Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1) Read online

  “I’m exhausted,” I groan in defeat. The three brown bags in my hands—each one filled with enough clothes and uncomfortable shoes to make my bank account and self-confidence beg for mercy—threaten to drop to the floor of the packed shopping mall. I can’t say that I would honestly complain if the ruby red high heels my sister forced me to buy ended up lost in the crowd of babbling shoppers, though.

  "Tell me about it. At least you get to go home and relax now. What about me, you ask? I have a daughter just waiting to rip my head off for hiding her tablet before I left.” My older sister, Clare, huffs while pulling open the heavy frosted glass door with the name Courier Strip Mall scrawled across the pane and leads us into the packed parking lot.

  The autumn sun beams down on my exposed, pale shoulders. "At least Liz is cute." I offer her a quick sympathetic smile. Raising a hand above my eyes, I squint to try and find the car we arrived in.

  "Of course she is. She takes after me.” She fishes out her car keys before sending me a wink. The shiny, silver car sits tightly between an old van and an expensive-looking SUV when we finally reach it. After shoving my bags in the trunk, I slide into the front seat and cringe when my bare legs stick to the hot leather seats. "I want a picture of you tomorrow morning before you go to work, Sierra. I'm so damn proud of you.” Clare plops down in the driver's seat with a grin so wide I’m surprised that I don’t see the corners of her mouth splitting open. “You got hired by one of the top marketing firms in the country! This is amazing.”

  My cheeks get warm as I wave her off. "It’s a start."

  "A start? Sierra, you’ve spent a year working your ass off trying to market freaking dog food. Dog food that in my honest to God opinion, shouldn’t even be allowed to be labeled and sold as dog food in the first place, all because your boss was a total jealous bitch! Their name speaks for itself. I mean, come on! Poochie Goo Dog Food? No way the ingredients are even legal. I say the job switch is happening at just the right time. I couldn’t imagine what other companies Julia would have had you work with had you stayed.” She sucks in a huge breath before blowing it out just as fiercely.

  The car moves out from between the yellow lines of the parking stall and we join the bustle of cars on the main road. I can feel myself fidgeting in my seat: shaking my leg like a nervous school girl and twiddling my thumbs to the point Clare reaches over to place a steady hand on them.

  I've worked so hard to get this chance. To find a company that actually wants to show off my skills, not just shove a failure of a project in my lap that nobody else wanted so that I can fall to the back of the herd—alone and unnoticed. Julia Stroll is a successful woman. I had hyped myself up to the point of near explosion the first day I met her, naive with the idea that she would want to take me under her wing. You know, show me the ropes. Be my mentor. Or better yet, a friend. I hadn’t had many of those after I graduated college. I spent far too many weekends with my nose buried in a textbook or watching Ted Talks to build any friendships that I would want to carry with me in the real world. But from the moment she laid eyes on me—those stone cold, vacant brown eyes—I knew that my perfect idea, my perfect plan, had already found its way into the shred pile.

  Now here I am, three years and a briefcase full of less than admirable dog food and lice shampoo marketing experience later, about to be the new girl again.

  "I'm a bit nervous, honestly," I admit, gnawing on my bottom lip.

  "You'll be great. You’ve worked your ass off for this job. If Liz ever gets lice, I would use Itch Be Gone shampoo without a doubt." I can see her biting the inside of her cheek to avoid laughing.

  "Wow, you always know how to say the right thing. How did I get so lucky?"

  "I wonder that myself." She smiles with satisfaction and flicks on her signal light before turning into my neighbourhood.

  The continuous rows of green spruce trees bring a sense of familiarity to the air that I can almost smell and feel brush my skin. As we pass the beautifully bricked, colonial style houses lining the street, I can't help but feel an inch of jealousy climb up my spine.

  After growing up sharing the only extra room in our childhood home with Clare, I've always dreamed about owning one that was a little larger than necessary. Not anything that would feel empty and cold on the days where my future children were at school and my imaginary husband was at work. But somewhere that we would never fully grow out of. A home big enough to host holiday dinners and my weekly book club meetings with all the neighbourhood mothers where we would get drunk off red wine and reminisce on the old days.

