Chapter Six
Gia
Idiot. Muttonhead. Ignoramus.
Three hours later, I was still fuming. But I’d pulled out my thesaurus app to make the words really good.
Asshat. Schmuck. Pilgarlic.
That was a good one. Pilgarlic. I’d never even seen the word before, but I liked it. It described a man regarded with contempt or pity.
I was at home drinking cheap wine, eating mac and cheese, and grumbling insults at my phone. My foster sister, Bailey, was studying in our shared bedroom. Except that by the time I muttered “skainsmate ” from a Shakespearean insult generator, she slammed her organic chemistry textbook shut and came stomping out. It only took her about three steps because neither of us could afford a place bigger than a closet.
I heard her coming but ignored her, too interested in the Urban Dictionary definition of “idiotard.” But then she whipped the phone out of my hand and held it behind her back.
“Hey!” I cried.
“Enough already. You’ve been cursing at your phone all night now.”
“I have not!”
“What’s a ‘clodpate’?”
I grinned. That was another good one. “Connor.”
“Yeah, I got that. So what did he do to you?”
Gave me a mind-blowing orgasm then insulted my entire life. Called me smart, beautiful, and a liar all in the same breath. Fueled my fantasies for decades to come, then looked at me with such disgust, I felt dirty.
My sister wasn’t taking my silence. She shot me a glare then dropped onto the couch beside me. Her dark skin smelled like the vanilla candles she loved, and her hands were rough as she grabbed the bowl of mac and cheese from my lap and started eating my dinner.
“So,” she said between mouthfuls. “This is about sex.”
“It is not! It’s about Connor!”
“The New Year’s Eve kiss guy. Also calendar guy, right? The one with the Photoshopped dick and the dreamy eyes.”
I knew now that Connor was every bit as well-endowed as that picture implied under the artfully arranged sheets. And at my blush, my sister snickered.
“Yeah. This isn’t about sex at all.”
I glared at her and tried to grab the bowl back, but she held on like the street kids we’d both once been. “You don’t get any more until you talk,” she said, whacking my hand with the wooden spoon.
“Ow!” I curled my hand against my chest. “There’s nothing to say except that Connor’s a meathead.”
“And you want him.”
I pressed my lips shut, but we’d been together since our foster parents had taken us in twelve years ago. So she knew all she had to do was wait me out. In the end, I huffed.
“He’s great at sex. But he’s also a great big—”
“Clodpate. You said that. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“He thinks my entire life is a lie.”
“What?”
“We had this amazing…er…thing—”
“Sex.”
“—in the women’s bathroom.”
“Kinky. I like it.”
“And then he says I should quit my career.”
She frowned. “Because you work together?”
“Not my job. My career. He says it makes me a liar and that I’m too smart and beautiful to waste my life on something like publicity.”
She blinked at me. “And what did you say?”
I shrugged, and this time when I reached for the bowl, she gave it to me. “I called him a moron jock and stomped away.”
“Good for you.”
I nodded, feeling vindicated. But with that reassurance also came a wave of yearning. “Up until that point, it had been really great. A little weird—”
She perked up. “How weird?”
“Silent.”
“Like granny sex?”
“Even grannies make more noise than we did.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, you were at work.”
I nodded, but my thoughts were on the way he’d released. Eyes closed, face wreathed in bliss, but not a single sound. “He’s a really private person. I know less about him than I do any other player on the team.”
“So it makes sense he wouldn’t go all caveman, grunting away.”
True. But it seemed to be more than that, as if he was used to keeping everything personal absolutely silent. Which, given his obnoxious sister, seemed strange to me. She was all about blowing her own horn and his, given that she was his publicist.
“So tell me again how you got from hot sex to your life is a lie.”
“I don’t know. It was so fast, I wasn’t even dressed yet.”
“Ouch.” She pulled the bowl back. “What are you going to do?”
I dropped my head against our garage sale couch and stared at our stained ceiling. “My job. What else can I do?”
“At least you’re not going to quit over a guy.”
“As if!”
She pointed the wooden spoon at my face. “You’ve done stupid things for a guy before.”
I had. I’d joined the cheerleader squad to attract guys, which ended up being fun, but so much of a time suck, it hadn’t worked out. I’d thrown myself into the AV club for a particularly hot Star Wars nerd. The only good thing about that had been making out during the movies. And then my biggest stupid move was getting a job at an Indian restaurant because Boyfriend #3’s parents owned it. I still hated the smell of curry.
