Fair Game: A Football Romance (54 page)

“What’s your name?” He mouths.

“Holland.” He can’t hear me, and my name isn’t your average run of the mill name, so he draws my mouth to the side of his head for me to repeat myself directly into his ear. Oh my God, this guy’s picture should be next to the word
delicious
in the dictionary. He smells so good.

“Holland.” I swear that he moans when I say it. The beat gradually becomes faster, and the mystery man takes my hand, leading me to the edge of the dance floor. His forearm is tan, and he has the thick, ropey veins of an athlete. I follow his arm to his broad shoulders and admire the way his thick, dark hair curls up at the nape of his neck.

Just as we emerge from the crowd of dancing people, I tear my gaze from mystery man’s very,
very
fine backside and look out over the dance floor for Savannah and Mika. It’s impossible to recognize anyone in this massive cluster of bodies, and the magnetic pull of this man mixed with alcohol has given me a ‘go with the flow’ sort of attitude, so I do . . . go with the flow, that is. Except in this case, the flow is my fine mystery man.

Unlike when Savannah, Mika and I walked through the bar clutching each other’s hands to stay together, people seem to part like the red sea in front of mystery man until we reach the closest bar, where three men and two women also step aside, giving him a wide berth. He squeezes my hand tightly, as if he’s worried he might lose me, while the patrons around us stare. Some of them, mostly women, are staring at our joined hands with their mouths hanging open, and several are shooting daggers at me with their eyes. This all makes me very uncomfortable. I shift my weight and lean toward mystery man and turn my head in his direction. My hair drapes across the exposed side of my face, shielding me from their sharp glares. The only time I enjoy being the center of attention is when I’m on stage with my violin in my hands, and even then, I close my eyes and the audience disappears.              

The bartender leans across the bar to take his order and immediately snaps into action, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of champagne. The bartender offers to open it for him, but he shakes his head back and forth and gathers both glasses and the bottle with his free hand without losing hold of mine with his other. The thought of any woman voluntarily letting go of this man’s hand is ludicrous, and I’m guessing from the shocked looks we’re getting from the women around us, mystery man doesn’t hold hands with many of them.

He turns away from the bar to check on me when he feels me move closer, and our eyes lock. In the middle of all of this chaos, something is happening. I can’t put my finger on it, because I’ve never felt it before, but it’s intense and powerful, and I’m pretty sure it’s mutual. I’m close enough to him that even in the dim light of the club I can see that he has the deepest chocolate brown eyes, with tiny flecks of amber around his pupils. When he blinks, his long black lashes sweep up and down like a Vegas showgirl’s feathery headdress, and I’m entranced. He shakes his head as if to clear a thought and juts his chin upward. He wants to go upstairs. Oh God. Should I let him take me so far away from the girls? Just as that thought flickers through my mind, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I hold one finger up to him, asking him to wait while I tug it out of the back pocket of my tight jeans.

It’s a text from Savannah.
Where are you?
I quickly type back,
Went to get another drink.
It’s sort of true. I just happened to leave out the fact that I’m with an extremely hot, much older, dangerous looking man, who is taking me upstairs to the vampire red floor with an entire bottle of champagne. She texts back
Okay, going to the bathroom. Meet you on the dance floor in fifteen.
I send a thumbs up icon and notice that mystery man is reading over my shoulder. When I catch him, a faint smile flickers across his face and he playfully looks away, knowing full well he’s been caught eavesdropping on my message. I laugh, and he cocks his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture. Just as before, people move aside and allow us to pass easily. It takes mystery man two minutes to cover the distance it would have taken the girls and me twenty minutes to fight our way through earlier.

