Page 15 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"Did somebody hit you?" I point to the car.
"No. I dinged a column in my apartment lot. The parking there is . . . tricky." She inserts her key into the car door. "I'll just—" She struggles to get the door open, but it won't budge. "Umm, drive myself."
Not in that piece of shit car, she won't. She probably doesn't want me to know her address, but her objection is moot. "I know where you live, MacKenna."
She stops struggling with her car door as her head jerks up. "What? How do you know?"
"You provided that information to our press office in the form you filled out."
Her eyes widen. "And they gave it to you?"
I lean against my cherry Porsche Cayenne SUV which just happens to be parked next to her junker. "You must have forgotten to check off the box that prevents them from sharing your information with the Outlaws staff."
"Darn it. I was so worried about the Ron Moss interview I gave it back without reading the small print." She gnaws on her lip, obviously upset about her personal data being disseminated for anyone to see.
Her discomfort tugs at me. "The Outlaws Press office sharing your details. That's a problem for you."
Those crushed bluebell eyes of hers gaze helplessly up at me. "Yes, I'd prefer my private information kept just that, private."
I grab my cell, dial the number of the head of PR. "Trevor? It's Ty Mathews. The information MacKenna Perkins provided to you, home address, personal stuff. Can you delete it from our system?"
She stands in front of me, cold and obviously freezing, her tight nipples in full salute. Predictably, my cock notices. Damn it. It's going to be a long afternoon if I don't rein in my lust. Like the gentleman I'm not, I order my hard on to give it a rest and turn so my body blocks her from the wind. "They'll need to retain your business info if you want to interview any member of the team. Is that okay?"
"Yes."
"She's fine with that. Okay, Trevor. Thanks." I click off, bury the cell in my leather jacket. "Done."
"Thanks." Her nose is bright pink. Her eyes are watering. My blocking the wind hasn't helped enough.
Much as I want to pull her into me and warm her, I resist. Don't want her hightailing it again. But she needs to get away from the wind. "So, do you want me to swing over to your place and we can ride together from there?" As her eyes spark with interest, she glances from her POS to my cherry SUV.
Good. All I have to do is reel her in.
"If we go together to the rec center, you'll get to ride in my car." I click my key, slide the door open. The Porsche Cayenne is a thing of beauty—Carmine Red on the outside, black on the inside, the Chicago Outlaws' team colors. "It has Bose Surround sound, GPS, Sirius satellite radio." I pause for dramatic effect before going in for the kill. "And heated leather seats."
Her eyes round with wonder and her mouth forms a perfect "O".
My lips curve into a smile. I thought that would do the trick.
Once she stops drooling over my ride, I pry open her door so she can climb into that sorry excuse of a car. And then I follow her to her place. Her parking garage requires a card to enter, but the inside is shit. Potholes big enough to eat a tire, crappy lighting. No wonder she ran into a garage column. Dirt and sweat stink up the elevator. The hallway leading to her unit is no better; it reeks of cabbage and onions.
Her cheeks bloom pink as if she's embarrassed of the place. "It's not much, but it's the best I can afford. And my neighbors are nice."
Damn, she must have caught the expression on my face. "That's good."
"And there's a security station on the ground floor. You have to show ID to get in."
Thank fuck for that.
Three security locks protect her door, each of which opens with a different key. Of course, the door's so flimsily made, a good kick would tear it off its hinges. Once inside her apartment, she offers me something to drink. All she's got is water, tea and some fruity drink. While she runs into her bedroom to change, I plop down on her mud-colored couch and guzzle the H2O. But soon I'm up exploring the place.
Her tiny apartment smells like her. But that's about the only thing it has going for it. The springs on the couch leave something to be desired. Probably got it at a garage sale or maybe it's a remnant from her college days. The TV can't be more than 26-inches wide. Didn't know they still sold them in that size. Her kitchen contains the usual appliances—a stove, refrigerator. But they both look like they've seen better days. No dishwasher and there's a rack by the sink, so she must wash her dishes by hand.
She deserves better than to live in this crappy dump. Aside from the small size and the smells outside her unit, I'm not totally convinced about the security of the building. I've got connections in real estate—people who owe me favors, acquaintances, friends. Surely, I could hook her up with a better place to live. The problem will be talking her into it.
Ten minutes later, she emerges from her bedroom, changed into jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Although the outfit is supposed to make her shapeless, nothing can hide her amazing breasts. They're large, perky and the reason God invented boobs. Their bounce all the way back to the elevator has me gnashing my teeth. As if my suffering's not bad enough, she has trouble with her seatbelt, so I get an up close and personal of her world-class tits when I help her snap it on.
Pandemonium reigns at the Boys & Girls Club. A few hundred kids, their parents, the media. It's a fucking three-ring circus. But our head of PR has been there, done that, and, with a few choice words, he manages to control the insanity. Everyone's corralled inside the rec center while the Outlaws take the stage. The head of the club introduces us one by one to loud cheers. I give the usual "Stay in School, Don't Do Drugs" speech I've given hundreds of times before.
