Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 22

  The hypervelocity of my pulse keeps me at the foot of the stairs longer than security would like, but I keep holding up a finger for one more minute. I take a deep breath that feels like I inhaled nails, and head up the curved staircase, not quite ready to face Vance’s peers.

  I’ve entered harsher places wearing worse, so I pop my shoulders back and lift my chin, ready for harsh critique and instant disapproval. To my relief as much as my horror, my fears don’t even come close to being met. I don’t make a dent in the conversations or even warrant an interested glance that lasts longer than a few seconds. I may as well be dirt dragged in on a shoe for all the notice I receive until the friendly grin of Greg Middleton, the only teammate of Vance’s that he’s officially introduced me to, catches my eye. His grin expands to a smile between the thick brown hairs of his goatee as he offers a quick wave, even though he is otherwise occupied by one of the tallest women I’ve ever seen.

  I stop at the bar and order a Jameson whiskey, something familiar. Glass in hand, I feel the small presence of home, and with that friendly reminder, I can do anything.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Vance has my glass in his hand and is sniffing it before I can protest. His grin is wicked behind the clear glass, and as he pulls the glass away, it broadens further. “Whiskey?”

  I don’t see the need to respond, and I wait for him to say something that might spark a conversation between us. Instead, he leans in for a kiss and I forget what the hell I’m doing because this is a first. Vance, while affectionate, doesn’t put it on display often.

  “You good?” he asks, setting the glass down on the bar behind me.

  I slump in the shoulders and pull on his tie. “You just took me by surprise.”

  He leans in closer and I breathe him in, making no effort to hide it. “Too much too soon? Want me to ease up on the PDA?”

  “No,” I say softly. “I want more of that . . . much more.” I lift my eyebrows, teasing him with my meaning.

  “Let’s go,” he says, grabbing my hand.

  I shake my head. “You have schmoozing to do. I can wait.”

  “I can’t.” He sucks on my earlobe making it nice and wet like another part of me. “I’ve missed you . . . a lot,” he whispers, and his face crashes into mine as Halsey, catcher for the Renegades, claps him on the back.

  “She really does exist.”

  Ben Halsey is hot. One lone dimple on his right cheek could spark a conversation from nothing. His brown hair is straight, one length, and comes to his shoulders. In his pictures, it’s pulled back into a ponytail so that it looks uniformly short. Tonight, it hangs loose and glows healthy beneath the low lighting. He’s jovial, and even if he were ass-ugly, his personality would draw women to him in flocks of naked flesh. He brushes Vance to the side, and I grin, enjoying the attention.

  I reach out a hand to introduce myself and he takes it, completing the introductions. “Brenna, right?” He allows me a nod to confirm and then continues. “You’re way prettier than Van described.”

  I look at Vance. All sorts of possible retorts are flooding my mouth, but before I can spit one out, Ben is taking it back with both a grin and a wave of his hand. “Kidding. Totally kidding. He says great things about you, which is why I thought you were made up. Well, that, and who would be with this ugly mug?” He pinches Vance’s cheeks together like a fat aunt, and Vance slaps his hand away with none of the nephew affection.

  Chip, Vance’s overbearing manager whom I’ve had the displeasure of meeting only once and briefly at that, squeezes in between Ben and Vance, his demeanor brusque. He’s dark-haired and light-eyed, always moving too fast for the environment but never fast enough to keep Vance in a good mood. “And here she is.” Chip looks at me, his smirk a tad too condescending for my liking. “Where’s your entourage?” He looks around, for what or whom I’m not sure.

  “And what entourage would that be?”

  “The family usually attached to your hip. Didn’t they come with you the last time?”

  “Once.” My tone is guarded, uncertainty keeping it on the cordial side of defensive.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course, just the one time.” He waves off any reservations his question may have incited and brightens his smirk into a lovely smile. I wouldn’t buy if it came with Cheetos and a drink.

  “Yeah, where’s the fam bam?” Ben asks, grinning, and that winning dimple deepens. “I heard there was a twin.”

