Chapter
#1
I ran my hand along her naked arm as
I
moved toward the bindings that had her
securely fastened to my wrought iron,
four-poster bed. She’d been tethered there
for over thirty minutes, and now
that the sex was over, I imagined her arms
and legs were probably beginning to
ache as the adrenaline left her body.
Miss No-Name Brunette rubbed her arms and
legs after I released her. I didn’t need or
want to know her name. I’d never
see her again so what was the
point.
She watched me gather my clothes; her eyes
roaming appreciatively over my body.
“So, John, when can I see you again? You’re
amazing.” She licked her plump lips as her
eyes traveled over my naked body,
stopping when she noticed the nasty scars
on my left shin. Small gray eyes
darted to mine, and I saw the pity setting
in. Pity was a deal breaker for me.
“We can’t,” I said and threw her
clothes on
the bed.
“Why?”
Her bottom lip jutted out in
disappointment. “Didn’t you enjoy yourself?
You seemed to be having a great
time.”
“It was fine, uh—”
“Nancy. My name is
Nancy.”
I shrugged. “Right. Nancy. I don’t do
repeat performances.
Ever.”
“But—”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just the
way things are.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she scowled at me.
Then, she climbed off the bed and pulled on
her clothes. “I don’t understand.
Are you married or
something?”
“Nope. Not married or anything else that
concerns you. I’m just not interested.
Tonight was great. Really. I enjoyed the
shit out of myself. Fucking you was exactly
what I needed. Thanks.”
“How am I supposed to get home? I left my
car at the club,” she
whined.
“There’s a cab waiting to take you anywhere
you want. I’ve already paid the fare.” I
shrugged again. This was the
bothersome part of operating this way. They
always wanted to see me again, and
my answer was always
no.
“I
should have known when you wouldn’t kiss
me there was something wrong with you. I
bet your name isn’t even John. Do you
even live here?” Whatever-her-name yanked
on her shoes, and then stood with her
arms crossed over her chest.
“No, I don’t live here. And, darlin’, my
name is whatever you want it to
be.”
“Asshole.”
“Come on, now. We both had fun.” I flashed
her my megawatt smile. “I’m pretty sure you
came at least three times. It’s all
good, and now, it’s all
over.”
I walked to her side and gently took her
arm, guiding her to the
door.
“But I let you restrain me!” She stamped
her foot as I opened the front
door.
“You did and wasn’t it fun? Maybe you can
find a man that will be as adventurous.
Now, off you go, Sally. Bye, bye.”
“Nancy!” she shouted as I closed the door
on her. I could still hear grumbling as she
walked away.
“Ugh.” Leaning against the door, I let out a
long sigh. It would be a while before I
could go back to that club. Too bad it
ended the same every time. But I understood
why. Women saw me as a catch. I
knew I was attractive. It wasn’t conceit,
either. It was a fact of life that
all men of the Hamil family were
hot.
My first year in the NFL, I was on
the
cover of Sports Illustrated as the Sexiest
Man in Football. That cover, and the
other endorsements I had, made me a nice
amount of cash, so I was totally good
with being an object of desire. Since they
didn’t really know me, they didn’t
know that I was nowhere as attractive on
the inside.
I went back to the bedroom, washed and put
the toys away, locking the drawer. Then, I
stripped the bed, piling the sheets
on the floor for the maid service to take
care of.
I left, not knowing when I'd come back.
Could be the following day. Could be two
weeks from now. But tonight, I’d been
out of fucking control—chomping at the bit
to blow off some steam. In fact, I
still hummed with
energy.
Fuck!
My shadow-self pressed in on me for days.
When I got like this, only one thing
helped: acting out. So, I’d gone to the
club in search of the first remotely
available Nancy, Sally, or whoever, that
didn’t revolt me. Nancy had been an easy
mark. I hadn’t been there ten minutes
before I’d bought her a drink, and we were
out the door, heading to the
apartment I kept specifically for this
purpose. I was always happy when I found
a woman willing to dabble in a little
bondage. I wasn’t heavily into the BDSM
scene, but knew how to wield pain for the
ultimate pleasure.
If I stopped and thought about it, I’d be
forced to acknowledged just how screwed up
my life had become. So I didn't. I
didn't think about all the nameless women I
had fucked in the last six years,
and how I hadn't been in a relationship
since the injury. These exchanges served
a purpose. Beyond that? Well, there was
nothing beyond that.
But that didn’t mean I had become so jaded
I’d forgotten how to get a woman off. I
enjoyed women. Loved the soft curves of
their body, and loved making them come.
There was nothing hotter than watching
a woman writhe and squirm as I fucked her
closer to orgasm. The sound of her
screaming what she thought was my name was
music to my ears, but that was as
far as it went.
The reality was, I was a mess, and I
didn't
want that advertised.
Actually, I was far worse than just a mess;
I was fucking broken.
