Wild Cards (Wild Cards #1)

Wild Cards (Wild Cards #1) Page 33

“Ahem!” Derek’s grandmother clears her throat loudly. “Miss Parker, obviously you have a lot on your mind and would like to hash this out. I’m just not sure this is the proper time or place to have this conversation. Derek, why don’t you invite her to come back tomorrow to discuss football and such.”

“Now’s fine,” he tells her.

“Yeah, now’s fine,” I say. “I don’t care what you do or don’t do with girls, Derek. I didn’t come here to talk about anything else but why you lied to me about playing football.”

“I didn’t lie, Ashtyn.” He doesn’t look the least bit guilty. “Listen, I’m not sayin’ I didn’t leave stuff out.”

I laugh heartily. “Leave stuff out? Oh, that’s rich. You outright lied. I remember plain as day you said you were an average foot-ball player. Average, my ass.” I huff a few times, trying to gather my wits as I tell myself to stop shaking. “I read that you played varsity as a freshman and led your team to two state championships. Do you know what I’d do to get my team to State? Just about anything, and you know it.”

“I don’t play anymore. And no matter what you think, I didn’t hook up with anyone else since we were together.”

Derek’s grandmother steps between us. “May I remind you both there’s a party going on just outside that door. A party that just happens to be in your honor, Derek.”

“A party that I never asked for, remember?” Derek counters, then says to me, “You want to talk about lyin’, let’s put everythin’ out on the table. You’re not innocent, either. You told me you were okay with a one-night stand. That couldn’t be farther from the truth and you know it.”

My heart skips a beat. I can’t look at him or respond, because I might be tempted to admit the truth.

“I don’t want to make this about you and me,” I tell him. “It’s about football. You can’t just stop playing when you’re, like, amazing at it. Actually, some people are amazing at it. You’re . . . how did they describe it? Exceptional. Not only that . . . one article said they’d ‘never seen a young quarterback like Fitzpatrick, who could read players and adjust his strategy during plays like a pro.’”

He laughs, dismissing the assessment. “They might have exaggerated a little. You sure you came here to talk football? I think you came here because you missed me. Why haven’t you texted me back?”

“Don’t change the subject. I read at least five articles online. They all say approximately the same thing. You were MVP at Elite. I’ve seen the caliber of the players there. They’re the best of the best, the guys who’ll no doubt be starting in the NFL after college. Play with me, Derek. One last season.”

“I’m goin’ back to the party.” Derek opens the door, but holds out a hand before leaving. “You want to join me, Sugar Pie?”

I look down at my football jersey. “I’m not dressed for a party, and you didn’t answer my question.”

“I answered it. You comin’ or not?”

He walks out of the room when I don’t join him, leaving me alone with his grandmother. “Well, that was . . . entertaining, to say the least,” she says.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.” Feeling like I just lost a glimmer of light in my pathetic life, I pull out my cell. “I’ll call a cab and be out of here in—”

His grandmother pulls the phone out of my hand and turns it off. “You should stay.”

“Excuse me?”

She hands the phone back to me. “I’ve decided that you should stay here for the night. Attend the party and see what the night has to offer.”

“I’m not exactly dressed for a party and it’s obvious I’ve bothered you enough.”

“It’s a shame I didn’t host a costume party.” She grabs the edge of my grass-stained jersey with the tips of her thumb and forefinger. “Didn’t your mother teach you to look in the mirror before you leave the house?”

“My mother left when I was ten. She didn’t teach me much.”

“And your father?”

I shrug. “He’s kind of in his own world.”

“I see. Well, you might as well get over the fact that you’re not going back to that football camp tonight. I’ll have Harold drive you back first thing tomorrow morning.” She walks to the door and clears her throat. “Take a shower and make yourself decent. A neighbor of mine owns a boutique in town. She’ll bring over something acceptable for you to wear.”

Derek’s grandmother leads me upstairs to a bedroom with an attached private bathroom. She tells me to hurry and wash up. I get the distinct impression that I better not disobey her. I don’t want to attend the party, but she doesn’t seem to care about my opinion. All I want to do is convince Derek to play for Fremont, but that doesn’t look like it’s about to happen.

After a quick shower, I call Coach Bennett and inform him I’ll be back in the morning for practice. I hang up and notice a short, white strapless cocktail dress neatly spread out on the bed. How did Derek’s grandmother get it so fast? On the floor is a pair of red stilettos. The whole outfit looks expensive and elegant. I step closer and notice the dress still has the tags on it.

Reaching out, I turn over the price tag. The dress is seven hundred dollars. I’ll bet everything in my closet adds up to seven hundred dollars, and I don’t even own a pair of stilettos. There’s no way I can wear a dress that expensive, or shoes with heels this high.

