Anaconda: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Read online

  Oh, God, please save me.

  I shake my head. “No, you’re right, Mr. Vandenburgh.” I glance over at Mindy, who is barely hiding a smirk.

  “Well then, get on with your duties,” he says acidly, his scowl hard enough to curdle milk.

  Please let me find another job so I don’t have to deal with this shit anymore.

  Seriously, after that bullshit upstairs, I’d almost be ready to tender my resignation if I were offered a job at McDonald’s sweeping the floors. I’m just so over this.

  Vandenburgh opens his mouth as if to scold me further, but I hold up a finger as I drain the rest of my coffee.

  “I’m going!”

  I give Mindy a thankful nod as I pitch my empty cup into the trash. She flashes me a sympathetic look as I turn and walk out, making my way to the service elevators. I really can’t stand Mr. Vandenburgh’s presence for more than a minute, and I just want to knock out the rest of my shift and go home.

  As I head up the hall, I can hear Mr. Van start in on Mindy.

  “What the hell did you do to the machines, young lady? I got complaints about the coffee this morning . . .”

  I crack a smile as I imagine the look of consternation on Mindy’s face.

  By the time I finish the regular rooms, I’m nearly about to pass out as I push my supply cart toward the service elevator.

  “Just a little while longer,” I tell myself, “and I’m free.”

  By some miracle, a lot of the rooms on the next floor aren’t that bad. In fact, I’m feeling like salvation is near when I make it to the penthouse suites. My first stop is room 601. It’s reserved so I skip it.

  Room 602 is occupied, with the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the doorknob.

  So, that leaves Room 603, which should also be empty. The guest isn’t checking in until this evening. Before I step inside, I check the guest list. It just has ‘ANACONDA’ scribbled on the sheet. I frown at the name as I stare at the big bold letters. What the hell kind of name is Anaconda?

  Shaking my head, I open the door and hold back a jealous grumble at the sight before me. Seriously, the living room of this penthouse is bigger than my entire apartment. Two thousand square feet, a master bedroom and a smaller bedroom-slash-office, and a sitting room. The damn thing even has a chef’s kitchen.

  My grumble turns into a hiss of anger when I see that someone’s been up here, and it sure as shit wasn’t Goldilocks.

  “None of this should be here,” I mutter as I take in the mess, frowning at a jacket that’s been thrown over the Italian leather sofa and a bag that looks like it was carelessly tossed into a chair and knocked it over.

  Puzzled, I check my sheet again. Nope. No one’s supposed to be here. I step into the room, leaving my cart outside.

  “Housekeeping?” I call tentatively. “Anyone here?”

  Silence is my only answer.

  “Hello?” I dare again. When I get no response, I walk over to pick up the chair that’s been knocked over. I figure that maybe someone has checked in ahead of the guest and left in a hurry. I’ll straighten things up and just leave.

  A sound behind me causes me to spin around, and my breath stills in my lungs.

  Holy fuck!

  My heart skips a beat as my eyes take in the naked . . . god standing before me. Well, ok, he’s not totally naked. He’s got a towel over his head and he’s drying his hair.

  But the way he’s built . . . sweet Jesus. He looks like he’s chiseled out of granite, with big muscular arms, breathtaking broad shoulders, a proud chest, an eight pack, and . . .

  “Anaconda . . .” I whisper as I see what’s hanging between his legs, my pulse pounding in my ears. He’s got to be at least seven inches long already and he’s not even hard. My skin prickles as I gaze at his thick cock, my nipples hardening, my breath coming out in short pants.

  The man freezes when his eyes fall on me, and I feel like I’m going to melt into a puddle on the floor. I have no words for how hot this man is. He’s not just hung like a horse. He’s fucking gorgeous too. Shaggy blond hair hangs down over his forehead, with startling blue eyes that seem to glow from the inside and a face that would make artists drool. He’s staring at me, his mouth, with full, sexy lips, hanging slack, the towel dropping from his hand to the floor.

  Neither of us says anything for what seems like an eternity but has to be just a few seconds before he recovers and grins, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes me weak at the knees. “Hi, I’m Gavin,” he says easily, as if he’s not standing in front of me with a monster-sized dick dangling between his legs.

