Mile High (Windy City Series Book 1)
Mile High: Chapter 4

Maddison stuck true to his word and went straight to bed after meeting with his friend for dinner. On the other hand, I refuse to call it a night at nine thirty, especially because it’s the first night on the road of the season.

I live for this. I get plenty of action at home and thoroughly enjoy my summers in Chicago, but there’s a different kind of thrill when it comes to pussy on the road. The unknown of who it’ll be, the excitement of where it’ll happen, the satisfaction that I don’t have to see them ever again if I don’t want to. That’s how I like it.

Which is why I didn’t reply to either of the girls from Denver who slid into my DMs earlier. The thrill was gone. It was no longer exciting.

“Another round?” Rio asks.

I quickly examine my half-full whiskey glass, knowing I don’t need another. I try to keep my limit to two during the season, especially the night before a game. It’s one thing to stay up late and get laid, but I’m not dumb enough to get fucked up and play hungover.

“I’m gonna nurse this one.” Raising my glass to his, I take another small sip.

Rio proceeds to lift his hand towards the server, signaling for a new drink—his third of the night. Which, if I’m still around by the time he tries for a fourth, I’ll make sure to stop him. I’m not the captain, but I am the alternate, and even though I fuck around, I still have responsibilities to make sure my guys are ready to go when it’s game time.

As I’m deep in thought about how this is my year to win it all—the Cup and the new extended contract I need to earn by the end of the season—the sexy server comes by with Rio’s fresh drink. But she doesn’t look his way while she places his beverage in front of him.

No, she keeps her sultry gaze locked on me.

“Can I get you another one?” She leans her elbows onto our high-top table, casually pushing her tits up even more. My eyes fall directly on them. “It’s on me.”

And my mind doesn’t miss the connection of where I’m looking and what she just said. I wouldn’t mind those being on me either.

Somehow, I tear my attention away from the slit in her cleavage that’s doing all kinds of things to my imagination. “Self-inflicted two-drink rule.” I raise my glass to show her my final drink of the night.

“That’s a shame.” She bites her lower lip, leaning in closer to me. “I was hoping you’d still be here when my shift was over.”

That was easy. I haven’t said two words to her before this, but she’s hot as hell, and her long raven hair is gonna look awfully pretty wrapped around my fist tonight.

I lean onto my elbows, my face only inches from hers. “Just because I’m not drinking doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

“I’m Meg.”

“Zanders.”

“I know who you are.” The corner of her lips lifts upward. “I’m off at midnight, and my place is only ten minutes away.”

“My hotel is right across the street,” I offer.

“Even better.” She licks her lips, and my eyes trail the movement. Those are gonna look even prettier wrapped around a different part of my body.

I fuck a certain way—no lovemaking, no soft and slow. No kissing if I can help it. I’ll explain the rules, and if she’s into it, cool. If not? Someone else will be.

A quick shift of chestnut curls draws my attention in the distance. My eyes follow the movement, instantly recognizing the honey strands intermixed among the mass. The owner of the curly hair spent the entire flight waiting on me, hand and foot, getting me absolutely everything I could possibly think to ask for, down to a tissue out of the bathroom.

I’m a dick, but it was fun.

Stevie hastily puts her credit card in the bartender’s hand as she stands from her seat, ready to bolt. She’s dressed much more casually than her work uniform today, but even with the oversized flannel, I can see just how nice her ass is from here.

I’m an ass guy.

And a tits guy.

She’s got both, but her disdain for me turns me off from the rest. Or challenges me, I’m not sure yet.

“Zanders,” Rio snaps me out of my trance. “She’s talking to you.” He suggestively nods towards the waitress who is currently offering up her body to me.

“Yeah?” I absentmindedly ask, my eyes still flickering to the flight attendant at the bar.

“Are you going to wait until my shift is over, or can I get your number?”

“No numbers—”

“Meg,” she reminds me.

“You can replace me on Instagram.” My eyes dart back to Stevie at the bar, her foot tapping with either impatience or nerves. I can’t quite tell.

Without another thought, I stand from my seat, my feet carrying me her way.

“Zanders!” Rio calls out in shock.

I’m a little surprised at myself too. That waitress is a smoke show, but the most fun I’ve had in a long time was torturing Stevie on our flight today, and I want to do it again. I’m sure that waitress will still be waiting for me when I get back. I did practically nothing so far, and she’s already offered up her bed for the night.

I quickly approach Stevie from behind, my tall frame overpowering her as I cage her in, placing my hands on the bar top next to her small ones that are decorated with dainty gold rings.