I touch the silky fabric of the dress. I’ve never felt anything so soft in my life and wonder what it would feel like against my skin. Dropping my towel, I hold the material up to my body and look at myself in the mirror. Bolstered by the fact that nobody is watching, I unzip the garment and squeeze into it. I imagine being a princess and having this dress as one of many in my vast wardrobe of designer clothes.

I look in the mirror and hardly recognize myself. The dress hugs my curves and my breasts press against the material so they’re pushed up and give me more cleavage than I usually have. It makes me feel sexy and, dare I think it, powerful.

Derek accused me of being here because I missed him. The truth is, I’ve thought about him too much. Thoughts of him have invaded my mind. I wish they’d go away. Every time I need encouragement, I think of his words. Every time I feel alone, I think of when we kissed and he smiled at me.

Prodigy quarterback.

Derek could save our team. He said he doesn’t play anymore. Did he even contemplate picking up a ball again? If I had the power to make him fall in love with me, would he change his mind and join the Fremont team? I look at myself in the mirror, then slip on the stilettos.

There’s only one way to find out.

Chapter 45

Derek

My grandmother, who’s been flitting around like a butterfly, is suddenly ignoring me. I’ve tried to get her attention three times since I left her and Ashtyn in the library. I know Ashtyn hasn’t left because I’ve had my eye on the front door the entire time.

I finally run into my grandmother when she rounds the corner on the way to the dining room. “Where is she?” I ask.

My grandmother puts her hand to her chest. “You startled me. Don’t sneak up on an old lady like that. You could’ve caused a heart attack.”

“Your heart’s fine. Where’s Ashtyn?”

“You mean that poor girl who dresses like a boy?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

“The one you called Sugar Cake?”

“That’d be Sugar Pie.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She removes a piece of invisible lint off my suit jacket and takes her time buttoning my shirt back up. “You’re transparent, Derek. Just like your mother was at your age.”

“If you’re thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’, you’re wrong.”

“Then you won’t mind that I invited Sugar Pie to stay the night.”

I don’t want Ashtyn anywhere near my grandmother. She’s up to something. Everything the woman does is calculated and deliberate. She’s not just being nice to Ashtyn by inviting her to stay here tonight. I can tell by the gleam in her eye that she wants information out of Ashtyn; information about us. That’s as dangerous as giving secrets to the enemy.

“I’ll drive her back to the dorm,” I tell her.

She waves her hand in the air. “Nonsense. It would be in bad taste to make the poor girl go back to a dorm room with questionable amenities when we have more than enough space right here.”

Oh, hell. It’s useless to argue because it’s obvious I’m not winning this argument. “Where is she?”

“In one of the guest rooms. And I might have given her a dress to wear. She can’t possibly attend one of my parties dressed in that filthy football jersey and shorts. Bless her heart.”

Oh, no. Did she have to pull out the “bless her heart” phrase again? Those words are like a loaded gun in Texas, where that phrase could either be an insult or a term of endearment, depending on the tone or intent.

“Stay out of my business, Grams.”

“And what business is that, Derek?” When I don’t answer, she pats my chest in a patronizing manner. “Don’t call me Grams ever again. You just remember to be a gentleman, like a Worthington host should be.”

“I’m a Fitzpatrick.”

She raises a brow as she starts walking away. “Bless your heart.”

I glance up, wondering if my mother is laughing her ass off right now or cursing the day she wrote that letter to my grandmother.

I start talking to a bunch of guys as I scan the place wondering if Ashtyn will appear anytime soon. For all I know she’s locked herself upstairs and isn’t coming down. This is definitely not her scene, where the girls are overdone and overdressed and the guys put on a smile and a suit. If this were a mud-wrestling match, she’d probably be jumping in the ring right about now.

A streak of white on the staircase catches my eye and I freeze.

Whoa.

It’s Ashtyn, wearing a short white dress that hugs her curves, and bright red stilettos that show off her long legs. I’m frozen in place and can’t take my eyes off her. She catches the attention of my grandmother, who gives her a nod of approval.

“Who is that?” one guy asks.

“Never seen her before,” another says.

A guy who was introduced to me as Oren gives a low whistle. “Damn, she’s hot. I call first dibs.”

Nobody’s getting first dibs on Ashtyn if I have anything to say about it. Without hesitating, I walk over to her. The tops of her creamy white breasts are popping out, no doubt tempting every guy in the place, and those sexy shoes she’s got on are what fantasies are made of. “What’re you wearin’?” I ask in a harsher tone than I intended.

“Oh, you like it?” She twirls around slowly, giving me, and the guys still watching her, a 360-degree view. She almost trips on the heels and grabs my shoulder to steady herself. “Your grandmother let me borrow it. And the shoes, too. How cool are they?”