  I had hoped that I would end up scoring large with one as soon as I finished school, but reality hit like a bitch when I realized that I was aiming a bit high. Okay, way high. Being fresh out of four years of college left me with nothing but a heaping pile of student debt and a drinking problem that didn’t seem too much like a problem at the time. The negative balance in my bank account kept my housing options pretty small once it was time to move out of dorms. I was lucky enough to find a decent-sized apartment within a few weeks of graduating, but my low budget pushed my living quarters way farther away than I had wanted from my old job, and even further from my new one.

  The car comes to a slow stop outside of my small two-story apartment as Clare turns down the radio. "I'm serious about the picture, Sierra. I need to see how beautiful you look tomorrow."

  I unbuckle my seatbelt. "I will. I promise.” There was no way I would live it down if I forgot to take the damn picture, anyway. Clare would guilt me for it long after I died. Hell, her parting words while leaning over my casket would be, “How could you forget the picture, Sierra? I would have had that picture to look back on today.” I climb out of the car and with a final goodbye, shut the door and wave.

  "Love you!" she yells after rolling down the window and pinning me with a glare for rushing away.

  "Love you too." I blow her a kiss before moving to grab my bags from the trunk. With the trunk shut and the bags in my hand, I start walking up the uneven sidewalk and head inside.

  As I'm placing the last plate into the dishrack, the intercom on my wall wails out a screeching cry. Wiping my wet hands on my cookie monster pyjama shorts, I blow a stray piece of hair out of my face and head for the speaker by the front door.

  "Open up. I got ice cream!" Sophie's voice pierces my ears. I shake my head and buzz her in. When it comes to my best friend, I know that ice cream means that she has something to talk about—more than likely some sort of drama involving her or something that’s about to involve her when she sticks her head in the middle of it.

  A minute later, there's a string of knocks on the door.

  "What kind of ice cream do you have? And remember, there's only one right answer!" I shout through the door.

  "Cookie dough. Now let me in before someone snatches me and leaves you without a best friend. The crime rates lately have just skyrocketed."

  I unlock the door and step back just before all five-foot-nothing of her plows her way inside, heading straight for the kitchen. The grocery bag she brought is planted on the countertop as she pulls open the cupboard above the sink and turns around with two huge ceramic bowls in her hands.

  "Three or four scoops?" she asks, her face hard with concentration as she digs through my utensil drawer for an ice cream scoop. Her perfectly waxed and tattooed eyebrows draw together as she focuses.

  "Just two."

  Her head turns to me so quickly that my eyes bulge. She cuts a hand through the air. "Three it is."

  I move towards the counter and lean a hip against it. "So, are you going to tell me what's wrong or should I start guessing?"

  "Nothing," she groans, shoving the scoop in the open tub of ice cream with a surprisingly terrifying amount of force.

  "Right," I chuckle and move around her to grab two spoons. "Then do you wanna tell me what the poor ice cream did to you before you got here?"

  "You know Ethan Langton, right?" she asks with a weighted sigh, spinning on th
e heel of her still booted feet to face me. Her plump bottom lip is clamped between her teeth as she seems to contemplate what to say next.

  "The guy that used to host all of the frat parties in college?"

  The guy was a total tool. The only thing he had going for him was his washboard abs. But even then, the appeal faded fast as soon as he opened that sexist mouth of his. Guys who think that a woman belongs in the kitchen in the 21st century have no right being so good looking.

  "Unfortunately," she grumbles while grabbing her nearly overflowing bowl of ice cream and stomping across the apartment to my thrifted navy couch. The four seater, velvet couch is for better words, extremely out of style and butt ugly. But when you’re twenty-six with absolutely nothing to your name but an outdated shirtless firefighter calendar and a pair of scuffed Louboutins that you got as a present from your ex but are too stubborn to retire, you take what you can get.

  "What about him has you so pissed off? We haven't even seen him in years." I grab my bowl and join her. It isn’t until after I sink into the couch cushion that I notice the regretful look on her face. I swallow heavily as the realization dawns on me. "Oh. Oh. So you slept together then? I mean, it isn’t the end of the world. Right?”

