Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(6)

She produces a baggie, then scurries up to the landing, where the bannister is flat. I watch her spread the powder with her Visa card, and Declan hands her a rolled bill.

“Thanks, friend.”

And then I watch as Maggie and Dec Carnegie blow a few lines. God. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He is a 20s-aged male with a fuck ton of disposable—make that snortable—income, but it’s weird because he’s a pro baseball player.

He catches my eye, giving me a rueful smile. “Don’t tell grandma.”

“Never.”

“Luce is cool. She’s just crunchy,” Maggie tells him. “Cocaine isn’t clean enough for her.”

Dec inhales, his thick chest expanding. He blinks slowly. “Fuck. This stuff is clean as it comes, Mags. Who do you buy from?”

I follow them up the stairs, feeling like a tagalong child as they discuss this area’s hookup for quality powder.

We’re greeted on the second floor by a long, hardwood hallway striped by an oriental runner. I can tell it’s authentic by the short, rough fibers. Fake ones are always just a little too fluffy.

Dec hangs a right, leading us past several beautifully appointed bedrooms, all with king-sized beds, several scattered with women’s clothing. The two doors at the end of the hallway are both cracked open just a little.

Dec pushes against one before whirling around, shaking his head as if he’s just realized he’s at the wrong door. He turns toward the door directly across the hall, but not before I get a peek at the most elaborate bedroom of all, complete with two topless women lounging in the bed.

I have to work to un-widen my eyes as he steers us into what turns out to be a library.

Maggie walks in first, and Dec leans over near her neck. “You smell good, Mags.”

She preens. “It’s custom. Roja. You know, Roja Dove, the designer who uses odour profiling.”

Dec flashes me a grin, as if he’s both confused and charmed, and Maggie hits him on the arm. “Don’t make fun of me. You said you liked it.”

Declan holds his hands up. “Oh, I do.”

A few minutes later, he’s got a basket of dirt-streaked baseballs on the desk and is scrawling, “To Zelda.” I notice that he signs it, “Homer Carnegie.”

“You like your nickname?”

He winks. “No one asked.”

“You got it from a sports reporter, right?”

He nods. “Good memory. You Southern girls and sports.”

“We like to gamble,” Maggie tells him with a grin.

Dec hands me the ball, then digs into his pocket. He holds out a plastic bag to Maggie. “Swapsies?”

I watch his shoulder muscles ripple through the fabric of his dress shirt as he leans over and blows a line off his desk. He offers some to Maggie, but she shakes her head. “I’m a lightweight.”

He grins. “Wish I was.”

I’m still feeling slightly disappointed—and stupidly na?ve—as we step back into the downstairs hallway. What did I think? That baseball players were all stuck in the 1920s with Babe Ruth?

Declan can probably do whatever he wants. Who would drug test him? He’s too important to the Sox.

Mags and Dec are lost in conversation, pointing at a painting on the wall, when a bleached-blonde girl with pigtails and a super-short red dress walks down the hall toward me.

“Oh my God! Lucy Rhodes!” She throws her skinny arms around me, filling my nose with the sent of Chanel as her ribcage presses into my boobs. When she pulls away, still gazing up into my eyes, I smell vodka. “You are my fucking favorite. The youngest one! The spunky one!”

I nod politely. “That’s me.”

“Oh my God, that time you…” She snaps her fingers, looking drunk. “The thing with the car.”

I nod again, still fake smiling. “I hit my sister Celia’s boyfriend, Chad.”

“Oh yeah.” She snaps again. “He fucked that other girl!”

“He did.” He got another girl pregnant. My hitting him was totally for camera, but this drunk girl didn’t get the message.

“That was fucking awesome,” she slurs. She sticks her hand out. “I’m Jules. From Playboy.”

Right. That’s where I know her from. “Were you Playmate of the Year a little while ago?”

She laughs, a throaty sound. “Yes! Two years ago, in ’14. That reminds me! Can we take a picture? For my Gram?”

It takes a minute for that to compute: she wants to take a picture with me for her Instagram account.

If she’s C-list, I guess I’m B-list, I think cynically.

My mouth is hung in smile purgatory when a waiter comes by, handing both of us flutes of chardonnay.

I take a long sip, then another and another while she gabs about how much she loves the show. My toes are crossed in my Louboutins that she’s forgotten the picture.

No such luck. Her lashes flutter like she might pass out, but then she rouses, bumping into me. “Oh my God, the picture! Righttt.”

She holds her iPhone up, and I pray for some distraction. Anything. I grit my teeth.

And into the hallway steps Bryce Parsons.

I blink at his familiar face as glass shatters, something liquid spilling on my toes.





THREE Lucy