Chapter Thirty Two: Willow

“Wills, is it a whiskey or tequila kind of day?” Indie hollers from the kitchen, but before I can remind her I don’t need to be showing up to the stadium already sloshed, Leigh ends the call with her one-year-old son, Zach, and responds, “Whiskey makes her frisky but tequila makes her clothes fall off.”

Indie’s maniacal cackle echoes through the beach house. “That doesn’t really answer the question.”

Shaking my head, I savor the simplicity of the moment. I forgot just how much I missed these two. The last two days have been a whirlwind of getting Lana, Phoebe, and Bishop to New York, tweaking my plans for the team to better align with the board’s wishes, hammering down the interview questions for the gala, getting the house ready for Leigh and Indie, and coordinating getting Bishop back from New York this morning.

Vaughn wasn’t happy I’d approved his leave of absence for two days’ worth of games and made sure I knew he blamed me for the team”s losses both days. Of course, that’s not the story he gushed to the press. Oh no. To them it was all his idea because Jackson is still a part of the Renegade family, and we support our own.

All that to say, I absolutely need this time with my best friends.

Leigh smirks at me in the mirror above my dresser as she finishes braiding her long brown hair, and I apply the finishing touches on my makeup. She makes the executive decision. “Definitely tequila. This woman needs to get laid.”

A blush creeps up my neck, and I wince as if slapped with the memories of just how many times I’ve been laid in the past few weeks. Not because I regret it in any way, but because I still haven’t told Indie and Leigh about Bishop.

My best friends are two of the most supportive people in my life, and with that comes a level of over protection that rivals the secret service. I have no doubt they will support Bishop and me—eventually—after lots of groveling on his part and maybe mine for lying to them for so long.

But I told Bishop I was all in, which means it’s time to rip off the bandaid.

I take a step back and smooth down the front of my skirt. “Actually, I am doing just fine in the dick department, thanks.”

Leigh cocks a brow and tilts her head. “Is there a dick I don’t know about?”

When I don’t immediately answer, she gasps and clutches the invisible pearls at her neck. “Indie, get in here. Willow has a dick.”

I roll my eyes and smooth down my skirt, chuckling at the sound of Indie barreling through the house. You’d never know she’s a world-renowned actress and professionally trained in ballet by the clumsy stampede running through my house.

She pokes her head through the door of my room, her tight dark curls falling over her shoulder dramatically. She smirks. “I’m really hoping you mean she’s got a dick she’s riding and not that she’s suddenly sprouted an extra appendage.”

Leigh and I tip our heads back, absolutely losing it when she fully enters the room swinging her hips as if she were trying to do the helicopter.

From the moment I picked up Leigh and Indie at the airport, it’s been nonstop laughs. Which is exactly what I’ve needed to keep me from stressing.

Indie crosses her arms over the white designer Renegades tank that perfectly complements her dark skin and pops her hip, a wicked smirk painting her lips. “Before I get to the dick situation, you’re not really wearing that to the game, are you?”

I look down at what Bishop deemed my owner’s uniform—a light short sleeve blouse and the pencil skirts he loves so much. This time it’s gray.

“I’m the owner of the team. I need to dress the part,” I counter. As much as I would love to wear Renegades gear and shorts like the two of them, I’m already on thin ice with the exec board after showing up to batting practice in Bishop’s jersey. The only reason they stopped was because I did it for Phoebe, and the photo the press caught of me walking in with her came across in a positive light. Still, I don’t need them spouting off at the mouth again about how unprofessional I am.

“I’ll let it slide, but I still think you should be able to dress it down with your best friends.”

I wish, but if there is anyone who gets the double standard, it’s Indie. She lives in the spotlight as America’s sweetheart. When she does something, it’s embraced by the masses to her face and torn apart later on the internet.

“Now about this dick.”

“It’s not Bishop, is it?” Leigh asks too quickly for her not to already be putting the pieces together.

