Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (64 page)

“
U
m
, what the hell is that?”

Chelsea stands in the doorway, a bag of food in her hands and scowl on her face.

It's exactly the reaction I was looking for.

“It's a beer, sweet cheeks;
una cerveza
, if you wanna get bilingual with it.” A big shit-eating grin creeps across my face as I tilt back the cold bottle and take a big swig.

Leaving the room the
second
she ducked out to get us food, after that ridiculous little speech about her being in charge, was my little way of saying “yeah, sure.” Sure looks like it’s working.

“
Where
did it come fro- never mind.” She mutters, slamming the door shut and putting the bag on the table by the window; “I got you turkey.”

“I'm more of a hamburger guy.”

She narrows her eyes at me before all but overhand throwing the sandwich at me; “Deal with it.”

I grin and reach for another beer and offer it her way; “Beer?”

Chelsea huffs and rolls her eyes, and my own gaze lingers a bit longer than it probably should on her as she brushes a strand of blonde behind her ear; “Uh,
yeah
, I don't think so.”

I smirk, already anticipating this exact conversation; “Why not?”

She's going to say something about being on the job, or how I am who I am, or some other way of trying to tiptoe her way around saying she just flat out doesn't trust me. The fantasy I've got is that she actually doesn't trust
herself
around me, but I'm pretty sure that’s just the dry-spell talking. I shake my head and cut her off before she can utter whatever lame reason she was about to toss out; “Have a beer, spy-girl; you've earned it.”

She eyes me warily and I laugh; “Look, I just went out for
beer
, sweetheart. I won't leave again; scout's honor, or, thieves honor, or, whatever. You're in charge, alright?”

I hope it doesn't come off
too much
like I'm stroking her ego, since that's exactly what I'm doing. The old me - the normal me - would use this sort of thing all the time to gain an upper hand on someone. Stroke their ego, build them up, give them false confidence and trust in you, and then you strike.

Except for the first time in, well,
ever
, that's not my goal here in this motel room with Chelsea Archer. Right now, I actually just want her to fucking
relax
and have a damn drink with me.

“
One
beer, princess,” I grin at her, seeing the dead-set resolve start to melt from her face; “We've had a crazy two days, and hey, you've got the notorious
bandito
in custody. The little town on the prairie is safe, and you’ve earned a beer, sheriff.”

She grins then, and I feel a strange sense of, I guess it’s
happiness,
inside seeing her finally relax. The old me would have felt
triumph
, like I'd
won
; seeing her cave to my suggestions like that. But for some bewildering reason I feel different now.

Must be prison,
I mutter to myself, shaking my head and trying to search deep for the old me. The old me was a real piece of shit, but the old me also didn’t get twisted up inside trying to make some
cop
of a chick
like
him; like I fucking need her attention or give a flying shit what she thinks about me.

I crank the top off the bottle and pass it her way as she sits on the second bed opposite me and starts to unwrap her sandwich; “So, the C.I.A., huh?” I raise an eyebrow at her; “I mean how does that even
work
? You just walk in and ask for a job application or something?”

Chelsea snorts; “It's
slightly
more complicated than that.”

“Why?”

She frowns; “Because it’s the
C.I.-
”

“No,” I chuckle through my bite of mediocre turkey sandwich; “No, I mean why did you
join
. You don't strike me as the 'For God and Country' type.”

She shrugs; “Who says I'm not?”

“Me, right now.”

A smirk teases her lips as she chews, before she take a sip of the beer; “My dad.”

I bark out a laugh; “I knew it.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” She scowls.

“
Nada
, princess, nada. I just knew it had to do with pleasing daddy.”

Her eyes narrow at me; “You don't know a fucking thing about my father.”

“I know more about William Archer than you could possibly know, actually.” I put my sandwich down and catch her eyes; “I met him, you know.”

She freezes, the beer bottle inches from her pouty lips; “Excuse me?”

