Bad Business Read online

  Bad Business is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2018 by SL Independent Publishing, LLC

  Excerpt from Thirsty by Mia Hopkins copyright © 2018 by Mia Hopkins

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Thirsty by Mia Hopkins. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781524796587

  Cover design: Makeready Designs

  Cover photograph: Gabriel Georgescu/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.2

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  By Nicole Edwards

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Thirsty

  Chapter 1

  To all the football fans out there, ask yourself this: Can a veteran quarterback with two consecutive Super Bowl wins under his belt take a stale team all the way to the Super Bowl when in reality he had intended to retire?

  Well, if you ask Jason Stone like I did, his answer is simple. “Why don’t you hang around and find out?”

  —Excerpt from Sports Unlimited’s Bad Boys of Sports edition

  Stone

  When your opponent has possession and you’re down to the last two minutes of the ball game, things tend to get tense. We’re up 17–14, which means they’ve got a chance to tie the game and send us into overtime, if they can get the pigskin just thirty yards closer.

  As I stand on the sidelines, I watch, my body trembling with adrenaline. Ten weeks into the season and this hasn’t gotten any easier for me. Hell, with thirteen years of playing pro ball, this hasn’t gotten any easier. With every game, it seems we’re hanging by a thread right to the very end. Granted, that’s saying something considering we’ve got an eight and one record, hoping to make it nine and one a minute and twenty-seven seconds from now.

  “Take your time!” Coach Hannagan looks calm, cool, and collected, but I can hear the insistence in his tone.

  The longer we take, the better our chances. The offense is pushing to get on the line of scrimmage with a quickness, and it’s our job to keep them from getting to the other end of the field in time for their kicker to trot on out and alter the course of the game. A field goal will tie it up, so at the very least, they need to get to their own forty-five-yard line.

  Worst case scenario, they’ll get a touchdown and steal the win right away from us.

  I watch the formation, hear the play Coach calls, and observe as the defense gears up for a blitz. I feel a certain amount of sympathy for their quarterback, Matthew Garrison. Being taken down like that hurts like a motherfucker.

  The ball is snapped, Garrison rears back but before he can launch that ball, he’s got three-hundred-pound linebackers gunning for him.

  “Ooh,” I groan when Garrison is sacked, knocked flat on his back. I can practically hear the wind being knocked out of him.

  That probably made him see stars.

  “The ball! It’s loose! Grab the fucking ball!” Coach yells at the same time our very own Andrew Moore dives on top of the ball.

  The dog pile that ensues makes me cringe. Every guy on that field is trying to take possession. The whistle blows and we all wait, not so patiently, to see who ended up with it. Player after player is peeled back until…

  The ref gives the signal.

  We got the ball!

  “Fuck, yeah!” I yell, jumping up and fist-pumping the air.

  Now it’s a matter of running down the clock.

  Nine and one, baby.

  We’re not fucking around this year.

  Not even a little bit.

  Chapter 2

  Stone

  “Bro, we kicked some serious ass out there today!” Snyder yells, bumping my knuckles with his.

  I lift my bottle, tapping it against his beer, chuckling. “It was touch and go there for a bit.”

  Snyder’s grin damn near swallows his entire face. “The hell it was. We were un-fucking-stoppable.”

  Okay, so he’s not remembering it the same way I am, but whatever. It no longer matters because we won, and how close it was is moot at this point.

  “This is the shit, man,” Snyder responds, glancing around at the horde of scantily clad women who have come out tonight to celebrate the Wranglers’ ninth straight win in the regular season.

  And they are every-fucking-where. Asses and tits all on display, coy giggles and more makeup than a Paris runway. These chicks are in it to win it tonight. Which means there are going to be a lot of happy cocks finding a soft, warm landing, that’s for damn sure.

  And why the hell not?

  Nine straight wins.

  We deserve a happy ending. Or two.

  Not too shabby for a team who hasn’t been to the playoffs for the past seven seasons.

  I figure to a rookie like Snyder, this is the shit, but in reality, it only goes up from here. The more wins, the more fans, which also means more groupies, more booze, more sex, and more notoriety.

  And not to blow my own fucking horn, but yeah, I was brought onto this team to do exactly what I’m doing now. Win.

  So, I’m out here tonight making my presence known, keeping the fans riled up and their spirits soaring while I celebrate another tick in the win column. At thirty-four, I’m probably a little old to be hanging with these rookies, but hell, I don’t have anything better to do. I might be riding the line between old enough to know better and who the fuck cares, but I’m damn sure not dead.

