Текст книги "Scoring Wilder"

Автор книги: R. S. Grey

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Scoring Wilder

R.S. Grey

For all of the wonderful readers and

bloggers in the indie community.

Chapter One

Cheat on me once, shame on him. Cheat on me twice... what the actual fuck is going on?

How in the world have I managed to find my last two boyfriends cheating on me? No, not together. Although, that would have been much more poetic, and at least they could have included me or something.

The reality was much worse.

"Wow. What a treat to walk in on," I noted harshly as I stood in the doorway of Josh's bedroom. Josh and the nameless bimbo screamed and jumped apart on his bed, causing his navy sheets to tumble to the ground. His brown eyes found mine, and for one brief second, I mourned the loss of his warm gaze, but then my field of vision 5/890

widened and I was slapped with the sad scene before me.

My boyfriend of four months was cheating on me. No, scratch that. My friend of four years, turned boyfriend of four months, was cheating on me.

"Oh, no. Please, don't stop on my account. I'm only his girlfriend," I hissed at the bimbo, trying to calm my temper. I was known to be feisty on a good day, so that was hardly brushing the surface for me.

Josh's dark brown hair was ruffled from the bimbo's hands. His sharp features were pitiful, but still handsome. I barely glanced in the girl's direction. Platinum blonde hair was the only feature I noticed. Probably because it was bright enough to burn through my corneas. First, she steals my boyfriend, 6/890

and then she renders me visionless. Just great.

Is my judgment of character so mis-aligned that I can't spot the good guys from the bad? No. It's just the fact that I happen to go for guys that can't keep tramps out of their pants. You know the type: young and insanely good-looking.

"Kinsley! It's not—"

"… What it looks like,” I finished for him. “Wow, Josh. You know Trey said the same thing, but he didn't have that look of anguish you've got going on right now. Seriously, good work." I applauded him with a hard stare. My claps rang out around the room, and I realized then that it was time for me to leave.

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It was a different guy, a different girl, but there was that same twisting sensation in my gut like I was about to keel over on the spot. I spun around and flipped them both the bird before heading back toward the living room to grab my purse.

I heard shuffling and awkward grunts behind me, but I didn't turn around.

"Josh, where are you going? Let her go, we aren't done!" Oh good, she hadn't had her orgasm yet. Maybe my timing wasn't all that bad.

"Kinsley! Wait!" Josh yelled behind me.

Did he think we were in the middle of a telenovela?

"Josh, it's over. Don't bother," I said as I threw my purse over my shoulder.

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His hand reached out to clasp mine, and I had to actively fight the urge to punch his dick off. Seriously, is it that hard to stay faithful? Are men physically incapable?

"Kinsley! I love you. I love you!" He spun me around, holding the bed sheet up with his right hand and clasping my arm with the other. His eyes were wild, and for a brief moment, I believed him.

Oh god. He did it. He went there. And you know what the sad thing is? I don't even think he was giving me a line. I think the poor schmuck actually thought that he loved me.

"Well, if that's how you show your love I can't imagine the elaborate things you do for your parents."

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"Please– hear me out. This meant nothing."

I wasn't listening. I was already building a wall between us. "Thank you, Josh. Thank you for ruining my capacity to trust so that any guy that comes after you will automatically have the cards stacked against him."

Josh had stolen another chunk of my heart, my naiveté, my innocence, and smashed it under his perfectly toned body.

When I met him I was on my way to feeling jaded to the whole dating process. I'd already been cheated on once by my boyfriend of six months, Trey, who also happened to be the guy that had taken my virginity. (I know, I know. They should make a hallmark card for that experience since it’s so cliché: “Whoops, sorry your high school boyfriend can’t keep it 10/890

in his pants… here’s a cute puppy wearing a bowtie.”)

But now? Now I was about ten miles past jaded. It was time to trade in my designer dresses for patterned muumuus and house slippers. Maybe I could join a support group for divorcées over fifty. You know, those women that decide they don't need men to be happy. They'll just knit, take group trips to the Caribbean, and say things like "I always wanted to go out to eat, but Jeff insisted I cook for him. I'm going out to eat every night now, damnit!"

Only problem: I'm eighteen. They'd probably think I was trying to be an ironic hipster.

Whatever, I'd figure it out.

