Fair Game: A Football Romance (65 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Holland

Holy shit. I thought he knew, like I really, really thought he had figured out my age. When he came through the bathroom door without my phone, looking so upset, my heart nearly stopped. I still have no idea what has him so worked up, but thank God it has nothing to do with me. I’ve got to get to my phone right now.

I’m going to Savannah’s for a good helping of normal after this long day of being saturated by all things King. It was beautiful, hot and sweet, but for a girl who usually spends her afternoons cooped up in a tiny, stuffy room alone, playing a violin, and her evenings with school books spread all over the bed studying, King’s attention was a complete emotional pleasure overload.

Making good use of the shampoo King left on the edge of the tub, I scrub the honey from my hair and skin before sliding up onto the very slippery edge to sit and dry off. I need to hurry, but I’m scared of losing my footing on the steps. With the towel tucked around my body, I scoot to the top step and grab the rail before descending. As soon as I hit the marble floor, I take baby steps to the door and fly down the hall to King’s bedroom.

My purse . . . it’s not on the floor where I left it earlier. It’s on the bed, but I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn’t look like he had time to search for my phone. With my hair dripping on the face of the phone, I find Savannah on my contact list and press
call
. When I straighten to wait for her to pick up, I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room. I don’t even recognize myself at first. The person I’m used to seeing staring back at me is sweet faced and innocent; this person is disheveled and flushed with the air of satisfaction. She’s sexy and happy, with eyes full of maturity—nothing close to the chaste girl I was just a day ago. My God, how did this happen?

Savannah answers the phone in a panic. “Holland. What the fuck, why haven’t you called your mother? She’s called me like four hundred times. I can’t hold her off any more. You’d better do something—”

“Savannah, stop. Shit, you’re freaking me out. Can you come get me? Please tell me your mama left the car,” I shout, cutting her off. Savannah freezes on the other end of the line for a moment. I never ever raise my voice.

“Oh my God, he hurt you. If he touched a hair on your head without your permission, I’m bringing the shotgun my daddy left me and I’m blowing his slick talking, rich ass head clean off his shoulders. Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t cover for you. This was such a stupid idea . . .” I let her rant and ramble while I gather my clothes from the floor. When she’s worn herself out, I hear the engine of her mama’s Suburban come to life in the background.

“Savannah . . . be careful. Do you have your seatbelt on? I don’t want you driving like a maniac.”

“You’re worried about me? Holland, that bastard is over there . . . doing . . . I don’t even know what, and you wanna know if I have a seatbelt on? Are you still at this place?”

“I’m fine! If you would calm down for two seconds, I’d explain. He hasn’t hurt me. I’m perfectly fine, but he had to go out of town unexpectedly, and I forgot to call home, so I need you to hurry up and come get me so I don’t get caught.”

“Oh. Oh, good. Shit, I’m glad I don’t have to shoot him. He’s so pretty.”             

I throw my head back and laugh into the dark. She’s the only person I know who would worry about messing up a pretty face by shooting it off.

I hear the radio in the Durango, and the engine accelerates in the background. She’s already on the road. I need to hurry; she’ll be here soon. I grab my wadded up romper off the floor and toss it in my bag, and I dress in the clothes I started my day in.

“I’m going down to the main entrance of the club. I’ll wait for you outside,” I say, scanning the room to be sure I have everything I came with.

“No. It’s Saturday night, and that place is probably nuts outside. Stay inside. I’ll call you when I’m there, and you can come down then.”

“Okay, but hurry. My mama’s going to be knocking on your door any minute now.”              