When we arrive at an elevator just around the corner from the main entrance, I have another moment of panic when I watch him press the
up
button. This is such a bad idea. He has no idea how young I am. I have no idea who he is. He could be a murderer or some crazy freak who is taking me upstairs to rape and murder me like those dumb girls I always see on Criminal Minds. I should be saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I should be finding my friends. I should be at home studying for finals and playing the violin. But no . . . a liquor gremlin in my brain has taken my common sense hostage and he’s yelling, “Have some fun! He’s hot, go for it.” Meanwhile, my poor, sweet common sense tries to warn me through a gag in her mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid, he could be dangerous.’ But when the doors slide open, my feet have a mind of their own. The gremlin wins, and I follow mystery man into the elevator. There’s something about him that calms me, and for some crazy reason I naively trust him.

The small elevator must be soundproof. It’s so quiet that I can hear myself breathing.

“You have a beautiful name,” he says.

A shiver races up my spine when I hear his ‘inside voice’ for the first time. It’s gravelly and deep and . . . sexy.

“Thank you. I didn’t catch yours.”

“I told you on the dance floor.”

“You did?” I search through my foggy brain, and after a few seconds of sorting, I remember him saying ‘King’.

“King? That’s your name?” I bite my lip and do my best not to giggle. If that isn’t ostentatious, I don’t know what is.

“Yes it is.” He knows I’m trying not to laugh.

“It’s all right. You can laugh. I know there aren’t many people with a name like that.”

“Is it short for Kingsford or something?” I can’t believe I’m being so brazen, teasing a man I don’t even know, but I’m tipsy. People blame a lot of things on alcohol. Now I know why.

“No, just King. My father thought the name would be commanding and bring me success.”

“And did it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, as if success were something I could see on his face.

He raises his brows and the elevator doors open. He leads me out without answering.

If his expensive clothes and the obvious reverence of the people in this club mean anything, I think he’s done just fine with the name of King.

I look around the lounge and half expect the people to have glowing red eyes like the vampires in the Twilight movies. You could definitely film a vampire movie here. It’s so creepy.

It’s also much quieter up here, though not as quiet as the elevator. I can still hear the music from below—it’s just no longer deafening. We’re able to actually talk to each other.

“It was too loud to ask downstairs, but I would like to buy you a drink.” He holds up the bottle and glasses.

“You didn’t pay for that, so it’s not technically buying me a drink.”

“I don’t have to pay for something that’s mine. I own this club.” He winks and leads me around the edge of the room. The owner. I feel sort of stupid for worrying about him being a murderer for a second, but hey—a lot of murders are very successful people, right? Why is the owner of the most popular nightclub in Texas asking me to drink champagne with him in the VIP area of his club? Now all the veneration and dirty looks make sense. He’s a celebrity here.

Walking in these shoes is becoming more and more challenging. They’re killing my feet. I teeter and grip King’s hand a little tighter for balance. God, don’t fall down, Holland. Not right now.

              “Are you alright?” He’s been one step in front of me, but he slows his pace to pull me in closer to his side.

“Uh huh. These shoes . . .” I roll my eyes and kick out my foot to show him what I mean. He frowns.

“Women put themselves through so much unnecessary torture to please men. Don’t get me wrong. Heels are sexy as hell, but if I were a woman, I’d say screw it. I’m wearing my boots.”

“Boots. Yeah, my cowboy boots are sounding pretty good about right now.”

“Hold on.” He stops right in the middle of the aisle, kneels down, and carefully sets the champagne bottle and glasses on the floor next to him. I hold his shoulder and watch him remove my shoes, in the bar that he owns, on his knees. Holy shit. Now everyone is staring and shooting daggers. He stands up, hands me my shoes, and gathers up the bottle and glasses again. Now that I’m my normal height, he is noticeably taller, and for a second, there are two of him, but they quickly blur back into one. Two wouldn’t be a bad thing. I could share a King copy with Savannah. I giggle to myself, and King tilts his head to the side and smirks. Oh Lord, I’m such a goner.

“I like your name.” I think I slurred that a little. Shit, I’m drunk.

“Thank you. I’m glad. I like yours too.”

“Your daddy’s smart.”

“Yes, he was smart. He’s been gone for two years now, but he taught me a lot.”