“In Africa, when he first met those boy-toys of yours.” I can feel the familiar grip of malcontent inside just thinking about that particular past; “I was there, in the camp with them when he came in and- oh now what was it? He 'saw promise in them'? Isn't that the fuck-all rhetoric I used to hear Logan moaning about?”

She chews slowly, her eyes locked on mine.

“Yeah, well, apparently I didn't pass muster with the great William Archer; no
'promise'
here.”

The briefest smirk passes over her face, as if to say
yeah, no shit
; “So is that why you
blackmailed
Logan and kidnapped him and my sister?”

I want to snort, and roll my eyes, and laugh and call her delusional. It was all a business transaction; that whole thing. Logan spilled his guts to me back in the jungles when we were mercenaries together, and when William stuck him in charge of his company and made him richer than
God
while I rotted in the jungle, I saw an opportunity, and I took it.

Business
; that’s all. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for years.

“You’re so clever, mijo,”
My mother used to say with a sad, drawn smile when I’d come home with a pocket full of change from selling stolen candy at school. That was before I graduated to stolen beer and cigarettes.
Clever
, right; because if I’m “clever”, I’m not a “criminal” like my father. “Clever” is the makings of a businessman instead of a narco-trafficker, in her mind at least.

I frown suddenly, thinking about that train of logic, and an uncomfortable feeling washes over me. I've been telling myself that the terrible shit I've done is all “nothing personal” or “all business” for years. I'm just an
entrepreneur
. But bullshit aside, I’ve had to fight for and steal everything I've ever had to get in life, and the shit with Logan and her sister was no different.

Business; that’s all. You gotta be clever in this world to survive, and I’m a survivor if nothing else.

Except for some fucked up reason, sitting here in this room trying to explain that to her right now makes me feel like the biggest phony jerk-off in the world. Who the fuck do I think I am, Robin Hood? I’m pretty sure Robin Hood never put someone through the shit I put Logan Dempsey through just to make some cash. I'm also pretty sure señor Hood didn't
keep
the money he lifted.

“It's complicated,” I mumble with a frown on my face, looking away as I sip my beer; “Life is full of complications.”

Complications like the increasingly distracting blonde-haired one sitting across from me in this motel room.

She chews her sandwich slowly, her eyes focused on something on the floor as the wheels inside that pretty little head of hers whirl. My eyes, meanwhile, are focused on the slow rise and fall of the swell of her breasts, the fact that it’s cool enough inside the room for me to see a teasing glimpse of an outline of nipple through her white suit, and the
extremely
distracting amount of bare skin of hers on display right across from me.

I feel like running, because it’s all I ever feel like doing. Well, no, I feel like I want a taste to see if those perfect little pouty lips on Agent Archer are as sweet as they look from over here. I want to palm those pillowy tits of hers and see if the hard nubs of her nipples are as responsive to my touch as I think they’d be.

And I want to bury every single inch of my cock into that uptight pussy of hers and see if she’s as sinfully tight as I bet she is.

Jesus, get your shit together, Toro.

“Come outside, princess.” I stand quickly and nod towards the balcony off the side of our room.

“Why?”

Because I can’t be cooped up in this room for another second with you and still be held responsible for my actions
.

“Because we’re in
Aruba
, and we’re not outside watching sunsets, and that’s fucking stupid.”

She glares at me, but there’s
just
a hint of a smile in the corners of her lips; “Fine.”

It’s warm outside, even as the sun dips over the edge of the ocean in front of us. Still, it’s a breath of fresh air I need after sitting in that damned room with this girl. First thing tomorrow, we
need
to get some new clothes, because as much fun as I’m having spending all day with a hot blonde in a bikini, it’s also fucking with my head. Chelsea Archer is
the enemy
here, not a piece of eye-candy I should let myself get distracted by.

It being a pretty cheap motel, the balcony is bare of any furniture. But a great view is a great view, and if it can distract me from
her
, I’m fine with it. I slide down to the floor, resting the beer on my bent knee as I lean back against the wall and look out over the orange gold of the fading day.

Chelsea slides down next to me, exhaling before takes another swig of her beer.

