It was a little strange that Bull wanted me to come meet him at the gym before lunch, but I wasn’t about to complain. Truthfully, I was just happy I was getting to see him at all.

He left in the middle of the night again. I knew he would, but it still stung a little bit when I woke up to his absence. I didn’t even remember getting into bed, and probably Bull had carried me there.

Which was surprising. He could be so tender when he wanted to be, although most of the time he was brash and crude. But after we were finished, and we were just holding each other, the man was practically gentle.

It made me want to kiss his lips softly and smile as I looked into his eyes.

Lunch was good, though I could tell there was something happening between us. He took me to an expensive place and told me to order whatever I wanted, which of course was just his way of showing off.

When the meal was over, we were back in his car. I felt nervous, though I didn’t really know why. He leaned against the door.

“Come back to my place,” he said.

I smiled at him. “Really?”

“Of course really.”

“It’s just that you’ve always come to my place. I don’t think I’ve been there without a big party full of people.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

I laughed. “Okay then. You didn’t need to bribe me with lunch first, you know.”

“Not a bribe. More like trying to warm you up.”

“Isn’t that basically a bribe?”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “Are you complaining?”

“Not really.”

“Good.”

The driver got going and we fell into some small talk about his upcoming season. Bull seemed optimistic about his team’s chances, and I had to agree. The Bears historically were a pretty good team, but they had fallen onto some hard times lately. With Bull at full health and Calvin playing great, they looked like they had a real shot.

He was open and honest about his playing, and I wished I could take notes. In most interviews, Bull danced around the subject and gave a bunch of bullshit responses, the sort of generic answers most athletes gave when they were exhausted and right off the field. He liked to repeat those platitudes with a knowing little smile on his face, frustrating reporters.

But alone with him in the car, he was actually talking about playing like a normal person for once. He seemed to worry a lot about his concussions and about his knees, but otherwise couldn’t wait to get out there and smash some guys to pieces.

It felt good to be in Bull’s confidence. I knew that was exactly what I’d wanted from the start, but now I felt like I had actually earned it. Maybe I was going to have to break that trust, and sooner than I wanted to, but I wanted to pretend like it was okay for a little bit.

Sitting in that car with Bull, I wanted to pretend like we were normal people. I wanted to pretend like I wasn’t a journalist pretending to be something else just to get a story. I wanted to pretend like Bull wasn’t a notorious bad boy. I wanted things to be different, simple. Maybe I even wanted the mafia to not be involved in any of this.

So I sat there and listened to him talk about practice, about working out with Calvin, about getting past his aching and tired body, and I just didn’t think about any of it. I concentrated on him and blocked everything else out.

That had to come to an end, though. Eventually we had to get to his apartment. I wished it didn’t happen so soon, but it was only a fifteen-minute drive from the restaurant back to his place.

Fifteen minutes of pretend. That wasn’t much, but it was something.

We pulled up outside his apartment building and got out. I followed him up into the building and into the elevator. We rode it up to his apartment, not talking much but standing close, our shoulders touching.

When those doors opened, I knew I had to go back to reality. I fingered the lipstick camera in my bag and looked around, wondering what I should try to get a picture of.

“So this is what it looks like without all the drugs and the people.”

He grinned at me. “Home sweet home.”

It looked clean. I figured he had people coming and cleaning it for him, but I was a little surprised. The place was extremely modern and tasteful, maybe even a little reserved. I always had assumed that a single guy living in a big apartment would make it look like a man cave or something like that, but Bull clearly knew what he was doing with his interior decorator.

“Want anything?” he asked.

“I’m okay.”

“I have a personal chef; I think she’s actually here right now.” He walked over toward the hallway. “Marta!”

An older woman, maybe in her late forties, stepped out. “Yes, Mister Dixon.”

Bull cringed. “Stop calling me that.”

“Okay, Mister Dixon.”

“Marta, this is Charley.”

I walked over and shook her hand. She had a pleasant smile and looked more like his mother than his personal chef.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Same to you. How long have you been working for Bull?”

“Oh, years,” she said. “I practically live here during the week.”

