.

But I do know. His family’s rich from ranching and he’s rich from racing. He’s been around money his whole life.

I knock on the door.

His husky voice comes from beyond. “Enter,” a sultry summons.

I open the door and step in, fumbling and almost dropping the shirt and cap I brought for him to wear at the press conference.

I collect myself. “I’ve got some items here for—”

I stop midsentence as my eyes lift. Andy’s standing with his back to me, one hand against the glass that looks out over the bay and diplomatic area below, which is fine, except for the fact he is one-hundred-percent, shield-your-vagina naked.

He turns around and I drop everything.

There’s no missing
that.

“Sara,” he smiles, “what a surprise”.

My cheeks are on fire as I turn around, hands sweeping behind myself on the carpet for the shirt and cap.

“Allow me.”

His voice is close,
way
too close. I sense him stopping beside me. I glance behind myself, enough to see he’s found a towel to wrap around his waist. Still, he’s crouched, the dark space between his legs daring me to look deeper.

Do not, Sara Elizabeth Young.

I stand. “I’m so sorry.”

A highly detailed image of his appendage/third arm flashes through my head. It’s going to be seared there for all time, fodder for my spank bank.
Do girls even have spank banks?

He sits on the back of a sofa. “No need to apologize. I just got out of the shower.”

I keep looking down. “I see that, yes.”

I detect a hint of amusement in his voice. “Can I get you anything?”

How about a quickie?

I flick the devil on my shoulder away and hold out the clothes, my business cap firmly in place, doing my very best to ignore the sculpted, moist chest only feet away dotted with watery diamonds. He’s tatted up more than I expected, the ink faded with age. “I’m fine. I have clothes for the conference press, uh, press conference.”
Get a grip, girl!
“The cap’s really nice.”

What the hell, Sara? ‘The cap’s nice’? Really?

Andy takes the cap, trying it on, strands of wet, inky hair poking out the sides. “Yeah, it is.”

“Limited edition, calf leather. It tested really well amongst the 20-40s.”

Like he cares.

“I see.” He’s smirking, knows he’s got me backed into a wall here.

I’ve got to get out of this room before I either burn alive or suffocate on my own stupidity.

He holds the cap in his hand. “How much does it retail for?”

“Three-ninety-nine.”

“Jesus, dollars?”

I nod.

“And I thought the twenty bucks I paid for a Starter in high school was rich.”

Like you couldn’t afford it.
“I suppose it
is
expensive in context, but our brand has a certain… reputation.”

He stands, tossing the cap to the sofa. The towel slides down just enough to show off the defined vee that makes my mouth water a little with the idea of tracing that indent with my tongue. “What about
my
reputation? You don’t think it will damage your brand?”

“I can’t speak for…” I don’t even know what to say. Each word is my head is punctuated with
‘Cock! Cock! Cock!’
. I need another shower—freezing cold, stat.

I start to back away. “I’m just going to go.”

“Stay, let me say thanks for the cap.”

I turn and flee. “I’ve really got to—”

I close the door and press against the back of it.

My heart is flapping in my chest. I’m sweaty, and feel like there’s a cattle rod up my ass energizing my entire body.

I’m still coming down from whatever high it is as I pass Steven again at the end of the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, phone to his ear. “Yes, one million,” he barks, hanging up.

He sees me and pockets the phone, guilty but for what I do not know. “Did you see Andy?”

“I did,”
more of him than anticipated.

“Good. I let him know you were coming up.”

It sinks in. So Andy
knew
I was coming, and thus the cock stunt.

I smile with this knowledge.
Two can tango, Andy Fortes. Two can tango.

*

The press conference goes well, Andy is his usual cheeky self and a great contrast to the vast emotional emptiness that is Carl Heinz. Business and Pleasure, as I’ve named them. You couldn’t find two men more polar opposites.

Under a clear sky Andy qualifies in pole position, Carl placing second. The one-two is great for Goodall and, by association, Caliber.