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Josh kept calling my name as I walked out of his apartment. A huge part of me wanted to trash everything in my path, but he was moving the next day and I didn't think it'd be right to screw over his landlord.

Instead, I just flipped my brown hair over my shoulder and relished in the fact that my legs looked killer in my cut-off shorts.

Keep yelling, Josh, but I'm never turning back.

Chapter Two

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!" I screamed before I downed the fifth shot of the night. The liquor slid over my tongue, but I could hardly taste it anymore. It was my nineteenth birthday, so I was allowed to go a little wild. Not to mention, it was two weeks since I’d walked in on Josh cheating on me, and I was just entering the height of the “guys-can-go-fuck-themselves” phase.

Next would be the “guys-can-seriously-go-fuck-themselves” phase, the crucial final step in the cheated-on grieving process.

"I dunno, Kinsley. Tequila ‘hath’ a pretty wicked fury." Emily frowned as she took the shot glass out of my hand and replaced it with a glass of water. I'd only known Emily for a few days, but I could already tell we'd 13/890

have a symbiotic relationship. She was the epitome of the shy girl-next-door, and I was the complete opposite.

Emily and I were two out of five freshmen members of the University of Los Angeles women’s soccer team. It was the beginning of June and training camp would start bright and early the next morning. I knew I was playing with fire by getting drunk the night before, but the veteran girls assured me that I'd be fine. They said the first day was mostly about technical things; basically lots of speeches and meetings about what the program expected out of us. The real practicing didn't usually start until the second day.

I peered over at Emily and closed one eye so that I would only see one of her. She 14/890

was pretty with medium-length red hair that was light enough to where I felt like calling her Peach for the rest of the night.

"Em, you're so pretty. Have I told you that you’re so pretty? Cause you’re so pretty.” She blushed and I made a mental note to get the girl some confidence. Lord knows I had enough for the two of us combined.

You'd think having been cheated on twice would ruin that, but it would take a lot more than two dumb guys to undo the amount of leery gazes and unsolicited charm that had been laid on me my whole life.

I took Emily's hand and pulled her to the restroom down the hall. We were about to leave for a house party and I wanted to make sure I hadn't boozed off all of my makeup.

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Thankfully it wasn't hard to keep on mascara and lip gloss.

"Do you think this is a smart idea? Going to this party before our first practice?" Emily asked, eyeing me in the spotless mirror.

I puckered my lips and wagged my finger like I was about to set her straight. "We'll be fine, and who cares? It's my BIRTHDAY!"

I squealed so loudly that Emily scrunched her nose in distaste. God, we were so different. I wondered if our budding friendship would last the summer. She was a small town girl from the Midwest whereas I was born and raised in the LA soccer world.

"Okay. We'll go and have fun and get back in time to get some sleep before practice," Emily said, nodding her head in agreement. I was already corrupting the girl.

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"How do you look that good after five shots? Seriously?" Emily asked.

I glanced away from her to eye my appearance. Everything was just as it should have been: heart shaped face, small nose, plump lips, tan skin, and bright blue eyes that looked almost fake against my long mane of dark brown hair.

I was about average height and in great shape from soccer. I had lean, toned arms and legs like a cross-country runner.

"Are you kidding? I'd kill for those little freckles. You look like Little Bo Peep!" I laughed, grabbing her hand and forcing her to spin around in a circle like a prima ballerina. How drunk was I at this point?

Emily laughed and spun around, stumbling over her feet and making me laugh 17/890

even harder. "What do freckles have to do with Little Bo Peep?"

A thunderous knock sounded at the door before I could answer.

"Let's go rookies! If we don't leave now there won't be any good alcohol left at the party!"

My ears perked up at that. The party was where I needed to be. It was my last hope of having a good birthday. So far it had been a bit depressing. I'd dumped my cheating boyfriend two weeks prior, my parents had ditched me for snow and the Aspen Country Club, and all of my high school friends had moved away for college. I'd bought myself a piece of Italian cream cake and eaten it alone in a cafe, people watching and feeling extremely lonely.

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This party was my silver-lining, and I needed to make sure I made the most of it.

"Lead the way, Bo Peep!" I winked and locked elbows with Emily before we left the bathroom.

We walked back into the living room and I surveyed the group of girls that would form my soccer team for the next four years. Most of them I'd met when I was being recruited.

