Page 17 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 7
MacKenna
HIS HOUSE RESIDESIN A GATED COMMUNITY. Of course, it does. He might be a playa, but I doubt he wants a horde of women and fans crashing his home. Before we're allowed entrance into the property, a dour guard at the front gate requests my ID. Unwilling to reveal my identity to a stranger, I argue about it, but Ty cuts me off. "Every visitor has to do it, MacKenna."
Still fuming at Ty, I pull out my driver's license and hand it to the beefy man. He glances back and forth between the ID and me before stepping inside the guardhouse. I suspect he's running my driver's license through a scanner, something that doesn't sit right with me. Still unsmiling, he returns, hands me back my ID and waves us through.
"That was a violation of my rights."
"They have to be careful. Many prominent families live here. Some employ their own security as well. Last thing the property management company wants is some criminal breaking and entering somebody's home, and worse."
He has a point. Security has to be tight to prevent a home invasion. But I don't like to provide my personal information unless absolutely necessary. At the Outlaws' camp, I'd handed over my license for identification, not realizing I needed to check the form that would keep my information from being entered into their database. Lesson learned. From now on, I'll be more diligent about reading documents when my driver's license is required.
Although I resent having had to provide ID at the gate, especially when I've been shanghaied, what's done is done. Nothing I can do about it. Might as well enjoy the view. And what a view it is. The community's Colonial houses sit on what appear to be three-acre lots, some with huge swimming pools in the back, the yards landscaped to an inch of their lives.
He drives up the driveway of a gorgeous mansion nestled between towering trees and pulls into a three-car garage in the back of the house. A huge truck occupies one of the bays. The third one contains a vehicle with a tarp thrown over it.
Once we emerge from his SUV, he leads the way into a gleaming-bright kitchen whose vaulted ceiling must be ten, eleven feet high.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Water, please."
He opens a subzero refrigerator, pulls out a bottle, uncaps it and hands it to me. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to change." And then he starts to walk away, like nothing's wrong.
Is he kidding me?"Wait.You're not going anywhere until you explain what happened back there."
He swivels toward me. His jaw flexing, he eats the distance between him and me. "You mean when you threw yourself at Ryan Jackson?"
He's way into my personal space, so much I have to tilt back my head so I can glare at him. "I didn't throw myself." I sound like a harpy my voice's so high. "I was talking to him. You know, like a reporter."
His eyes narrow. "He doesn't want an interview. He wants to fuck you." He's so wound up he's practically vibrating with coiled tension.
Unwittingly, my gaze drops to his crotch. He's hard. Very hard. Apparently, Ryan Jackson is not the only one who wants to screw me.
He manacles my arms, pulls me toward him. "And you practically invited him to do it."
My nipples grow rock hard from being thrust into his chest. How could I be this turned on by his caveman behavior? "I did not."
He goes on like I haven't said a thing. "Yeah, you did. You pranced up and down that field with your hair down to your ass, your breasts bouncing all the way. Whatever bra you're wearing, it doesn't do shit, except draw attention to your tits."
I wiggle in his hold. The way my body's reacting, I can't be this close to him. "Let me go, Ty." When he does, I fling a hand across my chest. My nipples turn into hard little nubs whenever I get excited. And god knows I'm excited now. His behavior might be Neanderthal, but he's turning me on. "That was not nice."
He throws his hands in the air. "Jeesus H. Fucking Christ! I'm not trying to be nice. I'm trying to clue you in. Some of those players you were flirting with? Half of them are aching to nail you. They think you're easy." He steps toward me again, and I stumble backwards. "They think all they have to do is crook a finger and you'll fall into their laps. They've seen hundreds of girls like that, groupies who are only interested in one thing—bagging a Chicago Outlaw. And I guarantee you a lot of them have put you into that category."
Moisture seeps into my vision. I shake my head to stop the tears. I'll be damned if I cry in front of him. "I'm not like that. I'm not." Taking a step back, I run dab smack into the kitchen counter.
"Then stop acting like you are."
"What did I do that was so wrong?"
"You flirted with them."
My lower lip juts forward. "I did not."
"Yes, you did. I was watching you the whole time. You flipped your hair, smiled, touched some of them. Since you don't know shit about football, I can imagine what they were thinking."
"That's so unfair. I never asked for the interview with Ron. It was thrust into my lap."