I turn away immediately to hide the flush on my cheeks at just the mention of his name. “It’s nothing. Just casual.”

Indie snorts. “That wasn’t a no.”

Leigh’s blue eyes narrow, and I know I’m in for it. “Willow Mae York, are you?—”

The doorbell rings and all three of us swing our attention toward the front of the house, interrupting what I’m sure was going to be a riveting explanation of why any and all dick needs to be run by them, no matter how casual. Especially if that dick is attached to one Bishop Lawson.

Ignoring their demands for an explanation, I slip from my room and head for the door. When I open it, I’m surprised to find a package sitting on the porch since I don’t remember ordering anything.

The box is discreet without any indication of where it came from, and aside from my name and address, there isn’t a clear business name.

By the time I reach the kitchen and start looking for a knife to open the package, Indie and Leigh have settled around the island. Indie is busy crafting the perfect pregame drink while Leigh has buried herself in the pages of the bodice ripper romance I gifted her when she arrived.

She looks up over the top of the book, curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Open it—quick,” Indie says between shakes of the ornate gold and glass cocktail shaker my dad loved. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the driver gets here, and I’m planning on the three of us taking at least two shots of this outrageously expensive tequila Papa York left for us.”

A smile edges through as my heart simultaneously breaks, wrecked by the paradox of being happy my best friends loved my dad as much as I did, but also crushed that he isn”t here to laugh at our expense and give us a playful fatherly pep talk about behaving like ladies at the stadium.

“Here.”Leigh offers me a knife from the block in front of her with a sympathetic smile. Her gaze narrows, letting me know she sees me.

We are the three musketeers, all having complicated parental relationships or really lack thereof. But where Indie is estranged with her parents because they are even more shitty than my mother, Leigh is in the same boat as me—orphaned too soon.

I shake off the melancholy thoughts and slide the knife through the blue tape. A loud pop of one of the packing bubbles startles me, causing me to knock the box off the counter and onto the floor. Leigh and I laugh and lean over the island, staring at the contents that tumbled out of the box.

“Is that—” Leigh snorts. “Holy shit, that’s a dick.”

It is.

And not just any dick.

There on my kitchen floor, is an eight-inch purple and veiny dildo with a suction cup on the bottom, and it’s not the only toy littering my floor. There’s a butt plug, a second dildo—this time orange—and a little, green u-shaped silicone toy. I get the impression it’s meant to hit the clit and g-spot at the same time. And those are just the toys that fell out. There’s still a colorful array of things left in the box.

My face heats as the butt plug with a shiny green jewel at the base rolls and hits my foot.

“I think I’ll take that shot now,” I mutter, wishing a hole would open in my kitchen floor and swallow me.

“Who is it from? Is there a note?”

Leigh’s voice is excited as I reach for the box, but she’s faster. Picking it up, she examines the outside before poking around inside until she pulls out a small slip of paper.

She holds it up and reads in a sultry tone. “Now you have a bag of tricks for the beach house.”

My hands find my face, hiding me away from my best friends. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. These two know I read books filled with smut and kink—they read them too—but I haven’t told them about living out my fantasies with Bishop or all that he has opened my eyes to.

Let’s just say it’s thanks to him I have a penchant for five finger necklaces, spanking, and I’m no longer opposed to butt stuff.

Fucking Bishop.

“Oooooooooh,” Indie sing-songs as she stretches out her arm and offers me the shot I requested. “Is this a gift from the casual dick?”

Without thinking, I take the shot and down it, grimacing as the tequila burns the back of my throat and warms my belly. “It would seem so.”

“Are you going to tell us who the mystery guy is? Or should we continue guessing?”

“I—” My throat swells as I try to figure out how to word everything that’s happened. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so easy to rip off the bandaid. What the hell am I supposed to say?

