Baller's Baby: A Bad Boy Romance Read online

  “Get lost, asshole.”

  She whips around so fast that I’m left there wondering what the hell just happened. Never in my life have I been turned down, especially not after having my hands on a woman. What the fuck? Before I can comprehend anything, she’s gone, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk with a hard on I can’t do shit with.

  Picking up my cell, I call Chris. “Yo, where you at?”

  “At the house. You coming over? I got a house full.”

  “Yeah. I’m on my way.”

  I spot a hot little redhead the moment I walk in and quickly let it be known that she’s coming home with me. She doesn’t mind a bit. I sip on a beer and enjoy talking shit for about an hour before I take my leave. The redhead follows willingly. I take her back to my place and proceed to show her exactly why no one denies Kiptyn Price.

  Her legs tighten around my head as the orgasm rips through her. I lick her one more time, sucking softly on her pearl of joy before I lift my head and sit back on the couch. She knows what time it is. I watch her hungrily as she gets to her knees and pulls me free. Her mouth is working hard at trying to bring any kind of life to my partner, but the little fucker is dead. I try to coax him with my hand, but after a minute, it becomes obvious that it isn't happening tonight.

  “Fuck. I’m never drinking another drop again,” I say, even though I know all I had was a sip of alcohol. It’s something else entirely—I just wasn’t about to make that public knowledge.

  “Mmm, its ok, baby. I can keep trying,” the redhead says, and I can see by the look on her face that she means it. She will do whatever it takes to bring life to my cock. She must have heard the many rumors circulating about what I would do with all nine inches of it . . . if I can get it up.

  “Nah, it’s cool.” She deflates right there in front of me. “Maybe next time,” I offer. Her eyes light up. I don't usually take a girl a second time. Once is enough for me. There are too many fine pieces of ass in this world for me to spend more than one night on the same girl, but I felt like I owe this chick a redo.

  “Yeah, that would be great.” Her voice purrs at me. I show her to the door and take the small piece of paper with her number on it from her before shutting the door. I can't fucking believe this shit. It's eleven at night, and I’m showing a chick out the door. Never in my life has this happened to me.

  Hell, even when I was green, just coming out of the gates of virginity, I lasted more than an hour. I take pleasure in being the best fuck out there. I am a goddamn pro. I’ve never sent a chick home unsatisfied. Of course, I didn't send this one home that way either. I made sure she enjoyed herself before I even thought about taking mine. I could still taste her on my lips, smell her on my hands.

  Stepping in the oversized shower, I turn the water on hot and then turn on the jets lining the wall behind me. Water cascades over me in torrents. I lather up my sponge and wash away the last of the sticky pussy juices, wondering again what the hell is wrong with me.

  For a second, I think about making a doctor appointment. There is some scary shit that can happen to a man, and none of it sounds fun—especially if it makes it to where I can’t get my dick hard. I’m only twenty-fucking-four. Surely I don’t have to worry about prostates and shit, right?

  “Fucking hell,” I say, and my mind races, trying to figure out what’s wrong. When was the last time I got off? When’s the last time my dick got hard? Earlier tonight flashes into my mind, and the sexy as fuck chick standing over me in four-inch heels with legs that went on for days.

  My cock twitches.

  I close my eyes and picture her there. I picture the way her ass rounded out perfectly, dipping high and then tucking in low at her thighs.

  My cock hardens.

  I stroke my hand along it, imagining her thick, full lips wrapping around the head of it and then her slowly taking me in her mouth, inch by glorious inch. I pump faster.

  I imagine her on her back, spread before me, begging me to fill her. I readily oblige. Tightening my grip, I imagine sliding into her tight pussy. My breath is rushing out in puffs, short and labored. I can feel my orgasm building at the base of my cock, ready.

  One pump.

  Two.

  My world shatters apart. My seed shoots out from deep within, smearing on the wall across from me. Spent, I lean against the warm tile and turn the water to cool. At least I know my cock isn't broken—just picky.

