Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(235)

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.





14





After thirty hours in a bikini, slipping on some cut-off shorts and a tank top - not to mention underwear - feels amazing.

I twirl once more in front of the changing room's trifold mirror and try and bite back my grin. I've never been a “clothes” type of girl. I’m not the type that worries too much about which brand of jeans I'm wearing or if the shirt I'm wearing matches, well, anything else I'm wearing. Clothes are clothes; no big deal. Except today, there's a reason I'm trying to make sure I look OK, and it’s not even a reason I'm altogether comfortable thinking even to myself. It's a tainted reason; a criminal reason that’s wrong in all the worst ways.

I’m not happy about having to use the wad of what I’m sure is stolen cash Javier’s been carrying around in his pocket. But, desperate times and all that, and I busy myself with paying for the clothes with the money before I head back out to the market square.