Page 54 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“Stag.”

“Before you ask,” Dooley says. “I’m going stag too because all the best people do. It’s the best way to have a ball at the ball.” He grins. Subject successfully changed off me and my dick problem. Until Shelby turns to me.

“Except Dylan. He has a date with Heather.” Shit. Time to put the Heather-trap debacle to rest. She agrees I should tell Shelby, in fact asked me to tell him so he wouldn’t feel bad that I’m taking her to the ball. As for the rest of the guys, they’re collateral damage and I don’t care much about Uncle Oscar Harley and his damn agreement or the confidentiality anymore. And again, I trust the people in this room. Mostly. I look at Bane.

“I’m only taking Heather because I’m required to, by contractual agreement with my sponsor.” I take a breath and let my head spin, the bourbon having its effect. The good news is my tension is nearly gone and all I have left is a dull ache in my chest, as if I took a physical blow by a defensive tackle. I can handle it, right?

“Shit. What the fuck kind of sponsorship deal is that?”

“I know, right? It’s a god dam disaster. But it’s a big secret. The only legit part of the deal is the PSA for the animal rescue shelter we’re shooting…”

“Thursday,” Dooley says.

I turn to Shelby and he’s nodding his head at me, a small smile lifting the corner of his lips.

“Things are starting to make sense now,” he says and slaps me on the back as if I’ve given him a gift.

“Feels damn good not to have to deal with that deception anymore,” I say to him.

* * *

I regret the bourbon for the next two days, especially at practice, but I don’t let on to coach that there’s anything wrong. The good news is Bane doesn’t gloat unless you count a small chuckle here and there when I miss my mark by a mile or get mock sacked because I’m too slow to ditch the ball.

By the time Thursday comes around, I’m feeling more like myself and after early practice, I’m ready to shoot the PSA. But as I drive over to the animal shelter, I’m not so sure I’m ready to see Amanda. The squeeze to my chest returns and I’m forcing deep breaths as I go to the back lot and in the back door as instructed by Dooley. I can hear dogs barking, but I end up in a hallway where there’s a sign that says Dressing Room and pointing to a door on my right.

Hefting my duffel onto my shoulder, I go inside the room to dress.

In the stall undressing, I’m down to my boxers when I hear the door open and closed, so I come out.

“Dooley I—” My mouth and everything in me freezes, except my dick which bounces to life with astounding speed and vigor. Because it’s not Dooley I see standing inside the door staring at me. It’s Amanda. And she’s staring back at me, lips parted and taking me in like a cold drink. Her eyes travel to a stop when they reach my dick and take a long gulp. So do I.

“What are—” she says, then clears her throat.

“What are you doing in here?” I finish for her, though I know the answer. Fucking Dooley sent her.

“I’m shooting a commercial.” Her voice is breathy as she reaches for the door handle behind her, without turning away. Her interest in my dick remains unabashed and my dick remains ecstatic and jumping for joy. Her hand jiggles the handle and she pulls at it until a frown mars her face. “I’ll leave you to whatever—”

“I’m shooting the same commercial,” I manage, maintaining control.

“Of course you are.” She groans a laugh. “Augustus told me there’d be—”

“Augustus?” WTF?

“Augustus Dooley, the producer-director. He told me there’d be a student…” She says student like it’s a vile insult, more offensive than mother-fucking shithead which is what I feel like right now and I want to strangle Dooley—slowly, after I break every bone in his body.

But I’m worse than a dickhead student, because it’s my own fault, because I went along knowing he had something outrageous planned. She turns to the door and slams a hip against it and then yanks at the handle violently.

“This door seems to be… stuck.” She heaves a breath with the effort of fighting with it.

“Don’t bother. It’s not stuck. It’s locked.” My voice is void of emotion as I await the shitstorm of her reaction to that bit of news, because I now realize the full vision of Dooley’s plan and even as I envision punching his face in, my dick sings his praises, applauding his plan, salivating all over it as I try and calm down and get my cool back.

She turns to me, puzzled and then dawning realization lighting up her face like a sunrise.

“You and he… planned this?” Her voice is a breathy, sexy screech and I imagine how she’d sound with me pounding inside her. Then I shut my eyes and imagine Coach Radz’s face if he ever found out the extent of my lust for Coach Lake. I remind myself that’s who she is.

At the same time, I rebel against the oversimplification of such a complicated woman.

“No. Not exactly,” I say, opening my eyes, expecting anger and disgust on her face. But that’s not what I see.