I honestly don’t care.
“Yeah. No.” I shake my head. “Not interested.”
Clayton’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You’re not interested? Really?” The woman with the tits whispers something to him and he nods. Smiles. Calls her baby, strokes her bare thigh, but I can’t hear the rest.
The music just switched to another song, and I swear to God it got louder.
“What’s your problem?” he yells at me once the woman slides out of our booth, heading to the bathroom, I presume. “You not feeling well?”
Clayton hasn’t been on the grind as long as I have. You see, I’m a professional football player. And I play for the motherfuckin’ Raiders. Defensive line. We’re tough as hell, we don’t take any shit, but we sucked. Got into the playoffs the first two seasons I was with the team before we started getting our asses kicked on the regular. It’s awful. A real mood killer.
The women keep coming around, though, so that’s cool.
Clayton is our new pretty boy quarterback. One season in and we’ve turned ourselves around. We even made the playoffs—first time we’ve done that in a few years.
I like Clayton. We’ve become friends. We’re both single, and we both like to go out, have a few drinks, spend our time with beautiful women. It’s easy when we’re…us. Women always want a piece of us. We’re big. Muscular. Rich. Some of us are better looking than others—Clay and his billboard face, for instance—but looks don’t seem to matter to some of these women.
When I first started as a professional athlete, I was young, dumb and full of come. That’s what my grandpa always said. Just out of college, horny as fuck and with all sorts of money filling my pockets, I was down for the one-night stand. The casual hookup. Most of the women I met were feeling my vibe. They knew what the score was. I was blown away that they threw themselves so easily at me—I’m not what they call classically handsome. But I can hold my own, I’m at my athletic prime, and I have a decent-sized dick and a skilled tongue, so yeah. I guess I was considered a catch.
I figured out pretty fast that so many of them were just looking to get their hooks in us. In me. They’re just chasing the dream. And their dream is to find a successful professional athlete to keep them in extensions, Chanel bags and Range Rovers for the rest of their lives.
No thanks.
“Yo, Anderson. Answer me. You feeling okay or what?” Clayton yells, knocking me out of my thoughts.
I blink at him, noting the amused gleam in his eyes. This guy. He gets a kick out of everything. It’s like he’s high on life. “I’m tired of dealing with these women,” I mutter, sounding completely put out.
Clay starts to laugh, shaking his head. “Dealing with these women? Are you serious right now? You can have free pussy whenever you want and you’re tired of it?”
“I’ve been getting free pussy longer than you have,” I remind him. “And yeah. I’m—bored. I can have this.” I wave my hand around. At the club, at the flock of women standing nearby, watching us with hungry eyes. “But I want something real.”
I press my palm against my chest, like some sort of sap, and Clay rolls his eyes. I’d probably do the same thing if he said that to me.
“This is real, bro. This is as real as it gets.” Clay points at me. “There are women everywhere. And we can have any of them. They say the right things, we say the right things, and next thing we know, we’re all snug as a bug in a rug, their hands in our hair and their tits in our face. Why would you ever get tired of that?”
He sounds utterly confused by my protests. And I suppose I can’t blame him. Why would we ever tire of that? Most men think we’re living the dream. For the last five years, I’ve felt exactly like that.
But I’m over it. I want something…
Different.
“I want a real relationship.”
There. I said it. Out loud.
Miss Big Tits chooses that exact moment to return to our table, her lips freshly glossed, the neckline of her dress so low, I’m worried I might catch sight of a nipple. She settles right in next to Clayton, cozying up to his side, her hand resting on his thigh possessively, and I know without a doubt Clay is gonna get lucky tonight.
I’m not feeling even an ounce of jealousy.
“You won’t find that here,” Clay says after a moment, dropping his arm around the woman’s slender shoulders and tugging her even closer to his side. “Though I think you already know that.”
I do. This is not the place to search for a real relationship, no matter how bad some of these women might want that.
They’re going about it the wrong way, if you ask me.
But hell. What is the right way?
I have no clue.
“I’m out of here,” I tell Clay, scooting out of the booth and rising to my feet. I tower over the table, over Clay and his new lady friend, and she gazes up at me with wide, almost frightened eyes. I offer her up a slow smile and the tension eases out of her. Somewhat. “You two have a good night.”
“We sure as hell will,” Clay tells me with a wink, and the woman laughs.
If I had a hat, I’d tip it at his date like I’m some homegrown cowboy, but I don’t. So I keep walking, making my way out of the crowded, hot-as-fuck nightclub as fast as possible. The lights flash in my eyes, keeping time with the beat of the music, and I don’t miss the way some of the women watch me as I pass.
Like I’m a prime slab of meat and they can’t wait to take a big, juicy bite.
Fuck this shit.
The moment I push through those double doors, I take a deep, cleansing breath. Though it doesn’t smell the best out here, considering I’m smack dab in the middle of downtown San Francisco. Wrinkling my nose, I glance around, spotting the black Yukon sitting by the curb a couple of cars down, and I make my way toward it.
“Howard,” I say when the passenger-side window rolls down, revealing our driver. He works for the team, even during the off-season, and somehow he’s able to sit right in the front of the clubs, waiting for us every weekend when we go out. “Do you mind taking me home?”
“Sure thing. Hop in.”
The window goes up and I climb into the backseat, grateful for the chilled bottle of water Howard hands me once I’m settled.
“Just you this evening?” he asks, his thick, black eyebrows lifting. Howard is also used to me bringing home a sweet little cookie on the regular. Not that I actually bring them home. That’s always kind of dangerous.
Nope, I usually take them to a hotel where we have a standing account. We can just call up and boom, there’s a room available for us. That way women don’t know where we live.
Just how I prefer it.
“Just me,” I say easily, right before I drain the water bottle in a couple of gulps. Alcohol and stifling nightclubs always leave me dehydrated.
Howard shakes his head as he slowly pulls out into the street, flicking the signal on as he moves into the left turn lane. “When you ever gonna settle down, son?” His gaze meets mine in the rearview window. Howard is old enough to be my father, and infinitely patient with all of us. We’re all a bunch of stupid assholes, especially when we’re drunk and riding around in his car, but he never says a word. Never rats us out.