I lied before and I’m totally fucking Bishop, but it’s not what you think. You were right when you said I wasn’t over him after the flight down here, but then we sort of agreed to be fuck buddies, and I fell for him all over again. He’s not ready to say he’s all in. But I think he feels the same. He’s just scared. I am too. I don’t know what this looks like. I could lose everything. But I don’t want you guys to hate him for that. We’ve been through a lot. But I think he’s it for me. Maybe. I don’t know. I think I want him to be.

“Willow.” Leigh’s voice pulls me out of my spiral. “You’re doing that thing where you freak out in your head. Just tell us what’s going on.”

I blink rapidly at her and blurt out, “I need a minute.”

As soon as I’m locked in the safety of the half-bath off the kitchen, I yank my phone from my pocket and fire off a text to the catcher responsible for the flush on my cheeks and the anxiety in my chest.

WILLOW: Did you send me a package?

BISHOP: So it arrived.

WILLOW: What the fuck Bishop?

BISHOP: smirk emoji>

WILLOW: That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?

BISHOP: How about thank you daddy?

WILLOW: Considering I just opened the damn package and everything fell out on the floor in front of Leigh and Indie, I’m not sure you deserve that thank you. Now they have questions.

BISHOP: Laugh crying emoji>

BISHOP: Skull emoji>

BISHOP: I’m dead.

WILLOW: What am I supposed to say to them?

BISHOP: Tell them I know how to take care of you.

I imagine him saying it with a cocky tilt to his lips, which only makes my heart thunder harder against my rib cage. It’s one thing to decide for myself to tell them, but having Bishop claim me to my friends is a huge step. One I shouldn’t read too much into, but damn if I don’t want to. And if the way my pussy clenches is any indication, my body wants to as well.

Three little bubbles float across the screen, and I hold my breath, waiting to see what he says next.

BISHOP: Pick your jaw up off the floor, Kitten. I told you, for as long as this lasts, you’re mine.

BISHOP: Plus, I told Jackson about you. It’s only fair you get to tell your friends.

WILLOW: You did?

BISHOP: Yes. Now, before you go tell your friends all about us, I need you to do me a favor.

WILLOW: Anything.

BISHOP: You might regret saying that. (smirk emoji)

BISHOP: That little green toy…I need you to slip it between those pretty pussy lips of yours and turn it on before you head to the game.

WILLOW: Absolutely fucking not.

BISHOP: Oh there will be fucking, but not until you’re sufficiently wet and aching for me.

WILLOW: I’m the damn owner of the team. I’m not wearing a sex toy to a game.

BISHOP: We both know you’re wet just thinking about it.

He’s not wrong, but that’s not the point.

BISHOP: Consider this the punishment you asked for.

WILLOW: I meant a spanking.

BISHOP: That can also be arranged.

WILLOW: I’m not wearing it.

BISHOP: The choice is yours. But we both know if you don’t wear it, you’ll be thinking about wearing it the whole time. Just know my cock is painfully hard in this cup and it will be torture for me the entire game, knowing you’re wet because of it.

WILLOW: I hate you.

BISHOP: And I adore the idea of you hate fucking me later.

WILLOW: This conversation is over. I’ll see you after the game.

Nervous tension radiates off me as I take cool water and rub it onto the back of my neck. It does nothing to stifle the heat coursing through me. This man has me strung tighter than a rubber band and ready to snap.

From the beginning he’s pushed my limits, carefully taking note of the things that turn me on. Exhibitionism being one of them. Not that I want to have sex in front of a room full of people—I don’t—but I have never been more turned on than when he fucked me against a glass window over Times Square. It was safe—the windows were tinted appropriately so that no one would see—but that thrill that they could was unlike any other. This was taking it a step further while adding another element. Could I keep my composure? Would I give myself away? I can’t even lie to myself and pretend I’m not completely turned on by the challenge.

But I’m the goddamned owner. Owners don’t act like this. Owners don’t wear specific player’s jerseys. Owners also don’t fall in love with members of their team, yet here we are.

