Down by Contact (LA Wolves Book 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Cadence Keys

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblances to actual people, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales are entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Editors: Happily Editing Anns

  Cover Design: Kate Farlow, Y’all. That Graphic

  Created with Vellum

  For my goofball husband for saying some of the most ridiculous things, which inevitably end up in my books.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Taking the Handoff Preview

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Cadence Keys

  Prologue

  I did not see this coming. If you had told me three months ago that I’d be standing here at a wedding reception desperately hoping a woman would look at me, I would’ve laughed in your face.

  First of all, I’m never desperate.

  Second, there’s always another woman that’ll warm my bed. Why would I be hung up on only one?

  But here I stand, watching her body sway to the music, her blonde hair flowing in soft waves around her perfect, porcelain face, and her blue eyes shining bright.

  And all I want—more than anything in the world—is for her to look at me.

  For her to want me.

  Who the hell am I right now?

  But as fucked up as I feel right now, as confusing as all of these stupid feelings are, there’s nothing I would change about ending up here in this moment, except for the fact that for the first time in my life I wish I was here with a date.

  With that beautiful blonde bombshell to be exact.

  But despite all the feelings between us, there’s too much against us to ever make it work.

  So here I stand, wishing for her to be mine, and knowing she never will be.

  One

  3 months earlier

  “Luther, you can’t be serious.” I stare at him in disbelief. “You want Matt Fischer to lead the new Wolves campaign?”

  My eyes scan the marketing materials sitting before me, and I shake my head.

  This has to be some kind of mistake.

  Luther, my co-worker in the marketing and promotions department and one of my dearest friends, nods his head and confirms, “Definitely. The group testing verified he’s the way to go for our campaign this year. He’s on fire this season, and he’s hotter than ever. He’s a tight end with a tight end.” Luther tosses me a wink that makes me want to roll my eyes. “Women want to be with him, and men want to be him. This is definitely his time to shine.”

  I shudder and look back down at the face of the one man on the team I can’t stand. His pretty-boy features on his insanely strong, defined, athletic body really shouldn’t be allowed. And don’t even get me started on his piercing cerulean-blue eyes and the charming smile he tosses at every woman.

  “He’s practically a walking STD. The last thing the Wolves need is to tie our brand to one of our most notoriously slutty players. He’s an unabashed womanizer.” I force my gaze from the picture of Matt’s ridiculously handsome face—ignoring the slight uptick in my heartbeat—and stare sternly at Luther. “No, we should definitely go with someone more wholesome. What about Jack Fuller?”

  He shakes his head. “Jack has done several campaigns for us, but he’s pulling back in preparation for his wedding to Paige. Plus, the group tests showed that while everyone loves him because he’s the NFL’s golden boy, they prefer Matt. I’m telling you, he was the choice by a landslide.”

  I wrack my brain for another alternative, anyone who might be a better draw than Matt “Manwhore” Fischer. But no names come to mind. It’s a lot harder than one would think to find a wholesome player on our team. They’re good guys, but they definitely get around.

  My shoulders sag in defeat. You’d think on a team of fifty-three players, we’d be able to choose one who isn’t the biggest ladies’ man on the team.

  I groan and fight the urge to bang my head on my clean and meticulously organized cherry wood desk. “Is he seriously our only decent option?”

  Luther just smiles at me like he thinks I’m adorably naïve. “Sex sells, Nikki. Let’s give the people what they want.”

  I throw my head back and take a centering breath, already dreading the next few months where I’ll have to work closely with Matt. As a manager in the marketing and promotions department, I don’t normally have to interact with the players—that’s a task I can delegate to someone else—unless I’m directly in charge of their campaign. However, as the head coach’s only daughter, I’ve met and talked with pretty much every player on the team.

  Out of all the players my dad has ever coached, no one has ever rubbed me the wrong way like Matt Fischer does. From the very first time I met him, and he threw me his stupidly charming smirk, I knew he was trouble with a capital T.

  I had walked into the locker room looking for my dad after a game, and my eyes locked on Matt’s. Other players surrounded him, sweating and exuding the energy I’ve become used to from players after a victory—that explosion of excitement and adrenaline that’s practically tangible in the air. I’ll never forget his warm voice floating over me and the way my blood heated and tingled in ways it never has. Or the way my breath stuttered momentarily in my chest before his words finally registered. “Well, well, well, who do we have here? I call dibs. Move aside, guys, the lady needs a place to sit.” Then he laid back on the bench and gestured to his face. “I’ve got the best seat in the house right here, honey.” My cheeks flamed with embarrassment while the other players laughed uncomfortably at his antics toward the coach’s daughter, a fact Matt was unaware of at the time since he was new to the team.

