THE PACT (Chicago Nights #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Present Day

SAWYER

Monday night

Chicago, Illinois

There’s a special place in Hell for people who don’t enjoy parties.

Currently, I’m one of them.

When I organized this damn shindig tonight, I’d imagined that I’d be somewhere in the corner draped in three or more cleat chasers. A glass of tequila or two would be in my hands and I’d be guzzling it to some awful Jason Derulo song or even EDM.

It wasn’t a perfect picture. But it was a picture all the same.

Unfortunately, that picture is nothing like the one happening in front of my face right now. Glass-less, cleat chaser-less, I wander over to the kitchen, catching the eye of ex-teammate Lenny Rodriguez, who raises his own glass in salute. He drinks.

“Cheers to the man of the hour!”

I want to tell him that that man isn’t me, but I join him anyway. Perching against the granite counters, I smile, an expression that almost hurts as I watch him hang a hand over a nearby blonde, a look of joy on his jolly face. He takes another drink.

“Con-congratulations, Saw,” he stutters, sloshing his drink. He points. “You’re the best man I know in the league. And you deserve this. Can’t wait to play your ass in the playoffs in just a few weeks. I knew you guys would cinch a spot on the playoff roster. But now it looks like I’m going to have to go to battle against you and Sevin. Winner takes all. The trophy, the tequila and the women. Whaddya say?”

I’d say I can’t do any of that. But that wouldn’t be much fun now, would it?

It’s supposed to be a celebration. I should be happy.

Not sadder than a mid-sixties Johnny Cash record.

But bad news has a way of drying up your dicking-and-drinking dreams. And currently I’m out of both, mouth dry at the thought of all I’m going to miss out on.

I grab for a beer. “Sure,” I mutter to the man I’ve known for nine years. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Who else better to beat your ass and the rest of the Bruisers and send each of you crying back to your Milwaukee corners?”

He nods, his beard bobbing in my direction. “Touché. And f**k you all the same. We’ll see who’s crying in a couple of weeks.”

I hate thinking that maybe the crying man will be my ass. But I move on, anyway, my bad mood filling the room with a funk as I head towards the sink, hoping to pop the top on my beer.

But someone else stops me before I can. And I look up.

Happy to see that it’s Sevin. A face that doesn’t make me want to vomit. I raise my beer.

“You enjoying yourself?” I comment, knowing the answer already.

“I’d enjoy it, if it weren’t dripping with women. I just had one try to get my d**k in her hand. Another put her tongue in my ear. If Emily doesn’t get here soon, there’s going to be a blood bath. Namely because Naomi will start fighting in her stead. She already looks bloodthirsty, shooing away more groupies than a fly-swatter. But I’m sure my girlfriend will appreciate the effort.”

“And so will our other teammates. Your assistant is shooing them right into their arms.”

“All the better. I’m so tired of this scene.”

I want to say I’m not. But this scene might be tired of me.

Or so my suspension would say. Nothing like the news that you might not play in the playoffs to make a man not want to celebrate.

But I keep the news to myself, moving on.

I’m almost out of the kitchen before I run into her—the last person to make this night the f*****g disaster it’s already turning out to be.

Naomi.

Sevin’s assistant. AKA Hera, queen of the Hell-gods.

A woman who makes Medusa look like a party, her brunette hair pulled back tightly enough in a bun to scar.

She doesn’t notice me. Not that she does often.

A woman with caramel curls, seriously stacked on every inch of her winding curves, places a hand on the brunette’s shoulder, pressing.

I’ve never been a nosy man, usually apt to not give two damns. But there’s something in the assistant’s body language that draws me in.

Looking like a person who lost her puppy, her head bowed, she leans into Miss Ringlets’ touch and I find myself leaning closer, eager to listen to someone else’s misery besides my own.

Perched against the kitchen counters, I pop it open and pull from my beer, ignoring the flattened taste.

“I know. I know. He’s a jackass.” Naomi glances up. “And you’d think that’d be enough to leave him alone. You’d think that’d be enough to tell him to take a flying leap off the f*****g Grand Canyon. But then there’s always this little part of you that wonders if it’s true. There’s always some small part of you that wonders if you deserved the reaction. If maybe the asshole was right. Maybe I am a prude… Jackson wouldn’t be the first one to say it. I just never thought that damn nickname would come from his lips. I thought he would be past all that. But he doesn’t seem capable of looking past anything that isn’t his d**k. Not that it was that big anyway…”

I fight the urge to snort.

I’ve never heard Naomi mention this Jackson before. I didn’t know the Hell-god dated.

I’d assumed she was a robot who whirred occasionally and shut down at the end of the night. It’s nice to know I’m not the only angry person at this party. But like the glutton for punishment I’ve suddenly become, I incline even closer, pushing the beer to my mouth, listening to every word.

