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  “You still a virgin, Ella Bella?” He answered her question with one of his own, accompanied by a smile of complete impropriety.

  Finally she blinked. Her grip tightened around the handle of the purse in her lap, and she stared at it before looking back up at him and meeting his gaze head-­on.

  “Yes.” She spoke her one-­word answer unemotionally, even as the flush crept up to her cheeks.

  Tyson sat back in his chair, the recesses of his drug-­addled mind jarred. Wrong answer. She was supposed to have forsaken her outdated notion of chastity. She was supposed to have been tainted by now, like everyone he knew. As corrupted as he was.

  “Hey Ella Bella, what do you say to you and me going someplace to get freaky?” Part of it was said in jest, trying to recover from just how badly she managed to throw him. Another part of him longed to engage in just a little bit of the same harmless banter from the days when she was a sweetheart and he was a hero.

  “Your place or mine?” Her answer was so unexpected and sounded just as foreign to his ears.

  She was supposed to have played along and let him down easy, as she had done a hundred times before.

  Tyson shook his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. He took a moment to let it sink in. Perhaps she was just trying to be funny, to save them both from the awkwardness of his initial reaction. Or she was trying to show him she was all grown up.

  “You shouldn’t be so glib, Ella,” he scolded her. “It could get you into trouble.”

  She seemed to enjoy watching the emotions that played across his face. “Maybe I’m looking for trouble.”

  Despite all his best intentions his body once again started to hum. She had upped the ante.

  “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

  “I want you to be the first person I make love to.” It sounded romantic, but romance wasn’t what he was currently known for. Or what he wanted. He wanted dirty, sleazy, guilt-­free hookup sex, at least until they lawyered up. It was what he was used to. But not what he wanted for her. He was surprised that he even cared at all.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Not only did she not appear chastised, but by the set of her jaw, she looked more determined. “I’m a grown woman, Tyson. I know what I’m doing.”

  The very idea was preposterous. They were little more than strangers. He knew better than anyone that strangers didn’t have sex to forge relationships. They did it to avoid them. Who in their right mind would make such an offer after so many years? He gave her some time to come to her senses, but she continued to stare at him, waiting for his answer. “You do know what they’re saying about me?”

  He felt her foot clumsily begin to slide up his leg in response to the question. He gave a short laugh and then narrowed his eyes.

  “You realize this ride has no refunds?”

  “I do,” she confirmed.

  “And when it’s over, I’m going to consider you just another whore?”

  He fully expected her to stand up and slap his face. To see him for what he was. To finally abandon the notion that she was going to save him and leave him to his misery. But she only tilted her head and studied him, every bit the sophomore he remembered, only now with her foot finding the inside of his thigh.

  “No you’re not, Tyson. Quit trying to scare me away.”

  He finally stopped caring. The hum had gotten loud enough to be heard through the numb. Nostalgia was grossly overrated anyway. And her smile was positively naughty.

  “Put your shoe back on. The room’s on me,” Tyson said ungallantly, pushing away from the table and standing up. “You’re on.”

  He gave her two of the last five one-­hundred-­dollar bills he had, and they checked into the local Motel 6 under her name while he waited outside. It was a condition Tyson insisted on, and he did it automatically out of self-­preservation. There would no confusion as to who was initiating what, should she end up having second thoughts after it was over.

  He wasn’t sure what to expect next from her and he had long forgotten how to properly execute foreplay. He half ­hoped she would chicken out and run screaming into the night. He wasn’t even sure in his current state that he could adequately perform.

  They took off their coats and Tyson sat on the edge of the bed. He thought about just lying down and dozing off. They could forget the whole thing. He watched Ella turn the television on and begin to surf, stopping on the motel’s promotional channel, which was the closest she could get to mood music. Nothing said romantic interlude quite like a picture of a continental breakfast with Muzak playing in the background. Then she began to dim the lights.

  After checking the dead bolt on the door, she went and stood between his legs. She wove her hand into his hair and then gently fisted it, to tilt his head up to her and hold it in place. The fingertips of her other hand stroked over his cheekbone and down his jaw, then up over the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, the result of him playing through two quarters before having it set during his rookie season with the Blitz. He had considered that bump a badge of courage, even if it was the injury that became the catalyst to launch him into his new normal, courtesy of that first bottle of Vicodin being slipped into his locker by a team doctor. She was mesmerized, like she was walking around in her own amorous fantasy, her movements deliberate and calculated. She looked down and pulled his hair slightly to make sure his eyes were looking into hers.

  “You really are still so beautiful.” She exhaled in awe before gently placing her mouth against his. She tasted him, then unhurriedly ran her tongue over his upper lip before nipping at it. Her breath was sweet, Tic Tacs with traces of the whiskey they’d shared.

