Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats #6)(46)

“Because anyone who has watched five seconds of American football knows they do these things? Have you not heard of a Kiss Cam?”

She was getting lectures about American football now from a Russian. Oh, how screwed up her life was. “Peter, I was blowing off steam. I don’t know why this is even a big deal. I danced with a mascot for a few seconds. I didn’t take my top off and breastfeed an adult male greased up with pig fat while riding a Slip ’N Slide. Perspective, maybe?”

“You are a party girl. You aren’t being serious. We sent you out there for calming influence, and instead, you are making a fool of yourself.”

“I was off duty.” God, her teeth were going to crack from the clenched jaw she was sporting. “I wasn’t exactly mooning the queen of England on the greens of Wimbledon.”

“Not yet,” Peter said darkly.

Jesus. “Okay, you know what? I have to go. I’m getting a call from my second job. Phone sex operator. Shift’s about to start. Bye, Peter,” she added, hanging up on the Russian tirade.

And immediately groaned when the phone rang again. “Yes, Sawyer?”

“I’m not sure what to do with you, Katrina.”

“Sell me to gypsies.” Flopping on her couch, she covered her eyes with a forearm. The whole Bad Kat act was getting old. Which, she supposed, was her own fault.

“You get a job in a bar, for f*ck’s sake, and a wild one at that. You go to a football game and draw attention to yourself shaking your ass with the mascot. Let me tell you, there are already a dozen or so lovely puns on sexy * and Kat Kelly floating around.”

“I wasn’t wearing a name tag, you know. I didn’t hold up a sign asking people to look at me. I was having a bad moment, there was an opportunity for fun, so I took it.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “The bobcat started it.”

Sawyer’s silence was frightening.

“Sawyer, I get that this is potentially costing me some connections, but—”

“You got an offer for a dance workout video.”

That made her sit up. “A what?”

“Your little hip-sway dance with the ball girl during the last tournament caught the eye of some made-for-home DVD production company. Maybe the dance with the mascot was the icing on the cake for them since they called about thirty minutes after halftime. They’re expanding to more streaming videos and need more personalities. They asked if you’d be interested in doing some athletic-stylized workout videos… essentially choreographed dance routines with some workout moves thrown in.”

It wasn’t quite up her alley, but it wasn’t exactly a shitty offer either. “I don’t think that’s for me, to be honest, but that’s an interesting concept. Please tell them thank you but no.”

He said nothing.

“So you’re saying sponsors aren’t shying away from me because I’m not the strong, silent type.”

Still nothing.

“That maybe the sex tape”—which I had nothing to do with—“won’t kill my career.”

More silence.

She had a sinking feeling. “Sawyer, have there been other endorsement offers?”

He grunted.

“Sawyer. You’re my agent. You can’t hold those secret from me.”

“Just bullshit stuff, nothing you want to be attached to.”

“Like?”

“Office supplies, a few websites for shit, and some rip-off energy drink that hasn’t even been FDA approved and likely won’t, given the ingredients. Who thinks jet fuel is a good idea to ingest?”

Yeah, not the pick of the litter. “And they don’t care that I’m not ranked in the top twenty.”

“They care that people are starting to know who you are. For all the wrong f*cking reasons,” Sawyer reminded her once more. “Win something, and the offers will roll in. People forgive winners.”

Oh, if only I’d thought of that. Just go out and win a Grand Slam. Yes, I’ll put that on my to-do list, right after solving world hunger and ending terrorism. Priorities, after all…

“Sawyer, I—”

“Quality over quantity, Kelly,” he said quietly, cutting her off. “Quality. I’m looking out for your interests, believe me. Your priority is getting yourself in top shape so you’re ready to attack the Australian Open in January. It isn’t looking cute or learning new dance moves or being auctioned off to the highest f*cking bidder. Which reminds me, what the hell have you done with Lambert?”

Kat glanced around her apartment. “I’ve got him tied up in a kitchen chair, ball gag in place, wearing women’s underwear and covered in whipped cream. Why do you ask?”

“I ask because my most trusted, most reliable mentor has suddenly had a complete lapse of judgment with regards to mentoring. Maybe he’s lost his touch.”

“No, he hasn’t,” she defended without thinking. “Don’t say that. He’s good at what he does. He’s tried hard. I just… things just keep… stuff happens, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” There was a long pause, then, “Maybe you should come back.”

“No.” It didn’t escape Kat’s notice that she was now arguing to stay somewhere she’d, only a week earlier, fought so hard against coming to.