Celi-Bet (Solomon Brothers #2) Read online

  Celi-Bet

  The Solomon Brothers Series Book Two

  Leslie North

  Contents

  Celi-bet

  Blurb

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  End of Celi-Bet

  Thank You!

  Sneak Peek

  The Solomon Brothers Series Book Two

  By Leslie North

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, NOVEMBER 2016

  Copyright © 2016 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, published, distributed, displayed, performed, copied or stored for public or private use in any information retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process, including electronically or digitally on the Internet or World Wide Web, or over any network, or local area network, without written permission of the author.

  Cover Design by LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations

  www.relaypub.com

  Blurb

  NBA star Chase Holbrook’s reputation with women is as legendary as his court stats. But his best scores have always come when he's focused on his jump shot, not on the ladies. With a teammate putting up close competition for the offensive record, Chase needs to prove that he was worth every penny of his high-dollar trade. To be the top-scoring player, Chase accepts a team bet to steer clear of women. Shouldn’t be a problem for ultra-competitive Chase—especially when he learns it’s the annoyingly cute team mascot who’s tasked with monitoring his every move.

  Team mascot Willow “Bolt” Bend has always been one of the guys. So it’s no surprise when she’s asked to help ensure the integrity of the bet. Willow doesn’t want to get involved, but her hesitation is sidelined by her desire to learn if Chase is as shallow as she thinks. With a sick cousin who’s eager to meet him, Willow wants to know if a good person is hiding inside the notorious playboy. All she has to do is not take her eyes off the gorgeous man mountain and cry foul if he breaks his celibacy—easy, right?

  The perky cheerleader has always gotten under Chase’s skin, but with the celi-bet well underway, Willow’s starting to get to Chase in ways no one expected. As the spark between them begins to ignite, the bet keeping them apart may just be the thing that pulls them together.

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  1

  Chase Holbrook stepped to the free throw line.

  About damned time.

  Both teams were slow to assemble on the lane markers. One minute left, blowout by his team, the Pittsburgh Alloys, most of the fans fleeing for their cars before slushy, late-season snow flew. The 19,000-seat arena was a near ghost town.

  All game, he had argued with the refs for not calling Tennyson’s flagrant fouls. The Raptors’ golden boy, Tennyson, was the LeBron of Hogtown, which wasn’t saying much. Anyone with a little game and a desire to make big free-agency bucks could be the cream that rose to the top of the league’s worst team. Tennyson brought a thug mentality and little regard for where his body crashed down from the boards. Chase knew. His right arm and instep had intimate knowledge of the guy’s elbows, knees, and testicles for the past forty court minutes.

  Salty sweat drizzled past his lips. His right arm tweaked. Chase drilled his signature five dribbles into the varnished wood at his feet and planted his toes. Like any other shot he’d done a million times. Like any other net-only shot that made the sweetest sound hushing through the rim mics and made him the most upwardly mobile offensive player in the NBA. Like any other free throw in his streak of thirty-eight no misses.

  A carpi muscle in his forearm seized; the ball’s leather slipped from his slick grip.

  The ball reacted as if he were a grandmother with arthritis who had shot with her bunions.

  His stomach dropped to his nuts.

  Total fucking air ball.

  Chants rose from the Raptors fans behind the goal.

  “Aiiiiiirrrrr ballllll…Aiiiiiiiirrrr balllll.”

  Muttering out a fuck you on the close-up camera angles of a national broadcast network wasn’t an option. Chase was nothing if not a gracious player. He lifted a diminutive, almost celebratory, hand as if to say my bad and flashed his smile that always boded well for his alt-career, modeling. His point guard, Tarek, kept a tally reminiscent of It’s a Wonderful Life: Every time Holbrook smiled at the camera, ten thousand women lost their panties. Inside, however, he stewed. Tennyson should have been ejected for the latest hit. The shot should have been ruled a technical.

  Chase swiped his palms on the ass of his shorts and set his second shot.

  “Aiiiiiirrrrr ballllll…Aiiiiiiiirrrr balllll,” taunted the crowd. Damned if it wasn’t some fans in Pitt’s blue and gold, too. So much for loyalty. A smattering of noisemakers and red and black wiggle sticks snagged his attention but only for a moment.

  He made a deal with the rim, dribbled five, and released.

  Swish.

  Coach called a time out to put in rookies. A cacophony of referee whistles sounded.

  At the bench, Chase returned Tarek’s discrete hand smack. Not his fucking grin. The shit storm of smack talk for that missed shot would be relentless. He toweled off his face, tuned out the coach’s game plan for the rookies. Having taken them to a twenty-six-point lead, what he’d put up by halftime, he had earned the right to check out early.

  Thing was, what was left of the crowd wasn’t checking out early. Fan noise swelled, signaling something other than the dry, competition-less play that had dominated the second half. Tarek nudged Chase’s elbow. He followed Tarek’s line of attention to the free throw line Chase had just evacuated.

