Leather & Lace Read online

  Leather & Lace

  A Hard Men of the Rockies Novella

  Brynley Bush

  Hard Men of the Rockies Series

  Red Lace by Kym Roberts

  Tango & Lace by Misty Dietz

  Leather & Lace by Brynley Bush

  Beyond Lace by Mia London

  Blackmail & Lace by Tracy A. Ward

  Titles by Brynley Bush

  Fearless (Black Brothers #1)

  Matchless (Black Brothers #2)

  Shameless (Black Brothers #3)

  Timeless (A Black Brothers Novella)

  The Power Games (Club Helix #1)

  LEATHER & LACE

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by BRYNLEY BUSH

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  Cover design by Jaycee DeLorenzo, Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  Copy Editing by Silver Moon Editing

  Formatting/Interior Design by Polgarus Studio

  www.brynleybush.com

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One - KNOX

  Chapter Two - LEILA

  Chapter Three - KNOX

  Chapter Four - LEILA

  Chapter Five - LEILA

  Chapter Six - KNOX

  Chapter Seven - LEILA

  Chapter Eight - LEILA

  Sample: Beyond Lace

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  The opportunity to collaborate and write this series with the funny, irreverent and immensely talented women who make up Chick Swagger has been so much fun. Thank you Kym, Misty, Mia, and Tracy for the laughs, the friendship, the hot guy pictures, and the welcome camaraderie in a mostly solitary career.

  Chapter One

  KNOX

  “Knox. You’re in.”

  I’ve been waiting impatiently on the sidelines for the hastily snapped words from the offensive coordinator, and I stride onto the field in North Carolina with adrenaline coursing through my veins like the Mississippi after a storm in May. I’m always hyped when I play ball—there’s nothing like the rush you get when you go out onto the field and lay everything on the line, pitting yourself physically against a worthy opponent and athlete across from you on the line of scrimmage. The smell of sweat, the roar of the crowd, the familiar feel of the rough leather in my hands, the sense of belonging, of knowing you’re great at what you’re about to do. It’s a powerful aphrodisiac, especially for a scrawny kid who didn’t learn to read until fourth grade.

  But this game is different. Technically, it doesn’t count, since it’s the first game of the preseason. But for me, this game is personal. In part because it’s against the North Carolina Knights, the team that drafted me out of college six years ago—and the team that traded me last season. There’s not a player in the NFL who won’t agree that the stakes are higher when you’re playing against your former teammates. Not because you have anything against them necessarily. You just want to show management what they missed out on…what they let go when they traded you.

  There’s a little of that, I admit. But this game is about far more than just beating my old team. This game is about beating Mack Jones, the Knight’s star defensive player and my former best friend who betrayed me and almost cost me my career and my future.

  Although the mere thought of Mack is enough to get my blood boiling, everything fades away as soon as I line up just behind the line of scrimmage, my mind focused on the game, my body completely in tune with the quarterback to my left. I don’t have to look at Jones to see the hatred in my eyes reflected in his. I’m not the only one with something more riding on this game.

  Time freezes as Justin Dial, New Jersey’s quarterback, makes the pre-snap read and calls the play.

  “Set. Blue 30. Blue 30. Hut. Hut.”

  The center snaps the ball to Justin, and I blaze my way through the defensive zone before turning to catch it at the forty-yard line. Jones sprints from several yards away to meet me. The ball is just to the left and I graze it with my fingertips. Dammit! The whistle blows, signaling the end of the play, but Jones doesn’t stop. He barrels into me, catching me in the side with his helmet, and I fall. Hard.

  Fuck! I have never felt pain like this, like my hip has been ripped from my torso. I’m curled in a ball on the field, trying not to puke my guts out from the pain on national television. I slowly count with my breath while I wait for the team doc, a method of relaxation I learned when I dated a yoga instructor named…Damn. What was her name? Thinking about her distracts me from the pain that’s threatening to pull me under in a wave of black oblivion. She’d had long auburn hair, the tightest little body I’d ever seen, and my god…her flexibility. Shit! She was a dream come true. But what the hell was her name?

  A shadow falls over my face and I look up into Mack’s face. His helmet’s off, and to a spectator, he no doubt looks like he’s offering an apology. But his sneer ignites my rage again.

  “Always the fall guy, aren’t you, Knox?” he says snidely.

  Fuck the pain. Using my arm and every ounce of strength I have, I sweep his feet out from under him. He’s a big guy—there’s a reason his nickname is Mack Truck—and he lands with a thud on his ass on the turf next to me. In less than five seconds, I’ve scrambled over to him in an army crawl, ignoring the shooting pain in my pelvis as my fist makes contact with his face. Once for LaKendrick, once for me, and once for Shaylee.

  “Dammit, Knox. Stop. He’s not worth it.”

  Justin’s pulling me off him, and seconds later the team trainer is leaning over me.

  “What the hell were you thinking starting a fight on the field?” he asks, his voice tight.

  “I was thinking he’s an asshole.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not doing your image any favors. Let’s hope that didn’t cost you playing next week. That is, assuming your leg’s okay.”