Sometimes, I wondered if I was even capable
of having a normal relationship. Truth was,
I waited for someone that didn't
exist. A woman my pain-wracked brain
conjured that day on the football field. To
make matters worse, she wasn’t even of age.
She was a young woman, maybe
fifteen or sixteen, with the most beautiful
sable-brown eyes and blonde hair
I’d ever seen. Her face was sweet, kind,
and compassion filled. I realized how
creepy this sounds. I wasn't a sick fuck
who preyed on young girls, and I had
no idea why my mind created her. But all I
knew was, if I ever discovered she
was real, I’d do anything to have
her.
I rubbed my aching leg, and then climbed
into my Viper. God, I loved this car. She
was all power and beauty, and driving
her made me happy. I revved the engine and
closed my eyes, loving the purr, and
sometimes roar of her
V10.
Once on route 101, I opened her up, pushing
her past the century mark on the
speedometer. It was crazy to be weaving in and
out of traffic on the main freeway. I was
asking to be pulled over, but again,
I didn't care. In fact, I pressed her
harder and watched as the needle climbed
to 110. The concentration it took to
control this machine exhilarated me. Still
wound up and looking to banish my
shadow-self the only way I knew how, I pushed
her just a little more. Why fucking for
over an hour didn’t do the trick, I had
no idea. But if I didn’t burn this energy
off before I got home, sleep would be
out of reach. It wouldn’t do to start a new
job at one of the country’s most
prestigious law firms red-eyed and tired.
Once home, I intended to take a long,
hot shower, and then smoke a few bowls.
Hopefully, I’d emerge tired enough to
sleep. For a while, maybe I’d find peace
until the nightmare returned that
plunged me into my own personal
hell.
A hell that I was used to. A hell that only
she brought me out of.
The morning announced itself in its usual
fashion. I jolted awake screaming, and
drenched in sweat—the images as clear as
the day they happened.
“Fuck!” I yelled to the empty room.
Pushing myself back against the
headboard,
I rubbed my leg, trying to make the pain go
away. The image of her
lovely face and those amazing sable-brown
eyes chased the nightmare away, but
my body still buzzed with the
memories.
I looked over at the bong and lighter on my
bedside table and sighed. Just once, I
wished I didn’t have to numb myself to
start the day.
Before giving in, I ran my hand over my
damp collar-length hair, removing the waves
sticking to my moist neck. I used
to keep it short for this very reason, but
I liked the way it looked longer.
As I always did, I picked up the bong and
lit the bowl with the lighter. The glow of
the burning weed, and the sound of
the bong gurgling as I took a hit
immediately calmed me. I inhaled deep and
held the smoke in my burning lungs.
My long exhale sent a plume of smoke
into
the dawn-lit room. It floated for a second
before dissipating, leaving behind
the tangy smell of burning weed.
With my eyes closed, I slowed my
heart rate
and rapid breathing. The high kicked in,
and I already felt the calm take over.
I hated being so weak, and hated that what
happened almost six years ago
continued to affect and define my days. I
used to be the epitome of discipline.
Not anymore.
If I could let go of the self-blame, then
maybe the dreams would abate. But night
after night, I replayed the game and
its never changing
end.
At twenty-two, I had been one of the
hottest quarterbacks in the NFL, playing
for the Arizona Cardinals. The year
prior, we’d made it to the NFC
Championships, losing by a field goal.
The next year, we were back in the same
position, with the golden ticket to the
Super Bowl within our reach. The only
thing standing in our way was the
Philadelphia Eagles. I snarled as I thought
about that team. I always snarled at the
thought of them.
Two minutes remained on the clock, and we
were on the ten-yard line on third down. I
dropped into the pocket, searching
the field for an open receiver. I danced
this way and that as if my movements
might slow the clock. With no receiver
available, I sucked in a breath and
decided to go for it. What I should have
done was thrown it out of bounds and
stopped the clock. That would have been the
smart move—the safe move. We had
one more chance. I had to make it happen.
The year had to end in a run for the
Super Bowl.
Running like a man on fire with the ball
cradled against me as if I carried a
newborn baby, I headed for the end zone.
But I wasn't a running back, that wasn't
what I had been trained for. Stupidly,
I ran with my head down instead of up. As a
result, I didn’t see the
three-hundred pound linebacker heading my
way. I was the man with the ball, and
I had left the protection of my offensive
line, which made me fair game.
The next thing I knew, I was laid out on
the ground in extreme pain. When I looked
down at my left leg, I was
surprised—and not—to see it angled in an
unnatural position. I knew then that I
was well and truly fucked.
I tried to scream, but my voice
failed me.
Pain and the smell of the turf below me was
all there was.
The hit was dirty, straight up. Later, I
found out a bounty of $5,000 had been
issued for any player that took out one
of my knees. I hoped he got a bonus because
he’d gone above and beyond his
mandate. Not only did I miss a season, my
football career was over. Instead of
taking out my knee, his helmet, and the
power behind it, he hit my shin and
shattered my tibia and
fibula.
I remembered lying on the ground as the
trainers and medical staff attended me.
