Page 1 of The Square Up

Chapter One

Kade

“Barracuda” flashes across the screen of my cell phone in bold green letters as I stand with my keys in hand outside the door to my penthouse. I think about what’s on the other side, waiting for me...a brand-new luxury shower with six pulsing jets.

I let the call go to voice mail. Whatever my agent, Abigail Roberts, has to talk to me about can wait until tomorrow.

I kick off my Ferragamos, drop the keys to my Lamborghini in the handcrafted leather bowl on the foyer table, and unbutton my silk shirt as I make my way down the hall. I sigh as the scent of fresh lemon wax mingled with a hint of lavender tickles my nose. Paying for a top-notch cleaning service is money well spent.

Just as I hit the marble floor in the bathroom, my pocket starts vibrating. Barracuda again?

“I hope you know it’s eleven thirty at night,” I snip as I set the phone down on the vanity. I put the call on speaker and strip off the rest of my clothes.

“I know what time it is,” Abigail barks. “You were supposed to stop by the office this morning and sign your endorsement contracts. They have to be in by midnight tonight.”

Fuck.

“I forgot.” I turn on the water. “I got sidetracked and forgot all about it. I’ll come by your office first thing tomorrow morning.”

“You forgot,” she sneers. “You’re always forgetting. What was it this time? A blonde named Sugarpie with triple D’s?”

“No,” I chuckle. “A redhead named Cherry with legs for days.”

“You need to clean up your image, you know. God, men suck,” she groans. “Maybe it’s time you get yourself a new agent, Kade. My time is just as valuable as yours, you know. Maybe even more so.”

She’s not wrong; I have a playboy reputation that could use some spiffing up.

But I don’t want a new agent.

I want my Barracuda.

I want Abigail Roberts.

She’s the best in the professional basketball business. The woman is unflappable, a tenacious Pitbull. She’s a female predator in a man’s world, which is why we all refer to her as the Barracuda. When she wants something, she goes after it. Even if she has to take someone out at the throat to get the deal done, I can’t afford to lose her.

“I’m really sorry…”

“Save it. I’m not interested in your feeble apologies, Kade. Just answer your damn door. I’ll be there in five.”

The call ends, and sweat trickles down my back. She’s never talked to me like this before. My contract with the Portland Skyhawks is up for renewal next month, and I have to fix things with her.

I turn off the shower, duck into the walk-in closet, slip on a pair of sweatpants, and then quickly rinse with mouthwash in case I have booze breath. I splash water on my face and pick up my razor to remove the bristly stubble decorating my jaw. But before I can hit the power switch, the doorbell rings.

“Coming!” I call out.

I swing open the door and have to do a double-take. Abigail’s cheeks are flushed. Her long black hair is disheveled. Her purple button-down shirt is a wrinkled mess and is buttoned all wrong. On her feet, she’s wearing one black shoe and one blue shoe.

“Are you all right?” I inch closer to see if I can smell any alcohol on her breath. Her eyes are bloodshot and red. But I don’t think it’s from drinking or doing drugs. I think the barracuda’s been crying.

She slaps a manilla folder in my chest and stomps right past me. “I’m fine. Sign the damn papers.”

I put down the folder to search for a pen. “Did you drive or take an Uber?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Like hell, it’s not my business,” I fold my arms across my chest. You’re in my house now—my house, my rules. And you aren’t right, Abigail. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you are not driving out of here in your condition.”

“My condition?” Her face turns beet red. “You have got to be kidding me.” Abigail backs up into a black leather couch and slaps her hands over her face. “I hate this day!” She shrieks.

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