The Rush

  THE RUSH © 2018 by Piper Westbrook

  Visit PW’s website at www.piperwestbrook.com.

  Cover Design: Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art

  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 information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright law. Pirating intellectual property makes angels cry.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  She’s his enemy in the game—and insatiable in his bed.

  Once he was football’s hottest quarterback. Now he’s Sin City’s disgraced prince. A suspected criminal. A pariah. A bona fide badass. The fall from grace should crush any man, but Simon Smith has a vendetta against Veronica Greer, the woman who fired him.

  He can see through the good girl reputation that hides all her dirty. She holds his career in her hands, but her body belongs to him. When she offers to repair his image to appeal to another team, he knows it’s an attempt to deny themselves the inevitable: reckless, greedy, destructive pleasure.

  Challenge accepted.

  * * *

  The Rush is the second book in the End Game series. The game begins in The Penalty.

  CHAPTER ONE

  What a beautiful lie.

  Under the dusky blush of sunset, the Venetian was a spectacular beacon, polished inside and out—a true Las Vegas gem. The air was sweet with late-summer blooms. Inside, the marble floors echoed as Veronica Greer marched—anyone who knew her knew she didn’t simply walk or strut or glide, but instead marched—to her destination within the grand hotel.

  The engraved invitation was to an elegant late-afternoon tea, but Veronica didn’t doubt that a raunchy bachelorette party awaited.

  At the double doors of the Renaissance suite, she paused, going over a mental checklist. Her green tea-length dress was simple and strapless, designed specifically for this occasion—so she had no concerns there. Despite the sunshiny afternoon, she’d driven to the Venetian with the top of her silver Porsche Boxster up to protect her side-swept braid from the wind. Perfect hair—check. Perfect makeup—check.

  That left her posture.

  From the time Veronica had been four and toddling around in her mother’s high heels, trying to fill Joan Greer’s shoes even then, she’d been warned that sloppy posture ruined any look.

  Veronica quickly corrected herself. Chin up. Chest out. Peep toes of her strappy shoes pointed forward.

  Smile, damn it. It didn’t matter that she was combating the effects of neglected sleep, having lately worked almost obsessively. Her high-profile career and family rarely left her a moment’s peace. Not to mention how hard it was to sleep now that she lived alone in her mountain-view mansion. The place was cluttered with cobwebby memories of what used to be.

  Either get an exorcist or get away, had been her friend Grace’s advice. Veronica’s idea of exorcising the place was throwing out the bed she’d shared with her ex, splurging on a new one and hanging a row of dream catchers above the headboard. But she’d also adopted the other half of Grace’s advice, even though escaping to the administration complex at Villains Stadium and working herself into a stupor sometimes left her irritable.

  Not that anyone knew this, of course. It was Veronica’s secret and hers alone—that she was more tired and lonely than she let on…and tired of being lonely.

  She adjusted the extravagant orchid bouquet—a thank-you token for the hostess, who was likely halfway toward bachelorette drunkenness—in the crook of her arm and used the other hand to knock.

  Pastel perfection greeted her as an usher guided her into the foyer and traded a dainty pink lace “freshen-up” pouch, complete with hand sanitizer and mints, for the bouquet. It joined an array of bouquets in vases of varying shapes and colors, all of which paled in comparison to the centerpieces of luscious cherry blossom branches that topped nearly every table. The wet bar was stocked, and there were hors d’oeuvres on china dishes and champagne in crystal flutes. Bunches of rose gold and silver balloons, miles of ribbon, and the twinkle of fairy lights added to the classy festiveness—as if someone had commissioned the world’s top decorators to transform the luxury suite.

  And it was a total facade, providing cover for the heart of this night.

  There were men here. Veronica worked so closely with professional football players that she could sense the testosterone before the door even opened. The Las Vegas Villains had christened her “the Ball Buster” because she fearlessly went toe-to-toe with men on a daily basis and knew what made them tick.

