Illegal Contact (The Barons) Page 3

  That was unsurprising. The tight end coach loved me since I was, according to stats, the best one in the league. He’d already begun texting me multiple times a week to make sure I was staying in shape. But at the end of the day, he wasn’t the one I needed to keep on my side.

  “Whatever,” I grunted, turning back to the dartboard. “We interviewed twelve people, and they were all flaming heaps of trash fire.”

  “How you figure?” Marcus waved around one résumé. “This chick is hot. I’d pay a hundred bucks an hour just to have her sort my mail.”

  “Joe said she was too hot.”

  “Joe’s a boner killer and a cock block.”

  “Facts,” I muttered.

  “What about this one? Mary Cloutier. I bet she’s French.” Marcus flipped through the papers. “Yup. I was right. She’s French, man. You can’t pass up a literal French maid.”

  “She’s not a maid.” I stalked across the room and yanked the darts out of the board before returning to my spot. “Whoever it is, if it happens, is an assistant. They run my errands, make my appointments, and . . . whatever else. The idea of someone cleaning up after me makes me want to shoot myself.”

  “I get it,” Marcus said. “Since you’re doing a badass job of taking care of this place on your own.” He craned his neck to look around the massive game room. It was in an open space on the second floor of the mansion, and the railings gave easy views of the lower level. “I love what you’ve done with the place in the past year, by the way.”

  I said nothing. I was well aware that the place was seventy-five percent unfurnished. It seemed pointless when I only used three and a half rooms, counting the bathroom. I’d bought the damn mansion in a moment of indulgence after moving out of the huge estate I’d previously shared with Simeon and Marcus in Southampton. So far the only thing good about living alone was that I got to avoid their wannabe frat boy shit and massive parties during the off season, but I could have done that in a place an eighth of the size.

  “I bet Mary Cloutier would love to help you spruce up this big motherfucker,” Marcus said. “Unless you really love that office building look.”

  “Women hate me.”

  “More like women ain’t in a rush to hang out with a rage monster unless they’re trying to make it with you,” Simeon piped up. “Let’s look at the dudes.”

  “I already said it’s a wrap. I’m not hiring anyone.”

  They simultaneously waved me off.

  “Imma rate ’em by hotness,” Simeon declared. “Or dick size. They put that on résumés, right?”

  “That’s your area of expertise, S. I’ll look at the job creds,” Marcus said.

  Nothing like a little teamwork to get on my already frazzled nerves. I stopped throwing darts. Any minute, Simeon was going to stumble upon the guy that had effortlessly managed to make me emote all over Joe’s office about the wonders of football.

  “Look, I’m not—”

  “Holy shit.” Simeon held up Noah’s résumé and attached picture. “Did you not notice them dick-sucking lips?”

  Oh, I’d noticed all right. Just like I’d noticed the steel blue eyes, thick black hair, and trim body that had clearly been fit and defined beneath his shitty suit. What had really caught my attention had been Noah’s fingers. Long and slim and graceful. They’d look great wrapped around my dick.

  All of those things had run through my mind before Noah had even opened his mouth. Then he’d ruined it by being disparaging about my career. And the sport that had saved my sanity.

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Says King Asshole,” Marcus said. “His résumé is random as fuck, though. He was like . . . saving poor gay kids in Manhattan. Real super-hero shit. Why’s he trying to be your assistant?”

  Because he was apparently broke and desperate.

  “He looks like a hotter Clark Kent.” Simeon was still leering at Noah’s picture. “That mouth is giving me wood. I’m about to call him up and pay him to assist me.”

  “Okay, shut the hell up.” I strode over and confiscated Noah’s picture, and tried hard not to take another look at his wide mouth. I snatched the résumé from Marcus. “I don’t need you two going off about this stupid shit. I get it enough from Joe.”

  Marcus held up his hands, not about to argue the point, but Simeon’s brow crashed down, which meant he was up for a fight.