  I need to find this chick and fuck her senseless. It’s the only way to get her out of my head so I can move on. I need to fuck her. Horny women across America depend on it.

  Climbing from the shower, I try to ignore the ringing of my phone, but it’s the house phone, and only family has this number, so I wrap a towel around my hips and grab the cordless off the nightstand in my bedroom.

  “Hello?”

  “Kiptyn. How are you, son?” My Granny’s sweet voice fills the other end of the line, and immediate guilt consumes me. I should have already called her. It’s been almost a week.

  “I’m good, Granny. How are you? You hanging in there? Do you need me to come home?”

  “No, I’m okay. I’m just worried about you, Kip. We all are. I see all these stories in the papers, and I know you said most of them weren’t true, but they have pictures too, son. I didn’t raise you like this. I know you’re going through a hard time. We all are, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”

  “I know, Granny. I know. I’ll do better. I promise. I’ll make you proud.”

  “Oh baby, you already make me proud. Don’t you worry about that. You just do right by you and God, and he will take care of you. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I love you. Come see me when you get one of them break things.”

  “I will. I love you too, Granny.”

  I hang up and hang my head, ashamed of the man I’ve become. It all happened so fast, and I just didn’t know what to do with all the anger I had after we got the call. That alone pissed me off. The Red Cross called us to let us know that my brother died. His commanding officer couldn’t come by or call. No. They had the fucking Red Cross make the call. Then I was mad at Camryn for going. I was mad at him for wanting to always be a hero. For wanting to be a Marine. For wanting to save the world. Why couldn’t he be happy just being my brother? Why did he have leave me too? Wasn’t it enough that we had lost Mom and Dad? How much more loss could I take before I crumbled under the weight of it all?

  Chapter Four

  Skila

  I swear, that just goes to show you why you should never judge a book by the cover. Who the hell in their right mind offers to have sex with a woman for re-payment for keeping them out of jail? Now I wish I had let him get carried off too.

  Asshole.

  Thankfully, a cabbie had been coming down the street at the right time and I was able to snatch it up. I didn’t even feel like eating ice cream and watching television anymore. The nerve of some people. Ugh.

  Pouring a glass of Moscato, I turn the bath water on warm and let it fill up while I pin my hair back. I need to lie down and relax and wash away all of today’s craziness. Easing into the bath, I try to let everything go and focus on the soft lull of the water and the sweet smell of lavender. It’s slowly starting to take effect. After a few minutes, I decide what I really need is to hear from home.

  Dialing my Nana’s cell, I wait for her to answer.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Hey, Nana.”

  “Hello? How the hell do you answer this damn thing?”

  “Nana? Can you hear me? Nana? Hello?”

  “Hello? Hello? Sky? I can’t hear you,” she yells into the phone.

  “Nana, give it here. Let me see what you did.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Dev. What are you doing?” I ask, happy that someone who knows how to work the phone is on there now.

  “Just stopped by here to check in on Nana and bring her some more Hen. Don’t need her driving drunk ag
ain.”

  “Good point. The neighbors are probably tired of replacing their mailbox.” I laugh—a real laugh—and it feels good. I didn’t realize how much I already missed my family until just now.

  “How are you, Sky? Ready to come home yet?”

  “No, not yet,” I say. Even though I may be thinking it, I don’t want my big brother to know how hard things are on me. He has always been overprotective and wouldn’t think twice about flying out here and dragging me home. It’s one of the things I needed to get away from the most. I needed to breathe.

  “Stop hogging the damn phone. Did you get it to work? Is my baby girl there?” Nana slaps at Devan. I hear him cursing her boney arms across the phone. I already feel better. I should have called the moment I felt homesick.

  “Sky?”

  “Hey, Nana.”

  “What’s wrong, baby girl?”