I watch the race from a corporate box high in the grandstands, the sandy, desolate expanse of the Bahrain circuit stretching out before us. The crowd is thin, mostly men. In many parts of the track it’s a ghost town, all show and no substance, another grand structure in the middle of the desert for nothing other than to prove a point.

Race-wise, it’s a re-run of Melbourne. Andy wins easily, Carl unable to close the gap. The people in the box around me seem excited if only because a win by Goodall is a win for their various brands. And I’m right there with them. Just a month with the combination of Andy and Carl has done wonders for our younger female demographic. It’s the kind of tense, alpha rivalry that ladies eat up. Throw in a half-peeled race suit, a spot of grease, and our stock will fly off the shelves.

The image of Andy greased up flickers in the back of my mind, his suit stripped away completely and…
Jesus, get a grip, Sara.

I ignore the flicker of excitement between my legs and lift up the binoculars, spying Andy emerging from the cockpit of his car fist-pumping the air. In the background Carl watches on. Normally, he’s the picture of calm, but something’s changed. Two second places in a row have turned his expression sour. He’s not upset, not disappointed.

He’s jealous.

I leave the box and find my way back to the hotel. The post-race party awaits and with it a chance to get the mighty Andy Fortes back.

*

We’re at an actual palace, a swimming pool bigger than a football field lit sky blue outside, the lights of Bahrain twinkling in the distance.

It’s an odd mix for a party. Men in traditional Arab dress flirt with scantily clad grid and promo girls while western men in suits do the same, the few women here for business, like myself, are cast into the corners, forgotten.

“Relax.”

I spin and find Andy standing before me. I resist the urge to tell him he looks good, because he does, biting my lip. “Congratulations on the win.”

He shrugs it off. “Just another day in the office.”

“Some office.”

“It doesn’t even have a coffee machine.”

“You don’t strike me as a coffee drinker.”

“No?”

“Espresso, maybe.”

He looks me up and down, eyes lingering longer than they should on my hips. “Short and strong, you mean?”

It’s true I’m a good foot—nearly two—shorter than him. “Bitter,” I retort.

He laughs. “You think I’m bitter?”

“I was talking about coffee.”

He nods, stepping closer. “So was I, but I prefer my shots with liquor in them, if you know what I mean.”

His response makes me want to roll my eyes, but the way he says it still makes my nipples pebble under the magenta satin of my dress. “Does this sort of shameless flirting always work for you?”

He doesn’t pause for even a second to think. “It does.”

“And you think it will work on me?”

Curious.
“No.”

“Then why try?”

“You only need to look at the way I drive to know everything. You want to get to know me, the real me? Watch the race tomorrow.”

“When did I say I wanted to get to know you, real or not?”

He winks. “You didn’t.”

He evaporates into the mix of the party. I was hoping to one-up him with brains, but yet again it feels like I’ve lost somehow.

It’s air-conditioned in here, but I’m feeling flustered. I take a seat next to a large marble statue of a puma and watch the party unfold.

“May I?”

I look up to find a young sheik gesturing to the chair beside me. He’s handsome in an exotic way, a faint hint of star anise tickles my nose as he sits.

He offers his hand. “Prince Ali Waddya Al’Khalifh.”

I take his hand. “Sara,” I reply, simply.

A flicker of amusement passes over his face. “Quite a mouthful, I know, but please, just Ali.”

“You’re a fan of Formula One, Ali?”

He holds me with obsidian eyes. “Of course. What man doesn’t like fast cars and beautiful women?”

I’ve travelled to the UAE before, met men like Ali. Like their Bugattis, women are prizes to be acquired. Still, I play along. “What do you drive?”

He waves it off. “I have many cars, one for every occasion.”

“A favorite, perhaps?”

He runs his fingers lightly over my arm. “I don’t play favorites, sorry.”

I pull my arm away. “I’m afraid you might have the wrong impression.” He probably thinks I’m one of the many pay-for-play Caucasian girls getting around the party, though perhaps better dressed.