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As soon as I got to my car, I punched the steering wheel like a fucking idiot, but it worked, siphoned off some of the aggression coursing through my body.
I picked up my phone, thinking about Tucker, Ramsey, and McRae out on that field, the concern etched on both Tucker and Ramsey’s faces. I hadn’t realized they were so close until then.
Me:Is McRae okay?
Tucker:Yeah. Concussion. He’s out for a while, but not permanently sidelined.
Me:Okay, good.
Tucker:I’m around if you want me.
Me:Fuck off.
Tucker:I figured you’d say something along those lines. Regardless, you played good.
Me:Not good enough, but I will next time.
Tucker:Maybe.
Me:Bet.
This defeat had taught me one important thing. I wasn’t letting Tucker get in my head ever fucking again. Come next season, nothing would stop me.
8
TUCKER
One of the many benefits of being a celebrity was getting invited to events like the one a car service was taking me to at the moment. A party in the Hollywood Hills, thrown by Alexander Montrose, one of the biggest movie producers of the moment? Sign me the fuck up. The guest list was exclusive, the drinks would be flowing, and half-naked men and women would be everywhere. There were worse things to do on a Saturday night during the off-season.
Ramsey was practically hitched with Baby G now. I was still trying to wrap my head around that one—how I’d thought he was into Houston, but lo and behold, he was boning his best friend’s brother. It was more than sex, though. All I had to do was look at both of them to see that. I’d never seen Ramsey like this before, and I was happy as hell for him, even if it meant there was no chance I could talk him into going to a party like this with me. He probably wouldn’t have been up for it even before Garrett… G, on the other hand, he’d been jealous as fuck I was going and tried to talk Ramsey into letting me try to get them in.
I liked the Hollywood Hills, how it felt like you were in a small mountain neighborhood when the city was right below you, sprawling mansions dotting the tree-covered hillside.
I was pretty sure Whitt lived somewhere up here—not that I cared. We hadn’t talked since we took them out of the playoffs, only to lose in the next round. I’d thought about texting him a few times. My stalker ass knew his birthday had been a few weeks ago, and I’d wondered what he was doing, if his family had made time to see him, or at least call him, the way my family would do. I should have just done it. I didn’t know what had held me back other than not wanting him to know I was annoyingly obsessed with him ever since the Christmas Eve Blowjob—the CEB was something I tried not to think about, but to this day, I still did.
The driver pulled up to the white iron gate. There was a security guard under an awning, so I rolled down the window and said, “Malik Tucker,” before handing him my ID.
He checked his list, then replied, “You can get out and walk from here.”
Well, shit. This really was exclusive. They must not want to risk anyone, even drivers, sneaking in.
I thanked the driver and got out, tugging my bag with me. He pulled away while the security officer handed me my ID back. He unlocked the gate and told me to follow the sidewalk up to the house. It was surrounded by tropical-looking plants and palm trees all the way up to the mansion Young Tucker never would have believed he would get to be inside.
There was a man at the gate there, too. He checked my bag, then pointed, “Head around the house.”
It was a huge white stucco villa-style mansion. Music played from the backyard. There were two pools, one with a slide, more tropical foliage, waitresses and waiters walking around in basically nothing. Some of the women were topless, the guys in tiny Speedos, and, well, there was a cock, so it looked like they were walking around naked, too.
Hollywood was fucking awesome.
I grinned. Was Whitt there, I wondered before I wanted to punch myself in the face for caring. Something had to be done about how obsessively I thought about him.
I grabbed one of the glasses of champagne from the waiter with his dick hanging out and took a sip. There were people swimming and dancing and lots and lots of alcohol all around. Likely coke, too, but I wasn’t into that shit.
There were three sets of french doors along the back of the house, which were all open, more half-naked people manning the grills.
I went inside, where there were even more people and more drinks.
I hadn’t seen anyone I knew and likely wouldn’t outside of Alexander, but I didn’t much care about that kind of shit. I was always pretty comfortable in my skin and was good at meeting new people.
