Baller Made (Bad Boy Ballers Book 3) Read online

  Oh dear Lord.

  Chapter Four

  Showing Up . . . Hard

  Calder

  Email. January 5, 2015. Afghanistan.

  Hey, Calder.

  The situation’s gotten worse than hairy. I don’t tell Regina or anyone else back home, but bullets whizz by our compound every night now. Maybe there’s something dark in my heart that keeps making me re-up.

  Listen to this shit, would you? Promised Regina I had my lid locked tight, but maybe I’m coming apart. I also told her I didn’t fit the civilian world anymore. Not sure how much longer she’ll keep waiting for me when I can’t give her what she needs. Doesn’t matter, I guess. You’ll take care of her. I think I knew you loved her first. I was just a competitive asshole.

  We watched a repeat of the Ravens vs Titans game—got out all the banners and gear. Made it a night. A blowout for the ages right here in the sandbox. USofA all the way. Right?

  Hope I make it out. Make it home. I’ll shut up now. This shit’s getting maudlin.

  Keep your head down and I will too.

  Chris

  Present day

  DAMN. DAMN. DAMN. REGGIE. On stage, performing for Rouge.

  And damn my entire team with their wolf whistles and coyote calls.

  The lights shuttered down as soon as the MC finished announcing us as VIPs, and a fucking shiver went through my skin as new spotlights glided across the audience to the very back of the completely crowded, completely lush theater.

  Hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Not the hackles of an imminent attack but a hypersensitive awareness of one woman in particular.

  Reggie.

  Against my will, I shifted in the plush seat, craned my goddamn neck, and my gaze immediately arrowed on her.

  She bent one knee, sliding her hand from taut thigh encased in fishnets to the swell of her hip to the ripe tits almost overflowing the top of her revealing costume. Her leg lengthened, drawing my eyes to the apex then to her heart-shaped mouth outlined in cock-exploding glistening red.

  Every motion of her body as she danced down and down and down toward the stage hell-sent to singe sin onto—into—a man’s mind. Hot, heat, power, fire. Reggie was capable of incinerating my flesh from my bones with just a sway of her hips.

  Tits up, neck stretched back, she wove fingers through the air, conjuring lust on my tongue. As she passed by me, she swiveled so close I smelled her. Perfume—light and compelling. I caught the flutter of her thick eyelashes. My hand rose, halfway to her finely shaped ass before my knuckles cracked when I balled my fist midair.

  Raquel on the field—sleek-skinned and fine-honed—was nothing compared to Reggie saturated by the bright lights. Curvaceous. Challenging. Owning her beauty with every erotic twist of her body.

  I wondered how much she could see with those beams lighting her as she and the other showgirls teased their cock-jerking way through the audience to the stage, because I felt like I could see every single damn part of her body.

  And I wanted to gouge out every other man’s eyes from their skulls. Blind them. Keep the sight of her—the luscious vision in the rouge red costume—all to myself.

  But Reggie wasn’t mine. Never had been.

  She was off-limits all the way.

  I wondered if she knew now I was here?

  If her nipples tightened at the thought.

  If that extra swivel of her hips was directed at me.

  Wishful thinking.

  The Rouge dancers’ first performance was nothing short of flat-out horny.

  Their second routine in a change of costume—like liquid gold melted onto Reggie’s body—made me ache. A trickle of sweat in the air-conditioned theater tracked down the center of my spine.

  I kept my eyes on Reggie, her legs, her hips, her—fuck—her tilted-up tits, because if I saw any of my teammates drooling over her I’d goddamn lose the rest of my cool.

  Except it didn’t help, watching her. Fantasizing. My cock so hard it hurt.

  The leg swings, the hip pumps, the intensely sexual choreography designed to peel back layers and layers of civility—enough to make a gentleman want to rip flimsy clothes away and thrust hard cock into hot cunt.

  God, her lips were still dark wet red. I could see it, even from our slight distance from the stage.

  And—God-fucking-dammit—I knew the other dudes would be drooling even before Loose-Lips Luke Buckley said, “Hey, isn't that the chick that was at the game, Malone?”

