“Your version of a quickie is not the same as everyone else’s, King. And yes, it’s okay. And you take amazing care of me, always.” She flicks the button open on my pants. “Wait, I don’t have an appointment.”
“I set up a pampering session for you and Stevie before the game tonight. I thought you might need some extra TLC, and since I can’t provide it in the form of excessive orgasms, this was the next best thing.”
“You are the most amazing boyfriend.” She slips her hand in my pants. “Now please get inside me so I can have at least one of those orgasms you keep taunting me with.”
Thirty-seven minutes and two orgasms for Queenie later, we’re dressed again and in my SUV, on the way to the spa.
Except when we arrive, there are all sorts of media vans parked in front of it. “What the heck is going on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they got wind that there’s a celebrity around or something?” I say as we pass the spa. It’s an exclusive one, and very expensive.
The last time I sent Queenie there, she told me the lead singer of a local band was getting a facial. They’re usually really good about keeping celebrity clients under the radar, but occasionally someone posts something and forgets to shut off their locator, and the media jumps all over it.
“Maybe.” I park around the corner. “I’ll walk you in to make sure it’s nothing we need to worry about.”
“Okay. Sure. That would be good.” Queenie nibbles on the end of her fingernail.
I hop out of the SUV and meet Queenie on the sidewalk. I thread our fingers together and give her hand a squeeze. “I’m sure everything is fine.”
Except as we round the corner, the throng of media vipers suddenly turns and moves toward us in a wave. I look over my shoulder, expecting to see someone notable, but then famous people often wear hats and big shades to hide who they are. And then I realize what’s happening, because the reporters start yelling. At us.
“Ryan Kingston! Are the rumors true? Did you get the general manager’s daughter pregnant?”
“Are you being blackmailed?”
“Did you really take all of Corey Slater’s money in the divorce?”
“Are you dating the GM’s daughter as a PR stunt?”
“Did you know that Queenie Masterson was married when you two started dating?”
“Is she going after all your money too?”
“Oh my God.” Queenie tucks herself into my side, trying to hide from the flashes and the microphones suddenly pointed in our direction. Stevie’s aqua hair appears as she shoves her way through the crowd, Bishop’s mammoth frame hulking behind her.
He spins around and holds out his arms. “What? No questions for me? Me and my wife aren’t exciting enough for you?”
“We gotta get Queenie out of here. They’re sending one of the stylists to our house. We showed up early, and Bishop thought he was being funny posting about ball waxing. The media showed up because you two have your bromance going on.”
One of the reporters asks him if Stevie’s pregnant.
Bishop jabs a finger in the reporter’s direction. “Yes. With sextuplets, because my army of sperm is the motherfucking bomb. We’re gonna start our own damn hockey team in one fell swoop.” He raises his arms in the air like he’s preaching a sermon.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. My brother is going to shit a brick when this goes viral.” Stevie spins us around and flanks me as we head back to my SUV. She and Queenie duck into the back seat and I get behind the wheel, soon pulling out into traffic before the reporters can surround us. Bishop does a good job of distracting everyone, letting us make a quick getaway.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” Queenie’s eyes are wide, her fingers at her lips, and she looks like she’s about to cry. Again.
Stevie meets my concerned gaze in the rearview mirror and throws her arm around Queenie’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s just fresh gossip.”
“I can’t go to the game tonight. I can’t face that kind of mob.”
“It’ll be fine. We already have a plan to get into the arena tonight. And you don’t have to worry because we’ll be in a box and reporters can’t get to us; plus, now that I’m pregnant with sextuplets, no one is going to care about your divorce from Douchey McDickface.”
“I can’t believe Bishop did that. You hate media drama.”
“I hate it when they use baseless facts to railroad people more. Let them have a heyday with that. I’m sure I’ll get knocked up sooner than later, and someone will say it’s someone else’s baby.”
I want to stick around and make sure Queenie is actually okay, but I’m out of time and I need to head to the arena, so I’m forced to leave her in Stevie’s capable hands. So much for a relaxing afternoon for her.