  The nickname had originated when her parents had acquired the team at the tail end of the previous season and appointed Veronica as general manager. She was a fresh face in sports—a woman who posed for pictures for the paparazzi, was unflappable in press conferences, and could work the media in ways no one understood. And when it came to managing her parents’ franchise, she was full-throttle.

  Nothing was more valuable than her parents’ trust. At thirty, she’d finally bloomed into their dream daughter. Veronica could thank herself for that achievement. She’d learned at an early age how to read people and always knew just the right thing to say or do.

  The power that came with being admired and envied could make a girl feel invincible. Those who didn’t want to be her wanted to be with her.

  If only that were enough for Veronica. A career, friendships, and a loving family were wonderful blessings. She was a daughter, sister, boss, friend…but as of thirteen months ago, she was no longer a wife. Somehow being someone’s ex-wife didn’t feel like an adequate placeholder. Underneath it all she was still struggling to navigate single womanhood. Or maybe she was just restless, in need of a distraction.

  A roomful of sizzling-hot male strippers probably wouldn’t get the job done, but she was willing to get into the spirit of things. After all, her law school friend Grace Smart would get married only once—she’d put off committing to her jewelry designer Prince Charming for years while she played the field, because she was neurotically meticulous and wanted to be absolutely sure he was the right guy—and now she was sure.

  “Girls!” Veronica called into the living room, where the guests were gossiping over drinks. “Who do I have to sleep with to get an appletini around here?”

  Squeals. Cheers. Then a rainbow of pastels surged forward as the women stampeded to her, with Grace leading the pack.

  “Finally, finally, finally!” Grace wrapped her in a tight hug, then reared back with a grin. Over her frilly white cocktail dress she wore a graphic tee that read Buy Me a Shot, I’m Tying the Knot. It was a little ironic since the Smarts were funding everything from the bachelorette party to the bridesmaids’ gowns to the wedding reception. So technically she was buying her own shots. And just how many of those she’d already downed today was anybody’s guess. “God, you’re late. What took so long?”

  “Speed limits.” Veronica thanked the server who appeared with an apple martini. The martini and a glass of champagne would be her limit. In an hour or so she’d drive to the stadium for a night of work.

  She raised her glass high overhead. “This one’s for the quirky, sweet, lionhearted bride-to-be. You inspire me.”

  “
Really?” Grace’s eyes were misty with tears.

  “Really. You and Mason—you guys show me that love truly is patient and kind and everything that people want to believe but are afraid to. Be happy.” Veronica lowered the glass and drank with gusto.

  Grace clapped and bounced on her toes, probably relieved that, one, Veronica had actually shown up to the bachelorette party after weeks of waffling, and, two, she wasn’t being a Debbie Downer. It wasn’t that Veronica didn’t support Grace’s engagement. It was that Grace had it lodged in her mind that a divorced friend in the wedding party could project negative energy onto her marriage. Veronica hadn’t been particularly happy to be demoted from matron of honor to bridesmaid upon her divorce, but she understood Grace’s eccentricities. Part of the reason the woman was her friend was that their differences kept their friendship in a sort of balanced-out harmony.

  Veronica knew that Grace, a socialite who’d found her calling in geriatric advocacy and worked at a retirement estate, was a gentle soul despite her tendency to be socially mystifying. Grace wanted her once-in-a-lifetime wedding to be a happy occasion. Who couldn’t empathize with that?

  “So, bitches,” Veronica teased, resolving to pretend for a while that she wasn’t the divorced oddball in the group, “where are the men?”

  “What men?” Grace asked coyly as the others giggled.

  “Come off it. As discreet as this tame so-called afternoon tea is, you’re not fooling me. Part of your dream wedding scenario has always been a wild bachelorette party. And since Kensie helped coordinate this, I’m sure she has something dirty up her sleeve.” Veronica gave Kensie, who was Grace’s younger cousin and maid of honor, a knowing smile. In their circle it was still mentioned how Kensie’s Hawaiian-themed high school graduation party had been canceled once her parents had discovered that she’d sent out invitations that read Get Lei’d. “Plus, I detected dick the moment I came up to the suite.”