“And she’s lucky,” Bull said. “I overpay her and she barely has to work.”

“This man eats out far too much. You should be treating your body better, Mister Dixon.”

He sighed. “Okay, Marta.”

“Can I make you two something?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“How about those little shrimp things,” Bull said. “Maybe we’ll have a few of those.”

Marta laughed. “Coming right now.”

She turned and walked away, back into the kitchen, Bull grinned at me.

“She’s nice,” I said.

“She was the first person I hired, and the best decision I ever made,” Bull replied.

“Why’s that?”

“We get along,” he said. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

I discreetly got the camera from my bag and snapped a shot of Marta in the kitchen as we walked past. Bull didn’t notice a thing as he led the way.

We went down the hall and stopped in front of one of the extra bedrooms. I hadn’t been inside any of them yet, since I’d gotten the distinct impression they were basically sex rooms when parties were happening. Bull opened the door and we stepped in.

“Here it is,” he said. “What do you think?”

This was what I had expected when I came into Bull’s apartment. The walls were covered in sports memorabilia, signed jerseys, and pictures of Bull with various other athletes. There was a bed and an end table, but the room was mostly shelves packed with things like trophies, rings, signed baseballs, and so much more.

I walked over to a shelf and started looking at what was inside. It was enclosed in glass and I stared at one of the baseballs, my head cocked.

“Holy crap,” I said. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Babe Ruth,” Bull said proudly. “One of my prized possessions.”

“How did you get this?”

“Lots of money; that’s how. There’s a Jackie Robinson one there, too.”

I looked, and sure enough, there was Jackie Robinson’s name scrawled across another beat-up looking baseball.

“I can’t believe this. I guess you’re a big baseball fan,” I said.

He laughed. “Huge fan, but don’t tell anyone.”

“I love baseball.” I shook my head, staring at the balls. “These are incredible.”

“Sometimes I come in here and just stare at them. I wonder about the men who wrote their names, about their lives. I can’t help but wonder if they were like me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I think that was a different time, though.”

“I’m not so sure. Ruth loved to drink as much as anybody today. Just because it was a long time ago doesn’t mean people weren’t a bunch of partying assholes like we are now. People don’t change all that much.”

I nodded, looking at the other stuff. He was probably right, though I couldn’t imagine anyone living as hard as Bull did. He was a singular man, and I was more and more impressed with him every day.

“Take a look at this,” he said. He held up a trophy.

I took it from him and laughed. “Peewee football?”

“MVP,” he said, grinning. “This is the first football trophy I ever won. I mean, the first trophy I earned, not counting all those bullshit participation awards.”

“Is that your Maxwell Award?” I asked, laughing. “You keep your peewee football trophy next to your Maxwell?”

He shrugged. “It’s not a Heisman, so I figure it’s not worth its own spot.”

“The Maxwell is a huge award, Bull!” I said, laughing. “You can’t just keep it here. Is it dusty?”

He shrugged. “I don’t let the cleaning people in here.”

“You don’t trust them with your peewee awards?”

“No way. Everyone knows they steal.”

I smiled to myself as he inspected some other things. I took out my little camera and snapped a few shots, trying to be as inconspicuous as I could. Bull didn’t notice again, too busy going down memory lane.

As I looked through the rest of his stuff, he began to talk to me about his college days. For the second time that day I wished I had a pen and paper to take notes, but of course I couldn’t.

“I had to work my ass off,” he said. “I came from nothing, and I think that really held me back at first.”

“I thought people only care about how good you are?”

“On the field, sure. I had no problems on the field. It was getting used to living at college with a bunch of rich, spoiled assholes.”

“College ball players are pretty spoiled.”

He laughed. “True.” He stood in front of his framed college jersey. “But not as spoiled as you’d think. We have to win first and foremost, otherwise all that attention goes away. If you get benched, you’re dead to the world.”

“You never got benched,” I pointed out.

“You sure do know a lot about sports,” he answered, raising his eyebrow.

“Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t watch sports.”

“True.” He shrugged. “So I never got benched. But I saw it happen. That shit motivated me.”