  “You shut your fucking mouth about her.” I snarled in a hoarse lethal whisper.

  I’d never shown my temper in front of the Crush team because they hadn’t roused it before. But a deep black place resided in my soul, and it had just cracked wide open. Being in Nevada, faced with all the haunting memories, unleashed a primitive pain, one I’d be happy to unleash on Buckley if he crossed the line I barely held taut around my instincts.

  “Damn. Touchy much?” Bunyan knocked my shoulder, trying to ease the tension in his bluff way.

  “Her name's Reggie.” I nodded toward the stage.

  “She don’t look like no Reggie.” Bunyan followed my line of sight, and I knew without looking all the men were in tune to me, listening.

  “Reggie. Regina Malone,” I uttered.

  Brooklyn, who had an arm looped around Delaney’s shoulder, turned to me. “Malone? So that means she’s your—”

  “My sister-in-law.” I hoped my clamped-tight expression put an end to the questions because I couldn’t handle an interrogation right now.

  Buckley muttered, “Lucky bastard!” in unison with Brooks’ hissed, “Holy shit.”

  I heard nothing else. Felt everything I’d dammed up inside. Memories I fought hard to bury rose to the surface. Chris, my younger brother, killed in his F-16 Falcon, location always unknown. Captain Christopher J. Malone blown up midair.

  Growing up, we’d been best friends, the way only brothers can be. Wrestling, razzing each other, placing bets on any old thing . . . but we always had one another’s backs. I hadn’t even let Reggie come between us, even though I had wanted her first. Been friends with her first.

  I saw Chris’s ghost everywhere, knew I was letting him down every day. Drugs and sex used to take the edge off my grief. Now I didn’t have a single solitary crutch, and watching Reggie dangle her body in front of a crowded house in a revealing outfit had fiery heat nearly bending my vision, warping my will.

  My whole family had been devastated. My mom, my dad. Reggie, widowed. We’d been at the airport, on the hot tarmac as the Air Force plane touched down. Stinging tears had pressed against my eyes behind the sunglasses on my face.

  Salty taste in my mouth. Wavering vision.

  Reggie alone stayed strong. She’d shuddered just once, and I’d wanted to curl her against me, but I couldn’t because something else—deeper and needier—wanted to stamp her as mine.

  How fucking sick was that? My dead brother’s wife.

  His hadn’t been the only coffin draped in Stars and Stripes that day.

  When someone dies—when your younger brother gives his life—and you screw everything up because you’re such a fucking coward, there’s nothing left but the physical.

  Flesh. Fucking. Drugs.

  Now . . . playing football. Staying clean. I’d gotten over my addictions. Was trying to earn some sort of respect back.

  Everyone had been devastated, but I was the only one who’d given in to the bleaker side of things, the seedier side of life. Put my own life, my career, at risk instead of dealing with reality.

  What kind of man does that? Makes his family worry more when they’ve just lost everything? Surviving the worst tragedy any parent could ever imagine.

  I was weak. Unworthy.

  Worse, I was sick to my soul because one of the thoughts I’d had when we laid Chris to rest was Reggie was free game. Like she was some kind of prize or something. Not a bereaved widow.

  Coming back to Nevada, to my home state, tore everything
apart inside me, and I needed to anchor myself.

  Reggie and I had always sought one another in tough times, before Chris’s death. But it wasn’t gonna work this time.

  The only thing watching her succeeded in doing was working me into a lather and therefore making me feel like even more of a dirty, vile asshole.

  We’d never touched like that. Kissed like that. Friends had been the limit because Chris had pursued her, and no way would I have stood between them.

  The Rouge showstopper number with Reggie’s ball-churning, dick-hardening, barely there, mostly sheer costume hardly concealing more than her nipples and ass and pussy was dangerously close to becoming jerk-off material.

  I had never fucked my fist thinking about her. Wouldn’t, couldn’t, let myself go there while I took the edge off my cock.

  Yay. One point in my honor.

  Not allowing myself to rub my chub with Reggie on my mind . . . if that was all I had going for me I was in worse shape than I thought.