  "Isn’t the end of the world? I slept with a man child.” Her head falls back and she grumbles a few sentences under her breath in Spanish. I hide my amused grin behind my hand. Sophie only rambles in Spanish when she’s flustered, angry, or both. But both is never good. And from the flush that’s found its way on her cheeks and the way her back teeth are grinding together, I can only assume that she’s definitely both.

  Scooping a hefty amount of ice cream onto my spoon, I shove it in my mouth and sit quietly. I wish I could say this is out of character for Sophie, but the girl loves sex. No beating around the bush there. Guy, girl, she wouldn’t turn down a tussle in bed with almost anyone. But Ethan Langton? That does surprise me. Overcompensating dickbags aren’t usually her go-to, regardless of how deep the itch might be.

  "When?" I ask after a few silent seconds.

  "Two nights ago," she mumbles. "It was a rare moment of weakness. There was a pool. And you've seen Ethan without his shirt."

  "I have." I laugh quietly. "He's hot for sure."

  "And boy, is he ever packing a rocket.” She licks her lips before shaking her head aggressively.

  Crinkling my nose, I brush off her comment. "If it was so good then why are you upset? Was he too quick on the trigger or something?"

  "No! God no," she rushes, dropping her spoon in the melting glob of ice cream. "He wants to, like, go out. On a date."

  My brows jump up and questions fill my mouth like I’m playing a game of chubby bunny. But I sit in silence, waiting for her to elaborate. Only she doesn’t say anything else. She puts the bowl of melted ice cream beside her and folds her hands together in her lap instead, looking anxiously around the apartment. With a nervous knot rooting in my belly, I try to fill the silence. "So are you just not into him then? I mean, a free dinner is a free dinner. Even if it is with a guy like Ethan, and especially if the sex was good."

  "Maybe if it were dinner I would go. But he invited me to watch some band play at SP tomorrow night and you know how much I hate it there."

  He invited her to a club? As a date? Yikes. What’s the saying? Disappointed but not surprised?

  "I didn't even know they let bands play there.” I stretch my legs out in front of me and set my bowl beside Sophie’s.

  "That's beside the point, Sierra!" She slides a quick hand down her hair and squeezes her eyes shut. "I want to go, but I don't want to go alone. Who knows what would happen to me if I went into the bathroom without a partner."

  "I think you're being a little paranoid, babe.”

  I, for one, haven’t been to a club in years. But the memories I do have of the drunken nights spent with my arm laced through Sophie’s and a piece of paper over our drinks still burn in the back of my mind. Her parent’s might have let her watch a few too many episodes of Dateline when she was an early teen. We did stay safe though, so I really shouldn’t complain. Sophie was always one hell of a safety buddy.

  "Why don't you come with me?" Her back straightens as she turns to me with wide eyes. I gulp. "Please?"

  "I'm not third-wheeling for you at Sinners. Plus, I'll be way too tired after work." I shake my head furiously, grabbing my bowl before practically running away into the kitchen. I curse under my breath when she chases after me, a long blonde ponytail slapping against her back.

  "Please do this for me. I’ll literally get down on my knees if I have to."

  I drop my bowl in the sink and let out a sharp exhale. She won't stop until I agree. I know that for a fact. "You owe me for this. I'm serious.” I groan in defeat while watching as her lips turn up.

  "Yes, I do. You're the freaking best." Flailing arms slide around me, the smell of cotton candy overwhelming.

  “I know. Now let go of me before I get a sugar rush from that damn perfume of yours.”

  Chapter Three

  BRADEN

  Having made it twenty-six trips around the sun has its benefits, regardless of how shit it might make me feel. There are countless things that I’ve learned, gathering in my head and collecting like a chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. And every once in a while, I make use of all of that information. Like when I get dragged by the ear to a club that smells like cheap whiskey and roofies.

