Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Renn

What the fuck am I doing here?

A bolt of lightning flashes over the stage. Screams fill the venue moments before loud, pulsing music replaces them. The auditorium goes dark and every person in attendance loses their mind … except me.

Blakely leans against the balcony rail with her back to the five men marching across the stage in trench coats and snaps a selfie.

“You look like you could use a drink,” a muscled, shiny man says from behind me. “What can I get you? It’s on the house.”

I pull the only hat we could find—the one that says Soduku Champ on it—as low as I can. “I’ll have the biggest, strongest drink you can give me.”

“One for me too.” Blakely sits beside me, the strobing lights making her dress sparkle. Amusement fills her eyes.

I take a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and hand it to my slick savior. “And please—hurry.”

He laughs and disappears. I hope that wasn’t a scam .

“I can’t believe you brought me here,” Blakely says, beaming. Her face is flushed from the mini bottle of tequila we downed from the gift shop when we stopped to get my hat.

“Well, I can’t believe out of all the things you wanted for your birthday, you wanted this.”

She makes no secret out of glancing down at my cock. “Yeah, well, sometimes you can’t have what you really want.”

Fuck. Me.

We take our drinks, Blakely’s splashing on my pants as she tries to turn, cheer, and laugh at the same time.

I sit back in my seat and watch her get into the performance.

I’m going to have a lot of questions to answer with Astrid in the morning.

The seats my assistant was able to score were ridiculously priced but on a private balcony. “At least you can drink for free while you watch men gyrate on stage,” she said. “Please try not to get photographed—for all of our sakes.”

Blakely dances to the music, her round ass shaking back and forth just inches from my knee. Sweat dots her skin. Her hair clings to the back of her neck as she moves.

I spread my legs apart and grip my cock. It’s so hard it hurts. It aches. It fucking throbs.

I don’t know what I was thinking bringing her here, other than I wanted her to have a memory of the two of us tonight. Of me, tonight . One fun, unforgettable experience that when she looks back on her thirtieth birthday weekend, she can’t help but think of me.

The dancers open their trench coats to piercing screams as I feel a buzzing in my pocket. I’ve never been more thankful to have a text in my life.

Dad: I had dinner tonight with Bobby Downing. Remember him? He helped us close the deal when we bought the hockey team, so I brought him on board with this Arrows mess. Hoping he can force the purchase through.

Me: Great.

Dad: He’s interested in getting in on the rugby expansion. Thinking about trying to get the pieces together for a team in Cincinnati. Wondered if you were interested in talking about it with him.

Me: I can’t own a team and play. Against league ethics. You know that.

Dad: You won’t play forever.

I study the words on the screen … and the ones he meant without typing them.

You won’t play forever. You’ll probably blow your contract like the fuckup you are, and then what will you do with your life?

Dad’s lack of faith in me is never surprising. He’s there for every photo opportunity, willing to give statements when pressed by the media. He was too happy to sign the consent form to be videoed for a documentary about my life for an Australian news agency. But behind the scenes, the veneer wears thin fast. Ever the businessman, rarely a dad. For me, anyway .

It’s always been this way.

He questioned my love for rugby as a child. He second-guessed my ability to play at the collegiate level, despite being scouted by every top school in the country. He insisted that I have a backup plan and was livid when I chose to go pro.

When I signed with my first international contract? It sent a fracture through our family. Dad and Gannon on one side. Mom, Ripley, and me on the other. Tate and Bianca stayed out of it. Our brother Jason tried to mediate, thinking his ability to land airplanes for a living would translate into landing a resolution to our family conflict.

It did not.

Just like Dad’s attempt at subtlety doesn’t translate tonight.

Rain pours onto the stage, dousing the first few rows with water. The performers stomp and splash, fucking chairs and grinding against poles.

Me: I’m not retiring for years.

Dad: You need to be pragmatic.

Blakely leans against the rail again, her dress sliding up the backs of her thighs. I reach up and hook a finger under the fabric, and tug.

My fingers rub along the smooth skin just beneath her ass. Her head whips to mine. A slow, seductive smile slides across her lips as I trail my fingers down her legs.

The contact is dangerous. I’m toeing a line we’ve worked hard to maintain over the years. I know it. And she knows it.

She lifts her drink to her mouth and downs the rest of it. Her lips around the rim of the glass. Her neck bare, exposed. Her eyes looking at me, begging me to touch her again.

There’s nowhere to go. No one to interrupt. No one to remind us that this isn’t supposed to happen.

I glance down.

Dad: Can we jump on a call right now?

No, we cannot . I turn off my phone.

Blakely grips the rail behind her with both hands. A voice booms through the venue, asking women about their fantasies. The rain shuts off, and a song plays that repeats the question.

Men begin to descend from the ceiling, and others march onto the stage as firemen and construction crews. Blakely doesn’t notice.

“So,” I ask, smirking. “What’s your fantasy?”

I think she’s going to laugh or turn around to the show. Instead, she puts one hand on each of my armrests and leans forward.

The front of her dress hangs, giving me a full view of her chest. Her mouth is inches away from mine.

I hold my breath, keeping my hands glued to the chair. “Yeah.”

She grins. “Yeah, what?”

“I’m looking at my fantasy too.”

She giggles, swaying on her heels.

“If I touch you right now, we’ll both be in trouble,” I say.

“Yeah, but a little trouble never hurt anyone.”

I growl, making her smile.

“Since you won’t touch me …” She cups my cheeks in her hands and lowers her mouth to mine. “I guess I’ll have to touch you.”

I lean toward her, to cut the small distance between us. Holy fuck . But before our lips meet, a hand lightly touches my shoulder.

“Can I get you another drink?”

Blakely laughs, pulling away. “ Oh my God .”

My teeth grind together as I try to breathe while not exploding on the server.

“We’re good,” Blakely says, resting her hand on my knee. “But thank you.”

“Not helping,” I mutter.

She laughs again, watching our intruder leave. “You know something?”

“I know a lot of damn things.”

“I was only kidding about coming here.”

“Now you tell me,” I say, shifting in my seat, desperate to find some sort of relief.

Everything on me, around me, and inside me is too much. Too loud. Too pressurized. Too sweet, too intense … too beautiful .

“Wanna go somewhere else?” she asks.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

She fixes the top of her dress. “I don’t want to go back to the suite yet. I’m having fun with you.”

This time, I think it’s my heart that does something funny.

“We’ve already been drinking,” she says. “We might as well finish off the night right. Go all-in.”

I get to my feet. “Who am I to turn down the birthday girl?”

She takes my hand and leads me to the exit.