  “Both of you, go bother someone else.” Vance presents them with his back then worms his way in front of me and places both hands on the bar behind me, caging me in and shutting the other two out. I look up at him and grin. His tie hangs away from his body and dangles like a pendulum between us. I grab it and tug him down to me.

  “That’s not schmoozing.”

  “I don’t have to schmooze those two.”

  Ben buckles Vance’s knee with a toe tap to the back of it and laughs as he walks away. “Nice meeting you, Brenna,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Glad to know you’re not inflatable latex.” He treks off for parts unknown, leaving a wake of quivering flesh at a table of groupies as he passes.

  Chip isn’t so quick to depart. “Van, I’m not done. We need to discuss some business.” Vance turns to face him, giving Chip the attention he’s learned over the years to produce. “You have a photoshoot with Jock magazine tomorrow. We’ll meet downtown at VOA Studios at noon. Don’t be late.”

  Vance groans. “I don’t do photoshoots.”

  “You don’t have that option. It’s not just you. It’s the team too. The top dog set it up. And if they ask, make yourself available for an interview.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “I’m not asking.” His brusque demeanor flows to his tone, and Vance’s body stiffens beside mine.

  “Brenna is only in town for one day. I’m not spending it at a photoshoot. Reschedule it.”

  Backing up and out of the conversation with Vance, Chip’s expression hardens and his gaze briefly strays to mine before tightening on Vance. “I’m not rescheduling shit. Don’t be late, Van.”

  Vance, looking irritated, returns his attention to me, though his thoughts are still likely on Chip and the photoshoot. He groans, getting really close and personal with his body against mine. “Where were we?”

  “You were supposed to schmooze.”

  He tilts his head down, kissing my neck. “How’m I doing?”

  “I’m not complaining, but if this is how you schmooze everyone, we’re going to have a problem.”

  He pulls back a fraction, looking at me like I’m a tabloid and he doesn’t know how much of it to believe. “Really? Do you need me to show you just how exclusive you are?” He runs a finger up my inner thigh and everything between my ears and ankles tingles.

  I grab his hand, pulling it away before he can coax me into a hands-on demonstration. “What you have in mind will convince more than me, and I’m okay with the tabloids not knowing everything. They think I’m a virgin. I kind of like that.” I kiss his chin, looking up at him, expression playful.

  “I’m changing that later. Don’t expect to be a virgin long.”

  Absolutely no one other than Bristol has ever had the power to sweet talk me into doing something I’m not comfortable doing. Even with her, I’m usually pretty headstrong before I cave. But then along came Vance, who only had to ask me twice and kiss me once to convince me to go to his photoshoot. I gave him a million-and-one reasons why I didn’t think it was a good idea, but he only had to give me one: time. We just don’t have enough of it together, and in his words, “a stupid photoshoot shouldn’t rob us of more.” Well, that and he said he wouldn’t go unless I came along. I heard the warnings from Chip, even if Vance didn’t. So here I wait alongside Vance and the others at VOA Studios.

  A rep from Jock finally greets us thirty minutes past the scheduled time. She’s at least apologetic and looking guiltily frantic as she tries to make up for her tardiness with an awkward smile and rushe
d wrangling. Vance expresses his irritation as she separates us from the pack of fifteen. Having probably dealt with much worse than Van Hatfield and his asshole manager, she doesn’t validate their irritability with another apology and continues guiding us to another area.

  “Why do you find this funny?” Vance directs his question to me.

  “You’re a diva. I’ve spent longer waiting for a parking spot.”

  “If Van isn’t working on his art, he should be selling it. In the time you take to circle the parking lot, Vance could be losing a million-dollar endorsement. You need to understand that.” Chip, walking a few steps behind us chimes in, uninvited and irritatingly dickish because he’s not happy I’m here. If not for the plain-looking woman who greets us while extending a hand to Vance, I’d have retorted with something equally dickish, and I like to think mine is bigger than his.

