Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(217)

The man Quinn stabbed in the neck, and who should be dead or rotting in a Spanish prison right now.

‘For every light in this world, there’s a shadow somewhere else’, my dad used to say. Every story has a bad guy, and this is ours.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Javier Gael Toro; our number one priority.” The Director says, looking sternly around the room.

He starts to go into details of the escape and last known whereabouts, but I’m barely listening as my eyes burn hot into the eyes on the screen in front of me. Nine months ago, this man almost destroyed everything I know.

I was powerless then, but I’ve just been given the keys to revenge.





3





Javier




Goddamn freedom tastes good. Well, specifically, tequila añejo especial on the rocks is what tastes good, but the lack of iron bars and armed guards around me is pretty fucking nice too.

The Swim; give me a fuckin break. I've been underestimated before; many times actually, and it's never worked out so well for the other guy. Clearly, Warden Gustavo won't be the last guy to do the same, but he certainly made my fucking list.

You get two things when you go for The Swim, because apparently the good Warden has a fucked-up sense of humor. You get a life-vest tied tightly around you; not so that you live, but so that you can't just say fuck it and drown yourself. You also get a gun with a single bullet, and that one’s a gift; the last gift you’ll ever get, and you can use it whenever you want. Maybe it's for when the sharks come. Maybe it’s for when night falls and the terrors of what might be beneath you in the deep get too much for your own head. Maybe you make it a day or two, but then realize you're going to dehydrate or starve to death and that piece of lead starts to look real good.

I frown into my near-empty glass, shaking my near-brush with death from my head and reaching for the bottle on the balcony table next to me.

Lightning flashes as the motor cuts. One of the two guards on the boat jumps at the sound of thunder before his buddy punches him in the arm and calls him a pussy in Spanish. The thunder and lightning smashes against the sky again, and I can’t help but grin at how awesome and dramatic a send-off this is for my own funeral. “Hey, puta!” The second guard calls to me; “I hope you didn't eat anything in the last half hour. You don't want a cramp!”

Hilarious. Gallows humor to another fucking level. They haul me up, tightening the straps to my life vest. The guard that jumped at the thunder grins as he hands me a pistol, butt first. He’s not grinning because he's helping me though. We both know there's one bullet in this gun, and we both know shooting him isn't what it's for.

Let me rephrase that; HE knows shooting him isn’t what it’s for. Me? I’ve got a different opinion.

He gasps and looks at me in total shock at the sound of the trigger being pulled. He's tumbling backwards, clutching his gut as he jerks overboard. The second guard is charging me from the bow of the boat firing his pistol wildly. I manage to catch him in the face with my own empty gun before I duck and lung, knocking him with my shoulder and shoving him over the side into the water as well. I'm revving the engine and tearing off, only then realizing that the outboard motor at the back of the boat is smoking from a bullet hole and that I've got no fucking idea where I'm going.

But fuck it; I used to call these waters home, back in my smuggling days. I can do this. There's a map of the Venezuelan coast taped to the side of the wheel, and though I sincerely doubt I'm going to get that far with smoke pouring out of this fucking engine, it’s worth a shot.

Thunder crashes overhead again, and I glance up once more before locking my eyes on the map. I want to laugh when I see what the closest point of land is that doesn’t involve me setting fucking foot on Venezuela again. But as I rev the engine, I pray to God I make it to there before I sink into the ocean.



I slug back the añejo, trying not to dwell on the past and my escape from death. I've had enough of those already for one or five lifetimes; I don't need to dwell on the latest. Point is, I'm free, and thanks to the wallet I lifted at the docks from one of those guys coming off a cruise ship, I'm set up nice and pretty in the penthouse suite of the Ritz-Carlton. I've got tequila in my hand, the sun on my face, and a view of some seriously hot women hanging out by the pool. Life could be worse.

There's a flash of something blonde, and my head swivels to the doors by the pool bar.

Damn.

She almost seems to glide out of the doors, her hips swaying in the sarong around her waist and her mouth-watering tits gently cupped in a white bikini top. Her eyes are covered by the dark shades and Panama hat she wears, and her long blonde hair spills out around her tanned shoulders.