  “You know I think Joe is a slimy son of a bitch, but he has a point. I know you, bruh. Even in college, you’d shut down once things got hectic. Or you’d let your stress build up until you flipped on the first person to look at you sideways. You got a lot going on with court check-ins, therapy, interviews, trainers . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s a bit much for a dude who won’t even buy chairs for his dining room table.” Marcus peered at me over the top of his glass. “C’mon man. If you’re making your own life more difficult just to spite Joe, you’re being a fucking brat.”

  My head was pounding from all the teeth grinding, but it was the only way I could keep myself from arguing. “I’ll think about it. But this guy?” I held up Noah’s picture. “He hates football.”

  “Whaaat?” Marcus waved his hand. “Pssh, fuck all that.”

  Simeon was still grinning. “You could put his mouth to better use. You’re hot enough to swerve a straight man’s sexuality, G. I remember all them boys in college. You done it before.”

  Except, Noah probably wasn’t straight. Not if he only wanted to work at an LGBT center. His potential queerness had come up after the interview when Joe had made it clear he didn’t approve of a sexy gay man shacking up with me for six months. And just because Joe had tried to shut it down, I’d found myself launching into a pointless counterargument. Because despite all the condescending asshole talk about sports, the kid had had a point.

  It was a better idea to hire someone like him instead of a starry-eyed fanboy.

  Not that it mattered. Noah clearly hadn’t been serious about getting the job. Unless he always got that feisty when suits like Joe practically cringed at his sexuality.

  I frowned and glanced at his picture again. Joe had been more asshole-ish than usual. In fact, I was starting to think he’d done it on purpose to dissuade the attractive gay dude from wanting the job. His behavior with the other boring-as-dry-toast candidates hadn’t been nearly as shitty. He’d mostly just looked at them with utter boredom and dropped a few condescending remarks about their eagerness to work with an athlete.

  “We’d kill each other. He talks too much shit.”

  “With a sweet, sweet mouth and the prettiest eyes in New York,” Simeon said.

  They’d looked even prettier when angrily blazing at me. In fact, everything from his glare to the way Noah had thrown his shoulders back in defiance had been hot as hell. There had been a moment, as we’d stood facing each other, when I’d wondered how long it would take to fuck the insolence out of him. Nothing turned me on more than a person who wasn’t afraid to stand up to me. Even if the “just some sport” trash talk had slid under my skin like a million splinters.

  “This conversation is dead to me. Find another way to entertain yourselves.”

  Simeon frowned. The conversation was definitely not dead to him. Marcus, on the other hand, was already over it.

  “I might have invited a few people over for a house arrest party.”

  “Do I even want to know what that means?”

  Marcus grinned. “I left it open to interpretation.”

  Sounded awful even though getting laid would probably do wonders for my mood. As long as none of my former hookups showed up. I’d tried to do the regular fuck buddy thing a few times in the past, because vetting the trustworthiness of new people was too hard, and each attempt had crashed and burned. Everyone thought a few tumbles in bed would lead to an amazing romance and pictures of us cuddling on Instagram. Whether they wanted fame by association or were truly deluded enough to think they could tame me and get access to my bank account, I had no id
ea. But with football out of the equation, sex might have to become my new stress release.

  “What time is this party starting?”

  “They’ll be here in a couple of hours,” Marcus said. “Which means we need to stock this bad boy up with booze and snacks.”

  I pointed to my ankle bracelet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No worries, boo.” Simeon bounded to his feet. “We got you covered.”

  Several hours later, it became apparent that they did. Despite the mansion being cavernous and mostly unfurnished, the party was lit. Everyone from other athletes to singers to socialites came through. About half of them had interpreted a house-arrest party as a BDSM theme. There were enough fake handcuffs, straps, and buckles to stock a fetish store.

  Simeon and Marcus didn’t drink much since they were about to go to training camp, but with no football in my immediate future, I let myself fall balls-deep into cup after cup of booze. And the drunker I got, the hornier I got. When a fitness model with a bubble butt and an inviting mouth tugged me into one of the many empty rooms, I didn’t resist. I just made sure to take the dude’s phone first.