  He’s not doing anything to cover it up either. Given what he’s packing, I understand why. It’s like he’s proud of it as he stares at me with a confidence that borders on gross arrogance.

  Heat rises in my chest as he steps forward, a cocky smirk turning the corner of his lips, and I take a half-step back, my pussy clenching around nothing. It’s an effort to keep my eyes on his face as my heart hammers in my chest and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  “You all right?” he asks. Even his voice is sexy, a low baritone that causes my pussy to clench again.

  I open my mouth to reply, but my eyes stray back to it, and my heart skips another beat. Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t deal with this right now. I tear my gaze away from it, my eyes darting this way and that, looking for a way out as he closes in on me.

  I want to run away. But I can’t move. It’s like my legs have filled with stone. Against my will, my eyes flicker back to it.

  Sweet Jesus! It’s swaying with each step, swinging back and forth like a giant pendulum, almost putting me into a hypnotic trance.

  When he gets close enough to touch me, I’m suddenly free of my paralysis. Heart pounding, I spring forward, nearly tripping on my way to the door. I’m only able to mumble, “Sorry,” as I run from the room with a flaming red face, trying my damnedest to not glance back for one last look.

  Chapter 2

  Gavin - 2 years ago…

  “Anaconda! Anaconda!” the reporters yell in my face after a particularly rough game, jamming microphones and cameras at me. “Do you have anything to say about what happened?”

  God, I hate that fucking nickname.

  I blink several times as rapid flashes of lights go off in my eyes, fighting down the exasperation that flares inside me. They’re herding me like a fucking zoo animal, each one of them fighting one another to stick a mic in my face.

  A fraudulent smile spreads across my chiseled jawline as I wink into the cameras and prepare to formulate an answer. I’m trying to appear unruffled by the question, though I want nothing more than to tell them all to get the fuck out of my way. I know how they’ll spin it if I do. And I can already see the headlines now.

  Gavin Adams Flies into a Rage after a Bad Game Because of Scandal.

  I know I should ignore the trolls, who are only looking for a rise out of me or a soundbite to try and get another five minutes of story out of what was a total mistake. But after dealing with the team, the league, and all the drama that ensued, I’m pissed off. Losing 20-0 against our biggest rival isn’t helping much either.

  “Mr. Adams has nothing to say,” Miranda, my agent who doubles as my PR rep, says loudly over the ungodly clamor of shouting voices and clicking cameras, beating me to the punch. My eyes are drawn to her. She’s dressed sharply, as usual, in her red designer dress that fits her shapely frame like a glove, the epitome of a middle-aged professional woman who’s still getting some mileage out of her body as well as her brains. “So, if you all would just excuse us. He has more important things to attend to.”

  “Hold up, Miranda,” I interrupt her, maintaining my fake smile. I figure I can use my charm to defuse this situation and be on my merry way. I raise my voice and politely say, “I’m sure everyone’s heard about my little incident, but I want to let you all know it was just an accident. And that’s it.”

  “There was nothing little about it!” a female reporte
r shouts, and then giggles ensue. I ignore her and the rest.

  “So, you don’t have anything to say about the footage of you circulating on the internet?” asks one of the other reporters.

  I scowl at him. That will teach you to stop for a photo op and try to smooth things over. “What footage?” I ask flatly, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.

  He smiles, his freckles spreading across the bridge of his nose. “The one of you dropping your towel in front of Sara Jameson on live TV.”

  I hold in a groan, irritation flaring. These people are acting like I whipped it out and gave Ms. Jameson a lap dance. All I did was bump into her in the men’s locker room after a game. It wasn’t ‘live TV’, and she shouldn’t have been back there in first damn place. It wasn’t my fault the fucking towel fell off. But as soon as it did, I apologized to the wide-eyed Sara and put it back on.

  I thought we were cool after that. She even told me the cameras hadn’t caught my mistake and I had nothing to worry about. Until the cameraman with her, or someone at the network, decided to leak the unedited video dubbed Anaconda out to the internet. It’s spreading like wildfire now along with my new nickname.