  He pulls my helmet off and I lay back on the turf as the team doctor arrives and straightens my leg, palpating my lower extremity with fingers that feel like daggers. I curse under my breath at the pain, and this time there’s no beating back the darkness.

  I wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon and squint against the unwelcome bright sunlight sneaking through a crack in the floral curtains, trying to orient myself. Because the floral wallpapered room I’m in sure as hell isn’t my apartment in New York, and the protein shakes that serve as my usual breakfast certainly don’t have the mouth-watering scent of cinnamon that’s wafting through the half-open door.

  It all comes back in a rush. The dirty hit. The satisfying crunch of Mack’s bones under my fist. Doc telling me the injury—my hip pointer—would put me out for four weeks, and my coach telling me that since hitting Mack had also gotten me suspended for the next couple of games, I should take the time off to get my shit together and stop giving the press something to talk about before the Torpedoes owner started rethinking signing me. My brother Ty calling to tell me the same thing, but in much more colorful terms. I may be hot shit to the rest of the world, but to Ty I’ll always just be his troublesome little brot
her.

  Fifteen minutes later, my cousin Jackson had called, suggesting I come out to Fort Collins to stay with our grandma, Rosie, for a few weeks. Grandma Rosie’s as feisty as they come, but since her heart attack in June, she’s had trouble keeping up with her rambling old house which evidently needs a lot of work, and the whole family’s been worried about her being on her own.

  Ty had come to stay with her right after her heart attack, and then Jackson had stepped in. Apparently it’s my turn now, since both Ty and Jackson have decided me being in Colorado helping Rosie is the perfect opportunity for me to stay out of the limelight and try and polish my tarnished image a little while my hip heals. I guess they figure I can’t get into much trouble in Fort Collins; it’s a far cry from the life I’ve been leading. Unlike New York, Colorado is all clean air and clean living.

  And they’re right about my reputation. The press hasn’t been kind to me lately, and staying out of the spotlight for a few weeks in Colorado with Rosie wasn’t a bad idea. Judging by the smell coming from the kitchen, it’s not going to be too much of a hardship. Besides, I’d do anything for Rosie. I’ve adored her since I was little, and she’s always had a soft spot for me in return. Without telling anyone but my coach where I was going, I’d packed my bags and caught a late flight to Denver.

  I throw the covers off and sit up. There’s a muffled cry, and I jolt in surprise, wincing at the subsequent shooting pain caused by the abrupt movement. Holy fuck! What the hell is in my bed? A little calico cat crawls out from the heap of covers I just created and gives me a distinctly disgruntled look. Stella, my grandma Rosie’s cat, had checked me out thoroughly when I’d arrived; I guess I passed since it seems she slept with me last night. I chuckle as I rub a finger under her chin. She regards me coolly from tawny eyes that have narrowed to slits at the hedonistic attention before she begins to purr, granting forgiveness.

  I find Rosie downstairs, looking twenty years younger than her eighty-four years in black slacks and a light-weight sweater in an eye-popping hot pink. She beams when she sees me standing in the doorway.

  “I’d have had a heart attack a long time ago if I’d know it was going to bring you boys to visit me,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “Help yourself to coffee and I’ll get you some breakfast. I hope you’re hungry.”

  I feel an unfamiliar tug at my heart, realizing that the last few years of parties, fame, and an endless parade of women have left me feeling hollow. I’ve missed the genuine affection I hear in my grandmother’s voice, and I’m suddenly glad I’m here. I’m hungry for more than just home-cooked food. Although I’d never admit it to them, my family’s right. It’s time I got my shit together.

  “You’re limping!” she fusses. “Sit down. I’ll get the coffee.”

  I roll my eyes at her. “I’m fine, Grandma. It’s just sore. The more I use it the less likely it is to get stiff. Besides, I’m here to help you, not the other way around.”

  “I’m just fine,” she maintains stubbornly.

  “Okay, then,” I say teasingly. “I’ll just head back to New York tomorrow. Get out of your hair.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she says firmly, her eyes snapping. “I may be old, but I’m not senile. I’ve seen the tabloids and heard your brother and cousins talking. And good lord! If I had a nickel for every time your mother swore she got another gray hair worrying about you, I’d be rich. You need a break from all those people who steer you in the wrong direction, people who just want to use you.” She has no idea. But she couldn’t be more on point. “What you really need is to meet a nice girl and settle down.”

  On second thought, she has no clue.

  I laugh. “Trust me, Grandma. That’s the last thing I need. In fact,” I add, putting into words what I’ve been thinking since I realized my career might actually be in jeopardy, “I’m swearing off women entirely for a while. I need to focus on myself right now.”

  She snorts. “You just need to swear off the wrong kind of women.” Her eyes soften. “Knox, honey, you just need to focus on the right things. I think you may need me right now as much as I need you.”

  “So you do admit you need me?” I tease.

  “Well, the yard could use a little work,” she concedes. “You’ve always been good with plants and animals and getting things to grow, ever since you were a little boy.” She eyes my hip. “But you need to get better first. I have limits on my homeowner’s insurance, you know.”

