Perfect Spiral (Playing Dirty Sports Romance, Book 2)

Quinton

As if on cue, like a gift-wrapped present sent from the good Lord above, my doorbell rings.

“How about a distraction tonight?” I ask Lathan as I get to my feet. “I don’t know who it is, but I’m sure she has hot friends.”

“Seriously? Another booty call?” he scoffs with an eye roll.

“I can’t help it if the ladies always come back wanting more,” I argue.

It’s no secret that I thoroughly enjoy sex or that I’ve had a lot of lovers. In fact, I don’t even have to try to get a girl into my bed anymore. Like the sun rising over the ocean each morning, it just happens naturally. Which is why I recently started playing a little game I like to call
“Cheesy, Sleazy and Easy.” Lately, when a woman comes on to me, I try and break out the stupidest, most arrogant pickup lines that come to my mind to repulse them, to encourage a slap to my face
rather than have them bend over and beg me to slap their asses. So far I’m oh-for-forty-five.

Did it hurt when
you fell from heaven?

If I could
rearrange the alphabet, I would put ‘u’ and ‘i’ together.

Well, here I am;
what are your other two wishes?

Your lips look so
lonely. Would they like to meet mine?

No shit, those are just a few horrible examples that
would never work for any other man, but they, unfortunately, worked for me. So it sucks that I’ve never won a round and been turned down. I don’t like losing, especially to my own stupid self.

I’m not a complete dumbass. I know that the women who sleep with me are only using me, whether for my money, fame, or good looks. I’m
simply an object to be acquired. They all have ulterior motives. Why else would they want to fuck me simply because of my name? I can be an enormous asshole or
a complete sleazeball, and they’ll still lead me away by my dick and do all manner of naughty things to me.

It’s depressing really, not to have anyone just want me for me. Take away my millions, my superstar career, fancy cars and beach
mansion, and I’m just a decent-looking guy of immense stature and below average intelligence.

But I do have millions,
and I am a superstar, so, for now, I
guess I’ll have to endure the meaningless fucks until I find a woman who refuses my sexiest pickup lines, calls me out for being an asshole, and finally presents me with a worthy challenge. There’s no fun in having a slut throw herself down and spread her legs for me without making me work for it. I want the thrill of wearing a stubborn woman down, one who fights me tooth and nail while I slowly chip away at her resistance until she finally submits.

“You’re disgusting, and one day your skanky ways are gonna catch up to you,” Lathan calls out.

He’s likely right, but there’s a ginormous chasm between my playboy ways and his celibacy, though. Instead of agreeing with him, I head to the door and simply reply over my shoulder with, “I think it’s time for you to lose the V-card, man. You’re almost thirty.”

“No, I’m not! I’m only twenty-four,” he calls back.

“Like that’s any better,” I mutter with a shake of my
head.

If nothing else, a quick fuck is a helluva good distraction to take my mind off the anxiety before a game or the depressing loss afterward. Lathan sure as shit could use a distraction with everything in his life he’s currently dealing with. I
get that he has self-esteem issues or whatever from his fat camp days, but that’s all in the past. I’m not sure how he hasn’t gone apeshit from bottling up the natural urges for this long. Men need to get laid, or they go crazy. I’m cranky if I go more than a week without a release, especially with all the stress during football season.

I don’t even have to make booty calls, they just appear like magic on my doorstep. And tonight’s unexpected guest will be a
welcome relief to my oncoming panic attack.

As I approach the mostly glass front door, I don’t see any lust-filled beauties waiting for me on the other side, so I unlock it and open it wide in welcome, greeting tonight’s surprise romp before she disappears.

Unfortunately, there’s not a woman waiting for me with open arms.

No. Instead, there’s only a seat-looking thing on the cement stoop with a tiny, snoozing baby inside, next to a black bag. I glance
back out over the yard and find the driveway empty except for Lathan’s truck.

There are no cars coming or going on the silent street either.

Huh. Someone just rang the doorbell, so they have to be close by, maybe on foot. 

I step outside barefoot in my jeans and gray Wildcats tee and walk to each end of the porch looking for who the hell is fucking with
me, but there’s not a soul in sight.

Okay, so this must be one helluva prank. Lathan’s always harping about my manwhorish ways,
just as he was only seconds ago, so he’s obviously the one fucking with me tonight.

Leaving the door wide open, I stomp back into the living room and ask him with my hands on my hips, “What did you do, man? Borrow
someone’s baby to screw with me? Ha-ha. Hilarious. Now tell them to come back and pick it up.”

Rather than bust out laughing, Lathan simply stares at
me silently for several long moments. “Huh?” he finally asks.

“Bravo,” I tell him with a slow clap of my hands. “Nice touch with the poker face and all, but seriously, dude, someone needs to
come get their damn baby. It’s getting chilly outside.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Quinn?” Lathan asks.

I heave a heavy sigh. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I swear I don’t even know what the fuck I would be fucking with you about,” Lathan replies, getting to his feet. “Who was at the door?”

“A baby.”

“A babe? Do you need me to go ahead and leave then?” he asks. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna lose my virginity to some
random jersey chaser.”

“No, man. A bay-bee.
Baby.”

With a creased forehead, Lathan walks past me and toward the open front door. I follow behind him. 

“Holy shit! There’s, like, a baby out here!” he turns around and exclaims while pointing back at the kid. That’s when I start to believe he didn’t set me up. “Why is there a baby on your porch?”

“No clue. I thought you were fucking with me,” I tell Lathan.

“Shh! Watch your mouth!” he scolds me, holding a finger to his lips. “You can’t say fucking around a baby.”

“Um, dude, you just said fucking in front of the baby,” I point out.

“Shit,” he mutters, running his fingers over his Mohawk. “Dammit, I probably shouldn’t say shit either.”

“Or dammit,” I opine with a sigh.

“Why is there a baby on your porch?” he asks again.

“Now you sound like a broken record,” I tell him, throwing my hands up in the air with exasperation. “I have no clue why there’s a baby here!”

“Be quiet before you wake it up,” Lathan steps back inside the house and lowers his voice to warn me softly.

“Forget waking it up. Should we bring it inside?” I ask.

“I guess,” he answers with a shrug. “We definitely can’t leave it out there.”

“Okay then, pick it up.”

“Nuh-uh. You pick it up,” Lathan argues, shoving his hands
in the pockets of his jeans. “It’s on
your porch!”

“Fine,” I grumble.

Marching over, I bend down and lift the bottom of the seat in my arms and carry it into the living room where I place it in the
middle of the hardwood floor.

“Now what?” I ask Lathan after I hear him shut and lock the front door.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. When I look over, he’s holding the black bag that came with the baby in one hand and a white sheet of paper in the other.

“What?” I ask, going over to stand beside him so I can read over his shoulder. It’s a handwritten note that says, “I can’t do this anymore. He’s yours, I’m certain of it. You would have known about him sooner if you read your mail.”

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