Page 35 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"To my hotel room. We can be private there."
"You have a room here?"
"The Outlaws always get their athletes rooms at the hotel where team-sponsored events are held. Technically, when we're at one of these parties, we're still on the clock. Last thing they want is a player involved in a drunk driving accident or an incident involving substance abuse."
"But you don't have an alcohol problem." She states it as a fact, like she already knows.
She's right. Although I enjoy the occasional drink, I never drink to excess. "No. But others, yeah."
"Like who?"
Not a casual question. She's a journalist, after all. "Sorry. Not my place to tell."
When we reach the bank of elevators, I press the up button. Amazingly, one set of door slides open. We climb in, and I press 27. We're the only occupants in the car, so I turn and drive her against the side of the elevator. "You're fucking gorgeous tonight."
Her eyes grow wide, like she wasn't expecting my move. "Th-thank you."
"New dress?"
"Oh, no. I can't af—No."
She can't afford a new dress. That's what she meant to say. Not that she needs to mention it. Since her apartment and junker pretty much told me what I need to know about the state of her finances.
A fruit basket and two bottles of champagne wait for me in my room. Standard operating procedure from the Outlaws PR. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Not now. Thank you."
I remove my jacket and toss it on the couch. "Where's your coat?"
"Downstairs in the coat check."
"We'll get it tomorrow when we leave."
"T-tomorrow?"
"Yes. You're spending the night with me." Fuck if I'm going to ask her if she wants to stay. She wouldn't be here unless she did.
She glances around the luxury suite, bites down on her thumbnail. Her nails have been bitten right down to the quick. "But I thought . . ."
"What did you think?" I tear off my bow tie, throw it on top of my jacket, and start unbuttoning my shirt. I know what she wants. The same thing I do.
Her wide-eyed glance takes me in. "That we were going to continue your interview."
"In my room, in a hotel, late at night? No, MacKenna. I asked you here to fuck you."
Her brow wrinkles, as if she finds my language offensive. "But that's not. But you don't . . ."
Finished with the shirt, I wrangle it off with my good arm, and toss it on the growing pile. "I don't what?"
"You never have sex with the same woman twice." Her voice grows breathless as she stares at me. "What are you wearing?"
"A rotator cuff brace. It'll stabilize the shoulder."
"Does it hurt? Your shoulder I mean?"
"A little." I'm not about to tell her it throbs like a bitch. She's a reporter after all. "Who told you I don't fuck the same woman twice?"
"Marigold. Plus I did some research on you, Ty. You have quite a reputation as a player. And I'm not talking about football."