  I laugh. “I’m headed to Achilles HeAl this morning to start physical therapy,” I assure her.

  “Well, in that case, you can pick up some things at the store for me afterward,” she says crisply, handing me her list.

  Three hours later, I’ve been put through my paces by the PT and had a deep tissue massage at the fancy rehab gym owned by my brother’s girlfriend, Faith. Thanks to Faith’s reputation, it had been easy to convince my coach I could recover just as well in Fort Collins as I could in New York. Unfortunately, I’m not used to being injured, or remembering I’m not operating at full capacity.

  I’m on my way out, protein shake in hand and Rosie’s list in my pocket, when a shooting pain in my pelvis decimates me, and I grab the desk to keep from falling. My cup and keys go flying. Luckily, it’s lunchtime and no one’s at the front desk to watch my humiliation as I painfully lower myself to my knees and crawl under the desk to retrieve them.

  I slowly stand and find myself face to face with a girl standing on the other side of the front desk. She’s pretty, but about as opposite of my type as you can get. Very girl-next-door, with long blond hair pulled up in a ponytail, subtle make-up—just enough to accentuate her long-lashed blue eyes—and slightly baggy shorts overalls that somehow do nothing to hide her tight little body. Okay. That part of her is exactly my type. I like overtly sensual women with confidence, experience, and a kinky side. But other than her curves, this girl looks like the type I dreaded sitting next to in class in school, brainy and serious, with nothing but disdain for the class clown who shirked his work and pretended he didn’t care in order to hide the fact that he was dyslexic.

  “Can you sign this?” she asks. Her voice is slightly husky, and I find myself mesmerized. That steeped-in-sin, whisky voice definitely doesn’t match her cool demeanor.

  “Sure, sweetheart,” I say, unable to take my eyes off of her. “Who should I make it out to?”

  She stares at me for a long moment, her straight, little white teeth biting down on her full lower lip thoughtfully, and my cock hardens involuntarily. I have a weakness for lip biting. Too bad she’s an ice princess, because she’s got gorgeous full lips just made to wrap around a man’s cock. Focus, man. The first woman I lay eyes on and I’m already forgetting I’ve sworn off women. It’s just as well she’s totally not my type.

  “Um, just your name is fine.”

  She’s much more unassuming than most of the girls who throw themselves at me, rubbing up against me provocatively when they ask for my autograph. Her subtlety is surprisingly refreshing, and since I’m feeling magnanimous, I scrawl “for my beautiful blue-eyed fan” followed by my signature on the paper and hand it back to her. She hands me a brown bag.

  “What’s this?” I ask in confusion.

  “Your lunch order. What did you think you were signing?” One perfectly arched brow raises haughtily and I’m once again thrown back to my high school days. Yep, definitely not my type. This girl doesn’t look like she’d know a good time if it bit her in her curvy little ass.

  I shrug. “I thought you wanted my autograph.”

  “Why would I want your autograph?” she asks incredulously.

  I study her. She seriously has no idea who I am. Shouldn’t surprise me. Chicks like her don’t watch football. Or, apparently, read the gossip magazines. She looks so bewildered; I can’t help but mess with her a little.

  “Well, you were staring at me,” I point out.

  “I was not,” she protests vehemently. But she flushes prettily, and I suddenl
y want nothing more than to crack her reserve and make her smile.

  “Oh, you were, darling. I saw your gaze travel all the way down to the bone ranger.” I glance down at my crotch and grin, waggling my eyebrows comically to let her know I’m teasing.

  Her eyes narrow. Damn. I should have known a prim and proper girl like her wouldn’t have a sense of humor.

  “Do you give autographs to everyone who stares at you?”

  “Not usually,” I admit. “But I always make exceptions for pretty girls.” In one last ditch attempt, I give her the trademark Beckinsale smile, the one my cousin Blake says makes girls’ clothes fall off.

  Her lips quirk up. “Does this usually work for you? Is ‘Eau de Protein Shake’ your secret weapon with the ladies?”

  I look down to see protein shake splattered all over my shirt. Fuck! Apparently the top wasn’t on securely when I’d dropped it.

  My smile falters slightly. “Oh. That’s why you were staring.”

  “Why else would I?” There’s a hint of challenge in her eyes, and I concede defeat. Some things never change. The reserved, brainy girl never goes for the dumb jock.

  “Forget it,” I say dismissively. And forget her. I’ve got better things to do than flirt with a girl whom I have absolutely no interest in and who’s clearly not interested in me. “I’ve got to go. Keep the signature.”

  Her eyes widen. “Really? Oh. Thank you!”

  Before I can respond, another physical therapist I haven’t met crosses the room to where we’re standing.

  “Thanks for delivering lunch. We’ve been swamped.”

  “No problem, Becca,” the girl says lightly. “Turns out it was my lucky day. Look what I got!” She holds up the signed paper triumphantly. “The signature of the world’s cockiest guy.” She turns abruptly on one Converse clad heel, crumples the paper into a ball, and makes a perfect three-point shot into the trashcan on her way out the door.