They all seemed nice enough and I knew I'd get to know them a lot better once we started training.

The seniors were the only girls that seemed like they might want to cause problems. Tara was the captain of the team and everything about her cried out tyrannical tendencies. Her fellow seniors followed her around like little minions, except less cute.

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Hopefully I'd end up on Tara's good side, but past experience told me that was less than likely. I was heavily recruited for the team and had been voted rookie of the year by several soccer magazines prior to my signing on at ULA, which is why her radar was already locked onto me. I was a threat to her well-oiled system, which was made perfectly clear when she'd snubbed me at tryouts in front of everyone a few months prior.

Whatever. If I could survive her, then I'd be fine. I just had to do my job and play excellent soccer, that way she wouldn't have anything to complain about.

“Kinsley, Emily, wait for me!” Becca yelled as we pushed our way through the front door. Becca was another rookie on the team. She’d moved into the Rookie house the 20/890

day before and we'd hardly had any time to hangout, but I could already tell our personalities would blend well together. She was gorgeous; she was only a few inches shorter than me with hazel eyes and bright blonde hair.

I spun around to wait for her as she ran over from the Underclassmen house that was right next door to the Upperclassmen house.

We called them the Vet and Rookie houses for short.

“I thought you were ditching us,” I said, reaching out to wrap my arm around her shoulder.

“Nope. I had to run over to the Rookie house to grab something.” She patted her purse with a proud grin.

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“Ahhh,” I nodded as we reached the SUV.

The plan was to cram into a single vehicle so that only one person had to be the designated driver. It wasn't the safest form of transportation, but it’d have to work.

"Emily, keep your hands where I can see them," I joked as I laid across the laps of the three girls in the middle row.

"Ew, Kinsley!" Emily protested, and the entire car cracked up. Just to calm her nerves, I reached down and pulled the hem of my tight dress down so that it covered everything.

"Are you having a good birthday so far, Kinsley?" Tara asked from the passenger seat. Funny how we were piled in the back 22/890

like sardines, yet somehow she managed to get the front seat all to herself.

"Yeah. It's been really great," I lied, tacking on a smile to prove how much I was willing to play the game. I really didn't want to be on her bad side.

"Oh really? Sofie saw you eating a piece of cake all by yourself in that cafe near campus." She shot me a piteous look complete with sad eyes and a small frown. I didn't even glance toward Sofie, the designated driver and co-captain of our team.

"Oh weird… I was there with Leonardo DiCaprio. He must have been in the bathroom when Sofie was spying on me," I quipped, making everyone in the SUV laugh, except, of course, Sofie and Tara. I knew the

"spying on me" comment was a tad 23/890

aggressive, but what kind of bully picks on someone on their birthday?

"Spying on you? We have better things to do, Bryant," she scoffed, and then turned back toward the front window. I didn't mind when teammates called me by my last name but with her, it was almost a little dig, like calling someone "kid" when you're the same age as they are.

"We'll sing you happy birthday when we get to the party!" Becca suggested as she supported the middle of my body on top of her lap. Everyone agreed and promised to sing as soon as we arrived. Their support felt good in that moment and I let Tara's comments roll off my back. It was too early in the season to have an enemy like her.

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A popular club mix came on the radio and Tara reached forward to turn it on full blast so that everyone started dancing. Becca gyrated her hips beneath me, making my body bounce up and down. In my inebriated state I couldn't keep my balance. One quite aggressive dance move knocked me forward so that my cheek collided with the middle console.

"Jesus, Becca—your hips should have their own warning label," I laughed, holding my hand to my cheek. I could already feel a bruise forming.

"Oh, crap! Sorry, Kinsley, we'll get some ice at the party," she giggled and helped pull me back up onto her lap. Even though my cheek was throbbing I couldn’t stop laughing 25/890

with Becca. Yup, we’d be a dynamic duo in no time.

When we finally arrived at the house party, we stumbled out of the car and attempted to piece ourselves together. I adjusted my black dress and tried to stand confidently on my heels that were too tall even before taking five shots.

"How does your cheek feel?" Emily asked as we made our way up the modern concrete stairs.

"Now it feels kind of numb from the alcohol, I think… My face hasn't fallen off, has it?"

