Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) Read online

  Personally speaking, well that was a whole other ballgame. She was quickly getting in over her head. What had started as a business plan, quickly morphed into a much more personal situation. The big question she had was, what was his perspective? Was she a convenient outlet for sex? Or was she something more?

  Sleeping with a client was always a big no-no. She was riding a thin edge, her impartiality was compromised and everyone knew it. They were giving her latitude or was it rope to hang herself? If word got out that she slept with clients, she’d be ruined. She was pushing the envelope on this one and for what? A job she wasn’t even sure she wanted anymore? Or a relationship that may not survive another month? Or was it just great sex?

  Damned if she knew what it was, or what she wanted.

  Next on the agenda was coaching him through his ESPN interview later that day. Jason was a tough interview on a good day. Being up half the night after a Sunday night game was going to make him be a nightmare.

  She steeled her spine and rapped on the condo door, firmly and loudly, the sound echoing in the bare spaces on the other side. After what seemed to be an eternity, the door was flung open and a rumpled and incredibly gorgeous Jason stood on the other side. He looked like sex and sin all rolled into one, wearing only a pair of boxers that left little to her imagination. Her mouth went dry at the full display of manhood and she wished she had time to explore it more thoroughly.

  When she finally lifted her eyes up, his gaze skewered her from beneath scowling eyebrows and bed-head. “What the hell do you want?”

  “And a good morning to you too! I brought breakfast.” She hoisted the donut bag and waved it under his nose. “Going without regular sex makes you grumpy.”

  “There’d better be coffee too.”

  “Here you go, grump.” He snatched the cup from her, careful not to spill anything and then hooked his foot around the door to slam it.

  Stacia wedged herself firmly in the doorway, then bent back and picked up two grocery bags on the ground. “And something for later.” She pushed past him and walked down the hall into the kitchen, almost tripping over one of the boxes askew in the hallway. “Jeez, Jason. These are a menace. Can’t you move them? Maybe, I don’t know, unpack?”

  “I won’t be here that long,” he muttered around a sip of coffee.

  “Doesn’t mean you have to live out of boxes. Make it a home or something.”

  “But it’s not my home,” he replied, following her into the kitchen. “It’s where I’m living until the season ends.”

  She plopped the bags on the counter and turned to face him, hands planted on her hips. “Then what?”

  He opened the bag with one hand and pulled out the donuts. He flicked his wrist and the bag fell to the ground. Kicking it to the side, he crossed the kitchen and perched on the bar stool.

  She glanced at the paper then back at him. “I suppose you expect me to pick it up?”

  He grinned, a boyish, charming grin with a hint of wickedness in his eyes. “Up to you. I don’t care.”

  She stared at him for a few moments longer then huffed, annoyed at being relegated back to a servant, an employee, and not a lover. “You don’t care about a lot of things, Jason. Your home, your teammates, your fans. What do you care about?”

  “I care about the sport. Baseball. That’s my life. This place, it’s not mine. It’s a temporary place, only slightly more permanent than a hotel room. My teammates? Half of them will be gone next year, on new teams, and so will I. And my fans? Where were they when the shit hit the fan? Gone. Like everyone else. Why should I give a damn about any one of them?”

  She winced at the bitterness in his tone, could see it in the way he hunched in his chair, almost physically recoiling, and she couldn’t help herself. A small part of her shouted stop but another side of her reacted to the pain and loneliness and had to reach out, his pain a reflection of her own lonely years growing up the daughter of Senator Kendall and the responsibilities that went along with it.

  She touched him on the shoulder intending to comfort but her hands slid across his back and to the other side. She leaned into him and hugged him, his muscles rigid under her embrace, tension radiating from his stance. Did he ever let himself go? Ever have anyone to just be himself with? Her heart ached at the pain in him. She pressed a tiny kiss to his shoulder, an innocent, light butterfly kiss, then laid her head on his neck. A shudder coursed through his body, but before he could push her away, she released him and stepped away to the other side of the counter and starting unpacking the grocery bags.