  I may or may not have reported him to my dad, which resulted in what I heard were some torturous three-a-day practices.

  Needless to say, I think he’s a disgusting chauvinistic pig, and he thinks I’m a stuck-up princess. I already wish I could speed up time and get these next three months over with.

  I enter my house and immediately line up my shoes in the shoe caddy by the front door. Rubbing the tight muscles in my neck, I attempt to work out the tension that’s been growing since my conversation with Luther. I walk through the hallways of my house, barely noticing the pretentious artwork Anthony insisted we get when we were decorating our new house. It looks like a kindergartner threw paint on a canvas. I still can’t believe the outrageous price Anthony paid for it, but he claims the artist is someone up and coming. Anthony loves to be ahead of the trends. Personally, I’d rather have gotten some landscapes or something calming, like a beach or forest scene.

  But Anthony was adamant, and it didn’t seem like it was worth arguing over. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my life, it’s that you have to pick your battles.

  I walk into the kitchen, stalling slightly in wonder when I see Anthony standing near the stove, stirring a pot of something delicious smelling. Anthony never cooks for me.

  “What’s the special occasion?” I ask, walking toward him with a surprised smile on my face as I take in the aroma of whatever he’s cooking.

  He turns to me. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re cooking.”

  He shrugs indifferently and asks, “So? I cook.”

  My smile falters as he turns back to the pot. “Not usually for me. You usually order us takeout.”

  “Only when I know you’re too tired to clean the kitchen. But I figured you’d be willing to clean up tonight since you have tomorrow off,” he says, never once looking back at me.

  I stare at his back, my smile now completely gone, half expecting him to tell me he’s joking.

  “It’s not like I have the day off to lounge around the house, Anthony.” I can’t hide the tension in my voice. My breaths are already coming in short pants as I try to fight the emotion bubbling up in my chest.

  He still doesn’t turn to look at me. “True, but you won’t be at the cemetery all da
y. Just for part of it. I’m sure even your folks don’t want to spend their whole day there.”

  I can’t respond to his comment, for fear I’ll scream at him for his insensitivity to what tomorrow means to me. And screaming isn’t something I do. I’m nothing if not composed and competent, always.

  It’s why Anthony loves me. At least it’s one of the few reasons he’s given me for why he wants to marry me.

  The wine fridge under the counter to my right catches my eye, so instead of trying to come up with some semblance of a response, I grab a wine glass from the cabinet and open up a bottle of red wine—not paying any attention to the brand of the bottle in my hand. I pour a generous amount into my glass and then take a large, fortifying sip.

  “You really should let that breathe to get the full robust flavors. That’s too good a year to waste.”

  I can feel the cracks in my carefully composed foundation beginning to crumble. Ignoring Anthony’s advice, I mumble a lame excuse about not being hungry and take my wine upstairs to our giant master bedroom. Frankly, I think this house is too big for just the two of us, but Anthony wanted something appropriate for our wealth, and, like I always do, I went with it.

  I place my wine glass on my nightstand and slip out of my blouse and skirt, throwing them in the hamper because I know how much Anthony hates it when I leave my clothes on the floor, and I’m not in the mood to deal with his reproach tonight. I slide off my panty hose, grab my wine glass, taking a generous gulp when I do, and walk into our luxurious bathroom wearing my matching La Perla cream bra and underwear.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I stare at the woman looking back at me. I set my wine glass on the counter and brace my hands against the white and gray marble sink hoping to relieve the weight of this burden I carry, if only for a moment. A tear slides down my pale cheek, and my gaze stares back at me, red rimmed and swirling with all the pain I normally keep buried so no one will know how I really feel.

  A heavy breath leaves my chest as I exhale slowly, working to compose myself in case Anthony comes up here. I take one more for good measure before washing my face and making myself a bubble bath so I can ease some of the stress from today. But I know it’s pointless because tomorrow will come with its own unique stress.

  Tomorrow is the anniversary of my sister’s death. The one day a year when my family and I go to her grave. I go on my own sometimes—although not often—as I’m sure my parents do, but the anniversary is always a day when we go and relive the pain of losing her together.