“Stevie.” I bend down close to her ear. “You following me?”

The steam almost rolls off her red cheeks. Standing this close to her, the rosiness of her face is more evident than it was today. Her skin is a pretty shade of light brown, but it’s contrasted by pink cheeks and freckled skin. Another thing I didn’t notice was the small gold hoop in her nose or the numerous gold rings that decorate her fingers and ears.

She nervously spins the one on her thumb. “Seems like you’re following me,” she retorts.

She refuses to turn around, most likely because I have her locked in, and she’ll be faced with my chest, as she was today on the plane when I bombarded her. But I hope she does. I like seeing her falter and flustered. After her little arrogant show during the security briefing, I had a blast putting her in her place, reminding her of who she works for.

But still, she doesn’t turn around, so I lean to the side, resting an elbow on the bar top, until finally, she faces me, doing the same thing.

“My hotel is right across the street, so what’s your excuse?”

She nods towards the TV. “Closest sports bar I could replace. I needed to watch this game.”

“And yet you’re leaving before halftime?”

“I can watch the rest in my room.” She frantically glances around the bar, looking for that sleazy bartender, I’m sure.

“What’s the rush?”

“Truthfully? I don’t want to be in the same bar as you. You’re kind of a dick.”

My head falls back in laughter, and a confused but playful smile dances on her lips.

“Well, I think you’re kind of a brat, so it is what it is.”

I search her freckled face, looking for any sign of offense, but there isn’t any. Instead, a bit of amusement shines in her blue-green eyes, which makes me like her a little bit more. But not too much more. I can’t imagine most people would react this way if they were called a brat right to their face.

My stare wanders her frame. Even though her shirt is oversized, I can still make out the shape of her tits and waist. Her outfit is causal and thrown together, whereas mine was planned and prepped.

“You sure you have to go?” the douchebag bartender asks Stevie as he places her credit card and receipt on the bar top in front of her.

“I do.” Her tone is laced with regret. “Thanks for the drinks, Jax.”

Jax? Even his name screams, I’m a tool.

“Yeah, thanks, Jax,” I add his name on in a condescending tone. “But you can go now.”

“Excuse me?” both Stevie and the bartender say at the same time.

“You can go now,” I repeat, brushing him away with a simple motion.

Jax looks from Stevie back to me, his expression full of confusion before he shakes his head and walks away.

“Why are you such a prick?” she asks, her tone full of disgust.

Well, that’s a loaded question, so instead, I deflect.

“That guy is a prick.”

“No, that guy was nice, and we had good banter. You just ruined it.”

“You weren’t going home with him anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re leaving with a full beer still on the counter and half a game left to watch.”

She shifts the two receipt slips on the bar top. “He left me his number,” she smugly adds, nodding towards the receipt on the bar. “And the night is still young.”

Without thinking, I grab it from the bar and rip it into pieces that would be too small for her to put back together. And I’m not quite sure why I did that other than I like pissing her off.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Doing you a favor, Stevie. You can thank me later.”

“Fuck you, Zanders.”

I pause for a moment as I study Stevie’s face, noting the real anger spewing off her.

“Your little bartender boyfriend was grabbing that waitress’s ass”—I nod towards a blonde server at a table—“every time they passed in and out of the kitchen. Then when she wasn’t looking, he was making out with that waitress”—I motion towards a different one, this one with brown hair—“by the bathroom. Now I’m not opposed to multiple women, but at least I make sure they know about each other. This guy is a tool.”

“You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie.”

Stevie’s eyes flicker with disappointment before regaining their faux confidence. “Well, maybe I don’t care,” she challenges.

“You care.”

“You’re an ass.”

“We’ve been over this, Stevie. I already know.”

I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, placing it down for her tip. This guy shouldn’t be getting a cent from her or me, but I especially don’t want her over-tipping when he was being a sleaze all night.

“I have my own money.”

“Good for you.” I condescendingly pat her shoulder. “Okay, now spill.”

“Spill what?”

“Why are you following me? Are you in love with me already, Stevie? Slow your roll, sweetheart. It’s only been one day.”

She lets out an arrogant laugh. “You’re in love with yourself.”

“Someone’s gotta be.” The statement holds way more truth than she realizes.

Her eyes flicker back to the television screen above the bar. “Are you a Devils fan?”

She ignores me, keeping her attention locked as the time clock winds down into halftime.

“Huh?” she absentmindedly asks as the Devils’ point guard takes a shot at the buzzer but misses, causing the game to go into halftime tied. “Dammit.”

