Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“No one can resist the pull of Fake Play.”
“Ha! I knew you loved it after all.”
“I never said I didn’t,” I tease.
“It’s the kind of football movie that even non-football fans love.”
I scowl. “There are people who don’t like football?”
She scoffs dismissively. “I’ve heard about their existence. Small little pockets on the outskirts of society.”
“Seems terribly sad to be such a person.”
“It’s devastating, Drew,” she says, then she roams her eyes over me, like she’s cataloguing my face, my chest, my arms, my legs. A soft sigh falls from her lips, a hint of frustration in it. “I’m having such a good time that if I don’t catch a Lyft, I’ll be tempted.”
I love the honesty in her admission. I hate that she’s right.
“Me too,” I say.
She orders a ride. I wait with her on the corner, hands in my pockets. Then…what the hell. The night is ending. “I wish I were taking you home,” I say softly, moving a few inches closer.
“Me too,” she says, sounding as wrapped up in longing as I am.
“I want that more now than I did this afternoon,” I add.
Her breath hitches. Even though I want to lift my hand, reach for her face, and cup her cheek, I don’t.
I’m about to let her go when she meets my gaze, heat flickering in her eyes. “By the way, I would have said yes to spanking.”
I groan. She’s too sexy. “I would have smacked you exactly the way you wanted it.”
“I know.”
A fire ignites in my chest, filling me with lust and desire all from those two words. I know.
But this kind of talk isn’t part of the game plan anymore.
The Nissan we’re waiting for arrives, and I reach for the door handle. But before I open it, I grab my phone. Then I enter her number once more—this time under her full name. Brooke Holland, The One and Only. Then I send her a note. Had the best time with you tonight.
She smiles as she reads it, then replies with Me too.
I put her in the car and watch her go.
Like a good guy.
10
A VIBE THING
Drew
The sun warms my shoulders. The ocean breeze cools my skin. And the goateed barber slides a sharp blade across my jaw. All the barbers here at Armando’s are dressed to the nines in white button-downs, ties, and proper slacks, looking dapper as swing music plays. It’s so retro it’s cool.
Once I’m done, I’ll have to text Brooke a pic. Bet she’d get a kick out of this whole pop-up beachside barber shop here in Venice.
Carter was right. The beachside shave is downright luxurious.
I might start to hum any second.
But I’m not going to come. “You getting close, buddy?” I ask Carter in the chair next to mine.
“So close,” he grunts like he’s holding back his personal satisfaction.
“Behave,” I warn.
He laughs a little too big.
“Try to keep still,” his barber tells him, a stern fellow with earplugs and a leather apron.
“Like I said, behave,” I stage whisper as the owner himself, a goateed guy with steady hands, slides the blade across my jaw one last time then wipes it on a hand towel.
“Smoothest shave ever,” he says. “What do you think?”
I pat my cheek. “You’re the da Vinci of barbers, my man.”
“Thank you. I had lots of practice with my clients in East LA before I opened this shop.” Armando tucks the blade into his leather satchel, right next to combs of all sizes, then grabs a tray with lotions and potions. “Pick your scent.”
I sit up a little higher and smell the bottles. “This cedar one is nice.”
“That’s citrus,” he says with a chuckle.
“Citrus, cedar. They’re both in the C family,” I say.
“Close enough,” he teases, then pats some aftershave on my face.
When he’s done, he holds up a hand mirror, and says with a wicked smile, “Go Mercenaries.”
I shake his hand. “Hell yeah.” I glance around his busy joint. “And I'll be back.”
Carter’s done a minute later, so I corral him with our barbers and snap a pic, then post it on social. Stephen should be happy with that. The only thing I’m doing wrong is hanging with a rival, so I caption it that way. Hanging with the enemy, kicking it old school.
We take off, heading to the main drag in Venice to meet Maddox for lunch. He wanted to catch up on some sponsorship deals for both of us. Carter flew down for his mom’s birthday party this weekend, then he’ll head back to San Francisco to go into the final week of practice.
“How was your date last night?” Carter asks as we pass a weather-worn bungalow, its shutters beaten from the ocean air over the years.
“It was the best and it was the worst,” I say.
“Are you Dickens now?”
“You’ve heard of Dickens?”
“Yes, asshole. I studied literature in college,” Carter says with a scoff.