  The Alloy’s mascot, Bolt, wiggled its…whatever…psycho-furry black ass with an embellished bump-and-grind hardly appropriate for a beaver-panther-lunatic hybrid and the ten-year-olds left in the crowd and took a shot.

  An exaggerated air ball.

  The remaining fans howled. Berserk with laughter. Loudest they’d been in thirty minutes of play. Even Tarek gave an appreciative clap.

  Perfect. Just ripe.

  Chase’s face steamed off its sweat.

  Bolt made a grand gesture of bowing to all four directions in the stands. The traitorous ref bounce-passed the game ball back to the mascot. Bolt lined up for another free throw, did four rump-shakers back past the three-point arc, turned and took a backwards granny shot.

  Swish.

  The crowd roared and rose to their feet. Chase had put up thirty-eight points in the game and this roadkill gets the noise.

  “Why they stay, baby,” said Tarek, grinning ear to ear. “Genius.”

  Chase didn’t think it was genius at all. In fact, he fucking hated mascots. Most of the time they were creepy and made kids cry. He dropped into his court-side seat, his eyes
burning a hole in the side of the costume’s head as it made its way off the wood behind the north glass, high-fiving anyone within reach. It wasn’t the first time Bolt had ripped him on the court, but it sure as hell would be the last.

  At the end-of-game buzzer, he went straight for the Alloy’s tunnel where he’d seen the fuzzy goon disappear. No media interviews. No words of encouragement for the rooks that just finished the team strong. Nothing but a score to settle that had zero to do with basketball.

  He caught sight of the mole-like, fox-like backside padding into the restricted hallway to the locker room, still high-fiving—staffers in blue and gold polos, Alloy players, trainers, even the chef responsible for keeping them all sleek and happy. Chase jogged faster and caught up to Bolt just as the helmet-head lifted clear of the inside body.

  Hand clamped on the costume’s hairy shoulder, Chase stopped the mascot’s progress to the inner labyrinth.

  The perky little gymnast inside, with the pig-tails and a wad of green gum snapping between her molars, blinked back her surprise.

  “’Sup, Holbrook?”

  “The fuck was that?”

  Her pixie face contorted into a mask of pity. “Looked like a whiff to me, stud. Bad one, at that. Probably make the ESPN lead story: Worst shots in NBA history.”

  Chase gnashed his teeth. “I meant your little show out there.”

  “Great shot, wasn’t it?” Tarek smacked Chase on the back before engaging in a rehearsed and rather intricate celebratory dance with mascot girl. Whatever the hell her name was. “Check you later, sweet thing.”

  Tarek rejoined the tide of Alloy players streaming toward the locker room.

  Mascot girl beamed a perfect row of miniature teeth. Until she turned back to Chase. She rolled her eyes and removed the remainder of her costume, bouncing and writhing in a magnificent display of sweat and inept undressing. And zero tits. Whatsoever.

  “No more singling me out, you hear? I can have you fired faster than you can squeeze out of that—whatever the hell it is—costume.”

  “It’s a muskrat,” she rallied, confidently, before her brows twisted and her gaze crumbled. “I think.”

  “It’s hideous, and it smells like vomit and sweaty balls on the inside.”

  She took an exaggerated whiff, all grin and flared, petite nostrils. “Kinda like your career if you don’t get that free throw under control. The fans love me. The owner loves me. I’m sorry if your fragile ego doesn’t feel the same. I forgive you for the threat. I’d kiss you to prove it if I didn’t smell like sweaty balls. Night, Holbrook.”

  On her way past him, dragging the furry carcass, she played smack-and-cup-Chase’s-ass with Bolt’s paw.

  Again. He counted at least five times she’d done that this season for cheap laughs. On national TV.

  What the—?

  He scrambled out of her grip, surprisingly tight for a nothing-to-her girl.

  “What kind of crappy mascot makes fun of the home team players?”

  She stopped short and gave him a mock salute, complete with a gum bubble explosion. “I don’t make fun of all of you. Just the special ones.” Her special smacked of sarcasm.

  “What the hell did I ever do to you?”

  “Hello…GQ interview? Playoffs, last season? Ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘the current mascot is only entertaining to kids and the mentally challenged.’”

  Chase smirked, a fresh wave of appreciation for the quote washing over him. “I did say that.”

  “There’s nothing funny about that. You alienated an entire group of people who already have enough struggles in life. Not to mention, it isn’t true.” She lifted her chin, a weak show of righteousness. “Everyone loves Bolt.”

  He shook his head, wishing it were as easy to shake this irritating girl from his space.

  “Stay away from me. Pretend I don’t exist on the court.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard since you’re more famous for your mattress skills than your game skills.”

  For a fraction of a second, he considered ripping the costume from her hand and shredding it with his hands. Would assaulting fake muskrat pelt be a violation of the league’s code of conduct? He resisted the urge—he had to take a monster leak and simply no longer had the energy to match her word-for-word.

  He made a B-line for the locker room.

  “Holbrook?”