We end the call, and I toss my phone into my purse and run my fingers through my tangled hair. Crap, she’s gonna know something’s up if I show up out there with wet hair and no makeup. I need a hair dryer, but that means I’ll have to go snooping around. Do guys even own hair dryers? When I grab my purse, I realize his bed is still a big sticky, wet mess of honey and whipping cream. I feel bad just leaving it for him to come home to tomorrow, so I carefully peel off the sheets and gather them into a ball, taking note of the thin plastic sheet underneath, protecting his mattress. I wonder if that’s new or if it’s necessary because he plays this way with other women. He said he never let another woman into his apartment. I wonder if that’s true? It’s hard to believe such a player would sleep alone every night in this big, beautiful bed.

I turn and take a few steps toward the door before I unconsciously decide to go back and strip the plastic off the bed too. I have no idea if I’m the jealous type, but something inside of me can’t bear the thought of him messing up this bed with anyone else, so I take it into the kitchen and stuff it into a stainless steel trash can next to the pantry.

Laundry room . . . where would the laundry room be? I jump out of my skin when a man steps into the kitchen out of the shadows of the adjoining living room.

“Shit!” I scream when I see him, and he calmly raises his hands, palms out in front of his body.

“I’m not coming any closer.”

“Who are you?” I holler, but I’ve already put it together in my head before he speaks. It’s King’s security guy, Sebastián.              

“I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry, Sebastián. I just wasn’t expecting . . . I mean, I didn’t know you were here,” I say, clutching my chest with one hand and the wet sheets with the other.

“Mr. Romero’s sheets?” he asks nonchalantly, and I look down at the damp ball of material smashed up against my body.

“Ah . . . yes, um, I was looking for a washing machine to toss them into.” I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable. Sebastián knows I was here last night, and he was helping King tonight with his magical fairyland dinner party. He knows what we’ve been doing.

“This way,” he says, motioning for me to follow him. On the other side of the kitchen wall is the fanciest laundry room I’ve ever seen. Two sets of washing machines and dryers on one wall, and beautiful cherry cabinetry that matches what’s in the kitchen along the opposite wall. Marble countertops run the length of the room, with storage bins underneath. Sebastián opens the front-loading washing machine and removes the sheets from my hands. When he has the load started, he turns to face me, and I see something in his eyes that worries me. He’s about to say something that I’m positive I don’t want to hear.

“Ms. Bennett.”

“Please call me Holland.”

“Holland . . . as you know, I’m head of Mr. Romero’s security team.” His tone is serious. I nod and wait for him to go on.

“It’s my job to keep him safe and inform him of the backgrounds of those he associates with . . .” He pauses, and I hold my breath and start to shake my head back and forth. He knows.

“Ms. Bennett . . . Holland, I know that you’re only nineteen years old. You’re a very smart, mature young lady, and I’m sure you’re aware that misrepresenting yourself with fake identification is illegal. King’s business could be closed down if he were caught serving alcohol to minors.

His words hang in the air between us. I’ve been selfish by keeping my age a secret, and I hadn’t even thought about what could happen to King if we were caught with our fake IDs. The only repercussions I had to worry about were being grounded or disappointing my parents. King would have to deal with the law and codes and the courts if we were caught.

“I’m not telling you this because I’m worried about King. I’m concerned for you, Holland. Mr. Romero has legal representation that is quite literally above the law, so he would never actually spend time behind bars, but you need to know that he’s a very dangerous man, and if he finds out you’ve been lying to him he could . . . well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be good for anyone. I haven’t told him and I don’t plan to, but I will if you refuse to stay away from him. King isn’t just a rich club owner. He’s a billionaire, a billionaire who inherited his father’s empire when he died—a very illegal, dangerous empire. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

The only thing I really understand is that Sebastián knows I’m nineteen and he’s not telling King, period. I can’t think past that right now. I have an instant headache. The air in the laundry room is thick and oppressive and I need out.

“Holland? Are you going to be all right?” Sebastián says, snapping me out of my daze. “I need to be sure you understand how serious this is. You have to stay away from King. Being associated with him could get you killed.”

