Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(3)

That’s where my mother and I are different.



I don’t even know where I’m going until I pull up in front of the entrance to the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard.

Fuck it.

I smile at the valet as I breeze luggage-less into the lobby of the thousand-dollar a night hotel. I mean, I’ve got Vince’s credit card in my clutch, and I’m sure as hell not going back to our place tonight, not after-

I feel ill as I suddenly wonder if he’s ever fucked her there. The idea of them screwing in our bed has my skin crawling as I smile thinly at the concierge and sign for the penthouse suite Vince will be paying for tonight.

All I want to do is shut myself away - forever if need be - and drown whoever this version of me is that I never wanted to be in booze.

I crack a thin, cold smile - there’s one way my mother and I are the same, at least.

The door shuts behind the bellhop, leaving me alone with the screaming in my head, the fury still pounding through my veins, and the minibar, of course. I grab two nips of gin from it, dumping them sans-ice into one of the crystal tumblers from the table and stalking across the room to drape myself across the bed with a groan.

“I told you you’d thank me for all of it someday, Natalie.”

Yeah, remind me to send a damn card.

The alcohol burns like sweet relief down my throat as I polish off the glass, feeling the warming glow of it spread through my body. I sit up in the bed, running my fingers through my long sable hair and swaying slightly as the double hit of gin rushes through me.

“You’re frigid, honey.”

The blonde’s words send fire blazing through me as they come trickling back into my thoughts.

Frigid.

I picture Vince’s stupid little shrug, as if agreeing with her little remark. Frigid, huh? Well fuck him.

Because I can be downright steamy.

I slug back the rest of the gin before stepping in front of the mirror against the wall of the bedroom.

I look good.

It’s not like gala dinners with Vince’s stuffy office pals and his scummy wannabe-mafia buddies are exactly my thing, but crap like that has been the epitome of my social life these days. Dress up, look pretty, smile, and state no opinions. Hang off Vince’s arm, agree with what he says, and laugh at his terrible jokes even when no one else does.

I might be bored to death at things like that, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look great for them. Hell, at least I’ve got that going for me after years of ballroom lessons and etiquette classes.

I bite my lip as I look at myself in the mirror, smoothing down the sleek little black cocktail dress. It’s demure and elegant - sexy without being slutty. “Flirty, not trampy,” my mother would say. The need to do something - to feel a rush of some kind, or to feel alive or sexy for the first time in forever grips at me. And I’m not stupid or petty or vindictive enough to go out and try to “find someone” just to “get back” at Vince or anything like that.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not about to head down to the hotel bar and get rip-roaring drunk.

Bottoms up.





3





Austin




Damn, now that’s an ass you could sink your teeth into.

I let my eyes wander over the tight, curvy back-end of the redhead on the other side of the restaurant from the bar, laughing mechanically as she playfully slaps the arm of one of the two Hollywood-type suits standing next to her. She looks vaguely familiar, but of course if there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving to LA, it’s that every girl looks vaguely familiar.

Your sexy waitress, the girl at the gym with the great tits, the cute chick that makes eyes at you as she steams milk for your latte, your neighbor. Whoever the girl, you’ve probably seen thirty others that look exactly like her in commercials, or on some movie poster, or hell, porn for that matter.

Welcome to fucking LA.

Ten-to-one, of course, they’re also all batshit crazy as I’ve come to learn. Especially when you’re young, famous, and most importantly fantastically newly rich.

Of course, all those factors combined also make a perfect fucking storm of getting laid, and it’s with that in mind that I’m ignoring the ridiculous air-kisses and “ciao’s” coming from the redhead’s mouth and thinking of other things I’d like to see coming in that mouth.

Me.

“Austin.”

I smirk as I sip on the whiskey in my glass, letting my eyes drop to that ass that looks like you could bounce a feather off of it. She looks up this time, noticing me.

She smiles seductively.

Oh yeah, she knows who I am.

“Austin, are you fucking listening to me?”

I groan as I tear my attention away from the redhead, my Jessica-Rabbit fantasies evaporating like smoke as I frown at my chubby, balding manager.