  “Nothing, Nana. I just wanted to hear your voice. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, baby. You got this, angel face. I know it’s hard, but this is what you wanted. Us Parkers aren’t quitters, now. You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hang up and crawl from the tub. My earlier anxiety and apprehension has completely melted away, along with all thoughts and memories of the stranger at the club. Crawling in the bed, I close my eyes, and within minutes, I’m out like a light.

  Chapter Five

  Kiptyn

  Somehow, the league still managed to find out about the fight, even though we weren't arrested. It was total bullshit, but they let it slide. I think if it hadn’t been the first week of playoffs then they may have been stricter, but they, like everyone else, knew that with me starting, we would have a win. No, I’m not conceited. I'm confident. Yes, there is a big difference. I know I possess the raw talent needed to win the game, but I’m not stupid enough to think it’s enough. It takes hard work and dedication.

  I have an overabundance of all three.

  Someone from the club has videos and pictures of the entire spectacle, and they aren't shy about sharing them all over social media. I would be mad if it wasn't for the fact that they caught my chocolate goddess on camera as well, reminding me that she is, in fact, real.

  I replayed the videos over and over on YouTube just to catch a glimpse of her. I tried to hunt her down. I searched Facebook for her, but she was nowhere to be found. It's probably better that way. At least, that is what I keep telling myself. I don’t have time to get involved with a woman. Not right now. My life is too messy right now, and my head isn’t in the right place. I’ll just keep using them for what I need, give them what they want, and then we both move on.

  Sure, there have been some over the last few years that have wanted more. I admit that I’ve had to change my number more than once. And there was that one time my agent had to get involved when one chick took to stalking me everywhere I went, but when she started showing up at my brother’s place, we got a protective order. Enough was enough. Something told me that if I found Skila, she wouldn’t be a short-term fling.

  I used every available second to train and practice over the last two weeks, preparing for the playoffs. Tonight is the first game. We are first-seed picks, meaning we play first, and if we win tonight, then we move on to the next round. I have no doubts we will win. The team is good.

  Hell, we are great, and with me at point, a win is guaranteed. That is, if I can just get my head in the game and off silky, cocoa skin and chocolate eyes. I wish I could figure out what the hell had me so hooked on her. I had banged my fair share of black girls before, so I knew it wasn't that. There was just something about her that called to me. That and, of course, the fact that she fucking straight up walked away from me. I’d never had that happen before, and I needed to fix this situation as soon as possible. I didn’t get denied. If anything, I did the denying.

  The announcer overhead calls the team’s name, and we rush out onto the court, ready to play. The bleachers are full of people, all excited and screaming to be heard over the person next to them. I throw my hand up in the air, waving back at them, and the crowd goes nuts.

  They love me.

  Who wouldn’t? I'm fucking awesome.

  I join the rest of the team by the benches, and coach Thompson calls out the names of the five players first on the court. The rest sit or stand by the sideline, waiting for their chance to jump in and relieve us. Adrenaline courses through me, putting me on edge. This is it. My time to shine.

  The whistle sounds, and the ball is tossed. Jordan snaps it out of the air and passes it off to Chris. It bounces once, twice, and then he catches my eye, and the ball meets my hands. I turn half a foot, aim up for the basket, and shoot.

  All net.

  The crowd screams. Two points up. Easy, like taking candy from a baby. Time flies by when I’m playing. It’s like the moment I step on the court, I’m in another world, another time. Nothing exists but me and the ball. We are one.

  “Me, you and a room full of ladies after the game. You in, bro?” Chris asks during halftime.

  “Maybe, if you win this thing.” I laugh at my own joke. If anyone wins the game, it will be me. I run this team like a well-oiled machine. He laughs along with me.

  “We win by 40, and you buy the alcohol,” he says. It’s almost a guarantee that we will win the game tonight. Leading by 27 at the end of the first half? Yeah, we're fucking beast.

  “It’s a deal,” I say, rushing back out onto the court. A night out is just what I need after the last two weeks. Every second that I didn’t spend working out or practicing was spent fantasizing about a woman I met in a club. I need to get my head out of my ass and get my cock back in the game.