So much for a distraction
, I grumble, forcing myself not to think about how damn
amazing
her tits look in that bikini.

“I’m sorry if I was a bitch earlier.”

I feel myself grin, though I don’t say anything and try and cover it by taking a slug from my beer.

“You were right,” She continues, nodding at the sunset; “This is my first field operation.”

“Well of course I was right.” I grin wider as I practically
hear
her roll her eyes beside me; “Don’t worry, babe, you’re doing a great job; top notch.”

“Gee, thanks,” She says dryly; “Dick.”

“
Cop.
”

“Criminal.”

I snort out a laugh just as she cracks up at the same time, and I clink my bottle against hers, as if toasting to the break in tension; “You know, princess, in another life you and I might actually be friends.”

“That’s a TV sitcom script just waiting to happen,” She says, laughing; “We’re like those two characters from The Breakfast Club.”

I raise a brow at her; “The what?”

“You know, the eighties movie about detention? You’re the guy with the jean jacket and the earring.”

“Earring?”

“Yeah! You know, the badass. And I’m Molly whatever-her-name-is.”

I grin and shake my head; “You watch some weird fucking movies in the States, princess.”

“Well, you’re missing out.”

I chuckle and take another swig of my beer as the sun starts to dip into the ocean. “So how do I rank, as first assignments go?” I say, flashing her a grin.

“Definitely could be worse.”

I laugh.

“Hey, just being honest,” She says arching her eyebrows.

The sun grows dimmer and darker as it dips into the horizon, and I let my eyes sag as I lean into the wall behind me. A yawn creeps from her lips as she stretches her legs out; “We should head in.”

I shrug; “I’m good out here.” I roll my eyes as she shoots me a quick look; “Oh,
relax
, hot-stuff; I’m too fucking tired to start jumping balconies and making a run for it.” She frowns, her cheeks growing pink as if embarrassed that I busted her doubting me again; “
Merde
, how many times does a guy have to save your life for you to try trusting him for a second?”

“That’s not-” She stops and purses her lips and shakes her head; “Fair enough.”

“Look, we’ll go inside. But let’s share one more and just relax a little longer, alright?”

“Just a little longer.” She says, stretching; her adorable face scrunching up as she yawns.

“Cheers, princess,” I say, clinking her beer again; “Hell of a first day.”

T
here's
the smell of salt brine and ocean that first wakes me up, and for a moment, I'm back home again; back in both of them. For a moment, I'm a little boy again back at Mama's house in Valencia, before the memory changes and I’m in Venezuela with my
abuela
. In Spain, Mama is waking me up and making me get to school; in Venezuela, I’m waking up with the sun to go help my abuelo, my grandfather, up in the fields.

I stir, wanting just one more minute; one more minute before the sun's brightness through my eyelids is too much to ignore. I just want one more moment with my arms around her shoulders and her head nestled in against my shoulder.

Wait,
what?

I wake with a start, blinking in the morning light before I turn and look down to see what can only be described as an angel in my arms.

Apparently, we've fallen asleep outside on the balcony, and for a moment, I'm really just floored by the bizarre feelings of
peace
and
comfort
I have at that very moment. She's sleeping quietly, her face still and her eyelids barely moving. The smallest hint of a smile plays across her face, burrowed against my chest and curled against me. Her breath comes evenly against my skin, and with my arms around her, I realize I've never felt more
protective
of something in all my entire life.

Yikes, get it together, pal.

I blink away sleep and let my arm trail down her back, stroking her hair while I study this angelic creature in my arms. The sun glows off her blonde hair, and I never want this singular moment to end, no matter how fucking bizarre that is for me.

She stirs though, eventually, and I know that this one single moment - like all moments - is going to end. Her eyes open, blinking before she takes in her surroundings and looks up at me. She sits up with a start, her face looking guilty and as confused as mine just did as she jumps to awareness quicker than I'm sure she normally would. She shoots me an accusing and furtive glance out of the corner of her eyes as she quickly scoots a few inches away from me, distancing herself physically from me but also from that one perfect moment.