  This whole thing has been a goddamn PR nightmare too. Miranda has spent a week of sleepless nights sending DMCAs to various websites to get the footage taken down. It’s been an endless battle. When one goes down, another one pops up. Still, it’s fewer of them than when this all started.

  I just wish I hadn’t been so careless.

  “It’s unfortunate,” I say, keeping the smile on my face with massive effort, “but really, it was an accident. Now if you guys would please move out of our way, I have to get to—”

  “What does your mother think about you flashing millions of people?” the same guy cuts in again, taking delight in my irritation.

  Miranda winces next to me as I grit my teeth, no longer able to control my anger.

  “Are you fucking deaf? I just said it was an accident!” I snap. Miranda is going to be pissed I lost my cool, but I can’t stand any more of this shit. “Now, if none of you have a question that’s actually related to my game, don’t waste my fucking time!”

  “Okay, that’s enough! No more questions!” Miranda shouts, taking me by the arm and dragging me toward the exit. Miranda hisses out of the side of her mouth, “Dammit, Gavin, you know better than that! Now that little soundbite is gonna be all over the evening news.”

  She’s right. I knew the second it left my lips. But I’m not going to admit that to her. I’m too fucking pissed right now.

  We reach the door at the end of the hall and I practically kick it open, muttering, “Whatever. You try stepping in my shoes and tell me you wouldn’t have reacted the same way.”

  Miranda wisely chooses not to answer.

  * * *

  Present Day

  “What a shithole,” I mutter as I gaze out the window. We’re passing by rows of shops that look like they belong in some backwater town of a Midwest state. Fields, fields, a John Deere tractor, some barn that looks like it should be torn down, and a place called Stuckey’s. The town’s still up ahead, but for fuck’s sake, I can see the water tower with the town name on the side. It looks like it came out of an old music video.

  Then again, the place is clean. I can see kids playing in the front yards, and there isn’t a hint of smog in the sky. And the streets aren’t jammed with traffic.

  Still . . . “They really want us to film here?” I ask.

  Miranda nods. “It’s the ideal location.”

  I would argue against that, but I decide not to. I just came from yet another press event teeming with hungry reporters and I’m drained from all the bullshit. “As long as I don’t have to deal with any more paparazzi, I’ll consider myself lucky.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Miranda says. “I’ve called ahead and made arrangements. No one should know that you’re checking in.”

  “Good,” I growl, rubbing at my eyes. “Because they bring up that fucking video every time.” It’s been two years. And still, this shit is all anyone ever wants to talk about. It takes everything inside me to not go off on them.

  That’s why I’m trying my hand at acting during the off season. Miranda thought it might go a long way in helping my image and getting people’s minds off my . . .

  “Please don’t,” Miranda begs. She’s been through the wire these past couple of seasons, doing her best to temper my edge whenever I’m close to exploding. I have to admire her tenacity. If I were her, I would’ve quit on me ages ago. “I don’t want any more surprises. We’ll get you to the hotel and you can put your feet up until shooting starts tomorrow.”

  I relax back in my seat at her words. A shower and a soft bed sound nice. And maybe a kitten to share my bed with. I shift in my seat, not feeling the excitement that usually comes with such a thought. Normally, I’d be turned on by the thought of hooking up with a local honey, but now…

  “Earth to Gavin,” Miranda says, shaking me from my thoughts. “You all there?”

  I turn back, tugging at my Italian designer t-shirt and blazer, nodding. “Yeah, just wishing I could wear something comfortable. What is it with Italians and skinny sleeves?”

  “Makes your biceps look bigger,” Miranda says with a cheeky smile, pulling her phone out of her purse. “Even with the blazer.”

  I shake my head as she gets on the line with the hotel. There’s always an angle with her.

  “Yes, this is Miranda Price, personal assistant for Gavin Adams. You don’t . . . oh, for fuck’s sake, check under Anaconda!” she snaps, a scowl that can shatter glass spreading across her face. “Yes, Mr. Adams will be coming in this afternoon, and I want to make sure that the room is perfect for him. Huh? What do you mean, why? He’s the second-highest ranked star in the movie, that’s why!”