“You’re motivated by fame? Can’t say I’m shocked.”

“I’m motivated by glory,” he said. “You can’t fucking win glory if you’re riding the bench.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Fame is empty. You can be famous for anything, even famous for being famous. Glory is all about your achievements.”

“I can understand that,” I said softly. Truth was, I felt the same way. I wanted to be remembered, and that was why I had originally wanted to get in with Bull. I wanted to be the best sports journalist and prove women could hang with the big boys.

I wanted glory. I just went about it the wrong way and got myself trapped.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” Bull called out.

Marta stepped into the room, smiling.

“Your food is ready,” Marta said. “Where do you want it?

“We’ll eat on the balcony.”

“Sounds nice.” She looked at me. “Are you sure you don’t want something? Tea maybe?”

“Tea would be nice,” I said. She nodded and left.

“You’ll like it out there. It overlooks the city.”

“Must be nice, being rich.”

“Definitely has its perks.” He stepped over toward me. “But you know I didn’t bring you here to look at my trophies.”

“I know,” I said.

“Why are you here?”

“You tell me.”

“No,” he said. “I want to hear you say it.”

“You want to get me naked. Don’t you?”

“That’s right.” He stepped close to me and tipped my chin toward him. “That’s what I want you to think about while we sit out there and you drink your tea. I want you to think about how I make your body feel. I want you to think about my cock deep between your legs, my hands on your breasts, my arms pulling you roughly against me.”

“Okay,” I said softly, feeling a thrill run through my core. I took a deep breath to try to calm myself down, because I still had work to do.

“Good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Come on.”

He led the way out of the room and shut the door behind me. We walked back through the main living room and through a sliding door that I hadn’t noticed before.

The balcony was wide and gorgeous, overlooking the city just like he said. The view practically took my breath away.

“It’s nice,” he said.

“Nice? It’s really beautiful.”

“Yeah. I knew you’d fucking like it.” He grinned at me and then sat down at a small table. “Come on.”

I sat down, and a minute later Marta appeared. She placed a plate full of these little fried shrimp appetizers down in front of us. Bull immediately devoured three while I tentatively had one. It was absolutely fantastic.

When he finished chewing, I stood up. “Bathroom?”

“Back down that hall. Third door on the right.”

“Thanks.” I headed back inside.

And quickly got my little camera out.

I felt sick to my stomach. I hated what I had become, hated that I was spying on this man and using him for this article. I hated that I was in this situation and that he was forced to deal with it. I was going to do my best to write a fair and balanced article, maybe even make him seem like less of a bad boy than everyone thought he was. But still, Bull didn’t want any articles about him at all. He’d made that abundantly clear throughout his career.

And here I was, taking advantage of him. He clearly trusted me and was slowly bringing me into his world.

I wanted to puke. I stood there, alone in his living room, and snapped a picture. It disgusted me as soon as I did it.

I walked over to a group of framed pictures. They were of people I didn’t recognize, probably family friends. I snapped another picture. I wanted to wretch. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

This was so freaking wrong. This wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to be. I needed these pictures for the article and to prove to Coop that I had access, but it was so disgusting to be using him.

I shook my head. I had to do it. I needed to pay off the mafia. I needed to prove to Coop that I was reliable and talented.

But at what cost? I’d be losing all of my integrity. I’d be losing any good part of me.

I liked this man. I didn’t know why, but I was slowly getting in deep with him. I could feel it every time I was around him, every time I was close to him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to press myself against his chest. That was real, absolutely real.

I wasn’t faking it when I kissed him and couldn’t hold myself back.

It wasn’t just about sex, either. I was seeing a part of Bull Dixon that made me question everything I knew about athletes and the media. He was making me realize that there was more to a man than what journalists wrote about him.

And there I was, spying on him. I snapped another photo and then clenched my fists.

I was done. I couldn’t do this. I was going to destroy these pictures, destroy the other pictures I had, and tell Coop that I had failed. I’d take out a loan to pay off the mob, or I’d do whatever else I had to do.

