the rules?”
“Who will know except you and I? I will tell no one. It will be a secret we share, yes? This is the way it works with other players. You would be foolish to decline.”
He took a deep breath—almost there, but he needed something more. She stood. Now she towered over him. She said, “For you, I will add something extra to the offer.”
Very slowly, and with great nonchalance, she began to unbutton her blouse.
His eyes sprung open wide.
She finished with the lowest button, removed her blouse, and laid it gently on the tabletop.
His mouth fell open.
She stood there in her bra—red lace with black trim—letting him enjoy the view for a long moment. Then she said, “My final offer. You use the Twitter—make the verbal commitment to OTU—and I will remove the bra for five minutes.” That was as far as she ever took it—no touching of any kind—and it had never failed. Not once.
He gulped. His eyes were riveted. “Plus the money?” he asked.
“Yes, plus the money.”
He began to nod. Slowly at first, then rapidly.
CHAPTER 8
Like many homeowners, Dexter Crabtree always kept a supply of latex gloves on hand. Not because he might decide to undertake some messy chore, such as cleaning the barbecue grill or changing the oil in his lawnmower, but because the idea of sticking Adderall tablets into his anus with his bare fingers was, quite frankly, disgusting. So he kept gloves handy in various locations throughout the house, and also in his Mercedes Benz.
Crabtree had just entered the bathroom of his eight-thousand-square-foot Highland Park home and had snapped on a glove—it was almost Pavlovian how the feel of the latex gave him a giddy rush of anticipation—when his phone alerted. An incoming text.
Crabtree followed various high-profile recruits on Twitter, and he received their tweets as texts. Most of it was useless crap, of course—to be expected from teenage boys who thought the world needed to hear their every waking thought.
This particular tweet was from a UMT recruit in Blanco. The kid named Colton Spillar, who’d prompted Crabtree’s discussion with Adrian Lacy. Spillar would really make a difference on the offensive line next year. Could be the difference.
Crabtree opened the text.
He read it. Then he read it again, to make sure he hadn’t misread it the first time.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.
He felt the heat rising in his face.
“Son of a bitch!” he screamed.
He had to resist the temptation to smash his phone on the Italian marble floor.
The flower guy drove a light-green Toyota Prius, which didn’t surprise Red at all. The car was parked on the street, under some shade, looking about as homosexual as a vehicle could look, when Red arrived at Betty Jean’s at ten till four.
“There’s Armando,” Billy Don said.
“I sorta pieced that together,” Red said as he parked in the driveway and killed the engine. They both climbed out of the truck and walked a few paces toward the street.
Red could see a young Mexican guy inside the car, having an animated conversation on his cell phone, gesturing with his free hand. Red didn’t want to be here, but Billy Don had said that Red needed to meet Armando. He wouldn’t say why.
They waited some more. Armando made the gesture again, a short backward flip of his wrist, like he was waving away a bug.
“Think there’s a mosquito in there with him?” Red asked.
Billy Don didn’t say anything. They waited some more. At one point, Armando made eye contact through the windshield and held up one finger, meaning “give me just one more minute.” Several minutes passed. Red was getting fidgety.
Then, finally, Armando put his cell phone away and stepped out of the Prius. “Oh. My. God! That woman! Don’t even get me started!” Apparently, he was one of those people who launched right into a conversation instead of saying hello. He walked up the driveway toward them, saying, “That client—remember the one I
“Who will know except you and I? I will tell no one. It will be a secret we share, yes? This is the way it works with other players. You would be foolish to decline.”
He took a deep breath—almost there, but he needed something more. She stood. Now she towered over him. She said, “For you, I will add something extra to the offer.”
Very slowly, and with great nonchalance, she began to unbutton her blouse.
His eyes sprung open wide.
She finished with the lowest button, removed her blouse, and laid it gently on the tabletop.
His mouth fell open.
She stood there in her bra—red lace with black trim—letting him enjoy the view for a long moment. Then she said, “My final offer. You use the Twitter—make the verbal commitment to OTU—and I will remove the bra for five minutes.” That was as far as she ever took it—no touching of any kind—and it had never failed. Not once.
He gulped. His eyes were riveted. “Plus the money?” he asked.
“Yes, plus the money.”
He began to nod. Slowly at first, then rapidly.
CHAPTER 8
Like many homeowners, Dexter Crabtree always kept a supply of latex gloves on hand. Not because he might decide to undertake some messy chore, such as cleaning the barbecue grill or changing the oil in his lawnmower, but because the idea of sticking Adderall tablets into his anus with his bare fingers was, quite frankly, disgusting. So he kept gloves handy in various locations throughout the house, and also in his Mercedes Benz.
Crabtree had just entered the bathroom of his eight-thousand-square-foot Highland Park home and had snapped on a glove—it was almost Pavlovian how the feel of the latex gave him a giddy rush of anticipation—when his phone alerted. An incoming text.
Crabtree followed various high-profile recruits on Twitter, and he received their tweets as texts. Most of it was useless crap, of course—to be expected from teenage boys who thought the world needed to hear their every waking thought.
This particular tweet was from a UMT recruit in Blanco. The kid named Colton Spillar, who’d prompted Crabtree’s discussion with Adrian Lacy. Spillar would really make a difference on the offensive line next year. Could be the difference.
Crabtree opened the text.
He read it. Then he read it again, to make sure he hadn’t misread it the first time.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.
He felt the heat rising in his face.
“Son of a bitch!” he screamed.
He had to resist the temptation to smash his phone on the Italian marble floor.
The flower guy drove a light-green Toyota Prius, which didn’t surprise Red at all. The car was parked on the street, under some shade, looking about as homosexual as a vehicle could look, when Red arrived at Betty Jean’s at ten till four.
“There’s Armando,” Billy Don said.
“I sorta pieced that together,” Red said as he parked in the driveway and killed the engine. They both climbed out of the truck and walked a few paces toward the street.
Red could see a young Mexican guy inside the car, having an animated conversation on his cell phone, gesturing with his free hand. Red didn’t want to be here, but Billy Don had said that Red needed to meet Armando. He wouldn’t say why.
They waited some more. Armando made the gesture again, a short backward flip of his wrist, like he was waving away a bug.
“Think there’s a mosquito in there with him?” Red asked.
Billy Don didn’t say anything. They waited some more. At one point, Armando made eye contact through the windshield and held up one finger, meaning “give me just one more minute.” Several minutes passed. Red was getting fidgety.
Then, finally, Armando put his cell phone away and stepped out of the Prius. “Oh. My. God! That woman! Don’t even get me started!” Apparently, he was one of those people who launched right into a conversation instead of saying hello. He walked up the driveway toward them, saying, “That client—remember the one I
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