  Which is exactly the reason I’m at this club, sharing a few beers with the guys, women galore ready to take me back to their place and rock my fucking world. Truthfully, you’ll get no complaints from me.

  I turn to set my drink on the bar and come up short, damn near plowing over a cute little redhead who’s practically glued to my hip. I honestly have no fucking clue where she came from, but she’s hot, and the dress is exactly how I like it—black and
barely covering all the required parts.

  “Would you like to dance?” Her voice is husky and full of promise, her big green eyes peering up at me as though I’m responsible for world peace or some shit.

  “Sure.” Why the hell not? I set my beer down on the bar and motion for her to lead the way. I was gearing up to get another, so it’s all good.

  I allow her to lead me out to the crowded dance floor, and I manage to smile when appropriate. Less than thirty seconds in, I can already tell that this chick is a sure thing and she doesn’t even know my name.

  And I guaran-fucking-tee she has no clue that I’m easily a decade older than she is. Not that those minuscule details would matter to her. Hell, I could probably take her to a dark corner somewhere and do raunchy things to her for the rest of the night and she’d be smiling the entire time, just as long as my bank account is padded with six digits or more.

  That’s not going to happen. The sneaking a piece in a corner part, that is. No matter how much my dick thinks he’s in charge of my actions, I’ve been down that road too many times.

  For one, the little redhead might be hotter than hell in July, but the girl has dollar signs in her eyes. During my stint in the NFL, I’ve been hit on by hundreds, if not thousands, of women, most of whom have no idea who I am other than another athlete with money. And they’ve all looked at me the same way she is, with hopeful lust burning in her eyes.

  When she turns in my arms and presses her sweet little ass against my crotch, I grab her hips and play along. No harm, no foul is my motto. It’s not like I’m married, not like my actions are going to hurt anyone. I know my limits, and when it comes to women, one night is as far as it gets. And sure, there are plenty of chicks who’ll stroke my ego and my dick and tell me that’s all they want as well, but again, I know better. This damn sure isn’t my first rodeo. Having been drafted at the ripe young age of twenty-one, I’m familiar with this dog and pony show.

  The no-name redhead whose ass is harmoniously caressing my cock through my pants is not going to be okay with only one night. And that means I’ll be going home alone, like I do every night, because one thing I learned early on is that honesty is the fastest way to spend a night alone with my hand. And I’m okay with that.

  Even before I was drafted into the NFL, this was the nuts and bolts of my life. With four years spent at the University of Alabama nursing a winning streak that had me drafted in the first round, I started out hot. The press quickly learned their lesson for calling me a pretty-boy quarterback, arguing that I’d do better gracing the cover of magazines than playing down on the field. I fucking showed them.

  During that time, I’ve had more women than any sane man knows what to do with, more booze than a distillery in Kentucky, more parties than the Kardashians attend in a year. And I’m playing along because that’s what’s expected of me.

  But banging some unknown chick, having her blow up my phone for weeks after…that I learned to avoid early on. Sure, it sometimes requires a little more effort than I care for to convince my dick that one night buried inside a hot, wet pussy is not worth the hassle that’s going to come along with it, but that’s my rule and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a good one.

  She turns in my arms, her hand sliding south to cup my dick through my pants, and I smile down at her. “What’s your name?”

  “Jessica,” she says, a distinct Texas twang in her voice.

  I’d bet money Jessica turned twenty-one sometime in the last couple of months. Not that age matters to me all that much, but twenty-one is definitely not an age I’m interested in. Hell, there’s no fucking way we have a damn thing in common.

  Not to mention, the fact that she likely has more experience in this scene than I do is enough to have my dick trying to find a place to hide. And I don’t mean in the dark recesses of her pussy.

  I’ve earned my reputation as the bad boy of football through the years. Women, booze, parties…I’m an old pro at that shit. Even when I wasn’t winning, I had an unlimited supply of pussy. It comes with the territory.

  Jessica leans in, her hands coming around to cup my ass, her smile almost predatory.

  “I’m gonna be forward about this.” Her twang is thick, her eyes a little glassy, and it’s easy to tell she’s had far too much to drink.

  I cock one eyebrow and wait.

  “I wanna go home with you.”

  I smile. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She frowns and I can tell my question threw her. She’s probably used to guys grabbing her hand and lighting up the path to the door.