And I’d tell Bull the truth. I was going to beg forgiveness and be done with all of this. Maybe he’d never speak to me again, but at least I’d be doing the right thing.

I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders. For the second time, I was done. I was really done this time. Forget the mob, forget Cooper, hell, forget Bull. I was coming clean and I was getting out.

And then I heard a noise behind me. I turned, and Marta was standing there, staring at me.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Oh, uh, I was looking at these pictures.”

She walked to a little table and put the tray she was holding down.

“Let me see that.” She pointed at my lipstick camera.

“No. It’s just my lipstick.”

“I saw what you were doing. It looked like you were taking pictures.”

“What?” I said, laughing, terrified. This couldn’t be happening, not when I had finally decided to come clean.

“Stay here.” She turned to get Bull.

“Wait.”

But it was too late. Bull stepped in from the sliding door and cocked his head at us.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I just came in to get a drink.”

“This woman was taking pictures,” Marta said.

Bull stared at me for a second and then sighed. “That’ll be all, Marta.”

“Mister Dixon—”

“Marta, please.”

She nodded, glared at me, and then left the room.

“Bull, I can explain.”

“Don’t,” he said.

I was surprised by the way he was handling this. I had expected him to be angry, angry beyond belief. He was Bull Dixon after all, a big, violent thug.

Instead, he just seemed disappointed. He was sad and let down, but he wasn’t angry.

That hurt so much worse. I wished he would yell and scream, but instead he just frowned at me, shaking his head.

“It’s not what you think,” I said.

“I know who you are.”

I blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“I know you’re a reporter. I know you write for NSPN. I’ve known since the beginning.”

“You have?”

“Why do you think I never ask about work? I know you’re hiding it from me.”

“Bull, I can explain all of this.”

“Calvin said you seemed like a good person, but I guess he was wrong.”

“The mob, Bull. They came to my apartment. They blackmailed me. I didn’t want to do this.”

He stared at me for a second, and I could see that he was warring with himself.

“No,” he said. “It’s too late for that. If that were true, you would have come to me. You know I can fix things.”

“I was afraid.”

“You should leave.”

“Bull,” I said, but he just shook his head.

“Go, Charley. You want a story? I gave you a story. You have my permission to write whatever you want. Slander me, write about how I’m such a fucked-up asshole, do whatever you want. You clearly have pictures to prove it. I bet you have way more than I realize.” He just shrugged. “Fuck it. Do what you need to do.”

“I don’t want to,” I said.

“Get out, Charley. Go write your article.”

I stared at him for a second, and I felt like I was cracking in half.

This was so much worse. I had wanted to give it all up, wanted to get out. I had decided I was going to come clean and tell him the truth, but I never wanted him to catch me like this.

He was right, though. I was so stupid. I should have gone to him to begin with, told him the truth. I shouldn’t have taken this as far as I did just because I was so afraid of the mafia.

I was too far gone now, though.

He had seen the worst in me. Bull had seen me at my absolute lowest, just as I had decided to get myself together and become the person I wanted to be. Bull had seen it, and he didn’t like it.

He wanted me to leave, and I couldn’t blame him one bit. Because from his perspective, I was betraying him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and then I turned and left. I went down the stairs, skipping the elevator.

It felt like I had a hole in my chest as I slowly walked down the stairs. It was a long walk, but I didn’t care. Frankly, I deserved it.

I had fucked everything up. I had ruined my career, any chance at writing this article, and I had ruined something with Bull that could have been good.

He had known about me from the very start, and yet he’d been willing to see me. He could have stopped it at any time, but he hadn’t.

If I had just come clean, I knew he would have forgiven me. The journalist thing was clearly not that big of a deal to him. But I had betrayed him instead, and now he was throwing me out of his life.

I deserved it. I probably deserved worse. He wanted me to write the article, but just thinking about that sent bile up through my throat.

I finally got to the bottom of the stairs. I left his building, and I wasn’t going to look back. I wasn’t going to, because it was all over, and there was nothing to see.

I turned and looked up. I thought for a second that I could see him looking back down from his balcony, but it was just the glare of the sun against glass.

I turned and left, hailing a cab.