  A blow job should have been a surefire way to lose myself in sensation and forget the uncomfortable strap around my leg, but it wasn’t. Even with my fingers digging into thick dark hair and warm wet heat surrounding my cock, my brain was going.

  I glanced down to the nameless model with the dark hair, pale skin, and light eyes, and remembered Noah. Insolent, mouthy Noah. What would it be like to have that guy locked in a house with me for six months? Would we get along or be at each other’s throats? And how many times would I end up fantasizing about wrecking Noah’s mouth or ass whenever I was hard up?

  The real question was what happened first—me going off on Noah and throwing him out, or him getting pissed at me and finding dirt he could use for blackmail?

  It was lose-lose.

  But the truth was that I really did need the help, and I’d rather give the money to a broke asshole instead of one who just wanted to hang out with a football player.

  With the decision made, I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy the nameless guy kneeling at my feet.

  ***

  Noah

  “I blew it.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  I flicked Jasmine’s curly black hair. “That was your cue to comfort me.”

  “Why would I do that?” The question was asked around a mouthful of apple-cider donut. Even stuffing her face, she was a bohemian goddess in a patterned dress that clung to her curves and contrasted with her dark skin. “You were too busy being indignant to care about the fact that you could have cleaned up money-wise with only a half year worth of work. That kind of stupidity needs a smack.”

  It was true. Now that I wasn’t wearing the uncomfortable suit, was out of the unattainable tower of wealth, and away from slimy sports managers and filthy-rich athletes, my hackles had come down enough for me to realize just how bad I’d screwed up. From the start, I’d been majorly off my game, and then I’d let Joe get to me.

  What had I expected? Someone that rich to be nice? I was applying to be the help. It was likely programmed into their brains to treat me like I was worthless. But for that much money, and a shot at both paying my loans and helping my father, I could have tried harder.

  Shoulders sagging, I wandered the Greenwood farmers market without looking at any of the stalls. I usually enjoyed these weekly trips with Jasmine. It was our way of making sure we kept in touch, now that we’d both returned to the city after college. But as nice as organic produce and fresh baked goods were, they couldn’t overshadow my reoccurring desire to slam my head into hard surfaces.

  “Joe Carmichael reminds me of . . . him.”

  Jasmine’s eyes got bigger. “Oh. Oh no. Not the pervert who was banging staff and SafeZone members?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one.” My shoulders sagged. “It was like I had some fucking PTSD attack. I kept remembering the way Gallagher used to talk to me and look at me, how nervous I was around him before he graced me with his sudden interest, and then . . . How everyone on the board decided my accusations were unfounded because there was no proof. Even though I walked in on him with one of the older members beneath his desk.”

  Jasmine shook her head. “They seriously act like he walks on water.”

  “I know. They like to say his money helped to ‘breathe life back into the organization.’” I sneered. “Sometimes I despise rich people.”

  “Um. Yeah. Me too, but you’re not supposed to make it obvious when you’re on a fucking job interview.” Jasmine shoved my side. “I’m saying, Noah. You’re a mess. That job was perfect.”

  “I bet the pay was perfect too.” I sighed so loud it could be heard over the screeching of a bus. “Damn it. I didn’t even tell my father what happened. He’d be so disappointed.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. I think he hates that you had to move back home to help him, anyway.” She hesitated. “So, how is he?”

  “Not great. He’s depressed, and since he lost his job he no longer has insurance. Nobody normal can afford COBRA, and he’s too young to retire.”

  Jasmine’s face clouded over. “This is so awful. Hasn’t he worked for that same company forever?”

  “Yeah. Since it was a small chain in the tristate area. But now it’s a major national sporting goods chain, and they got rid of managers at his level.” I kicked a rock in the path. “This just sucks. I was supposed to be helping him until he got on his feet, but now I’m not even on my own.”

