Chapter Four — Ben
When PR sends me Marissa's address and tells me to pick her up before my thing at the children's hospital, I roll my eyes. Of course they want her to be there so that the public can see that I'm not just another dumb jock; I actually give back to the community as well. And because she's new to the company, they want to make sure she has all the time she needs to ask whatever questions she might have—which is why I have to pick her up.
I'm also not surprised to see that she lives in a pretty dumpy area on the outskirts of the city. She seems pretty young and inexperienced. I still can't believe she grew up in Chicago.
When I pull up, she's waiting on the front step in jeans and a sweater. It's a good look for her, much better than the frumpy blouses and long skirts that I've seen her wearing to work all week. She jumps to her feet and bounces over to my Lamborghini, pulling open the door and sliding easily into the passenger seat.
“Hey Ben,” she chirps, way too awake for it being ten in the morning.
"Good morning, beautiful," I smiled. Her wide eyes did something to me and I couldn't resist glancing at her tight jeans accentuating her thighs and ass as she lowered herself into the car. She was the type of beauty that made a man open doors and bring flowers. I'll have to remember to open her door the next time. Definitely not a typical move for me, but I don't play by rules, not even mine. Changing the tempo and pace is exactly what I needed and what I think she needed too.
I give her a long a sensual glare at her body, showing her how much I appreciate a well-endowed woman. I bite my lip and grunt. She smiles and looks away embarrassed and pull away from the curb a little too fast. I probably should have picked her up a little earlier, and now we were going to have to push it if we wanted to be to the hospital on time. Not that they wouldn't wait for me, of course, but I knew PR would chew me out if they found out I was late, even if the reason I was late was because they scheduled things so damn early in the morning and required me to pick up their press agent.
“Ben, slow down!” Marissa cries as we fly around a corner.
I smile. “Relax,” I tell her. “I've been driving this car—well, a version of this car, anyway—for years now, ever since I made it big. I know exactly what she can handle.”
I spun the wheel to the left, and I could hear her gasp. “Ben, I'm serious,” she said, and when I glanced over, she was white-knuckling the door handle, looking practically petrified. “Ben, Jesus Christ, pull over! Now!”
Marissa looks pale enough that I actually think she might be sick, and I grimace—she's not about to get sick in my beautiful car! So I pull over, like she asks.
But she doesn't move to open the door like I expect. Instead, she scowls over at me. “Think for a moment, would you?” she snaps. “I get that you don't give a damn about other people, and I'm sure that it doesn't bother you at all that you're terrifying me, or that you could kill someone, driving like that. I mean, what if someone had been jaywalking at one of those crossings, or-”
I snort out a laugh. “You sound like such a mom right now,” I interrupt her. “Look, I didn't hit anyone, did I? And never, in the eleven years that I've had my license and driven like this, have I hit anyone. Chill out.”
“But you could,” Marissa persists. “Anyway, can you imagine what a PR nightmare it would be if you so much as got a speeding ticket? It would totally negate this whole children's hospital thing that we're going to—and don't try and tell me that you don't know your contract is up for debate at the moment. You don't want to give the franchise a reason to trade you, do you? Because reckless behavior at bars is one thing, but reckless behavior while driving is another thing entirely...”
“Now you sound like my agent,” I mutter, even though secretly, I'm enjoying hearing her voice. The girl I ran into in the hallway at work seemed so shy—but I guess if you get her going about something that she cares about, she can talk your ear off. I file that away.
I also can't help but smile a little because I really like that she isn't falling for my macho act. I like that she makes me work for it—it's a refreshing change. I smoothly rub my hand on her knee, my feeble attempt to get her to relax.
“Ben,” Marissa says again, warningly.
“All right, all right,” I say, giving an exasperated sigh. “I promise I'll be a good boy and obey all the traffic laws. But we're going to be late.”
“Then you'd better get driving,” Marissa says simply.
We're late, but not too bad—easy enough to just say that there was a bit of traffic along the way and leave it at that. Which of course is what Marissa does; I don't make apologies, but I guess as a press agent, she kind of has to; that's her job.
The kids are all over me from pretty much the moment I walk in the door, so I don't really have that much time to think about her. Instead, I'm signing autographs and taking selfies with the kids, and okay, I may put on the macho act, but I really enjoy being around the kids and doing things like this. Not that I'd ever admit it to PR because they'd have me in for one of these every day of the week if they could.
But yeah, the kids are always great, and it's just kind of nice to think that they really focus on my playing. They don't care about the spring break debacles or the lack of points this season or anything like that. They just think I'm awesome. It's a good feeling to have.
It doesn't hurt that I can feel Marissa's eyes on me the whole time, tracking every move that I make—and I like that feeling too. The more I'm around her, the more I can tell that she's the kind of girl who's actually looking for a nice guy. Although my bad boy act really gets a lot of girls going (and I'm sure Marissa's no exception to that), she wants to know that I'm not going to be a jerk to her.
I can show her the nice guy face, if that's what she wants to see. I'm going to bed her, I've decided, no matter what it takes.
Thinking about this, I turn towards her and flash her a smile.
“Who is she?” one of the kids asks. “Is that your girlfriend?”
I laugh a little and shake my head. “No, she's just a friend,” I tell the boy—Jake. “She works for the team, and she wanted to come meet all you guys today too.” I look around at all the excited kids around me. “How many of you guys want to work with the Chicago Kings when you grow up?”
Practically everyone raises their hands, of course, and after that, the kids all have questions for her and we get Marissa in a bunch of the selfies as well. She's giggling and grinning by the end, and I consider that to be a great success.