“What? Killed . . . but why?” I understand the problem with our age difference and that I’ve lied to him, but why on earth would I be killed for being with him unless . . . oh God, he said King had an
illegal
empire, didn’t he? The information starts to filter down and settle until I’m seeing it clearly. His club is named Ecstasy. King is a drug dealer.

Oh no, no, no, no, this isn’t happening. He can’t be. Why didn’t I see it? I’m a smart girl. I know right from wrong, but ever since King touched me I’ve been making terrible decisions, putting myself in dangerous situations, engaging in extremely risky behavior, and for what? A drug dealer.

“Drugs?” I ask, but Sebastián just stares at me, neither confirming nor denying my guess. That’s as good as confirming it in my mind. I drop my head back to stare at the ceiling and hide the tears forming in my eyes. My phone pings in my pocket, and I don’t even look to see who it is. I bolt for the door. The music from the club blasts my ears like an atomic bomb when I open the door. I don’t remember it being so loud last night. Everything vibrates around me—the walls, the floor, the people . . . everything. I turn for the elevator and someone just happens to be getting off. I race to jump in before the doors close and pace back and forth in the small, empty space. Panic sets in. He’s a drug dealer—a
drug dealer
. I chew my thumbnail while Sebastián’s words bounce around in my head:
won’t tell him if I stay away, very dangerous, I could be killed
.

My stomach is churning when I exit the elevator. The fairytale environment from earlier has been transformed back into the pumping dance club with wall-to-wall people drinking, laughing and dancing. I wonder how many of them are on drugs. If King owns clubs all over the world, this could be one of many distributing drugs . . . more puzzle pieces slide into place. The clubs are a cover . . .

This is all just too much. I shove through the well-dressed crowd, being groped several times before I stumble into the lobby. Savannah is waiting in her mama’s big, black Suburban right outside. Two bouncers sit at the door on bar stools checking IDs. One of them spots me, and he immediately stands up to hand the ID back to the girl in front of him while calling out my name.

“Ms. Bennett,” he says over the noise. What does
he
want? The thought hardly registers before he’s standing right in front of me.

“Ms. Bennett, Mr. Romero wanted me to be sure you were safe going outside tonight. Is your ride here?”

“Uh yeah, right there.” I point toward Savannah.

“I’ll walk you to the car,” he says, taking a hold of my elbow.

I step back, reclaiming the personal space that he has just invaded.

“I’m fine. There’s no need, it’s only a few steps,” I say and start for the door with Mr. Hot Bouncer on my heels. I ignore him, working against the line of clubbers out front, but somehow he makes it to the car first and opens the door to let me in. I stop short with my mouth hanging open when I see him there. I’m irritated, but hot bouncer guy won’t even look me in the eyes now. He just stands there holding the door, staring over my shoulder past me, until I huff and climb in. I reach to pull it shut, but he holds it open and bends to look past me at Savannah.

“Lock the doors and drive safely, please. Mr. Romero wanted me to relay that message to you.”

And with that, he closes the door and disappears back into the club.

“What the hell was that all about?” Savannah asks.

I don’t even know where to begin. How am I going to tell her about this mess? Instead of trying, I cover my eyes with my hand and cry.

“Holland? What the fuck is going on around here? Why are you crying?” When I don’t answer, she continues verbally dissecting what little information she has. “You forget to call your mama, then you call me up in a panic, asking me to come get you, but you say King hasn’t hurt you, and then some bouncer tells you to be safe and lock the doors. What am I missing here?”

Sniveling, I open the center console and pull out some tissue. I blow my nose and dry my eyes. “I can’t see him again, Savannah. He’s not just a club owner. He’s a . . . a drug dealer. I think he probably sells the drugs out of his clubs.”

“What? Where’d you get that crazy idea?” she says, shaking her head.

“It’s not an idea. It’s the truth. His head of security told me—well, he didn’t actually tell me, but he warned me about King. He said he has this empire or something that he inherited from his daddy when he died, and that he’s really dangerous. And he knows I’m only nineteen.”