Escorting the Player (The Escort Collection 3)

I grunted as my phone continued to vibrate.

Be prepared for Jessica to lash out, Mickey wrote. But who cares? That girl's gorgeous. Even Mickey included a winking emoji. Christ.

So much for laying low, wrote my coach, Wes. Nice to see you looking relaxed, though. But maybe lay off the binge-drinking in public when the season's about to start. There was no winking emoji.

I expect to meet this young lady sooner rather than later, Martha wrote. Your mother's always the last to know, I guess. No winking emoji.

I grimaced and did a quick Internet search of my name. Sure enough, there was picture after picture from last night posted to Instagram and Twitter. Images of me with different fans, grinning and holding various alcoholic beverages. I barely remembered any of it.

What was consistent in each picture was my smile and my grip around Avery. My arm was locked securely around her waist in each shot. She smiled next to me for an endless stream of photos, looking genuinely happy. I remembered the feel of my palm against her hip, pulling her to me. I loved the way holding her felt.

I scrolled through more pictures.

We were just pretending. Why does it look so real?

"You're really nice to your fans," she'd said after we'd posed for yet another shot. "I think it's sweet."

Jessica had grown to hate the fans. After a while, she'd thought she was above them. She just didn't get it.

"The fans are the best part," I'd said. "Without them, it doesn't mean a whole lot."

Avery smiled at me then, and I felt as if I was seeing her real smile. Part of me had softened toward her in spite of my better judgment.

And then I'd had another drink. And another.

After we finished at the restaurant, Eric had insisted that we go to a hot new club in the Theater District. That's when all the trouble had started. He'd called ahead, and we'd been let in immediately, cutting the long line that snaked down Tremont Street. A starstruck hostess had ushered us up a winding staircase to a VIP booth. Avery's eyes were wide as she'd taken in the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor, the multi-colored lights bouncing off the chandeliers.

I leaned over to her. "Do you like clubs?" I'd asked, genuinely curious. I personally hated them. I danced like Frankenstein—or so Jess had told me.

"I've never been anywhere like this," she'd said, gesturing around and laughing self-consciously. "But I'm pretty sure it's not my scene."

I wanted to pull her against me to protect her—from the dancers below? From the swirling lights?—but I didn't feel like I had the right. "We don't have to stay long." The waitress brought over a bottle of vodka, different juices, and limes. I took another look at Avery, the way her hair tumbled past her shoulders as she laughed at something Eric shouted over the music. I grunted to myself, feeling the low pull of desire in my belly. She was undeniably gorgeous, and ev

en better than that, she wasn't annoying…she was nice. Sweet. And now that we'd both relaxed a little, she was easy to be around.

I didn't make a conscious decision about it then. About her. I made a conscious decision to drink enough to not make a conscious decision—which, in dude logic, is essentially the same thing.

We all did another shot, and then things started to get blurry.

Avery excused herself to go to the ladies' room, and I watched her. Her hair swung as she timidly made her way through the crowd. Every guy she walked by checked her out, looking at her as though she were a cupcake they wanted to devour. I clenched my hands into fists. I should've gone with her… If one of these drunk fucks touched her, they were going to get pummeled, courtesy of Chase Layne.

The booze was making me more aggressive than usual, which was saying something. I stood up, getting ready to follow her.

"Chase," Eric interrupted me, "you're doing better, but you need to touch her more. People are seeing you together for the first time. This needs to seem real."

"I'm getting along with her," I said, defensively, trying to see her through the crowd. "I'm making an effort."

Eric snorted. "You make it sound like such a chore. She's gorgeous, dude. And sweet. If she wasn't an escort, you'd totally be into this girl."

"She's cute," I admitted warily.

He shook his head. "Maybe you've had so much pussy thrown at you over the years that you're immune to her."

"I don't go after pussy that's thrown at me. That's desperate, and I don't do desperate."

Eric held up his hands to stop me. "Just dance with her. Act like she's your girlfriend, dammit."

"Okay, dammit."