Emily laughed and tugged me toward the front door. "No, you just have a big red spot on your cheek."

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Oh perfect, the first time I see Josh since the break-up and I probably look like I got punched in the face. I moaned and tried to shake out my nerves.

I'd never actually been to one of these le-gendary parties. I'd heard about them, of course. Every year a few of the guys from the professional soccer team in LA, the LA Stars, rent a giant house together. It was a "work hard, play harder" situation. This year, when Josh had been signed to the professional team, he'd moved into the house– which is why I knew he'd be at the party.

The LA Stars were the top soccer team in the US. Last year, five of their team members competed for the US in the World Cup only to lose in the last few minutes to Portugal.

Needless to say, they were some of the top 27/890

athletes in the world, with sponsorships and frequent spots on the talk-show circuit.

When we stepped into the house, my vision was bombarded with a plethora of beautiful people. Groupies, celebrities, soccer stars. It was hard to see through all the dancing bodies, but at least the chances of seeing Josh were pretty slim.

"Don't go too crazy, girls. Remember that you're representing our team now," Tara warned before she and Sofie took off and left us in the entryway.

"This is crazy," Emily murmured. I looked over to see her gulping down the scene with quick darting glances. I guess it was a lot to process, especially since LA was already an over the top town to begin with.

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"Let's go find some ice for my cheek." I grabbed her hand and started tugging her through the crowd with Becca in tow.

It was hardly 10:00 P.M. and the party was already in full swing. People were mingling everywhere. Girls were wrapped around guys on the couches. Three tables were set up for beer pong in the living room and there was a mass of people crowded around them.

I waved to some girls I recognized from club teams. Some of them tried to get us to stop and talk, but I pointed to my cheek and told them I'd be back in a bit.

The entire house was a bachelor pad on crack. Open, modern, and filled with every piece of technology imaginable. It was a maze trying to get through the living room, but finally we maneuvered our way into an 29/890

expansive kitchen. It didn’t disappoint. With marble countertops and chic black appli-ances, it fit in perfectly with the rest of the house. The space was less crowded than the other rooms, but there were still at least fifty people between us and the freezer.

"Here, you just stand there and I'll get you some ice." Emily gently pushed me to the side against the kitchen counter so that she could prepare a little ice pack for me with a bunch of paper towels.

My feet were starting to hurt from my four inch heels, so I reached back to prop myself up onto the counter. I should have inspected the spot beforehand because as I hopped up I heard the telltale sound of alcohol bottles tipping over and crashing into the sink.

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"Oops!" I giggled, then covered my mouth with my hands.

"You're a liability," Becca joked, reaching behind me to right the tipped over bottles.

In my drunken state, I didn't seem to care. Sitting on the counter definitely beat standing up on my high heels, and from my vantage point I could see over the heads of everyone standing in the kitchen. The amount of plastic surgery in that room could have rivaled a Miss America dressing room.

Everywhere I looked I was greeted with fake boobs and nose jobs, but it was LA and these women had their jobs cut out for them if they intended on landing a professional athlete.

“Kinsley, scoot back, you’re about to fall off the counter,” Becca said, pulling me out 31/890

of my people-watching zone. I hadn’t realized I’d been swaying so heavily.

I scooted back a little bit so that more of my thighs pressed against the cold granite.

"Oh, here! I almost forgot," she said, reaching down to dig in her purse.

"What is it? What is it?" I clapped my hands together, feeling giddy from the alcohol and party atmosphere. "A vibrator?" I exclaimed loud enough for the few people around us to eye me with suspicious grins. I shot them all a confident smile.

"No, you hussy! It's a birthday crown.

It’s what I had to grab at the Rookie House earlier," she answered, retrieving a pink, sparkly princess crown out of her purse. It looked like a piece of a costume I'd had as a little girl and I instantly loved it.

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"Ooooh. It's beeuuooteefuulll," I drawled with wide eyes as she placed it on the top of my head.

Becca started laughing, making me laugh, and eventually I was clutching my stomach. My nineteenth birthday was definitely getting better. Laughing like an insane person sure beat eating cake alone.

"Here, this should help," Emily said, returning from the freezer and handing me a makeshift icepack with a bemused smile. I'd forgotten my cheek was even injured.

I took the pack and gave her a cheesy grin. "What would I do without you two?!"