  Christ Almighty. When she started in with the sultry croon—when I thought she was gonna wrap those gorgeous legs right around the dude on the piano bench—I gripped the armrests of my seat. Grinded my teeth to dust. Willed my dick to stay motherfucking flaccid, like that was even possible.

  Echoes of Reggie’s lusty voice spilled over me as the song/seduction ended. I remained in my seat, ramrod straight, when the curtains shimmered down over the black stage just like Reggie had swished and swayed off stage.

  Thank fuck the torture’s over.

  Other team members surged to their feet, the Cougars, Peyton, too. They blew out loud whistles while I sat, clapping woodenly, wishing this whole trip was already over.

  “Dude, you gotta get us backstage.” Bunyan leaned over me.

  Fuck.

  My MO was to lockdown. Get the hell out of Dodge. I wanted to head to the hotel. Hell, I wanted to catch a red-eye back to Charleston at that point.

  I dragged in a deep breath and unclenched my fists from the chair armrests. “Fine. Follow me.”

  Chapter Five

  Forbidden

  Calder

  I’D BEEN TO ONE or two of Reggie’s shows before, with Chris, just another way to torment myself. So, security recognized me. Hell, they probably recognized the entire Crush team at my back, testosterone-laden energy filling the plush hallway.

  One staffer in particular—Tom—big enough to rival Akoni’s linebacker standards, clapped me on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, man. I know Reggie worries about you.”

  I forced a smile on my lips, grim though it was. “She been doing okay?”

  “Good days and bad days. You know how it is. But we look out for her.”

  I know. I had more bad than good days. And I wanted to be the one looking out for her, but I couldn’t fault Tom.

  “She’ll be happy to see you. And the whole Carolina team, by the looks of it.” A wide grin spanned his mouth. Leaning against the wall, he motioned us forward. “G’on.”

  I paused for just a second to shake his hand, man to man, firm grip, fully aware Brooklyn with his shrewd eyes took it all in, had heard every single word.

  Reluctantly, I rapped my knuckles against the dressing room door shared by all the women.

  Hoped to hell they hadn’t started stripping down yet, but my team knew what that was like. Caught in the camera lens, questioned by reporters in the locker room immediately after a game, stripping out of sweaty gear.

  My girl opened the door, and a soft smile curved her soft lips.

  “Reggie? Sorry. The guys asked if I could bring them back here.” I scanned quickly downward to make sure she was fully clothed—as fully clothed as the final costume left her—then swept back up.

  A flush stained her cheeks, and the glittering gold flecks in her earthy eyes sparkled. “You may enter the women’s realm.”

  Boisterous met bawdy the instant Reggie allowed us into their domain.

  I remained removed, watching only, watching only Reggie.

  She, as well as the other women, effortlessly made my team at home. The air could snap to sexual in a moment, but only light banter was traded. Delaney was there, too. The rest of the Cougars and Peyton Fox. Enough feminine energy to overwhelm a man, but I was only overwhelmed by Reggie.

  She shook her hair back, her glance sliding to me as Jillian sauntered my way. I knew all about the tall blonde. The rivalry between her and Reggie was legendary because Reggie was top goddess. I felt Raquel’s eyes on me, too. Talk about being pinned in the crosshairs.

  Jillian lifted her lips to my cheek—a touch I wanted to detach from—murmuring an invitation I didn’t register.

  Beautiful as Jillian was, she was glaciers. Not the warmth of the sun that drew my gaze again and again—Reggie.

  Jillian had no chance closing any deal with me.

  I realized now why I’d kept Raquel at arm’s length all the time, too.

  I was looking at the reason—Reggie—right in the face.

  She blushed. But then again, Bunyan had dipped his head, lifted her hand to his lips.

  I hated myself in that moment when she welcomed my teammates with open arms, a press of palms. Hated myself for all the selfish despicable thoughts I’d had since Chris had died. I’d been her friend first, before he’d seduced her into a life she didn’t fit, maybe hadn’t necessarily wanted.

  Military wife.

  She’d made a good one. But this right here was Reggie’s calling.

  Every single part of me rolled with caged tension.