  I’m not that guy.

  “I thought, maybe…you know.”

  I lean down closer to her face. “I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  It’s not that I’m trying to be a dickhead, but like I said, I’ve been propositioned more times than a two-dollar whore on the corner of Desperate and Needy. And that’s just tonight alone. If I’m going home with a woman, I’d like her to at least pretend she’s more interested in me than finding out what my ride looks like and how big my house is. Sure, that might make me sound like a little bitch, but so fucking what.

  “We could get naked,” she slurs, naked sounding more like nekkid.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep.”

  “And after we get nekkid,” I say, using her term, “will you be pissed when I call you a cab?”

  Her eyes widen and she pulls back.

  I easily let her go. It’s not like I’m surprised by her reaction. I seriously doubt she’s worried about transportation at this point.

  She frowns and I can tell she’s contemplating this. Plenty of women would’ve smacked me upside my head for a statement like that, but this woman—not much more than a girl, really—is actually considering it.

  I sigh, then shake my head. “Thanks for the dance, Jessica, but I’m gonna have to pass. Got a big day tomorrow.” It’s not a lie. I work on Monday, just like everyone else.

  Some of the confusion disappears and what looks a hell of a lot like determination etches her heavily made-up features. But before I can make a clean getaway, she takes my arm, a huge smile plastered on her mouth. “If that’s what you want, I’ll even call my own cab.”

  Of course she would.

  And I can’t deny that a renewed sense of disappointment fills me.

  One day, I’d just like to meet a woman who isn’t willing to fuck me because of the fact that I’m a football player. Then again, now that I’m back in my hometown, taking a somewhat stale team places they haven’t been in a hell of a long time, I don’t see this problem going away any time soon.

  You damn sure won’t hear me complaining.

  Savannah

  “Do you see that girl?” Allison asks. “She’s all up on him. I swear she just met him. Like fifteen seconds ago.”

  I glance at my friend and follow her gaze down to the dance floor below us.

  “She’s rubbin’ up on his dick. Now, come on. That’s just gross.”

  I laugh because it’s true. The redhead is grinding up against Jason Stone like his dick’s made of gold. Not only was she grinding her ass against him, now she’s groping him through his slacks.

  Of course, I don’t see him backing away either.

  “He’s gonna go home with her,” Allison predicts.

  Probably.

  Not that I care.

  I really don’t give a shit what any of these players do. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t even be here tonight, but since my father owns the Dallas Wranglers and I’m an integral part of the team, he says it’s my duty to be out and about with the players after a win. I rarely concede, but tonight Allison managed to talk me into it.

  Truthfully, I’d rather e
at glass than sit in this club, but I know Allison loves this shit, so here I am. It pleases my father and my best friend, and I don’t look like an old maid because I’m sitting at home by myself watching Netflix and playing on Snapchat. A few years ago, I easily got away with it, but at twenty-nine, people tend to frown on that.

  Not that I care what anyone else thinks of me, however, I do try to make my father happy. He honestly doesn’t ask for much from me or my brothers, so these are the little things.

  “He’s probably tellin’ her all the dirty things he wants to do to her tonight.”

  I watch as Jason Stone smiles down at the woman, all white teeth and seductive eyes. It’s a look I’ve seen on so many players’ faces, most of the time in the bowels of nightclubs just like this one. Nevertheless, I’m happy to say that look has never been directed at me. Or if it has, I haven’t reciprocated.

  Which, according to my best friend, is part of my problem. I think she has likened me to a nun on occasion. I can’t help it if I’m picky.

  Allison’s voice deepens when she starts a running dialogue of what they’re saying to each other.

  “Oh, honey, you’d look so hot in my bed. I want to see what you’ve got underneath this thing you call a dress.” Her tone changes to a high-pitched whine. “Oh, Hottie McFootball Man, I want that, too. I want to feel your big penis inside me. You can even throw me like a football when you’re finished. I don’t even care.”

  I laugh. How can I not? Allison is freaking crazy.

  “Oh, Sugar Tits,” Allison continues, once again imitating a male voice, “I want to bend you over the hood of my fancy sports car and bang your brains out. You don’t mind if I don’t look at your face, do you?” She switches voices again. “You have a fancy sports car? Oh, well, in that case, no, I don’t mind. Not at all. So, yes, please. I’d like that. I don’t even know your name, but…yes, yes, yes!”