  For example, I know that if you want to be taken seriously in this competitive—sometimes unforgiving world—you have to carry yourself with an unwavering sense of confidence. Without confidence, how do you expect anyone to take you seriously? Without a sense of high-strung determination and power, attempting to skip a long line to get into a club you don’t even want to be at would be nearly impossible. But with it . . . that’s a whole different story.

  “Big Dave, have you been working out?” My voice carries strong across the packed, brightly lit sidewalk as we walk towards the front doors of Sinners Paradise. The at least three-hundred-pound protector of the neon gates turns away from the bloodshot-eyed teen in front of him, his lips threatening to tear straight from his face as they lift in a twitching grin. Clayton chuckles beside me when I send him a prideful wink and raise my hand in a quick wave.

  “I have, actually. You can tell?” Dave asks once we push our way in front of two women. One of them has a waist long, platinum ponytail that licks the top of her ass and if I had to bet, wouldn’t even reach my shoulders with six-inch heels on. The other, a taller, dark-haired beauty grabs my attention by the balls and clasps a tiny fist around my throat, stealing my air. Her eyes are hard, narrowed on the dimple in my chin, and for some fucking reason that has my blood burning with frustration, I wish that she would shift her gaze to mine.

  With a shake of my head, I turn back around and force myself to refocus on the burly, unattractive security guard. “Of course, those guns could end world wars, buddy.”

  There’s a slight, unnecessary flex of his arms when he puffs out his chest. I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

  “I’m still waiting for those boxing lessons.” Dave says, moving the black rope aside that was keeping us from entering.

  “Anytime. You know where to find me.” I pat his round arms and nod to Clay for him to follow me inside.

  “Are you seriously going to let them in before us?” I hear a snarky voice snap, the strength in the tone taking me by surprise. Turning around, I lock my eyes with a pair of narrowed ones—the colour of molten silver right before it's poured into a mold, glistening in the brass pot—belonging to the brunette I noticed when we first arrived. She stands with a nearly overwhelming sense of confidence and poise, like she doesn’t fear anybody or anything. Like we should all fear her. And maybe, if I was any less of an egotistical prick, I would have been terrified to piss her off even further, but that’s not me.

  Instead, I decide to lift a brow in a silent taunt before crossing my arms a
nd snapping, “Well, aren’t you a sassy one.”

  Her narrowed eyes roll as she places her hands on one of her full, totally graspable hips. And fuck do I want to grab and squeeze and knead them in my palms until I leave the skin red and sore. “You have no idea.”

  “How about you show me just how sassy you can be then.” I nearly combust staring at the scowl darkening her face. She laughs humourlessly before shaking her head, mouth opening to throw something back at me when she’s interrupted.

  “Leave it, Sierra,” her blonde friend sighs.

  Sierra, hey? I can already imagine that rolling off my tongue later while I’m fucking that attitude right out of her.

  “Have fun inside, fighter. I would say let’s do this again, but I would rather light myself on fire.” Sierra doesn’t spare me a second look before turning her back to me and going inside. I can’t help but stand there, watching the sway of her hips and the way her perfect round ass bounces with each step with a loose hanging jaw and a pulsing cock. I hear a few snickers before I run my thumb over my bottom lip and groan.

  Well played, gorgeous. Well played.

  “You made it!” Ethan shouts, his words already slurring into a barely eligible sentence as he stumbles his way to our spot at the bar. As graceful as a baby deer, that one.

  “I see you started without us.” I stretch my neck so I can eye up the crowds grinding and drinking until they stumble, bumping into each other with grins that show they couldn’t care less. Most of these people won’t even remember who they met or what songs they dirty danced to when they wake up. But that’s what’s fun about being young and careless, right? The lack of repercussions for our actions and mistakes. So why does the idea of tipping back shot after shot until I can’t manage to walk three steps ahead of me without stumbling not give me the same buzz as before? Fuck, I really am getting old.

  Ethan grins, naive to life outside of places like these. “Do you have a drink already?” He’s moving towards the bar before Clay and I have a chance to answer. “Two pornstars!” he shouts, capturing the attention of the stern-faced bartender who looks almost as happy to be here as I am.