“Good morning.” I smirk at her, watching her blush as she quickly crosses her arms over her chest, clearing her throat and collecting herself as she looks around our little balcony.

“Morning” She mumbles, still not meeting my eyes, which both amuses me considering how flustered she is, but also bugs me; like I'm some sort of leper she can't even
be
near.

Whatever.

“Ok, we need to collect ourselves,” She glances at my bare torso and back at her own bikini-clad chest and blushes as her arms tighten across her body; “We need clothes.”

I snort; “What, tired of the beach look already?” I arch my brow, trying not to focus on the fact that her crossed arms have her tits pushed up against her bikini top, giving me a
great
fucking view of her cleavage. I'm seriously going to miss this view even if we do need to be normal people and get clothes.

Of course, she's right. We
do
need to stop looking like beach bums and probably even change our appearances if we're going to avoid getting shot on sight by a bunch of trigger-happy Blackriver assholes.

“Alright,” I finally say; “We should go get cleaned up.”

Chelsea makes a face; “
We?
” She shakes her head; “I don't think so. You're staying here.”

I smirk; “
You're
the one they're after, princess.”

“You're the prisoner.”

I narrow my eyes at her, feeling my temper flare more than I thought it would at her words.

“You know what I mean,” She looks around the balcony everywhere but at me and shifts her weight uncomfortably.

“So what, you're going to head into town and leave me here like a fucking puppy or something?” I get to my feet, glaring at her; “You gonna lock the door and crack a window? Leave me with some water and a treat?” She starts to open her mouth but I shake my head; “If I was going to leave, you think a fucking motel door would stop me? Sorry, spy-girl; I’m coming with you.”

* * *

“
O
K
, so we meet back here in an hour?” She's wearing these giant, tortoiseshell grandmother sunglasses that we picked up at a gift shop as we walked into town. I can't help but grin at the way she's trying to sound authoritative and in charge while looking like she’s about to go play a round of bingo with my abuela.

“All by myself?
Unsupervised
?” I shrug dramatically; “I don't know, princess; you sure you don't want me coming along with you?”

“I have to buy clothes.” She frowns.

“What, don’t want me helping you pick out some new panties?”

She blushes, predictably; “I think I'll be just fine without your help, thank you.”

I grin wickedly and lean in closer; “I’m a
great
second opinion for that sort of thing, you know.”

Her face grows even redder, if that was even possible, before she shakes her head; “Try not to get lost, Javier.” She walks away, leaving me grinning at my own jokes, but still feeling like they're empty.

* * *

C
onsidering
that I'm the only Spanish guy in town, with no shirt on and a chest and arms full of fairly identifiable Día de Muertos sugar-skull tattoos, I buy a new t-shirt first. After that, I'm looking at hats before I decide I don't want to look like a total dipshit and find myself ambling around the market instead. Fantastic. I've got fifty full minutes to kill before I'm supposed to meet Chelsea; now what do I do?

Oh hey, look; a bar.

Perfect. Killing time
and
a way to get my mind off Chelsea Archer? Sign me the fuck up.

I straighten my new shirt as I walk up to the place. I swing the heavy wooden door open and blink at the utter darkness of the interior as my eyes try and adjust from the outside; “Hey, let me get a tequi-”

I stop talking as soon as I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel press against the side of my head.

“Que paso, Toro.”

Ah, fuck.

I frown as my eyes begin to adjust to the dark bar and realize that the place is entirely empty but for the five guys in black t-shirts and tactical vests with the “BR” Blackriver insignia on the chest.

Well, walked right into that one. Literally.

“Figured a place like this was a good spot to bump into a little cockroach like you, Toro.”

The man standing in front of me with the mustache and the leering grin on his face is Benson, and I know him from way back even if he is one of those people you’d love to never see again. Mercenary outfits like Blackriver attract all sorts of types. You get ex-soldiers looking for the thrill of a gun or just the regular paycheck from something they already know how to do. You get the wayward lost souls like me who're just looking for something to escape with, and then you also get the utter psychopaths.