  “They’re in the media room,” Grace gave in. “Guess I can’t pull one over on an attorney.”

  “They’re getting ready for the next number.” Kensie took her empty glass and passed it off to a server. “You missed the first one. It was totes incredible.”

  “Bummer.” It wasn’t that much of a loss to Veronica, who had easy year-round access to Las Vegas’s male revue talent, should she ever want to indulge in that brand of entertainment. Not that she ever had. She’d gotten married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-nine and was now too chained to obligations to get her kicks watching strangers strip.

  Besides, what would it do to her reputation to let people think that she frequented strip shows? What might her parents say? She couldn’t quite picture their reaction because she’d never yet disappointed them.

  That honor went to her sisters. At the moment it was Waverly who was in the hot seat. Three weeks into the new season, she was still wading through sports media infamy for having a tryst with a fellow assistant athletic trainer during the Villains’ training camp—oh, and she’d exposed for starring in sex tapes. Veronica was doing all she could to smooth things over, but it wasn’t easy. They were fire and ice—Waverly a rule breaker and Veronica a rule maker. And sometimes it was only by the miracle of sisterly love that they coexisted in the same family.

  “We’ll make sure you get extra-special attention now,” Grace promised with a giddy laugh as sultry music began to sweep the room. The women scattered throughout the spacious suite, cursing between laughs as they competed for the best seats.

  Veronica was headed for the bar when Grace grabbed one wrist while Kensie grabbed the other, and together they tugged her toward a settee that had been placed in the center of the living room.

  The music switched tempo and four tall, muscular men emerged, all dressed in firefighter gear—catering to Grace’s men-in-uniform kink. The guys were big on audience participation, and it didn’t take long for Veronica to be swept into the moment. Being sandwiched between two gyrating dancers who were as muscular as professional wrestlers was fun. She could confess that. But even as she laughed and grinded her ass and slid a crisp twenty-dollar bill into one man’s thong, she kept her to-do list in mind. Contracts to review. A meeting to confirm with the counselors at Faith House, the organization she’d founded to benefit at-risk teens. An appointment with her jeweler to pick up the sapphire earrings she would give Grace as her “something blue” on her wedding day.

  When the strippers’ attention turned to the bride-to-be, Veronica escaped to the guest powder room to check her dress for ejaculate and to update the to-do lists on her phone.

  Multitasker—that, she was.

  She pressed the phone against one ear and a hand against the other in an attempt to hear a voice mail message from her assistant, Heather. As she listened, a furious red haze descended over her vision.

  “Will you be sitting in on tomorrow’s meeting with Simon Smith? J.T. and Joan have him down for noon in the Villains Club Lounge.”

  “The nerve of that bastard!” When Veronica had given the quarterback his walking papers, he’d proceeded to try to get reinstated. It wasn’t going to happen. She’d told him so. Now he’d gone over her head to the people she answered to—her parents, the team’s owners.

  She had to make a move and reestablish her control on the Simon Smith situation, which she couldn’t do from a hotel suite that overflowed with liquor and strippers in varying shades of hard-bodied nakedness.

  Offended and thrown off-kilter, she tossed the phone into her handbag and left the powder room without giving the mirror a glance. The strip show was in intermission, with club music pumping down onto the party. The guests had flocked to the bar for refreshments and were raving about the dancers. Grace was now missing the tee she’d been wearing over her dress. A stripper was probably using it to blot crotch sweat.

  Veronica joined Grace and poured herself a flute of champagne.

  “This is fun,” Grace said, but with inflection, as though she were asking for reassurance that a wild bachelorette party was worth the risk should her conservative family disapprove. “Right?”