  He paused and squeezed his eyelids shut, braced himself for her next insult. He refused to give her the satisfaction of turning around.

  “Great game. Thirty-eight is two better, right?”

  Her voice was new, quieter in the thinning tunnel crowd, wholly sincere. His instinct told him to nod, acknowledge the compliment in some way. But he was fast learning with a crazy wildcard like her, a millimeter given would turn into a fast break the length of a court. He lifted his jersey collar, rubbed the sweat from his lashes and continued on to the locker room where he showered, dressed, and said his goodbyes to his squad, every one of whom had grown to expect the performance he exhibited against the Raptors.

  Appreciation ran in short supply by this stage of the season.

  As it turned out, Bolt girl was the only one the rest of the night to mention that he had blown past his personal scoring record.

  2

  Washing Bolt was a three-hour endeavor: removing the wire structures, industrial washing machines and low-heat dry cycles, and a grooming routine that would shame a Hollywood starlet. The ones that Chase Holbrook dated, with their airbrushed skin and rehearsed pouts that made them look more constipated than sexy. But Willow wouldn’t trade this gig for nearly anything.

  Except maybe a gig with Gordon Ramsay. Guy was all food and testosterone. Yum.

  As usual, she padded barefoot back onto the Alloy’s empty court and worked on her routine while Bolt tumbled, floppy ears over tail, through the laundry cycles. With back-to-back home games, she needed to work out the spacing of the trampolines for her next halftime show so she didn’t make the highlight reels for the wrong reasons.

  She caught sight of Tarek as he was leaving, a duffle large enough to smuggle a body tossed over his shoulder. He hugged her, despite him being freshly showered and smelling like a hot cabana boy and her smelling like—well, sweaty balls, apparently.

  “Did your mom try that Australian cream on her joints?” she asked.

  “Loves it. She wanted me to thank you. Says they can’t smell her coming now at Wednesday choir practice.”

  “She’s a classy Southern lady. She should smell like magnolia, not menthol.”

  “Need a ride?”

  “Not finished yet. Walt said he’d stay and lock up after me. I brought him lasagna.”

  “You still need to cook for me. When’s that gonna happen?”

  She didn’t want to admit she no longer had a kitchen. As of yesterday, she had been evicted and was living on the couch of her mother’s eighty-one-year-old friend. Estelle needed Willow’s money more than that crooked landlord, anyway. He didn’t need pills to keep his heart beating—if he ever had a heart.

  “My kitchen is cramped.” Not a lie. Metamucil bottles everywhere. “A true Cajun feast requires space.”

  “I got nothing but space, sweet thing. After our next jog out to the west coast.”

  “Deal.”

  Tarek took a few steps toward the exit, then turned back. “Hey, how’s your nephew?”

  “Treatments are just holding back the inevitable. Buying him time. He’s still begging me for the chance to meet Holbrook. I don’t see what Dylan idolizes in him. Guy is nothing but ego in size fourteen shoes.”

  “Chase is…”

  “Narcissistic?” she offered.

  Tarek smiled.

  “Conceited?”

  He shook his head.

  “Grouchy and promiscuous?”

  A sharp guffaw lit Tarek’s expression. “Aren’t those things mutually exclusive?”

  “Not wh
en you look like an Adonis in track shorts.”

  “I was going to say misunderstood,” said Tarek. “None of us are really our persona. You should get to know him.”

  “I know all I need to know. Even if meeting Chase is the one thing that might give him the strength to keep fighting, Dylan is the kindest soul on the planet. He can’t endure one more disappointment in his young life.”

  “Disappointment is one word I would never use in the same sentence with Chase Holbrook.”

  “Killer jump shots don’t count.”

  “I’m not talking about on the court.” Tarek continued on toward the exit and pointed at her for emphasis. “Great stuff out there tonight, W. Really funny.”

  “Later.”

  When Tarek wasn’t calling her sweet thing, he called her W, more like dubbya on his faint Louisiana drawl. Made her feel a bit like a kindred spirit to the forty-third president. Or a badass superhero. From the moment she took over Bolt from Ned Lehrman because he wanted to climb Mount Everest and a cougar from Italy, in that order, Tarek and the rest of the guys had welcomed her like a little sis. But Chase had never been part of that. He had been traded from Sacramento two years later with all the mystery and fanfare of royalty. Royalty with an underwear contract rumored to be close to sixty million. For sixty mil, she’d eat underwear. Imagine the network of pay-it-forward restaurants that sum would open.

  She worked her routine until Bolt was dry and Walt got antsy. He had a hot number at the bingo hall—Dottie—who was as slow to warm up as a diesel engine then fizzled out. By midnight, all bets were off. Willow doubted Walt’s security guard prowess. Many late nights exiting the arena, she believed her brief stint with Murder Those Buns and its companion DVD, Slay Those Abs, might serve them both better than his shaky hand on a pistol. But he had been private, first-class Army and a member of Pittsburgh’s finest for thirty years. He deserved every ounce of chivalry between them.