"Well you're about to find out because I have to use the bathroom."

"I'll go with you," Becca said, turning toward Emily. "I should find the other 33/890

freshman girls and bring them in here.

They're probably wondering where we went."

"What?" I asked with puppy-dog-eyes.

"You're both leaving me?" I actually felt sad about it.

"Yes, just stay there and keep icing your face. We'll be right back!" Becca called as she and Emily disappeared through the crowd.

What the hell? Now I looked like a big loser sitting by myself with a princess crown and an ice pack. But I'd be damned if I took it off.

I was a birthday princess. I even gave a royal wave to anyone that walked by me.

"That crown looks good on you! Want to do a birthday shot?" A dark voice asked. I looked up to find a group of cute guys surrounding me. They looked a bit older and I knew the one speaking to me was on the LA 34/890

Stars team. If I wasn't drunk I could have told you his name, but I hardly remembered my name. Kinsley Bryant. Kinsley Bryant.

"Well, since my friends ditched me for the pisser, er… I mean the powder room… I might as well," I shrugged.

"That's a good attitude," the cute one said as he passed me a jell-o shot. I decided I’d call him Oliver until I remembered his actual name. He looked like an Oliver.

"Skim your finger around the rim so that you can loosen the jell-o from the plastic," he instructed, stepping closer to me.

I shot him an indignant look. "Do I look like an amateur?" I laughed, tipping back the jell-o in one smooth swoosh.

"Mmm, cherry." I smiled and the guys laughed.

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I would have paid more attention to them or asked for another shot, but the moment the words escaped my lips, I looked toward the doorway of the kitchen and my breath caught in my throat.

Liam Wilder.

Sex on steroids rolled in pastry crust.

Liam Wilder.

I didn't think he showed up to things like this. I thought he jaunted around on yachts and baptized babies all day. Babies that would one day grow up to be swimsuit models, thanks to his touch. No, he’s not a priest; he’s just a god in the soccer world. (And also in the real world.)

Jeez, he was good-looking up close. Tall, toned, sexy light brown hair, and a face that made you want to cry a little it was so 36/890

perfect. He was the star of the LA Stars and the resident bad boy of LA. Seriously. Every week there was news coverage of him leaving a bar with some model or actress. He was young, handsome, and could literally sleep with anyone he wanted. Could you blame the guy for taking advantage of it?

From my vantage point on the counter, I watched him walk into the kitchen with people trailing after him like love-sick puppies. I could get so much done if I had people following me around all day. “You there, make me lunch, and you, fan me with tiny blades of grass.” It’s weird that I had no one applying for the job…

His eyes skimmed the crowd until he found his teammate, the one who'd just given me a jell-o shot, and then his eyes looked 37/890

up and found me. Oh god. I was staring at him as I wore a lopsided birthday crown and held a bag of ice to my face… and it wasn't like I could do anything about it since he was already heading over toward us.

Could I trick him into thinking the ice pack was an elaborate way to get drunk that all the hipsters were using lately? Like I was absorbing alcohol through my pores? Most likely not…

The guys were talking in front of me, but I didn’t hear a single word. I was watching Liam as he moved, trying to keep my tongue from detaching from my mouth. He had on a black short-sleeve shirt. Tattoos peeked out from beneath the sleeve on his left arm. The inked design traveled down to his forearm, 38/890

completing the entire package along with his rugged facial hair and piercing grey eyes.

All right, enough.

"Can I have another jell-o shot?" I asked, shaking myself out of my delirious Liam-filled haze.

"You might want to slow down, birthday girl. You zoned out for like five minutes there," Oliver answered with a sly smile.

"Oliver, c'mon you're going to deny the birthday girl another shot?" one of his friends chimed in. Ha! I knew his name had been Oliver the entire time.

"Yeah! Listen to him!" I laughed and winked at the new guy.

I didn't actually want another shot; I just wanted something to do while Liam stepped closer to us. He'd seen me staring at him and 39/890

he probably thought I was yet another girl in his growing entourage. I mean I would have been, gladly, but he didn't need to know that.

Oliver moved to go grab another shot just as Liam stepped up to the group.

"Hey Wilder," everyone cheered, reaching out to do that male-handshake thing while I pretended to be interested in my fingers on my lap. Yup, I still had all ten. That’s good.

