Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 73383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“I never said she wasn’t a lady,” Hancock shot back. “But a woman can be a lady in public and a whore in the bedroom if she damn well pleases. I’m up for anything Sway wants to give me.”
By this point my jaw was likely down around my knees…or, at least, that was what it felt like.
To hear him talk about whoring and bedrooms was a sick sort of turn on, and I found myself wondering if being a whore in the bedroom was a good thing.
“Langston,” I shook my head. “I think it’s time for you to go now.”
Langston turned his cold eyes on me.
“This isn’t over,” he assured me. “Not by a long shot.”
“It’d be a long shot for you to ever get her back, so it’s good you have the right mindset. You’ll never win her back. Not with that attitude…and especially not since she now has me,” Hancock grinned, making my heart flutter.
Langston headed for the door, but not before he stopped next to me and gave me his best glare.
“Your parents will be hearing about this…caveman in your house,” he sneered. “And I’m sure your mother’s going to love hearing about his filthy mouth.” With that parting shot, he opened the door and left like his tail was on fire.
The grin that spread across my face was lighthearted.
“My mom has a thing about dirty mouths,” I offered to Hancock who was looking at me to explain that last comment. “I’m sure you will hear about it very soon.”
“How soon?” he countered.
I looked at my watch.
“Ohh,” I pursed my lips. “I’ll give it an hour.”
I was wrong. It was forty-three minutes.
Chapter 8
No pants are the best pants.
-T-shirt
Hancock
My ass was dragging.
It literally hurt to stand, but upon hearing some other man’s voice in the house I was sleeping in, I forced myself to get up.
Then I forced myself to walk into the unfamiliar living room and face off with a man who looked like a freakin’ Sunday school teacher with his starched pants and button-down shirt.
Hell, even his tie was annoying with its stupid purple stripes.
I owned one suit and three shirts that could pass as dress up.
When I went out to formal events—which I tried really hard to get out of if it was at all possible—I got my personal assistant to find me something to wear.
This man, though? Yeah, he looked like he lived in formal clothes.
“Thank you,” Sway smiled, interrupting my thoughts. “He’s…difficult.”
I snorted and moved to the couch, crumpling onto it the moment it was close enough for me to collapse on.
“Are you going to be able to play today?” she asked, looking at me warily.
I opened my eyes that I hadn’t realized I’d closed and stared at her blankly.
“I don’t have a game today,” I said. “I have a game tomorrow.”
“No,” she shook her head. “You’ve been passed out for a day and a half. All day yesterday you did the whole fever, in and out of consciousness thing. Today is game day.”
I groaned.
“I guess so,” I muttered. “This should be fun.”
“You know there’s a backup catcher for a reason,” she informed me.
I shrugged.
“Yeah,” I said. “But even sick, I’m still better than him.”
I snorted.
“Croft is good. In fact, given time, I think he could be excellent,” she admitted. “You could be nice and show him the ropes. Teach him some stuff.”
I gave her a look that clearly said what I thought about her opinion.
“And train him for my job?” I asked skeptically. “I think not.”
She sighed and took a seat on the couch next to me.
“So I noticed your wall.”
She promptly blushed profusely.
“I might or might not be your biggest fan.”
I’d seen her Fathead of me on the way out the door to confront the douchebag.
It was a photo of me in my away colors, staring at the pitcher with a look of pure frustration and anger on my face. I remembered the game that it was taken at. I’d been hit twice each time I was at bat, and I was on ball three of four.
On ball four, I’d swung anyway. I’d connected with it, and had hit it straight out of the fucking park. The Fathead was of me, mid swing.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just was surprised to see a life-sized sticker of myself on your wall, that’s all.”
And I was humbled.
That wasn’t a new addition. Neither were the stats she had next to the sticker.
She liked me, and where it would’ve normally turned me off, it only turned me on more.
The proximity of her body to mine was amazing, and I wanted to reach out and run my hand along the exposed skin of her thigh.
She was wearing a pair of jeans, but those jeans had a hole in them from about an inch below her pocket all the way to the top of her knee. It was more than obvious that the distressed denim was meant to be that way, but my mind couldn’t get over the fact that she had a hole in her jeans.