  “Mr. Hatfield, I’m Lena Liu. I’ll be photographing you today.”

  He accepts her hand and shakes it. “Van, and this is my girlfriend, Brenna—”

  Talking over Vance, Chip introduces himself, his job title preceding his four-letter name and the hand he juts out at her. Arrogant prick.

  She smiles at all of us, revealing straight teeth, stained by nothing more than a long life. Her black, shiny hair is thin, straight, and hangs in a natural sheet over both shoulders. She has an odd sense of style, but it’s not altogether unpleasing, just . . . different. Definitely eclectic, as none of her clothing matches, but somehow on her it’s the right blend of mismatch and swank. In a world dominated by busty blondes and arrogant men, this woman who is so exceptionally herself is a welcome sight.

  She leads us to a back room where she directs Vance to a chair in front of a mirror flanked by a stylist who doesn’t have a personable bone in her body. Chip, on his cell phone, follows Vance, and I wait with Lena while they prep Vance for his shoot. Since it’s about sports, I’ve never really paid much attention to Jock magazine, but Uncle Rodney always has it lying around The Seam. All I really know about it is that it’s a sports magazine that uses the name in every cover title. For instance, the one that stands out the most in my mind is the one they used for quarterback Matt Marrow of the Cincinnati Bengals, which read: Captain Jock Marrow. The play on the popular Pirates of the Caribbean character was brilliant. It’s a clever marketing strategy because even though I’m not a sports fan, I always look to see what the cover says.

  I talk shop for a bit with Lena, asking her questions about the business in hopes of learning whether I would want to use my graphic design degree in this capacity rather than for the freelance plans I have. While not discouraging me from freelancing, she isn’t fully supportive either and says I should at least wait until I’ve established a name for myself.

  “You could always start someplace like Jock or a publishing company that does their own book covers and marketing materials, and then, once you have some experience there, you can test the waters and your supporters for freelance work. Remind me to give you my card after this, and if you’d like to talk some more, we can set up a time. There are a lot of opportunities out there. You just have to know the right people.” She smiles and winks, adjusting the vintage silver cuff around her wrist. “I know the right people.”

  Vance joins us, and Lena is instantly on her feet and prepping him for his first frame. Fifteen minutes after the shoot begins, I can tell how this is going to go if something doesn’t change. Vance is on edge, still pissed about his time being wasted and irritated that he’s here at all. Lena tries to put him at ease and direct him, but Vance either isn’t listening or is flat out being obstinate.

  He’s sexier than he is portraying, funnier than he comes across, and as of this moment, he’s wasting more of his own time than anyone else has been up to this point. I close my eyes and stare down into my lap, gripping the edge of the chair in frustration as Lena tells him one more time to relax, and Chip gripes at him about needing a good shot.

  “Could you give us a minute?” I pop out of my chair hoping she’ll oblige, but I wait in case I have no right to ask. This is her show, and by the way Chip is barking orders, it’s his too, so I hesitate out of respect.

  She nods once, taking a reluctant Chip with her as she and her camera step aside and take my vacated spot over by the desk. Vance paces in short strides, running his hand through his recently styled hair.

  As I reach him, I grab his wrist and pull his hand out of his mussed hair.

  “What?” His impatience is tangible.

  “Relax,” I say softly, drawing him into me with my hand still on his wrist. “Let them see what I see.”

  “I hate this,” he admits, but I can feel him loosening as he wraps both hands around my waist.

  “Think about it differently then. Quit looking at it as a tax on your time and see it as a step to your future. This article could lead to endorsements.” His lips drop the scowl and tighten into a thin line. “With this little bit of scruff,” I run my hand along his cheek where a day’s worth of growth blooms black, “you could get a razor commercial.” I run my hands down his arms, touching the taut muscles and tattoos that adorn them. “Or a Giorgio Armani ad.” I lift his shirt with two fingers on the hem and expose his abs, running my index finger up to his navel. “I wouldn’t mind seeing this in a cologne ad, or with the caption ‘what’s beneath your jeans’ on a Calvin’s billboard.”

