Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

An hour? We won’t get shit done in an hour and the fact that his wife won’t let him stay is beyond fucked up.

“So pussy whipped,” Landon Johnson says, shaking his head. “Okay boys, you heard him—let’s get this show on the road. Wallace? Get the game on son. Let’s see what we’re up against this season.”

2

Miranda

Why am I so nervous?

I shouldn’t be—I don’t even know this person. For all I know, he’s some creepy pervert whose opinion of me I don’t care about at all.

Twenty-five thousand dollars, cash.

I’ve never had that kind of money in my possession before! Will the bank even take it when I try to deposit it? What if they think I robbed a bank? What if they think I’m a drug dealer? Who carries around that kind of money?

Cashier’s check, maybe?

He didn’t say that, though; he specifically said cash. Cold, hard cash.

My palms sweat as I pull my car into the police station, plenty of spots open. I’m right on time, not early and not late. I let my car idle while I wait, looking around for a vehicle that doesn’t belong to the police, one that’s not a squad car.

A minute ticks by, then another, a knot forming in my stomach, the baseball card tucked safely in my purse. Okay, so maybe not so safe—anyone could rob me blind, could steal my purse along with my money and the baseball card.

A cop in a dark navy uniform steps out of the brick building onto the pavement, strides to an unmarked sedan. The only identifying features are the grill on the front and the antenna on the roof.

He doesn’t see me sitting in my car, the same beat-up Tahoe that was passed down from my parents when I turned sixteen. This truck has more miles on it than my college roommate, who racked up notches on her bedpost faster than any frat dude.

I’m woolgathering about school when a sleek, black Beemer rolls into the lot. It’s not the kind you drive off the sales floor—it’s the kind you order and have shipped from overseas, with all the custom bells and whistles. The kind of Beemer that costs more than a house.

I know this because my cousin’s fiancé is obsessed with sports cars and he drags her to the annual auto show. She drags me along, so I can be miserable, too, and it always takes the entire weekend because God forbid the man is satisfied walking through once.

My eyes track the shiny sports car as it slowly creeps through the parking lot, windows tinted a reflective gunmetal gray. The whole visual is creepy and intimidating at the same time.

This is a guy who can afford forking over twenty-five grand—unless he’s one of those men who are all flash and no cash. All show and no dough…

Okay, so I don’t feel so guilty now. It’s not my problem how he chooses to spend his money.

I can’t even see through the windshield, but I know the second he spots me. Stops his car directly in front of mine, blocking me in—although logically, I know that’s not at all what he’s doing. Not technically, though I couldn’t pull my car out if I wanted to.

My heartbeat accelerates and I text Claire, my best friend: If you don’t hear from me in 5 minutes, call the police.

Claire: Are you there meeting the guy for the baseball card?

Me: Yes.

Claire: Okay—where are you so I know where to send the police?

Me: The police station.

Claire: I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.

Me: [sends a photograph of the guy’s car and the police station behind it]

Claire: Yeah, so if he tries to murder you, try screaming really loud.

Me: Ha ha, I’m glad you think this is funny. Oh shit—he’s getting out of his car!

The glossy black door opens slowly and one foot steps onto the pavement. Expensive sneaker, black track pants. One hand grasping the top of the door and within seconds, a head of black hair emerges from behind the smoke screen first.

Tan skin. Full lips.

What the actual…

Holy. Shit.

Who is this guy? He looks like a male model, big, buff, and so damn hot.

My phone pings again, Claire wanting a status update.

Claire: Are you still alive? Text me when you get this.

Me: Yeah yeah, hold on, I’m getting out of my car.

I slide my sunglasses on—not because it’s bright outside, but so I can continue gawking at this male specimen from behind their protective lenses. Where I come from (approximately 40 miles north of here), they don’t make men like this. I’m from a small town that produces construction workers, IT guys, and dudes who work for their families—not stud muffins who drive $100,000 sports cars and look as if they just stepped off the cover of GQ or Fitness Magazine. I wouldn’t know what to do with a man like this, but I sure don’t mind looking at him.