"Oh, I didn't see you there man, you want a shot?" Oliver asked as he returned and handed everyone a small plastic cup.

I looked up just in time to see Liam shift his gaze away from me. He’d been looking at me. His eyes had been glancing in my general direction. I felt hot and sweaty all over, as 40/890

if I needed to cool my face with one of those paper fans like a 1900s debutant.

"Nah, I'm not drinking tonight. Looks like the birthday girl has had enough though."

What?

"Excuse me?" I asked with a scowl.

"Are you even legal?" he asked with a bemused smile.

What an arrogant asshole.

I prepped my jell-o shot and slung it back, never taking my eyes off of him. The edge of his mouth perked up, and I knew he enjoyed the fact that I was challenging him.

I held the empty cup out in front of me, and as he motioned to take it, I let it drop to the floor between us. His dark eyes followed the trail of the cup’s decent to the floor and 41/890

then came back up to my face. When his gaze locked with mine again, a slow smirk uncurled across his lips.

"I think your posse needs you." I tilted my head to the side and pointed to the gaggle of people waiting for him to see them standing behind him.

He ignored them.

"What happened to your cheek?" he asked, stepping forward and effectively breaking every social code. His teammates had been standing in a circle around me on the counter, so when Liam stepped in front of me, he cut off the circle and pretty much ended the conversation.

The other guys shrugged and laughed, turning to reform their own group and leaving me alone with Liam. I couldn't decide if 42/890

that was a good or bad thing, but the shots were starting to multiply in my system, so I couldn't be held accountable for my actions.

As Liam leaned forward to inspect my cheek, I remembered his question. "It's kind of a long story, but it involves gyrating hips and a car console."

He smiled at my answer, but he didn't take his eyes off my cheek. His hand reached up and he gently nudged my chin to the side so he could see the bruise better. I tried to keep my breath under control while he touched my skin.

"It's seriously not that bad. I'm just being a baby and icing it so I don't end up with a swollen cheek tomorrow." I needed him to step back. His cologne was practically hijack-ing my ovulation cycle and I had to fight the 43/890

urge to let my face collapse onto his shirt and inhale.

"Ah, yeah, I think you'll survive to see another birthday," he smirked as he crossed his arms.

"Oh good. This one's been pretty lame until now," I murmured, realizing how depressing the statement sounded only after I'd already said it. Where the hell were Emily and Becca anyway? Was the toilet some kind of portal to another dimension?

He tilted his head to the side, his gaze unwavering. “What did you get for your birthday?”

I’m still holding out that you’re actually a stippergram for me.

“Well,” I looked down at my empty hands, “I got this birthday crown?” I said it 44/890

like it was a question because I wasn’t sure that it counted. “My mom always gets me something elaborate, but her package didn’t make it here today from Aspen.” Wow, I really did sound pathetic by that point.

He nodded with narrowed eyes, but he didn't respond to the comment. He crossed his arms tighter, forcing my gaze down to his sexy tattoos. They stretched across his bicep on either side, but only the ones on his left arm dipped below his shirt sleeve. It was a tantalizing glimpse, but I wanted to see more. I knew from photos that they drifted up to his chest and back.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," I murmured cheekily, referring to his tattoos, of course.

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I was seriously playing with fire, but that's what happens when I drink too much and the world puts me in front of the sexiest man alive. No, seriously, I think last year People Magazine named him Sexiest Man Alive.

"I don't think that’s a good idea," he said.

Wow. Completely denied. That stung more than my face smashing into the car console. So why was he still standing in front of me, blocking me from talking to anyone else? It was all too confusing for my intoxic-ated brain to understand.

"That's good. I couldn't show you where mine is anyway," I answered with a sly grin.

Even he was caught off guard by that comment, but relax, I don't have a tattoo on 46/890

my who-hah. It's just along my bra line; a simple line of text that runs horizontally under my arm. But wow I was laying it on thick.

I glanced down to ensure that I wasn't humping his leg. Nope, but my black dress had ridden up a bit, exposing more of my tanned thighs.

“That’s not the reason,” he smirked.

“Starting tomorrow I'll be one of your coaches at ULA, so I think that would violate the rules, don't you think?"

My heart stopped beating at the word

"coach".