  Vance groans and grabs both my wrists, restraining them behind my back while he lowers his lips to my neck. “You’ve made your point. And if you don’t stop, they’re going to get more than just photographs and Chip’s going to have a coronary.”

  I grin and kiss his chest, and he rests his chin on top of my head.

  “Thank you,” he says softly.

  I move to let him have the stage and Lena to get her shots, but she stops us, placing a hand on my arm to keep me beside him. “I’d like to try something different,” she says, positioning my body to face hers. “But first I’d like you to see this.” She shows us the viewing window of her camera and pulses through several pictures, first of Vance alone, and then of us, in our pep-talk embrace. “See the difference?”

  I don’t think either of us knows what we’re looking for, so Lena goes back to the first picture of Vance, posing with his ball and glove. “Look,” and then she scrolls forward to one of us facing each other, his hands on my hips, and his chin on the top of my head. “Now, look at this one. What do you see?”

  “She looks a hell of a lot better than the props,” Vance replies.

  Lena smiles, nodding with vigorous agreement, while I still look a little lost. “There is no denying that. But look at you. Look at your reaction to her. You’re relaxed. We could spend all day here and I wouldn’t be able to coax that out of you. Three minutes and she had you.”

  “No!” He pulls away from both of us.

  “Hear me out?” Lena begs.

  “Hear you out about what?” I ask, confused by his reaction.

  Vance’s hand is through his hair again and he paces behind us, coming to a stop a few feet from me. “She wants to photograph you,” he says bitterly. “There isn’t a chance in hell I’m going to let you exploit her. Not a fucking chance.” There doesn’t seem to be any room for negotiation as far as I can tell, but Lena doesn’t shrink.

  “Don’t you think that’s already happened? Each time you two step out in public, or even at times when you think you’re in private, they’re snapping pictures of her. With me at least, you control what they see. You can’t deny the chemistry. What I just shot is magic, and you weren’t even trying.”

  “No!” he barks.

  “I concur,” Chip adds. His face, a few shades short of crimson, is tight and his dark hair, touched with silver, is mussed by an impatient hand. He’s beginning to sweat, and I question why concern about a few lousy pictures has him sweating out of his business attire.

  Tearing my eyes from his sweat-soaked pits, I look between the artist and her subject, wondering wh
en any one of them is going to consult me. “I’ll do it,” I chime in, but no one notices and they continue to fight it out. “I’ll do it,” I repeat louder.

  They simultaneously stop and look at me with varying expressions. Vance is the first to speak, not because he’s quicker, but because Lena defers to him when she sees his expression.

  “Hell no!”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Because it’ll be a permanent fucking record. That’s why!” Chip’s outburst draws everyone’s attention. “Van, you do this and you may as well put a ring on it. You’ve worked hard to establish an image. Don’t fuck it up now by adding permanence to something that is passing.”

  Vance asks Lena for another moment, and promising us ten minutes, she walks out. Vance follows her with his eyes until she is out the door and out of sight. He then directs his attention to Chip, who has sweated through his blue dress shirt. “Watch it. You’re walking a thin line.”

  “Sorry. It came out wrong. I meant the tabloids think she’s a passing thing, not that she actually is. Posing for a picture is quite different from being captured in one. It’s giving them an unspoken response, and we don’t respond, remember?”

  I should be bothered by his opinion of me, but it’s shared by everyone Vance comes in contact with. Anyone who pulls his attention away from baseball and endorsements isn’t going to get a favorable review from Chip.

  “You’ve advised me. Consider your job done. I’ll call you when we’re through.”

  He waits around like Vance might change his mind, and I shift on my feet nervously, looking down to witness Chip’s fist furiously opening and closing at his side. “Van, now isn’t the time to be impulsive.”

  Cords of taught tendons tighten further in Vance’s neck. “Impulsive would be firing you for that comment. My restraint is limited, so I suggest you wait in the hall or leave altogether.”