“You’re a Devils fan,” I repeat, this time as a statement and less as a question. But I don’t like that she ignored me the first time. I’m not used to that.

“Yeah. Something like that.” She swings her purse strap over her shoulder and across her chest, separating her tits. My eyes fall right to them. Her body is banging, full of curves. She should show it off, not cover it up with baggy and oversized clothes that seem like they’ve seen better days.

“Well, now that you’ve successfully cockblocked me,” Stevie begins. “Can I go?”

My attention darts back to the raven-hair waitress, her eyes lingering on me as she marries two ketchup bottles. She’s trying to be seductive about it, but it’s kind of weird the way she’s smirking at me from across the room as she hits the bottom of the ketchup bottle with the heel of her hand.

My phone dings in my pocket, breaking my uncomfortable stare, and I replace a message from my older sister, Lindsey.

Lindsey: Hey, Ev. Not to put a damper on your first road game of the season, but Mom got ahold of my phone number. I don’t know how, but she’s called three times already trying to get ahold of you. Long story short, don’t answer any unknown callers. Miss you, little brother.

My lips fall open as I continue to stare at my phone screen.

I haven’t heard a peep about my mom in two years since she showed up at one of my games and begged me for money. To which I, of course, said no. She had gotten ahold of my phone number, called nonstop, and finally showed up in person. I can’t keep my whereabouts private, my game schedule is plastered online, but she’s one of the reasons I’m so selective about people having my phone number. I’ve had to change it more times than I can count.

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks.

“Huh?” I look up, replaceing Stevie’s blue-green eyes gentle and concerned.

My confidence has faltered at the moment, and there are only a select few I break down my walls in front of. The flight attendant with an attitude is not one of them.

“I’m fine,” I snap, feeling seen.

“Damn, never mind.”

The bar suddenly seems overcrowded and hot. I’m not claustrophobic, but it currently feels like I might be. I close my empty fist. My palms are clammy as a rush of warm air hits my cheeks, my vision slightly blurring. I attempt to take a breath, but there’s no air in the room.

Fuck. I haven’t had one of these in years.

Without a word or a second thought, I bolt out the front door of the bar.

Once outside, I glance in both directions, looking for some space. The streets are crowded with people, most of which have turned their attention to me. Usually, I live for the stares, the cheers, the recognition. But tonight, I need to get as far away from anyone with eyes as I can.

Jogging across the street, I instinctively turn down a few blocks, having no idea where I’m going, but relying on my panic-stricken body to replace a quiet space.

A park comes into view, but people are taking up all the benches in sight. I replace a large tree with a big enough trunk to hide behind. Without thinking twice, I sink my ass to the grass, my expensive-as-shit Armani pants instantly cooling from the wet ground.

Inhale. Exhale. Anchor yourself.

Where am I? Denver. A park.

What color are the benches? Blue.

Why am I feeling this way? Because my mother is a gold-digger who left her children and husband for someone with more money. Because my mother is selfish as fuck, and now she wants my money. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t love me. She just wants my money.

Rage seeps in again. The only thing that brings on panic attacks for me is blind rage, but I can’t let it control me. The near-decade of therapy has taught me that. I can’t let the panic win. I can’t let my mother win.

Why am I feeling this way? Because she doesn’t love me. Because she chose money over my sister and me. But it doesn’t matter because I love myself.

That’s what therapy has taught me—to love myself. And I do. Unapologetically and without question, I love myself.

Someone’s got to.

Inhale. Exhale.

The panic is gone. I no longer feel hot and flustered, unable to breathe. I fought it off. I didn’t let it get me. I stopped it before it really started.

Letting out a deep breath, I drape my elbows on my knees and drop my head between my shoulders.

I completely bailed on my tab at the bar, but Rio can cover me. I’ll get him back next time. Pulling out my phone without re-reading my sister’s text, I respond.

Me: Thanks for letting me know, Linds. Love you. Please visit soon.

I’ve only ever loved a handful of people in my life, and those people are the Maddisons and my sister. That’s it, and that’s all I plan on. That’s all I need.

Lindsey: Looking at my calendar now! I’ll get something on the books as soon as the office slows down. Please do me a favor and stay out of the penalty box this year.

Me: That’s what they pay me the big bucks for. I’m the asshole from Chicago who doesn’t give a shit about anyone, remember?

Lindsey: Sure.

She finishes with a crying, laughing emoji because she knows me. I’m not that guy, but that’s what I let people believe. It’s easier that way. I don’t get hurt that way.