  She worked in silence, while Jason brooded on the stool. When she pulled out a steak and a bag of vegetables, he grabbed her hand.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  “I’m putting food in the fridge. I thought it would be nice to have a home-cooked meal one night instead of restaurant or stadium food.” Maybe the stick would slide out of his ass and he would relax, go back to the fun Jason she was falling in love with.

  Oh shit. As the thought registered, her knees weakened and she sagged against the counter. In love? Since when was this love and not business? This feeling was what everyone warned her about, why they were all so concerned. And she went ahead and did it anyway. She was so screwed and she didn’t care.

  Oblivious as usual, Jason continued to complain. “Who’s going to cook it? I don’t even know if the stove works.”

  She shook her head, amused at his attitude. “I’ll cook it, tonight after your interview. If you’re very good.”

  His scowl returned at the mention of the interview. He tossed the empty coffee cup in the kitchen garbage. “I thought we agreed that interviews were a waste of time.”

  “See, now I don’t remember it that way. I remember you saying you were willing to work with me and do a few interviews.”

  “You were naked at the time. I would have agreed to almost anything.” He crossed his arms and pouted like a child.

  “And so you did.” She slammed her hands on the counter. “Look, I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died but unclench and let it out. You agreed to this and I’m tired of fighting you.”

  “You blackmailed me. I’ll need more than a steak as payment.” He corralled her into the corner of the kitchen and caged her neatly with his arms. “What else do you have to tempt me?”

  She snaked a hand under his arm and pulled a chocolate cake out of the bag. She held it to his nose and waved it a few times. “Truce?”

  He inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling back in his head. He reached for the cake box and she put it behind her. “Only if you’re good.”

  He crooked an eyebrow, amber eyes melting like the frosting of the cake. “I can be very good, darlin’.”

  “After the interview.” She pushed against his arms. She wasn’t going to fall for his little boy attitude and sexy he-man attitude. “You’re not getting out of this with sex.”

  She ducked under his arm and behind him. She struggled to regain her equilibrium when her body screamed to get back under him, over him as long as she was touching him. She squared her shoulders and walked down the hall. “Now, let’s pick out what you’re going to wear. And leave that cake alone, Jason.” She sensed him following behind her but he was anything but meek. Once upstairs, she opened the closet door and saw nothing hanging. “Where are your clothes?”

  He glanced around vaguely and waved his hand. “Somewhere in one of these boxes. I don’t know.” He flopped onto the bed and flicked on the TV.

  She yanked the remote out of his hand and turned it off. “I see you had no problem unpacking the television.”

  “And the sheets. Want to try them out?” He patted the mattress and waggled his eyebrows.

  She smothered a smile, and pasted on her stern, headmistress face. “Not likely. We have four hours until your interview.”

  “Well hell, I only need thirty minutes to drive to the stadium, maybe thirty more to get ready. Why the hell did you wake me so early? I got in at three a.m
. I hate Sunday night games.” Irritation laced his tone, making him sound more like an overtired and cranky three-year-old than a thirty-something adult.

  “You may have gotten in around three, but I still had to drive home, remember? So, I’ve had even less sleep than you. And you don’t see me whining.”

  “You didn’t have to drive home.” He avoided her gaze, looking out the window instead of at her.

  She quirked an eyebrow, suddenly shy and hesitant. “I don’t recall anyone inviting me to stay.”

  “If you recall, I didn’t invite you to come over in the first place.” He stood up and stalked around the bed, his intent clear in the wicked glint in his eye.

  “Whatever. Get in the shower and I’ll find you something to wear. Then we’ll review the questions.” She turned her back and almost fled out of the room, resisting her body’s urge to hop in the shower with him.

  Being a responsible adult sucked.