  Chapter Six

  Skila

  I barely make it to the toilet before projectile vomit shoots out of my mouth, coating the bowl of the toilet. Slumping against the seat, I wait for my racing heart to slow and the watering of my mouth to dry up. I hate getting sick, abso-fucking-lutely hate it. My whole body shakes uncontrollably, making it hard for me to stand, but I manage.

  I turn the faucet and fill my hands with cold water. Bringing it to my mouth, I swish it around and then spit it back into the sink. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. By the time I’m finished, my heartrate has slowed and the shaking has subsided. Leaving the water running, I let the noise distract me. I open the medicine cabinet and search for a thermometer. What I thought was nerves from the move has swiftly morphed into something more. Always the hypochondriac, I fear the worst. Lisa knocks lightly on the bathroom door.

  “Skila, Are you okay?”

  It was taking more time than I thought to adjust to living with someone else, like having someone there during all your embarrassing moments—including but not limited to jumping up from the breakfast table and making a mad dash to the bathroom to puke your guts up.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I open the door so she can see for herself. “I think I have the flu. Do you have a thermometer?”

  She reaches in and places her hand against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Look behind the Q-tips.”

  I move away from her and grab the thermometer, popping it into my mouth. It beeps a minute later—99.1. Lisa’s still waiting by the door, so I turn it to her and let her read it.

  “Not bad. I can make you an appointment with my doctor if you want. He can usually get you in pretty quick,” she says.

  “Thanks. Will you text me and let me know what time? I gotta hurry and get ready.”

  I’ve got exactly one hour and three minutes to get dressed and resemble some sort of human being before I'm due to arrive at Los Angeles Daily Home. My boss in Atlanta had come through for me and managed to get me transferred. I'm now the presiding sports reporter of the biggest newspaper in the Los Angeles district. It was going to be a big change for me, transitioning from reporting political issues to sports.

  Luckily, I have two older brothers, so I know my way around them .
. . sorta. Either way, I need to be on my A-game. Beginning the morning with puking my guts up isn’t the way to do it.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, sliding my feet into a pair of comfy black flats, and running out the door. Twenty-five minutes after that, I'm walking through the front doors of my new job.

  This place is magnificent. I take the elevator up to the third floor and tell the waiting receptionist—a busty blonde wearing way too much lipstick—that I'm there to see Mr. Ames. She rakes her eyes over my body, clearly finding me lacking in something, before meeting my eyes.

  “Name?” she asks. Her voice is rough and raspy. I’d bet my new Coach purse that she smoked at least a pack a day.

  “Skila Parker,” I say, getting straight to the point. Nothing about this woman makes you think that she would be up for small talk. She doesn’t reply. I stand for a moment at her desk, wondering what to do now. She’s typing something on her keyboard, ignoring my presence. I take the opportunity to glance around. Across from her desk is a wall of clear glass. I can see straight through it to the numerous offices throughout the third floor.

  It’s a busy office. I can tell that immediately. People are rushing around in a state of calm chaos. I notice a man walking toward the exit door and assume he’s coming for me. My assumption is granted a moment later.

  “Miss Parker? I’m Brent Ames. Follow me, please.” He greets me warmly, offering his hand. I take it and follow him without a single glance back at the snobby receptionist.

  Mr. Ames—Brent—makes quick work of showing me the ropes. He introduces me to the editor, a short, balding man in his early forties, and then gives me my first assignment. Hiding the surprise on my face took effort—more than I had at the moment.

  “I know, I know. If this were a perfect world, then I’d spend a week training you before throwing you to the wolves, but it’s not, and my senior sports reporter left me high and dry last week. So it’s all on you. Your boss claimed you were one of the best he had ever seen—a natural, and I’m gonna have to put that to the test. No choice, ya know.” He shrugs his shoulders, and I almost feel bad for him and the position he’s been left in.