Page 46 of Filthy Ruck

I glanced at her reflection in the rear vision mirror. She was so fucking gorgeous it was a miracle I didn't crash into the car in front of me when they stopped at the red traffic light.

“We can guess.” I tapped on the brakes and brought the SUV to an abrupt stop.

Dallas grabbed onto the Jesus handle as the momentum threw him forward.

I ignored his grunt of annoyance and swivelled around in my seat to take a better look behind us.

The hatchback's headlights were too bright for me to make out anything more than a figure seated behind the steering wheel.

“Are you sure?” Chelsea was the only onenotlooking back over her shoulder.

I took in the expression on her face. “What is it?”

“Itmightbe nothing,” she said. She started to shrug, but dropped her shoulders and closed her mouth over unsaid words.

“You don't think it's nothing,” I said.

What the hell did she think it was then? Someone sent to assassinate us? Or kidnap us and use us to create a race of superhumans? That sort of stuff only existed in books and movies. As far as I knew anyway.

“Don't tell us, you're really a spy,” Frost said. “Come to Dusk Bay to uncover some nefarious plot to take over the world.”

She snorted. “Hardly. But if I was, I wouldn't be able to tell you.”

“Not unless you recruited us to help you,” he said. “I'd be down for that.”

“She's not a spy,” I told him. I turned back around in my seat and drove through the green light.

A couple of minutes later, we pulled into the car park. I backed the SUV into an empty space and killed the engine.

The red car parked a few spots away, front end in first, and the driver climbed out. Long legs, blonde hair, camera in her hand, aimed at us.

What a fucking shock.

“Paparazzi,” Dallas sneered.

We were professional footballers. The public eye was something we were used to, especially when the season was about to start. The media would like nothing more than to dig up something salacious about us. And if they couldn't find it, they'd make it up.

Only last week, I was reading about the stunning revelation that I was an alien with three cocks and a couple of love children. Whoever wrote that, they had a future in fiction. That sort of shit made me laugh.

Being followed, not so much.

“Don't make eye contact,” I said. “Don't engage.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” the leech in human form said, her tone as sleek as her pencil skirt and blouse. “Storm Keller, Daniel Frost and Dallas Gregory. And…friend.” She peered at Chelsea.

“Get lost,” Dallas growled. He could get away with being unfriendly, but if he told her to fuck off, he could get in trouble with the team. Apparently swearing was a step too far.

I applauded his restraint. I was barely hanging on to my own.

“So much for not engaging,” Frost said under his breath. “I recognise her. Belinda Simmons. She works for one of those trashy magazines.”

“One person's trash is another person's informative entertainment,” Belinda said. “The public deserves to know what people like you get up to off the field. How about you pose for a couple of photos and I'll leave you alone?” She seemed more interested in Chelsea than the rest of us.

My blood went cold. Did she have a clue Chelsea used to work at Flirts? Something like that would make headlines in about ten seconds. I squinted at her. My gut feeling was she didn't know. She spotted us and decided to go digging.

“How about you go away?” Dallas said. “Let's go inside.” He stayed close to Chelsea, without touching her. Thank fuck he had that much sense. One photo of them together would raise eyebrows and suspicions.

I was already second-guessing coming here at all. I wanted to put Chelsea in lots of different positions, but this wasn't one of them.

---