“That was ages ago,” I said with a sniff. “I’ve grown.” Still, I knew I had a core-deep yearning for a guy who would love me to the exclusion of all else. One with broad shoulders who would protect me, and a sweet disposition so I could tease him. But most important, he had to love me so fiercely that nothing could get between us. Obviously, that fantasy man did not exist, but it didn’t stop me from wanting him.
“So Connor’s all hot and cold…because why?”
I wrapped my arms around my now-full belly and tried to figure that out. “I think he’s trying to sabotage me doing articles on him.”
Bailey scraped up the last of the mac and cheese. “Why?” she said around the last bite. “Don’t they all want press?”
“He’s weird that way. He hates the attention.” I rolled my head to stare at her. “Which under normal circumstances would be just fine by me. But it’s my job to create publicity and Connor’s the one everyone wants to know more about.”
Bailey snorted. “Everyone wants to know? Or just you?”
Couldn’t it be both? “Joe DeLuce asked me to do something different to get people talking about him.”
“I don’t think you should mention silent sex in the women’s bathroom.”
I shot her a dirty look as I grabbed my wine. “Funny. It’s about him trying to improve his batting average.”
She snorted. “You’re mid-season. How much can he improve?”
Not a lot, according to him and the coaches. But as I’d said before, statistics could be sliced lots of different ways. Even if his batting average went down, I could still say that the distance of his hits had increased. Or his swing speed. Or any of a dozen different tiny aspects about the way he hit. “I’ll play with the numbers.”
She slugged me on the arm. “That would be the lying he’s talking about.”
I would have slugged her back, but she’d sloshed my wine. I was busy trying to soak it up with an old T-shirt that she’d left lying nearby. It took her a minute to realize what I was doing.
“Hey! That’s my shirt!”
“So put your shit away and don’t hit me.” I threw the now wine-stained tee back at her. But a moment later, I started thinking. If I had a black and white kind of mindset, then I would think that playing games with statistics was just the kind of bullshit that gave good media a bad name. Also, knowing that someone was going to fudge my statistics, I’d feel extra pressure to perform, outside of the already crippling pressure these guys were under anyway.
That could maybe make a guy cranky, maybe even think of spin doctors as lying bastards. Connor wouldn’t be the first.
I slumped backward onto the couch. So maybe I did understand where he was coming from. He was under a lot of pressure, and publicity just added to the strain. Especially if he couldn’t improve his batting average. So I could forgive him for the accusation, even if I didn’t agree.
Meanwhile, my sister was watching my face closely. “So are you going to keep writing the articles? Or are you plotting some devious revenge?”
“Revenge plots were so two hours ago,” I quipped. “No, I’m still doing the features. They’re too important. Especially since USA Today picked them up this afternoon.” I grinned. My byline was going to be featured on a national paper. Well, not in the paper itself, but on the webpage. Still, it was a major coup and would go a long way to proving that I was great at my job and should be really well paid to do it for a long, long time.
“Congratulations!” Bailey crowed as she pushed up from the couch to take the empty bowl back to the kitchen. “So this is your great promotion idea, supported by the boss, and picked up by a major newspaper.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means it has nothing to do with him. No wonder he’s pissed.”
I pushed to my feet. “What are you talking about? Of course, it has to do with him. It’s about him.”
“But he’s a really private guy, you said. So a series of bullshit articles that are really about boosting your career—not his—would probably make me cranky, too.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless, of course, hot sex in the bathroom is what they’re really about.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Though a part of me thought if I could have a career breakthrough and hot sex, life would be perfect. “Look, the ball’s already in motion. I’m writing these articles, whether he likes it or not.”
She rolled her eyes. “Then I suggest you figure out how to make them about him, in a real and honest way.”
I flopped back onto the couch and stared at my empty glass of wine. “Give me my phone back,” I groused.
“So you can think up more Shakespearean insults?”
“So I can research Connor Hart.” If Connor thought I was going to slap together a series of lies about him, he was in for a big surprise. No, I was going for the truth—in black and white letters across the page. He might not like the publicity, but too bad. His boss did.
In my experience, anyone who was seriously private about their past usually had something to hide. And right there was my leverage. He either gave me the time and attention I needed for the articles, or I was going to expose the truth—whatever it was.