  As I immerse myself in the hot lavender- and peppermint-scented bubbly water and take another generous sip of my wine, I ponder what my life could’ve been like if things had been different. If my sister hadn’t died that day so many years ago. If my role in her death didn’t eat me alive.

  I quickly shut down the thought.

  Things aren’t different.

  This is the bed I’ve made myself, and now I need to sleep in it.

  Whether I like it or not.

  Two

  “Oh, yes, yes, yessss! Matt. Ohmigod, right there. Don’t stop. Harder, harder!”

  I couldn’t pound this woman any harder if I tried. I’m surprised I haven’t pummeled a hole in her vagina at this rate. I mean, fuck, I know it’s hot in porn, but this is real life. There isn’t any harder than this. I’m only a man.

  One hell of a man, and a sex god, if my past partners’ cries of pleasure are any indication, but a man, nonetheless.

  I pump furiously, feeling her tighten around me as her words turn into meaningless screams of pleasure. Veronica, or Vicky, or maybe it was Val…whatever. She comes. That’s what matters.

  Now, if only I could do the same.

  But my dick and I haven’t exactly been on the same page lately. Apparently, he’s getting picky—stupid bastard. Pussy is pussy. He should be happy he gets it as much as he does. But noooo, now he’s acting up.

  I try to mentally encourage him to finally give me my release, but instead of feeling the familiar tingle in my spine, I feel myself starting to soften up. Fuck that.

  I slide out of her and pull her up by her arms.

  “Suck me, baby.”

  Baby, because now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure her name even starts with a V, and I know—unfortunately, from experience—that women don’t like it when you don’t remember their name while you’re fucking them. I can’t really blame them, but at the same time, we’re only having sex. I always make my intentions clear beforehand not to expect anything more from me. I’ve never met a woman who made me consider changing my rules. This woman is no different.

  Fortunately, the generic endearment doesn’t seem to faze her. She eagerly gets on her knees and takes me into her mouth.

  Fuck, yes. I tip my head back and close my eyes, relishing the sensation of her lips wrapped tightly around my cock as I hit the back of her throat. That feels so damn good.

  This girl definitely knows how to suck dick.

  It takes me longer than usual, but eventually the tingle I’ve been waiting for shoots down my spine, and I pull out of her mouth just in time to come hard all over her tits.

  I drop to the bed, spent, but also unexpectedly restless. That was…not as satisfying as it should’ve been.

  My fingers slide through my sandy-brown hair, while I try to figure out what the fuck is going on with me. This isn’t the first hookup lately that’s left me feeling unfulfilled.

  I feel the bed dip next to me and look over to see her lie down beside me. I really wish I could remember her name, so I don’t come off as a total dick when I ask her to leave.

  I think it was Veronica. Sure, I’ll go with that.

  “Thanks, Veronica. I had a great time.”

  She shoots up from the bed, her eyes that were filled with pleasure and contentment seconds ago now flaming with anger, and my stomach drops.

  “My name’s Brenda!”

  Fuck. I was way off.

  I throw her a sheepish look and move to smooth things over, but before I can even get another word out, she throws her clothes on—screaming at me the entire time—and stomps out of the hotel room.

  Okay, so that could’ve gone a little better.

  I lie back against the bed, my eyes closing as I attempt to relax, but that niggling thought I’ve been trying to suppress by fucking jersey chasers comes back. The same thought that has my boners dying before I even get a chance to come in a woman.

  It’s not enough anymore.

  I scrub my hands over my face and let out a groan of frustration. Fuck this. Meaningless sex has worked for years. Hell, since I lost my virginity at sixteen with Gabi Jimenez, a senior, at a pool party. I don’t understand why it’s suddenly not enough. I sit up and push off the bed, heading for the shower.

  I turn the dial and step in. The hot water pelts my body, releasing the tension in my shoulders from my wayward thoughts and easing the other aches and pains from our away game yesterday. I think about my game-winning touchdown and how good everything feels when I’m out on the field. It used to feel that way when I was buried deep in a woman, too, but not so much anymore.

  I wish I could pinpoint why.

  I rinse the suds off my body and get out of the shower, grabbing a plush white towel off the towel rack and patting myself dry. I wrap the towel around my toned waist and walk toward my suitcase—no sense in unpacking when we’re only here for two days—and then get dressed in a pair of jeans, a fitted black long-sleeved shirt, and a Wolves sweatshirt. I pack up the rest of my shit from around the room and then head out to catch our plane back to LA.