Page 28 of Battle Scars

She had to know what she was doing to me. And when I couldn’t take anymore of her brand of torture—when I snapped—I did what she asked and took what I so clearly wanted. But the second my cock stopped pulsing after painting her with my cum, I knew the entire thing was wrong.

I don’t fuck around—on the job or otherwise—and I don’t fuck around with clients. This was a recipe for disaster; a mistake I regularly cautioned my men to never make.

Worse than that, I hurt her.

Not my finest moment and one I’ll never be proud of. The things I said were disgusting.

Adrienne might be spoiled and she definitely has a problem listening, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve my respect. Because she absolutely does.

I panicked when the lust cleared and realization that I fucked up hit. I let my bruised ego and battered pride do the talking before I hightailed it out of there, and that wasn’t the right thing to do.

I’m going to have to figure out how to fix this, or at the very least, guide us back to a professional setting because the last thing I can afford to do is lose control like that again…

Even if I’m dying to.

THIRTEEN

FINAL SCORE

Adrienne

One week later…

“And now, please welcome for the first time to the living room, all-time racing legend Adrian Malone and his daughter, Adrienne,” Kimber Long, host of a well-received cable sports interview show, calls out as Dad and I walk out on her set. It’s meant to look like a living room in a moderately upscale family home.

Final Score, is Kimber’s popular show that airs every afternoon at four o’clock on Wolf Sports Network, or Wolf for short. She’s tall. She’s blonde. And she’s beautiful.

Her wide smile and the freckles across the bridge of her nose give off that girl next door vibe that every man loves. And she eyed Gabe like a particularly juicy steak she wanted to sink her teeth into the second she laid eyes on him backstage.

I discreetly push out a frustrated sigh that the cameras and microphones shouldn’t pick up but just thinking about him has me seething all over again.

She can have him. He’s nothing but a jerk with impending doom and heartbreak written all over him. I should know. I learned that lesson when I touched his fire and got burned, and I try to learn most of life’s lessons the first time around. I was already done by the time we arrived at her set in Los Angeles.

Still… I want to scratch her eyes out, which is highly inconvenient.

This, I ignore.

I’d let hair and makeup softly curl my long, dark hair so that it fell in loose waves down my back and around my breasts. I sat patiently while they made up my face in soft, smoky grays and delicate pinks. And then I stepped into a restroom and changed into my standard uniform of dark skinny jeans and tall black Louboutins with their sky-high heels and red lacquered soles. I topped it with a loose-fitting chiffon camisole that hung from my shoulders on slim straps and had a deep enough V in the front that it hinted at the abundance hidden underneath. With the front tucked into my jeans, behind a skinny patent leather belt, it billowed around my waist.

Mom taught me to be sexy without blaring it, which is probably why the half-naked photoshoot put me on edge. Of course, I compounded it by letting Gabe have his way with me in the dark locker room. As if the “Women in Racing” spread wasn’t pushing my limits enough, PR booked me for a full centerfold in The Dangerous Dames, a well-known gentleman’s magazine that boasts cutting-edge articles and full-color images of young, beautiful women who just happen to be naked.

I don’t want to borrow any more trouble with that one, so for now, I plan to ignore the impending date for me to drop my clothes all in the name of showing the world who I am.

I threaded my platinum star earrings glittering with tiny diamonds through my ears. Dad gave them to me when I won my first race on the circuit.

In the dressing room, Dad was decked out in his signature uniform of a pair of worn Levi’s, a black T-shirt, boots, a leather belt, and his DHR team jacket just casually waiting for us to be called to set.

“Ready?” he asked me.

“Of course.” I slid my own DHR jacket up my arms and followed him to the stage entrance, which brings us to now.

Today is wholesome family business, sports, and a sit-down interview.

Dad and I walk into the living room made-up in creams and whites. Kimber stands to greet us warmly, as is part of her schtick.

I haven’t made up my mind if she’s genuine or not, but in the world of professional sports, we all have a role to play. I won’t begrudge her for hers, because I’m too entrenched in my own. If there’s one thing I understand better than anyone else, it’s how hard women have to work to be taken seriously in professional sports. Not to mention the questionable things we’re threatened with regularly.

I sit next to my father on the long cream sofa as she settles into her chair across from us, folding her legs one over the other, as she often does, emphasizes just how long they are. I could see Gabe going for a woman like her. All of her golden-blonde and creamy-peach would look killer next to his jet-black and dark-olive.