  Whatever Ella’s teacher had been, whether book or movie, she had learned well, Tyson thought. His hands gripped around her waist and he roughly pulled her flush against him. His mouth opened wider as his hands drifted lower before coming to rest on her bottom, giving it a squeeze. Her response was to wiggle into his palms and draw his tongue into her mouth, teasing it with hers. This was no timid virgin, Tyson continued his inner justification, she was more like a vixen, and his body responded to it. Maybe she hadn’t been truthful and had just told him what she thought he wanted to hear. She wasn’t behaving like someone doing something she would regret. She was fully engrossed in her seduction. After that first kiss, he took off her glasses, placing them on the nightstand, and then stood. They took hasty turns stripping each other down, with kisses in between, beginning with Tyson and a sturdy tug at her cumbersome skirt. She pulled off his shirt in exchange for hers. What he uncovered was lush and curvy and a crime to keep hidden. She cooed words of encouragement as he unveiled her, becoming increasingly excited with each piece of clothing discarded, until there was only one thing left to remove. She wasn’t shy or inhibited as his hands freely roamed her nakedness, concentrating on boldly raking her nails down his chest, over the speed bumps of his abs, hooking them into the waistband of his boxer briefs. He kicked the boxers to the side, and his sex sprang to attention. Her fingers curled around him and she carefully pulled and caressed, her eyes lighting up with her discovery at his size, though she had nothing to compare it to. If she kept at him, he would lose it right in her hand. He pulled her hand away and lifted her, landing them both back onto the bed, careful not to crush her. He squeezed ample breasts and sucked at taut nipples. Her touch was hot, her skin supple, and her behavior nothing short of aggressive.

  Her lips moved to his neck, the beginning of a trail of kisses that slowly started making their way down his belly. She sighed in what he could only define as genuine pleasure, moving lower. It felt good, too good, and he stopped her before she reached her final destination, bringing her back up to him before pressing her back into the bed and covering her body with his own. She clutched him tightly, squirming beneath him in lust as his hand wedged between them to find her core. He toyed with her
, using broad strokes from strong fingers until she was damp with wanting. She arched her back and began to whisper his name over and over, allowing herself the full pleasure of the sensation. He left her on the brink and abruptly pulled away, unwilling to admit that he questioned his own staying power.

  “I have to have you,” he groaned.

  He pushed her back onto the bed, spread her legs with his own, and took her. He heard her sharp intake of breath at his penetration and his mouth captured hers again to avoid hearing her cry as he filled her. She was hot and tight and Tyson forced himself to remain still until her body relaxed. Her tongue found its way back into his mouth, and she wrapped a leg around his back. Then he began to slowly rock inside her. She wrapped her other leg and both her arms around him and found, then matched, his rhythm.

  It seemed to be over before it began and despite all his efforts, he was soon shuddering above her, his release brought on prematurely by her enthusiasm and the lack of control over his own body. He couldn’t be sure she had gotten hers, and then he realized, albeit callously, he didn’t need to care. She had offered herself to him, on his terms. And by her own admission, she didn’t have any real experience. Still, no man wants to be thought of as a lousy lover. Tyson rolled off her and onto the bed, now discomfited by the whole encounter.

  The Muzak was still crooning from the television. An electronic instrumental symphonic take on the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love.” Ella tentatively began to curl up next to him. And to his own surprise, he let her, going as far as to wrap an arm around her and settle her on his chest. He had forgotten how much he missed human contact, the kind that didn’t end up giving him a bruise or a concussion. He had been caught up in his addiction for too long. He lightly stroked his hand up and down her back, appreciating her soft form molding against his muscles while he caught his breath. He fleetingly wondered if she was really as enchanting as she seemed. Booze and drugs had played tricks on him in the past. “Lady, you just blew my mind,” he told her, in the effort to explain away his lackluster performance.

  “Ditto.” She smiled up at him, hugging him tighter. “I say we try that again.”

  Even if she meant that she wanted to do it again because she was now free to enjoy and explore her sexuality, all he heard was criticism. Like a coach sending him back to the field after an interception. In fact, her eagerness only reminded him of exactly what he’d done and how he wished he’d done it better. Tyson’s hand stopped moving and his sense of afterglow quickly dissipated. “Once was enough.”

  “That’s okay, then let’s take a little nap,” she said, snuggling up closer to him and sighing. “We’ll have breakfast later, after we freshen up. And then I’ll take you home.”

  Take him home? Was she serious? He began to feel cornered.

  “There’s not going to be any breakfast.” His arm fell away from her shoulder.

  She picked her head up, trying to get a read on him. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, I’m not mad.” But he was. When he had agreed to this idea, his plan was to sneak out after she’d fallen asleep. But she didn’t look too sleepy, and it wasn’t like he’d exhausted her, like he would have if he had done it right.

  “I could totally fall in love with you, Tyson,” she confessed, blurting it out before she saw the look on his face.

  Those words had fed his ego before, but it had been a while. In this particular case, he’d never felt so undeserving. “You don’t even know me.”

  His head was pounding, his ears were ringing, and the guilt was mounting. And his body was already starting to reach out for its next fix. He dislodged himself from under her and rose, beginning to search for his clothes.