  I sigh, wishing that Miranda wouldn’t play it up so much. I get it, she thinks that my going a little more ‘High Roller’ will get me more endorsements, more media attention, more of everything. I mean, I don’t play in New York or Los Angeles, so I’m not near the media centers. Then again, considering how terrible LA is football-wise, I think I’m glad I don’t play for them.

  But Miranda’s taken that idea and run way over the top with it. “Yes, he’s supposed to have the Egyptian cotton sheets on his bed that I sent ahead, the minibar is only to be stocked with the glacial water and the exact liquor list that I emailed you . . .?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I drink tap water,” I mutter.

  Miranda reaches over, slapping my knee. I let her get away with it, though she’s testing me with her antics. After all, she’s been in the publicity game for athletes for a long time. She got me some of the endorsement TV spots I’ve done, so she knows her job. I just think she’s taking my plunge into Hollywood a bit too seriously.

  “Fine, fine, that’ll be acceptable in the short-term,” Miranda says into her phone, grinning. She’s getting off on this, I swear. “And yes, there are to be two Toblerone chocolates on the kitchen counter. No, not those, one’s supposed to be fruit and nut, the other crunchy salted almond. Well, I suppose you’ll just have to find one, won’t you?”

  “Cut them a break, Miranda,” I growl, but she’s going with it. I mean, I get it. Ever since I showed that I’m in that upper one half of a percent of football players, things have been thrown at me. Money. Cars. Contracts. And women? Hell, I’ve never had to ask for one. They always ask for me.

  But there’s a difference between being a cocky football player and being a dickhead. Miranda’s pushing that line, and finally, I reach over, taking the phone from her. “This is Gavin Adams. The room’s clean?”

  “Why yes, of course it is, Mr. Adams,” says a snobby voice that grates my teeth. “This is Mr. Vandenburgh. I was just telling Ms. Price that while we have the confectionaries you requested, we were unable to find the specific Toblerone that you—”

  “I don’t care about that,” I say, cutting him off. “Just make sure t
he room’s nice, and we can worry about the rest later. See you soon.”

  I hang up the phone and toss it back to Miranda, who’s glaring at me now. “There,” I say. “Problem dealt with.”

  Miranda shakes her head as she slips her phone back in her purse. “You know, you’re not letting me do my job, Anaconda,” she says half-jokingly.

  “Your job is to make sure I look good in the press, not to bully hotel managers,” I growl. She knows I hate the name Anaconda. Sure, she’s tried to spin it as if it’s a good thing, that I always find a way to ‘snake through the defenses’. But everyone and their fucking grandmother knows why it’s my nickname. It’s been on the internet in 1080p for two years now.

  “My job is to make sure you look the part,” Miranda says pointedly. She reaches into her bag, pulling out her iPad and turning it on. “By the way, you made the press again.” She tosses the iPad over into my lap.

  I try not to groan as I look at the webpage she’s pulled up, another of those half tabloid, half sports page sites that she likes to track for mentions about me in the offseason.

  Anaconda Snakes Another One! the headline blares, showing me walking with a girl. She’s got her knees splayed out and a pained look on her face, the caption reading, Anaconda Adams earns his nickname again with yet another young lady as the star running back and soon-to-be actor leaves a hotel in New York the night after appearing on a radio show.

  I read a few more lines and sigh in disgust and turn the tablet off, throwing it back over to Miranda instead of chucking it out the window like I want to. “That site is a fucking disgrace. They’re saying I barebacked her with no lube.”

  “You didn’t?” Miranda asks, her smile disappearing when I glare at her. “What, Gavin? You know your reputation says that you’ve got a groupie in all thirty-two cities you’ve played in. And it’s funny. I thought you’d laugh after the rest of the problems you’ve been dealing with.”

  “Maybe that had a little truth to it in my rookie year, but that was then,” I grumble, shaking my head. Sure, I went out with the girl, but I didn’t fuck her. I just wasn’t feeling it. I have no fucking clue why she looks in pain in the photo. They probably snapped until they finally got one with a weird-looking expression on her face. Fucking scoundrels is what they are.