Page 18 of Playboy Pitcher
It’s like a visceral punch to the chest.
In twenty-eight years, I’ve only allowed two people to get close enough to leave scars. One is dead. The other now stands in front of me, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“Hello, princess,” he says with a shit-eating grin I want to punch off his face.
I cringe at the nickname. “It’s Willow.”
He shrugs. “Old habits die hard.”
His words are a sharp serrated knife, plunging into a tender scar. “Yes, I remember.”
Instead of showing an ounce of remorse for being a lying, cheating scumbag, Drake runs the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, as if that subtle move still gives me butterflies.
It doesn’t.
Nothing flutters around in my stomach but bile. Not because he’s repulsive. Infuriatingly enough, after ten years, he’s still obnoxiously attractive. Well, if you don’t count the dark hair parted in the middle and curling up at the ends like the remnants of a bad perm. Oh, and that sad, scraggly beard with the bare patch sitting between his lower lip and chin like a cursed piece of barren land.
Other than that, he doesn’t look much different from the last time I saw him—which was stark naked, bouncing some slut on top of him like a beachball.
I’m repulsed. Not only by him, but by what he represents. Drake Prescott is my ex, and along with my father, the reason I left town at eighteen and never looked back.
Two men. Two scars.
Ned lets out a discreet cough. “You two know each other?”
“No,” I hiss.
“Yes,” Drake answers at the same time. With a wink, he flashes a smarmy smirk. “Willow and I have somewhat of a complicated past.”
Crossing my arms, I glare at him. “If by complicated, you mean brief due to your inability to keep your dick in your pants, then, yes.”
More throats clear as heads bow like dominoes. Part of me feels bad for them. I’m sure no one woke up envisioning a mundane meeting turning into a bad reality show.
As for Drake, I’m sure he stood outside that door, salivating in anticipation of my reaction. Shocked. Furious. Devastated. It doesn’t matter. He never cared how I burned, as long as he lit the match.
He always was a sadistic fucker.
“Miss McBaine, please take your seat.” I glance over my shoulder to see Head Sheep’s lips pulled in such an unnatural smile, they’re twitching.
I don’t take orders. I especially don’t take orders from people likehim. However, by continuing to stand, it appears as if I give two shits about Drake’s presence. Which I don’t. So, I flop down into my chair and examine my nails.
“Well, isn’t anyone going to invite me in?” I glance up as Drake makes a sweeping gesture toward the conference table.
“No.”Ask a stupid question…
His grin widens. My scowl deepens.
As if elected referee, Ned leaps out of his chair and circles around the table until he’s standing in front of Drake with his freckled hand shoved in his face. “Mr. Prescott, please come in.” Ignoring his outstretched hand, Drake moves into the center of the room, taking stock of everyone in it. Left standing with the equivalent of his dick hanging out, Ned lets out a nervous laugh and runs his hand through that red mop on his head. “Yes, well, I’m Ned Riggins, Miami Storm’s general manager. You’ll have to excuse Willow. She didn’t mean any disrespect. Please, go straight to the head of the table and have a seat.”
I pick at a chip in my nail polish. “Actually, he can go straight to—”
“Jack!” Ned interrupts, his sudden outburst causing Head Sheep to almost piss himself. Taking his seat, he motions toward Drake. “If you please…”
Drake chuckles to himself while helping himself to the vacant seat to my left. Head Sheep, otherwise known as Jack, pulls a paper out of his neat little folder. “Of course. Well, as we discussed this morning—”
Jolting upright, I throw my hand in his face, his words hitting me like a two-ton anvil. “He already knows?” I growl, jabbing a finger at the asshole sitting beside me.
Placing his hand over mine, Drake lowers them both flat onto the table, and I’m so blindsided, I let him. “Of course, I know. Do you think Roger would entrust his life’s work to someone who didn’t share his passion?”
