Oh, hell no. One of Ironfield’s famous potholes and I’d be circumcised. I tugged on her hair and encouraged her to use her hand instead.
It wasn’t as good, but Blondie and Halter-Top made up for it. They timidly kissed as if neither of the girls were bad enough to experiment in college. After a few seconds, they started groaning. Blondie got the right idea. Her fingers slipped beneath Halter-Top’s shirt and crept up, up, up until her new friend’s eyes widened and she breathed that telling little Oh!
Never let it be said Jack Carson didn’t offer his girls a good time and a variety of new experiences.
My luck didn’t last long. I merged onto the bridge and into traffic just as Brunette screamed.
She braced herself against the dash as a minivan tried to exit the bridge by cutting across three lanes of traffic and weaving in front of my car. I jammed the brakes, but it didn’t do a damn thing when the van swerved into my lane. For whatever bullshit reason, the van slammed her brakes too.
I couldn’t prevent the collision.
My pristine 1968 Camaro crashed into some shitty soccer mom’s rusted van. Both vehicles lurched across the lanes as frames bent and tires popped. My hopes of getting laid ended as my head bounced off the steering wheel.
Smacking my nose was better than my arm or knee, but not by much.
The women turned to banshees, shrieking in terror like the cars crashed and careened over the bridge and into the water below. My headlights and windshield shattered, but the van got it worse, twisting into the next two lanes.
Fuck. We blocked the entire highway.
The traffic stopped behind us, and I struggled to stuff my cock in my pants before the frantic van driver launched from her seat and dropped to the road in absolute hysterics.
My girls burst from the car too, scampering over each other in a rush to get away from the crash.
Halter-Top screamed. “Run! It’ll blow up like in the movies!”
At least she had a killer rack, even if she didn’t have any fucking common sense.
I kicked open my door and ran a hand over my bloodied nose. I didn’t care that I probably broke it. My car was completely totaled.
A camera flashed.
I grunted, turning to face a slew of onlookers who also rushed from their cars the instant someone recognized me and screamed my name. Another camera flashed, this time belonging to the three women I had escorted. My dates categorized their injuries and the damage to the car in detailed selfies.
Those pictured would be uploaded to the internet in minutes. Not good. I was in enough hashtags at the moment.
Flashing red and blue lights lit the distance, speeding to the accident. The arrival of the police officially ruined my night. The cop jogged from his car and surveyed the scene. He pulled a flashlight and demanded licenses. Then his light flashed over my face.
“Hey! You’re Jack Carson!” The cop grinned. It was probably the greatest first-responder’s call in his life. “I can’t believe it! Name’s Officer Ryan. You okay, man? What happened?”
I wished my nose would stop bleeding. “Just had an accident—”
“Can’t be any worse than that championship game, am I right?”
I forced a laugh. The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of how bad this would be for me.
Coach Thompson would flip his shit. My agent would be tossing Xanax again.
Holy shit. Unless I wound up in a full-body cast, I had no way to explain this night to her.
Leah was going to have my balls.
If she didn’t kill me instead.
Chapter Two - Leah
“What did you do this time?”
I wanted to slam the door the conference room. I thought better of it as it’d look just as bad as the headlines this morning. Instead I imagined the click of the latch as a thunderous crash.
Jack Carson flashed me a devil-may-care-and-nearly-collected-his-sorry-ass grin. Those dimples charmed, the fuck-me blue eyes brightened, and every muscle his body flexed as he stretched his long arms.
He rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his chin. Jack was the type of man who had a perpetual scruff, like he rolled out of bed, smoothed his collar-length blonde hair, and greeted the day with a middle finger and morning wood that’d make an honest, hard-working girl blush.
And I was the one who made sunshine out of moonshine and pixies out of the disgraced starlets sneaking from his bedroom.
Oh, not today.
I was in no mood for Jack “Play-Maker” Carson. I didn’t give a damn what prestige followed his name. His athleticism might have astounded coaches, players, and analysts, but Jack had only one nickname with me.
At least, that’s the only thing I could call him in polite company without losing my job. He deserved many more names—starting with bone-head and working up to the insults my father yelled watching his championship game.