Benson falls into this last category. These guys are the guys that you'd lock up in a normal society; the guys the Marines say
no
to, because at heart, they're just murderous, trigger-happy lunatics who want a license to kill.

I really don’t miss
any
of those groups after leaving that life, but it’s the Benson type that I hate the most.

“Have a seat,
amigo
.” His accent is thickly American and southern, amplified even more by the ridiculously out-of-place cowboy hat he's wearing; as if
anyone
has any doubts that the man with the trucker mustache, the stars and stripes tattoo on his arm, and the Oakley sunglasses can
possibly
be anything else
but
American.

I glare at him, hating the idea of doing what he tells me to do, but tightening my fists at the fact that defying him is probably a bad idea when I'm surrounded by five psychopaths with guns. I like stacked odds, but I'm not stupid.

I sit.

“Good boy.”

Keep it up, fuckhead.

“So, having fun? Enjoying being a man free of
El Muerto
?”

Benson gives me a cold look, but I just lean back and shrug as I grin at him; “Figured I needed a vacation.”

His lips curl into a chilling smile; the kind I used to use all the time when I was trying to intimidate people. Actually, there's a strong chance I lifted that look from him back in my Blackriver days.

“You got yourself a pretty little travel partner.” His look says everything his mouth isn't, and that look says that he doesn't actually give two shits about me; he's here for Chelsea.

“Her?” I shrug again.

Casual, keep casual.

“Nah, I ditched that chick. She got boring.”

Benson smirks at me; yeah, he bought that like pigs fly.

“Oh, I'm sure you did.” He sighs heavily; “Tell me, Toro, what is it with ex-employees of mine fucking William Archer's daughters, hmm?”

I can't do a thing to stop the flash of pure anger that roars inside of me, and before I know it I'm lurching across the table and knocking my chair back.

But Benson just laughs as guns train on me and hands drag me back into my seat.

“Sit your ass down, Toro. I didn't mean to offend you about your little girlfriend.”

“I'm not
fucking
her.”

“And I don’t honestly give a shit if you are,” Benson says, his eyes narrowing at me; “You know, you and I still have a contract.”

That I do have to laugh at; “The fuck we do.”

“Desertion doesn't negate that, Toro.”

“What about kicking me out?” My departure from Blackriver wasn't exactly my finest moment, and not one that I like to reminisce on. Let's just say there wasn't exactly a cake and a gold watch on my last day.

Benson smiles; “Nope. I considered that a
time out
more than
firing
you.”

This is getting stupid, and my patience is rapidly fraying away; “What the fuck do you want, Benson?”

“Now, that's not hard is it? Normal conversation? You haven’t been in prison
that
long.” Benson chuckles as he takes his cowboy hat off to run a hand through his thinning hair; “I want your help, Toro. I want you to do what you do best.”

“Yeah? And what might that be?”

Benson shrugs; “Lie, cheat, steal, act like the general low-life piece of shit we both know you are.”

I snarl at him but his look hardens as he leans across the table right into me; “I want you to get me Chelsea Archer.”

I can feel my pulse jump, ice slipping through my veins; “What do you want with her.”

“That’s my business.” Benson leans back, slipping the hat back onto his head; “But, do you want out of your contract? Because if you don’t that’s fine, but while I still own you, I’ll hunt your ass like a fucking animal to the end of the Earth.” He levels his eyes at me; “Get me Chelsea, and you're done.”

I say nothing, and the room is pin-drop silent for a moment. Benson nods at one of his guys behind me, and suddenly I hear the hiss of a bottle of beer being opened before it's slid unceremoniously in front of me.

“Have a drink on me, Toro. Think about the offer, and try not be an idiot here.” Benson stands, and winks at me; “We'll be in touch.”

The bell on the front door jingles as they exit, daylight momentarily illuminating the inside of the bar before the door slams shut behind them, shutting me into this tomb as I stare at the beer in front of me and let Benson's words sink in.

Fuck
.