While drying my hands, I reassure myself this is a terrible idea and there’s no way I’m going to follow through with it.

When I return to the kitchen, I find Indie and Leigh have already taken their first shots and poured another one for each of us. I grab my shot glass and raise it in the air before they can ask me any more questions.

“Champagne to all my real friends,” I say with a grin, knowing damn well they’ll complete the toast we fell in love with the year we turned twenty-one.

“Real pain to all my sham friends,” they yell in unison, and we all hit our glasses on the table before downing the clear liquid.

Before the burn subsides, I pull up my big girl panties and unleash the story of Bishop and me onto my best friends, not pausing for a single second until I’ve finished the twisted tale.

I’m out of breath by the time I’m done, and Indie and Leigh sit with their eyes wide and their jaws hanging slack.

“Well shit,” Indie mutters.

“So you’re all in?” Leigh asks, caution lacing her voice.

I dip my head and smile. “Yeah. I’m not crazy, am I?”

“No.” She slips from her chair and rounds the island to where I stand, pulling me into a hug. “I’m just sorry you have been dealing with this alone.”

Sinking into her, I return her embrace and swallow past the knot in my throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys sooner.”

Indie slides behind me, towering over us, and wraps her arms around us both. “You’ve had a lot going on.” She presses a kiss to the top of my head. “But no more secrets, okay?”

I nod, and for the second time this week, I make the promise to stop shutting out the people who care about me. It leaves me feeling inexplicably lighter on my feet, steeling my spine with confidence.

Indie gives us a squeeze and pulls back, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. “So, I guess this means we won’t be adding laxatives to his Gatorade in retaliation?”

A wet chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head. “Probably not.”

“Unless he hurts you,” Leigh adds. “Then all bets are off.”

“Deal.”

“Good. Now go put on that Lawson jersey I saw hanging in your closet,” Leigh demands with a wink, like she’s known the whole time and was just waiting for me to come clean.

I shake my head. She’s too damn observant for her own good.

“I can’t wear that.” I untangle myself from their arms and grab the box from the island. “I still have a reputation to uphold as the owner of the Renegades.”

“You also have a duty as the girlfriend to support your man.”

“I’m not his girlfriend, and this isn’t some romance novel.”

“TomAto, TomAHto,” she says with a shrug. “You’re his girl.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll slip it on top.”

Indie’s phone dings and she lets us know the driver is here.

The girls head for the door, and I make a slight detour to take the box to my room and grab the jersey. As I set it down on my bed, the box jostles and the universe taunts me by issuing its own dare in the form of the little, green u-shaped toy sitting perfectly nestled at the top of the pile.

My core tightens, and I silently berate myself as I pick up the toy and examine it. One end is thick and bulbous and tapers into a thin pliable bend before expanding into a smaller bulb. It seems harmless enough. Essentially, just a placeholder to tease me until I can get the real thing. And now that it’s in my hand, I find I’m already wet. My resolve to walk away and leave it in the box waffles.

Man up and just wear it, I tell myself. If anything, you’ll be so turned on by the end of the game that even if Bishop doesn’t follow through and fuck you wearing his jersey like he promised, you have a box full of toys to handle it.

“Come on, Wills,” Indie hollers.

Shit. It’s now or never.

Fuck it.

I yank up my skirt and slide my underwear down before sliding the toy through my wet pussy, letting out a hiss as it enters and settles inside and presses against my clit.

This might be a bad idea, but it is by far not the worst decision I’ve made in the last month.

I turn it on, but nothing happens.

“Willow!” It’s Leigh yelling this time.

I shrug and grab my phone, quickly snapping a picture. The anglereveals the tops of my panties pulled down just enough that he’ll see the green top of the toy resting on my clit.

WILLOW: (picture inserted) I hope you’re uncomfortable the entire game.

BISHOP: FUCK KITTEN.

Serves him right.