I waved a hand. “What would you call it?”
He shrugged. “My totaled, 1968 goddamned Camaro! Whores not included.”
“Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t. “What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?”
He smirked. “We were just taking a drive.”
“I was showing them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Might not kill you to try it once in a while.”
His fun wasn’t my definition of a good time. “Jack, that fun almost killed you.”
“Only makes me stronger, Kiss.”
“Only makes you look like more of a playboy.”
Jack’s words didn’t have a shred of decency or humility. “We were just out for a drive.”
I scrolled to a picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my laptop so he could see the screen.
“Why was your fly down?”
Jack tilted his head as he surveyed the photograph. “Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear boxers.”
“I almost gave a free show.” He took too much pride in the picture. “Believe me, this could have been a lot worse.”
He was delusional. “How?”
“Seeing as I was nearly castrated, be glad we’re talking in your lovely office and not the hospital.” He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his career inconvenienced him. “I give a lot to charity already. The last thing anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my dick.”
“Too much information.”
“Believe me, there’s enough to spare.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You might, one day,” he said. “Never know, Kiss.”
“Neutering you might actually settle your ass down.”
“I’m never settling down.”
“What a surprise.”
Jack crossed his arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-shirt as it stretched against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to never go out without a suit. His ink—the raging calligraphy and lettering, words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past—didn’t look like the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.
“You realize how bad this looks?” I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my patience. “The restaurant you left was trashed. The waitresses humiliated. There’s pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a different woman on your lap all night—”
Jack didn’t apologize for any of it. “I’m not allowed to have a good time?”
“Your definition of a good time would entertain three men.”
His jaw set. “Sorry my nights aren’t a half a glass of wine, a thousand piece puzzle, and Netflix—”
“Sorry, Kiss, you don’t seem the party type.”
“That’s a compliment coming from you.”
I was not explaining myself to Blowjob McCloseCall. For the past year as lead on his case, I’d tried my hardest to foster a professional relationship with the least professional man in the entire American League. No way I’d let that arrogant manwhore get under my skin.
Or my clothes.
No matter how much he tried.
Jack laughed. “You need someone to take you out…and then take you home.”
“Excuse me. We’re talking about your sex scandal first.”
“Gotta have sex for a scandal.”
“Oh, good. I’ll just put in the press release you were taking those three floozies to church.”
He rapped a hand on the table. “They weren’t floozies.”
“What were their names?”
His cocksure smile faded. He gnawed a lip, but I stopped him before he furrowed his brow.
“You’re unbelievable, Jack.”
“One was…Sophie?” He shrugged. “Then there was Halter-Top…and…uh, Blondie.”
“Great.” I scrolled my email again. “That makes my job easier. Anonymous sex. Fantastic.”
“Technically, it was supposed to be an anonymous foursome.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “What might have been...”
“I hope you aren’t this insufferable around your teammates.”
“Kiss, you’re getting off easy. With them, I’m much worse.”