The curly-haired friend sighs—a soft empathetic sound. “Little dicked men are the worst. They never know a good thing when they have it.” She shrugs. “Hey, at least he didn’t have one of those Coke can ones, if you know what I’m saying… The type that come at you like something out of horror film, destined to wreck your insides. I hate those,” she says, grimacing. “Did he at least know how to use it?”

The friend winks. But a flash of shyness settles across Naomi’s face. The overly mouthy assistant actually blushes, turning beet red and suddenly I can’t stop eavesdropping, eager to hear what’s coming next.

I’ve never seen the robot look this shy before. Never knew she was familiar with the emotion—not if it wasn’t hardcoded. She didn’t seem to have softness in her DNA.

She licks her lips. “Well, see, technically, we haven’t… I mean we’ve never actually had the chance to… You know…”

Miss Ringlets’ eyes widen, the gold-green orbs nearly popping out of her little head. She leans in, red lips gaping, mimicking exactly how I feel.

My heart beats hard.

“Are you saying…you’ve never slept with Jackson?”

“No.” The response is forceful. “I’m saying,” Naomi starts, shyer than ever, “that I’ve never slept with anyone. I’ve never had the chance.”

“Good Lord, girl.” Curls’ eyes are bulging out of her face. “How…? Why…? What?”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “If you continue with a ‘who’ and ‘when,’ I’m going to come scarily close to killing you, Ros, alright?” She laughs softly, but the sound is hollow.

Turning around to replace the glass of red wine in her hand, she almost makes it before bumping into a solid wall in the form of me, standing there. I gaze down at her, steadying her with my hands. “Whoa, there. Careful. Otherwise, you’re going to trip and start wearing that red wine.”

“Or you will be. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Naomi circles me, reaching for the bottle beside me, and my eyes follow.

“Tough night?”

She doesn’t look up. “Care to explain to me how that’s any of your business?”

“Am I to assume the answer’s ‘yes’ then?”

“You are to assume that it’s none of your business.”

I bite down a laugh, smiling. “Oh come on now. You can tell me, Naomi. I can keep my mouth shut about a little thing like this.”

“You can’t keep your mouth shut, period, from what I’ve seen these last two years.”

She’s not wrong. But I lean in, liking the flame behind her eyes—the heat.

I might be mistaken, tonight’s suspension news throwing my senses off, but if my intuition serves me right, then, I’m seeing something from Sevin’s domineering assistant that I’ve never seen before…

She’s nervous. I’ve never seen this woman nervous.

Anxious, yes. Authoritative, abso-effing-lutely.

But never nervous. At least not around me.

Bowing her head over the bottle of wine as she pours, her brown eyes hide beneath a tortoise set of eyeglasses covering up half her face, her pink lips pursed.

She sighs as I keep standing there, obviously not going anywhere. Glancing up at the ceiling, she seems to be searching for answers. And a few actually find their way out.

She sighs as she talks. “I’m just not in the best of moods. Really. Um, someone cut themselves on a broken bottle earlier, and the sight of blood actually makes me want to empty my stomach. There’s very little red wine at this party and that’s all I really drink. I thought this would be a dinner. Not a party. And to be honest… I wasn’t really up for a party. I never really am. But you already know that about me, so…”

She lifts her shoulders, the tiny gesture small beneath her oversized shirt, and I watch her, wondering if she knows my nickname for her is Buzz-Kill. Sounds like she does. I fight the grin that makes its way to my face.

“You know, I’m sure there are pills for your ‘little problem.’ Allergies to having fun aren’t common but I’m sure something can be done.”

She blinks. “I’m looking into surgery for it.”

“I’m hearing pills and potions are the way to go, but that might just be rumors.”

Naomi turns, leaning back against the kitchen counters, her eyes on anything but me. Her solid stance—arms crossed, wine glass in hand—read impenetrable. But it’s the set of her tiny pointed chin.

It shakes, and I remember I’m not the only one dealing with BS tonight. I perch beside her. “So, I’m guessing your date didn’t show tonight, then, huh?”

She expels a sharp breath, sucking her teeth, eyes still akimbo. “Isn’t there some unsuspecting woman in here you should be talking out of her underwear? Or have you lost your Midas touch in the last few minutes of bugging me?”

“Normally, yes. But I’m having a hard time with it tonight. Someone must have slipped me one of those anti-fun pills of yours.”

This earns me a real smile. Full and shaky. “Sure it wasn’t me?”

“Oh, I’m positive that it was.” I settle in beside her, shuffling just a tad closer than I was seconds ago, feeling strangely more at ease than I have all night, the thrum and thumping of the overhead music matching my pulse.

Jesus, she smells like cherries.