  I’d always hungered for her. Never closed the deal. Chris had always been the go-getter. And he’d sure gotten her.

  She had always been my anchor. My desire. She just never knew it.

  Reggie approached, and I steeled myself. Steadied myself. That goddamn costume was just a tease to my heightened senses when every reaction and action centered on her. Up close. Goddamn. The sheen of fresh perspiration overlaying light body glitter. Scent of flowers and . . . sheer hunger. Maybe that was me. Probably me. I was so fucking hard from that feminine display of strength combined with total eroticism, her low silky voice when she’d been on stage.

  Enthralled.

  Her lashes drifted to her cheeks demurely, and her hands skimmed my forearms.

  My thighs quaked, the hair on my arms possibly rose straight up as if I’d been electrocuted.

  And she wore a blush. High on her cheeks.

  Oh Christ. I almost rocked forward, grabbed her hair, grabbed her lips in mine.

  Steady. Steel. Inhaling and exhaling slowly instead of blowing out breaths like a stallion ready to breed.

  And Jesus Christ, now I was thinking like Brooklyn?

  Reggie rose against me, and I had no choice but to do the brotherly thing. Fold my arms over her back to balance her.

  “You haven’t told them?” she whispered against my ear.

  Ahhh. So the secret was the only reason she slipped so close to me. Should’ve known.

  Head shake.

  “Told us what?” Brooks butted in, angled near my left shoulder with an arm hooked around Delaney.

  Reggie withdrew, pulling my hands between hers. A frown I never wanted to see marred her forehead.

  “Anyone?” She kept solemn eyes on mine, but I dipped my head, and saw she still wore the engagement ring and wedding band over a year later.

  “Coaches know,” I spoke gruffly, ignoring Brooks. “Peyton knows.”

  “Oh, Calder.” Lifting up to her tiptoes, she pulled me into a hug with her hands braced against my shoulders.

  Not before I’d seen it. The reason I hadn’t told my teammates. There it was. The pity running across her expression—the sympathy she deserved a thousand times more than me.

  I closed my eyes as her scent clung to me as much as her curves. Bursts of light exploded behind my eyelids. My chest heaved, reaching the breaking point of the amount of breaths I could take inside and out.

  Fuck.

  Not here
. Not now. Not with her in my arms.

  Something rolled in my gut. Knotted in my heart. Made me feel like throwing up.

  The swamp of feeling made me sweaty and cold and hot and cramped all over.

  I broke away from Reggie. I heard nothing but the echo of trumpets and drum beats and patriotic pledges and gun shots on the day of Chris’s burial, and . . . I ran from the room. I bolted past Tom. I’d gone a full motherfucking block before I figured out I was way off the rez.

  Panicked breaths slowed.

  In.

  Out.

  Fill lungs.

  Release air.

  Breathe.

  “Shit,” I muttered to no one at all, or so I thought.

  “Next time you put that kind of sprint on, how about you do it on the field?” Brooklyn Holt hunkered beside me as I dropped down in an alley with no escape.

  Unbelievably the man passed me a water bottle he’d produced from nowhere.

  “What the fuck? You bring a go-bag or something?” I asked.

  “Or something. Panic attack, huh?”

  I twisted the cap, took a deep glug. I swiped my arm against my mouth. “Okay, now you’re just emasculating me.”

  “Didn’t think you knew the meaning of that word.”

  “More than Luke Buckley does.”

  “And Bunyan.”

  “And Bunyan.” I met Brooks’ fist with a tap.

  Wasn’t gonna look the big Texan in the eye, though.

  “You didn’t tell us you had a brother.” Flat statement, compassionate voice.

  My jaw hardened. “He died in the war, for our country.”

  “Sorry, man. Can’t imagine what that must be like. Coping with it.” He sat beside me, knees cracking. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  “If I said no, would that stop you?”

  “P’rolly not.”

  “Shoot.”

  “So is his death the reason for the drugs and all that? Because you seem to be the type of dude on a pretty even keel.”

  I drew my palms down the sides of my face, shaking my head. “Can’t blame Chris for my weakness, can I?”