  “Tyson—­what’s wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. Coming back to his old college as a last resort to escape from reality, letting her sit down and fill his head with memories with her sweet talk and then trap him. Tyson stormed around the room, hating her and himself, while trying to quickly redress. Not bothering with his socks, he stuck them in his pockets while sitting down in the room’s only chair to jam his now-­clammy feet into his shoes. Ella jumped up from the bed and scrambled to find her own clothes, which he had thrown all around the room. “Tyson, I don’t understand . . .”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the vial that was his only friend, his Percocet. He threw two down his throat without any water. The mere action seemed to calm him. He put the bottle back in his jacket and reached for the doorknob, stopped momentarily by the sheer desperation in her voice.

  “Tyson, please don’t leave. You can trust me. I want to help you,” she pleaded.

  He looked back at her, standing in the middle of the room in nothing but her underwear, tears of bewilderment and humiliation brimming in her eyes.

  “I don’t want your help,” he stated coldly.

  She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from trembling and the tears from falling. “But you . . . I thought . . .”

  “Welcome to the big time,” Tyson told her cruelly before opening the door, then staggering back out into the darkness and his downfall.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE WEEKS THAT followed were nothing more than a blur. Tyson went back to his now-­empty house and spent some quality time ignoring foreclosure notices and other bill collectors. Within days of getting the official word that he was suspended for the rest of the season and subsequently cut from the team, he packed up some of his clothes and cleaned out his medicine cabinet. He ended up in a fleabag motel near the now-­deserted Blitz training camp. He just couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. He wandered, mostly on foot, around the streets that were his old hangouts, where he no longer felt welcome. Every night was spent in local dives blathering randomly to anyone within earshot whenever football came on television. He celebrated Thanksgiving alone with a fifth of Wild Turkey and a ham sandwich from 7-­Eleven. Not even Tyson’s cell phone was invited to his pity party. The one message from his new agent was, Talk to you next year. Get your act together. Stay off social media. He didn’t want to hear from well-­meaning friends either. In his mind, he had no friends and those trying to intervene were just trying to ruin the only good times he had left. His family back home was fractured and hurting, he couldn’t add to that burden. He just wanted to do his own version of Leaving Las Vegas and be done with it.

  That’s when Tyson met the Goons.

  There wasn’t much of an introduction. They broke down the door to Tyson’s room and hauled him off the floor by his armpits, then they dragged Tyson out to a waiting car and punched him when he started waking up on the tarmac of a small airport. The next time he awoke, it was with a splitting headache and in a comfortable bed in what looked to be someone’s guest room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated, even the sunlight smelled fresh. The headache, though, was completely familiar.

  “Where am I?” The words hurt his ears, and the dryness in his mouth and throat was ever present. He put a trembling hand up to his face, to shield his burnt-­out retinas from the light streaming through the window.

  A man sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed spoke up. ‘You’re in my home. If you’re going to throw up, there’s a bucket on the right of the bed.” The Goon standing at the man’s left shoulder took a step and pointed in the direction of the receptacle, to make sure they sufficiently had Tyson’s attention.

  “I need a drink.” Tyson rasped out the same four words he had started every day with for the better part of a year.

  “There’s water next to you, on the nightstand,” the man replied. He was soft-­spoken with a country twang. “If you’re looking for something stronger, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

  Tyson tried to focus on the man through his painful tunnel vision. He was someone Tyson felt like he knew, or at least knew of. He was sixtyish, trim, sporting a full head of silver hair and a
weathered tan face all packaged neatly in a brown Hugo Boss suit.

  “Who the hell are you?” Tyson asked irritably.

  “I’m the man who’s going to save your career.” He had the nerve to sound nonchalant, even soothing, “And considering all the scuttlebutt surrounding your pathetic display around Blitz training camp, probably your life.”

  Hearing the words got under Tyson’s already stretched skin. Making matters worse, the man was standing in the way of Tyson’s hair of the dog.

  “Let me guess.” Tyson tried to sit up despite the hammering in his head that increased with movement. “You’re my guardian angel and we’re going to take a tour of what the world would be like without me.”

  The man smiled. “Yes, I’m the patron saint of party boys. Call me Saint Mercenary.”

  The Goons snorted in unison from their positions on either side of the chair and then went back to looking menacing. The man added, “Sorry, son, I’m not that noble. I’m just a businessman who enjoys a good challenge.”

  Tyson eyed the trio from the middle of the queen-­size bed. Whoever this man was, he was able to pull off a kidnapping, had at least two vicious-­looking henchmen, and a really nice bedroom. Tyson glanced down at the stained, grungy Blitz T-­shirt he’d been wearing for five days straight. He could remember when the word challenge filled him with vision and determination. Currently, standing on his own two feet without falling over would be about all the challenge he could handle.

  “I’m still waiting for you to tell me who you are,” Tyson said, dropping his head into his hand and attempting to rub his eyes free of the double vision that, added to the smell of his shirt, was making his stomach churn. One of the Goons snorted again, this time in disgust. Apparently he took Tyson’s lack of knowledge of the importance of his host personally.