Chaos had broken out around me. Players
fought, and coaches and referees
argued.
I needed to find peace from the commotion;
needed to concentrate on something other
than the excruciating pain coming from
my leg. I turned my head and found a pair
of big, sable-brown eyes, surrounded
by golden-blonde hair, staring at me. She
was beyond beautiful, and her eyes
were mesmerizing. I had conjured an
angel.
In my hallucination, we shared an instant
connection. When all around I saw pity and
remorse, in her eyes, I found solace
and compassion—a kindred soul to my loss.
The need to help, and her inability
not to, showed in the tears falling down
her face, and the trembling of her
full red lips. My heart still clenched
whenever I thought about it.
As conjurings go, I had created a whopper.
When I thought back on it, I knew there was
no way she could be real. The
average person wouldn’t have been allowed
to get so close to an injured player
on the field. Hell, my girlfriend, who’d
been sitting in the stands, wasn’t
allowed on the field. It still baffled the
shit out of me that my mind had created
such a vivid image.
I could still see her brushing tears from
her eyes in my hallucination, and I remember
her taking a small step forward. I
wanted her to come closer, to touch me.
That was where the hallucination ended,
stopped by a new streak of pain that had
traveled through my leg, sending me
into momentary blackness. When I opened my
eyes, my blonde-haired beauty with
soul-filled eyes had disappeared. All I had
left was the image of her that
pulled me from my terror every morning. I
figured she’d probably be around
twenty or twenty-one by now if she were
real. I’d admit, that even today, I
looked for those eyes in every blonde I
encountered.
Pathetic. Yeah. Too fucking
pathetic.
I sighed and took two more hits off the
bong. Maybe one too many, but at least now
I felt more balanced, controlled,
and ready to start the
day.
What the world saw now was a man who
graduated from Harvard Law School, summa
cum laude, and worked for almost three
years at a top law firm in Boston. Some of
the country's top law firms had
courted me, and I had my pick of firms. But
I decided to come back to Arizona,
the place where my life changed
forever.
Gingerly, I climbed out of the bed and
headed for the pool. I didn’t bother
putting on swim trunks; swimming naked was
awesome. After a few stretches, I dove into
the pool and swam laps for an hour.
Swimming kept me in shape, though not the
shape of an NFL football player.
Those days were gone.
Finishing my laps, I headed for the
shower,
feeling excited, like something huge would
happen today. The last time I had
this feeling, something huge happened all
right. I looked at my leg and scowled
as sudsy water washed over my angry
scars.
I dried off and walked into my closet,
surveying the suits I had to choose from. I
was somewhat of a
clotheshorse—always had been. Today, I
picked a black Hugo Boss suit, white
shirt, and black, silk tie. In the mirror
before me, I watched a professional,
seemingly together man tie his tie. It was
a lie of course, but one I was used
to.
Once dressed, I went to the kitchen and
packed up a brownie in a plastic bag to
take with me. I'd gotten good at baking
brownies. But these weren't just any
chocolaty treats. These had a kick. Cliché
I know, but hey, whatever got me through
the day. Whether I’d partake in it
depended on how the day went. Obviously,
smoking at work wasn’t a good idea.
But every now and then, the pain became
unbearable. If a handful of ibuprofen
didn’t do the trick, the brownie would. I
refused to take pain meds. Those
things did a number on my
brain.
I put the brownies away, and all the
paraphernalia of my coping mechanism, and
locked them in a cabinet in the
pantry. I didn't need Hannah, my
housekeeper, finding them. She probably
wouldn't care, but I
did.
Thinking of Hannah made me laugh. I'd only
met her twice, but we had developed an odd,
sometimes hilarious, texting
relationship. I really liked her. Her cooking
was amazing, and she kept my home
perfect.
Her work was about to increase, and I was
thrilled. My brother was bringing my dog, Ben,
home to me. He had been with
Brody in Colorado for the last two months
while I got settled. I couldn't wait
to see both of them. Thinking about it made
me giddy. I knew Ben would love it
here. There was plenty of room for him to
run. Bernese Mountain dogs needed
lots of exercise. I almost didn’t get him
because of that. Now, I couldn’t
imagine my life without him. He got my ass
outside and stopped me from being
such a hermit. If I thought about the fact
that my best friend was a dog, I
would get bummed. But then again, fuck it!
I loved my dog, and I had missed him
terribly.
I doled out my handful of vitamins and four
ibuprofen into my hand, and then popped
them into my mouth. From the fridge, I
pulled out a bottle of OJ, taking large
swigs from the bottle.
Let the day begin, I thought as I walked down the hall to
the door. The sound of my designer shoes on
the travertine floors reminded me
of the sound of cleats on concrete. It made
me smile, but the memory was
bittersweet, and I pushed it aside. Behind
bittersweet was pure malice, an
emotion I couldn't allow myself. Not today.
Grabbing the keys to my Viper, I headed out
the door.
Watch out Arizona, Zolt Hamil was
back.
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