  *

  Jason stepped in the shower and turned on the water, more on the cool side, hoping to quell the raging hard-on that seemed to be present every time Ms. Stacia Kendall was around. It’s not like he was still in his dry spell. They had sex only a couple of days ago, so he couldn’t blame it on that, not any longer.

  No, the blame firmly lay with Stacia—she and her prim little teacher attitude was slowly driving him crazy. When she’d marched into his bedroom he’d almost thrown her on the bed and made them both late for the interview.

  Yeah, that would have killed two birds with one stone—hot sex and no interview. Then chocolate cake for dessert. What could be better?

  Instead, she was downstairs being happy homemaker, trying to unpack his clothes and dress him like a two-year-old, as if he didn’t know how to dress and act in interviews. He’d been doing it since he was thirteen and won the Little League World Series. He knew the game, knew how it was played. It wasn’t his fault that the rules changed.

  He braced his hands against the shower wall, lowered his forehead to the cool tile, and sighed, letting the water sluice over him. Damn he hated this part of the game, the interviews, the reporters, the bullshit. The fans were fine if the media got out of the way. They didn’t care if you slept alone or with a supermodel as long as you hit the ball, caught the ball, and legged out your hits. The rules hadn’t changed. He had. He was no longer the superstar, could no longer ignore the catcalls and reporters. Hell, he was in his thirties. Maybe it was time he grew up and handled the situation better.

  A toilet flushed and a blast of ice cold water hit him. He choked back a shout and yelled for Stacia.

  “Are you okay in there?” Stacia’s soft voice sounded from the bedroom, all sweetness and light despite having flushed the toilet deliberately. Damnit, the cold water did nothing for the erection, still rock hard and begging for some TLC. The door handle jiggled. “Do you need any help?”

  He cursed under his breath. “Only if you want to wash my back and other body parts.”

  Her heels clicked rapidly as she left the room then echoed on the stairs. Probably a smart idea. Damned if he didn’t want her to stay though. And not just for the sex, which was pretty fucking amazing. He enjoyed her company, go figure. Liked talking to her.

  He finished the shower, finally turned on warm water. Blue balls sucked. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the bedroom. Stacia had returned and was perched on the bed, scrolling through her tablet. Her legs were crossed at the knees, skirt revealing a hint of creamy thigh and there it was. His hard-on was back.

  She glanced up then down to his crotch, color pinking her cheeks. He dropped the towel, a perverse side wanting to see the blush deepen. “Did you find my underwear too?”

  She pointed to the dresser, without looking at him. “Top drawer. I unpacked several things. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Nope, that’s fine. Maybe I should hire you to be my housekeeper.” He pulled a pair of briefs out of the drawer and bent to put them on. A choking sound had him stifling a grin.

  “I’ll wait for you downstairs. I left the list of questions on the bed.” She fled the room.

  He frowned at the piece of paper, anger quickly replacing any sexual heat remaining. Tossing it aside, he quickly dressed and went downstairs. “You wrote my answers for me? Like I’m a fucking two-year-old?”

  She glanced up from the easy chair and gestured to the chair across from her. “They’re just suggestions. Something to guide you down a safe path.”

  He gritted his teeth, anger coursing through his body. “Do you really think I’m that stupid, that I can’t answer a simple question like, why do you want to play for the Knights?”

  “Why do you want to play for the Knights?” she countered.

  “Duh. Because no one else would hire me. Why else would I play for a perpetual cellar dweller like the Knights?” A shaft of guilt prodded him but he ignored it.

  “And there is where the interview goes off track. Honesty is good, but it’s better to flavor the pot a little.”

  He glowered, fist clenching. As if he would ever be so stupid to answer like that. It was insulting.

  She handed him a new copy of the questions. “Read my answer.”