  “Very. Does your fiancé know you and Kensie did this?” Veronica asked. At her friend’s worried expression, she hastened to add, “I’m not judging you. Just asking a question.”

  “Mason says he’s fine with it.”

  “But…?”

  “It’s a little unsettling, that’s all. These dancers remind me that there are so many men out there—millions!—and the day after tomorrow I’m going to officially choose one. I’ve fucked only a fraction of the men in the world.”

  “Grace, you do realize it’s not humanly possible for you to fuck every man on earth.” Veronica chuckled, getting a nervous giggle in return. “There’s a reason you said yes to Mason.”

  “Love. I love him.” Grace poured a glass of champagne but didn’t drink. She only eyed the bubbles rising to the flute’s brim. “But couldn’t love steer a woman wrong? I don’t want to waste my life on a marriage to the wrong man, like you did.”

  Ouch. Veronica blinked but wouldn’t let herself make a big deal out of her friend’s prewedding jitters. “I’m pretty good at reading people, Grace. And I see happiness at the end of your story. Mason loves you. You don’t need to fuck every man on earth if you’ve already fucked the right one.”

  Grace set down her glass. “Thanks, Veronica.”

  A burst of laughter collided with a blast of music.

  “Oh, no,” Grace groaned. Kensie had hooked up her tablet to the sound system. Bouncing off the walls was a song that had been playing in the elevator when she’d lost her virginity to her husband during cocktail hour on their wedding day.

  Her friends all knew…and somehow they could find humor in her failed marriage. The sheepish expression on Kensie’s face confirmed it was a deliberate joke, and Veronica was the ass of it.

  “Kensie,” Grace reprimanded. “Change songs. Right now. Can you not be a complete asshole?”

  “Sorry, Veronica,”
Kensie offered, obeying Grace’s sharp order. “I was just screwing around—trying to get you to stop being so serious.”

  Grace made a slicing motion across her throat to shut up her cousin. She placed a hand on Veronica’s arm. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s okay,” Veronica insisted. “I just can’t believe I was ever toasted enough to take my clothes off to this song.”

  A moment later came the sharp, sexy opening notes of a Def Leppard classic.

  “This is better,” Veronica said with a sip of champagne.

  “Much.” Grace paused, her head cocked in thought. “Actually, I think I’ve taken my clothes off to this song.”

  The guests leered, and Veronica finished her drink. Time to go. It took a few minutes to convince the group that work beckoned and she wasn’t going home to wallow in self-pity.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she told Grace, hugging her goodbye in the foyer. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the rehearsal dinner. In the meantime, please go easy on the booze. You don’t want to be hungover during the rehearsal. It won’t look good.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Perfect. Oh! Wait right there.” Grace held up a finger, dashed off and returned with a pink goody bag that she promptly stuffed into Veronica’s oversized purse. “Party favors. Night!”

  There was something mischievous about the wink her friend added as she shut the double doors, but Veronica was already switching to full work mode, scrubbing her thoughts clean of oiled and erect strippers. There was only one man on her mind: Simon Smith.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “A meeting with Simon Smith. Can you make that happen?” Veronica sat in her car, the top down and the balmy breeze licking her skin as she white-knuckle clenched the steering wheel and willed the rush-hour Vegas traffic to unclog.

  She adjusted her Bluetooth headset as her assistant vowed to get on it right away and text message her an update. “Thanks, Heather. I want to see him in my office before he meets with the owners at noon tomorrow. He needs to know that jumping over the chain of command is something that’s not done inside our organization.” J.T. and Joan Greer had given her direct orders to relieve the starting quarterback of his duties with the Las Vegas Villains. The man had maintained a noteworthy record until two seasons prior when he’d started getting sacked and picked off, showing slipshod leadership, and trashing his stats. Veronica had agreed with her parents’ decision to cut him from the team. So she’d signed Brock Corday, a quarterback with commendable talent and an excellent off-field reputation.