I’m still inhaling her scent when she speaks up, startling me. “You must be enjoying the new place, huh? At least it’s getting some wear.”

“Yeah. After almost a year of renovations. Least it’s getting a chance to stretch its legs.”

She glances over in the corner, her eyes finding a bevy of baseball Annies staring our way. She grimaces when they wave. “Yeah, it looks like it’s getting the trial run it really needs.”

“You know a better way of breaking in a new apartment? Because I think a party’s perfectly suitable for christening a new place.”

“Knowing you, Sawyer, the term ‘christening’ means a whole lot more than just having a party.”

“You’re starting to know me a little too well for my liking.” I snort as I stare at her. “So, what is your idea of a good time then? You never said.”

She gives me a glare—finally. One hot and full of humor. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Try me,” I say, returning it, daring her with my eyes.

But I guess I push my luck.

Without another word, Naomi moves away, leaving the kitchen entirely, and it takes every ounce of my will not to fall in step behind her, see if she really smells as much like cherries as I’m imagining.

For Chrissake, the uptight, turtle-neck wearing robot was almost normal for a second—like a human being. I try to remind myself that I need to act like one myself when the curly-haired friend Naomi was talking to edges up closer, a bright smile reaching her full lips.

I smile back.

“So, you must be Naomi’s BFF?”

I grin wider. “How’d you know?”

“Only the fact that Naomi just gave you a look that could melt your face off.” She reaches out a hand, her slender fingers extended, and I take it, holding it in mine. We shake.

“And you are?”

“Rosalyn Morales. New marketing intern. Trying to learn the ropes around these parts, and Naomi’s the one to show me. She’s good at this, you know. Handling sports. Handling you guys.”

And don’t I know it.

The personal assistant should have a title as a “Player wrangler.” Wrestling Sevin’s career and keeping the MVP from falling prey to blackmail schemes, groupies and the like were amongst the most incredible feats by the tiny titan—a pit bull in a skirt.

As much animosity flowed between us—two opposites who could not be more unlike, I respected the hell out of her.

If she weren’t frozen in ice, I admit: I might have hit on her at some point. There was a beauty behind those dark glasses, a hidden gypsy underneath the frost.

But tonight she was all fire, and I’d been burned enough for one day.

I smile at her friend, finding the feat surprisingly easy. “It’s a tough job. But someone’s gotta do it.” I c**k a brow. “Are you up to the task?”

“What task?”

“Handling us. The players, I mean.”

She sighs, and I take a step forward, the flirting as easy as breathing for me.

This is what I’m good at. The flirting. The banter. The back-and-forth.

Not to mention the f*****g.

If sleeping with women was a sport, I’d have been in the Majors long ago. But for some reason, though the flirting feels perfectly fun, I can’t keep my thoughts off the hot look in Naomi’s eyes, before she turned it cold.

I turn back to my beer, rotating my attention back to it. But it’s empty as I lift it to my lips. I raise it.

“s**t. Looks like I need a refill.”

“I’ll still be here when you get back,” Rosalyn declares, grinning.

Hazel eyes bright, skin the color of café au lait, I recognize that Ros is interested. The slight flush in her cheeks tells me so, and if this were a day ago, I’d be christening my room with her. On my bed.

The f**k is wrong with me?

It can’t just be the suspension. It’s something else.

Taking my suddenly tired self to the other side of my apartment, I bypass the big windows—floor to ceiling structures that cover my walls in glass, hating myself just a little more.

Hating that I can’t make myself the Sawyer I know and love. The Sawyer before today’s suspension.

I swipe a random drink on my way to the bathroom, downing the entire elixir in one gulp. My steps are fast, a thin line of sweat working its way under my t-shirt as I haul ass towards the doorway, shutting myself in.

A splash of water on my face should do it.

Should push the funk away.

I turn, beating my forehead against the closed door behind me, my long hair brushing across my beard as I take a deep breath.

A breath that’s joined by someone else as I hear a small gasp behind me.

I rotate, pulling a full about-face. Only to find a sight more shocking than anything else I’ve ever seen.

I blink twice, not believing it’s real.

Because there’s no way the most robotic woman I’ve ever met is sitting on my bathroom counter right now, one tiny hand in her pants.

Glasses askew, pink mouth open, she gazes at me, gaping, face flushed to high heaven as I take her in. All of her.

The collared shirt. The overdressed blue jeans. The open fly.

Fingertips sunken inside her panty line, my best friend’s assistant stares at me underneath her dark tortoise shell spectacles, and I stare back at her, skin humming, heart rumbling as I realize that I’ve caught the most uptight woman in the world...

Touching herself. The telltale signs of her being caught red-handed inked on her olive skin.

If tonight wasn’t already a disaster, it is now.

But whether or not the disaster is good or not…remains to be seen.

Because I can’t stop myself from smiling.