  He looked down and snapped the paper. “This is sugary bullshit.” She tapped her foot on the hardwood floor and he sighed. “‘The Knights are a young team, up and coming in baseball today. They have great players and I can really make a difference in their playoff hopes, both on and off the field.’” He couldn’t help it, the laugh burst out of him. “Do you really think anyone is going to buy this load of crap? Remember, the biggest rap about me—I’m not a team player. No one will believe this shit.” He stifled the niggling feeling poking in his chest that maybe it would be nice if it were true, maybe it would be nice to be seen as a team player, a role model, not just some washed-up has-been.

  “If you say it convincingly, they’ll buy it. Add a charming smile, which we both know you can do, they’ll eat it up like Thanksgiving. And if you stop torpedoing your career by stupid actions, maybe they’ll continue to buy it. Let’s try the next one. I’ll be the interviewer.”

  He snorted but studied the sheet, not quite willing to admit out loud that she might be right. Wouldn’t it be nice, just once, to be the nice guy, not baseball’s bad boy?

  “Jason, you’ve been gone from the sport for a year, after a serious shoulder injury. What did you miss most about it?” She asked.

  “You mean besides the accusations, the booing, the lies, and most of all the rejection by everyone?” He ran a hand through his hair. Damnit. He just couldn’t stop the mouth from spouting bullshit.

  “Okay, that’s it.” Stacia slammed her foot on the floor and stood up. She stalked the three steps over to his chair and leaned down, her face in his, nose to nose. “Listen up, Friar, because I’ll only say this one more time. This time, I’ll use words I hope you can understand.”

  She poked her finger in his chest, repeatedly, as if pushing the thought into his body, forcing him to internalize it. “Stop screwing around. This is your last chance and you’re fucking it up by acting like a prima donna, pushing everyone away, and being a Class-A asshole.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but she pressed her fingers against his mouth. “No, I’m speaking and you’ll damn well listen. You have people here who want to help you, and yes, we have our own agendas. Everyone does. Get over it. If you truly want to play this sport next season and onward, you need to straighten up and start acting like an adult. You’re no longer the golden boy, the darling of baseball. No one wanted to hire you and no one will again if you keep acting like this. Get your priorities straight or stop wasting my time.”

  She straightened and turned back to her chair. She stuffed her tablet in the bag and slung it over her shoulder, almost hitting him in the process. “The interview is at the stadium at three p.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

  And she swept out of the condo, but he hoped not out of his life.

  *
r />   It was quiet in the stadium, especially near the locker room where the office-sized closet Stacia was assigned was located. The players hadn’t yet reported for the night game, having played late the night before. Management never required them to report before four on a game day following a late night, especially this late in the season. Only players with assignments and interviews reported, and the occasional player who wanted to work out. However, it was August and the guys were tired from the long season. Most decided not to overdo it, hoping to maintain their energy for the stretch run in September.

  Stacia left her office door open then sorted through emails and news stories on her laptop. One headline in particular caught her attention:

  Jason Friar turning over a new leaf?

  Has Jason Friar finally settled down? Gone are the days of groupies. Instead, Jason Friar was recently seen with a girlfriend, not a bevy of girls.

  No wonder he was so pissed at the media. These so-called sports reporters completely ignored his decent showing in the last two games. Instead, they were more worried about his personal life, whether he was sleeping around and could they write about it. At least her stunt had paid off and they were paying him a compliment, of a sort. Guilt prodded her at the lie she was perpetuating, especially if it wasn’t a lie. How would a breakup play in the media? The off-season fallout was something she had not figured in her calculations.

  Her phone buzzed, vibrations making it dance across the desk. She glanced at the display. Michael Higgins. Yeah, she was so not answering that call.

  Eventually, the phone stopped dancing and she returned to scanning articles and emails. When the phone went off again, she almost ignored it, assuming it was her boss, but a flash of pink caught her attention. Sophie.

  That call she’d take.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you all week,” Sophie demanded before Stacia could answer, in full vintage pissed-off mode. “Never mind. Are you really dating Jason Friar? He’s your client. What are you thinking?” Her voice rose at the end of the question, echoing in the small office.