  “You’ll find something soon, babe. And I’ll do anything I can to help. You know I will. There are plenty of opportunities out there.” Sympathy creased her face. “It’s a big city.”

  “It is, but I’ve been applying for everything from receptionist listings to telemarketer jobs. Carmichael was the only one to call me in for an actual interview, and that’s only because of your insider info.”

  Jasmine squinted at me, glossy pink lips twisted to the side. “Noah, if no one else has called you back, why the hell would you go in and act that way?”

  “Because I’m sick of people getting away with being complete assholes.” I slid my hands into the pockets of the battered old cords I wore. “At SafeZone, the case workers and residential staff were amazing, but upper management . . .” There was nowhere to go from there. I’d never told Jasmine about my fling with the director, or about the board using that fling against me. They’d said I was a scorned lover looking for revenge by slandering Gallagher. He’d even threatened to sue me. “Carmichael’s attitude just triggered my rage.”

  “But you wouldn’t be working for Carmichael.”

  “Right. I’d be working for some stupid football player.”

  “I’m really hoping you didn’t say that to Gavin Brawley.”

  I made a face. “Why do you have to say his name like that? He’s just a guy.” A really beautiful guy. “I can’t believe you still go to the games.”

  “Pssh. Why?”

  “I always thought your father and brothers just forced you to watch.”

  “Uh, no. My brothers are older, so I started watching because of them, but I always liked it.” Jasmine finished her donut and licked powdered sugar from her fingers. “Going to those games was the only thing me and Dad did together that didn’t result in a fight. Plus, it was nice to have something to look forward to.”

  The statement brought Gavin’s words to mind, and I winced. God, maybe I was an asshole. Even Jasmine was saying football had been an outlet for her, but I’d dismissed Gavin’s claim without even really considering it. Had I been the one to instigate that entire argument?

  No. It had been Carmichael and his sneering face and judgmental attitude.

  “I didn’t call him stupid. But he got in my face when I said I didn’t like football.”

  “Uh-huh.” We stopped at a vendor selling handmade jewelry. “Considering he was convicted of assaulting a random guy after getting
in an argument at a club, I can’t say I’d be surprised if he got in your face . . . but I have a feeling you said a lot more than ‘I don’t like football.’”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “Because I know what a dick you can be when you’re defensive. ’Cause I’m the same way.” Jasmine picked up a pair of dangling, brushed-gold earrings. “How do these look?”

  “They look like earrings.”

  “You’re useless.”

  Useless and broke. I couldn’t even buy a cider donut.

  I hung back as Jasmine chatted with the people in the stall. For the billionth time in the past week, I replayed the interview in my mind. I’d never been that unprofessional in my life, but the entire situation had put me on edge. First Joe, then Gavin insisting that football was some holy sport. I’d wanted to specifically prove him wrong. Maybe because my tether had already snapped, or because the combination of his unapologetic brashness and startling good looks had made me feel even messier and more out-of-control, or maybe it’d reminded me that my lack of interest in sports had always been an indicator, to others, that I was a sissy. Regardless of the reason, now that I was out of the moment, I knew I’d needled him on purpose.

  The vibrating of my phone pulled me out of my sulk. It was the same number that had been calling for the past two days.

  I jammed his finger against the screen. “Hello?”

  “You don’t answer your phone?”

  The low, rumbly voice that belonged in a bedroom was now in my ear.

  “Is this Noah Monroe, or what?”

  Holy shit.

  “Um, uh—yes. This is he. I mean me. I’m him.” Oh fuck. “Is this . . .”

  “You know who I am.”

  And just like that, my bitch mode turned on again. “Sorry, I’m not sure who this is. Can you give me your name?”

  A long, low exhale sounded through the phone. “It’s Gavin Brawley. I’ve been calling you for days. This is my last attempt.”

  “Really?”

  Gavin was starting to sound annoyed. “Is this how you act when trying to get a job?”