“I’m sorry.” We’re still standing where he removed my shoes when he makes me feel like a little kid by pressing a kiss on my forehead. It’s ironic, because he would probably consider me a kid if he knew how old I really am.

I moan in relief when I take a step without my shoes, and King glances at me sideways. His dark eyes are full of desire, or at least I think it’s desire. I’ve never really seen desire, but if I had to guess . . . yeah, that’s desire. I’ve never had someone react to my voice like that. It’s empowering and a little bit exciting and, God, I think I suddenly have a fever.              

Halfway around the circumference of the club, he releases my hand and motions for me to sit in a plush, crescent-shaped booth. We sit, and I lay my phone on the cushion and toss my shoes on the floor.

“Where did you come from?” he asks, glancing at me quickly out of the corner of his eye while he opens the bottle of champagne.

“I was born in here in Austin.”

I wait quietly, watching as he expertly pops the cork and pours it into the glasses on the low cocktail table in front of us. “I wasn’t actually asking geographically. It was more of a
where have you been all my life
sort of question. I didn’t want it to sound cheesy, but I think that backfired.”

The corners of his lips lift slightly as he hands me a glass and taps it against mine.

“To interesting names,” he says.

I’ve seen people do this in movies, so I repeat what he’s said.

“To interesting names.” I raise the glass to my mouth, but I stop when he doesn’t do the same. He’s looking at me, but it feels more like he’s looking
into
me.

“What?”

“Your eyes . . . they’re haunting.”

Haunting
? I’ve been told my eyes were a lot of things, but never haunting. They’re an interesting shade of grey, which is odd for someone with a black daddy and a white mama, who both have brown eyes. I’ve always thought they were a little big for my face, but haunting? That’s new.

“Um, okay. Is that a compliment?”

I watch the lump in his throat waver when he swallows the entire glass of champagne in one drink. When it’s gone, he nods.

“Yes, most assuredly a compliment, Holland. What do you do?”

What do I do? What do I do . . . shit, he means for a job or a career. I’m only nineteen. I don’t have a career yet; I haven’t even been to college, but I sure as hell can’t tell him that.

“I’m a musician. I play the violin.” Not a lie at all. He never asked what I do to earn money, and I do play on a professional level. I’m surprised when his face lights up.

“Impressive. What symphony are you with?” He would ask that. I just successfully dodged his first question without lying, but now I don’t have a choice. I have to . . . sort of.

“I’m hoping to be with the New York Philharmonic soon. I’m moving to New York in the fall.” Half-truth, half little white lie; works for me.

“You have to play for me sometime.” He means another time, as in he wants to see me again. My tummy flops and I down my champagne.

“Sure.” I rub the palm of my free hand on my thigh. He’s watching me again—I feel it, but I can’t look directly at him. I just lied to him—a stranger, essentially, but I lied just the same, and that’s not like me.

“I’d like to do something, Holland. I need to go out for a smoke, but I’m going to kiss you first.”

I give my eyes to him now. He wants to kiss me.
He wants to kiss me!
He wants to put his mouth on mine. I nod my head up and down because I can’t speak. I would very much like for this beautiful man to give me my first kiss I can’t believe this is happening.

He scoots toward me until there is no one else—nothing else, just King and me—in this moment right now. I watch him remove the glass from my hand and set it on the table next to his. He cups my face and watches his thumb brush against my lips. When he meets my ‘haunting’ eyes, a shockwave like I’ve never experienced races through my body. I blame alcohol for the overwhelming urge to climb into his lap and straddle his hips. I want his hands all over my skin. I want . . . his lips meet mine, and his hand slides behind my neck into my damp hair, pulling me closer—but not close enough. I don’t think there is a close enough. He leads and I follow. I more than willingly allow him to guide me wherever he wants to go. Kissing, kissing and more gentle kissing. My pulse begins to whoosh in my ears with every beat of my heart as I push my fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. His tongue slowly slides past my lips. Oh, God. This feels so good, so very good. How do people ever stop doing this? How have I never
started
doing this?