Fumbled (Playbook, The) Read online

  Titles by Alexa Martin

  INTERCEPTED

  FUMBLED

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Alexa Martin

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Names: Martin, Alexa, author.

  Title: Fumbled / Alexa Martin.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2019. | Series: The Playbook | “A Jove Book.”

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018045172 | ISBN 9780451491978 (paperback) | ISBN 9780451491985 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A77776 F86 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045172

  First Edition: April 2019

  Cover art and design by Colleen Reinhart

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

  Version_1

  This book is dedicated to the wives and the girlfriends.

  To my Lady Ravens, thank you for turning strangers into family.

  CONTENTS

  Titles by Alexa Martin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I began writing, publishing was something I couldn’t even wrap my head around. Finding a publishing home at Berkley is the dream I never allowed myself to have. Kristine Swartz, thank you for being the most amazing editor ever. Ryanne Probst, Jessica Mangicaro, Erin Galloway, and Jessica Brock, thank you for everything you have done for me and my books. To the rest of the Berkley dream team, thank you for welcoming me and my crazy football books with open arms. I am forever grateful.

  Jessica Watterson, thank you for being my agent. You are the champion every writer deserves to have in their corner. I could not have done this without you.

  I have been overwhelmed by the kindness other authors have offered me throughout this journey. Helen Hoang, thank you for never ignoring my messages. Jasmine Guillory and Kristan Higgins, your support has meant everything. I’m so grateful for your lovely words and encouragement.

  Phoenix and Shay, my mentors in Black Girl Magic. Watching you go after your dreams is inspirational.

  Maxym, Tricia, Shannon, and Gwynne, your talent amazes me. Thank you for turning All The Kissing into what it has become. I love working with you all.

  Natalie and Kim, who would have thought we’d be spending all these Friday nights together? You two, plus our crazy crew, have packed these three years with more memories than I could’ve imagined. I’m so lucky to call you both friends.

  Lin, thank you for reading every piece of everything I send you. Without your encouragement, I’m not sure I would’ve ever been brave enough to put my words into the world. When I joined that mom group, I thought I’d get some advice on stretch marks; I never imagined I’d find a best friend. And remember I wrote this when you’re writing your acknowledgments for what will no doubt be a best seller.

  My family. Frannie, you never fail to be anything but a shining light in everyone’s life. One of these days, I’m going to sneak my way into one of your trips! Grandpa Jesse and Grandma Frankie, thank you for your support and encouragement. Derrick, thank you for taking over our circus when I had to disappear into the writing trenches. Your belief in me is everything and I love you. DJ, Harlow, Dash, and Ellis, you are my why. And even though I will ban you from ever reading beyond this page, I hope you’re proud. I’m so grateful to be your mom.

  And to every person who has watched, with bated breath, as your loved one chases their passions, knowing it might prevent them from coming home: Your quiet strength does not go unnoticed. You are the glue that holds everything together.

  One

  I’m on my knees.

  In the back of a club, covered in a foreign liquid, and on my freaking knees. Plus, I’m pretty sure the coarse, dirty carpet beneath me might rub a hole through my lace stockings.

  Some drunk asshole spilled whiskey all over my corset while trying to cop a feel. I’m pretty sure I’ve looked through hundreds of corsets and still can’t find my size. Which, I guess, all things considered, is a good alternative for other reasons to be on my knees in a nightclub.

  I never, not in a million years, thought this would be my life, but if life has taught me anything, it’s to expect the unexpected.

  And also, screw expectations. Expectations always leave you disappointed, broken, or—if you are really lucky, like me—all of the above.

  “Hey, Poppy, Papi!” Sadie shimmies into the room, over the piles of mismatched thigh-high stockings and red-sequined corsets, waving a flat iron over her head. “Sadie’s here to save the day.”

  I met Sadie on my first day here. I crossed the threshold into what I was sure was going to be dark, depressing, and coated with daddy issues, only to find my own little rainbow, dusting anyone around her with glitter. Literally. I love her to de
ath, but if you come within three feet of Sadie, you can expect to find glitter on you for the next five months.

  “You’re a godsend. Phil looked like he was about to have a coronary when he saw me. I guess there’s a big group coming tonight and my smelling like cheap booze and having half a head of frizzy hair was almost the end of the world.” I grab another corset and check the tag: size zero . . . again. “Ugh! Why am I the only person here not a size zero or two? I’m going to crack a rib trying to close this.”

  “Because you like wine too much.” Sadie doesn’t look at me as she plugs the flat iron into the only empty outlet in the room.

  “Whatever. Red wine is a health food. My heart is strong as hell, thank you very much.” Resigning myself to the fact that I’ll spend the rest of the night unable to breathe or bend properly, I start to peel off my ruined uniform, but for some reason, the clasps are stuck. “Ohmygod. Halp!”

  Sadie rolls her eyes, taking her sweet time to come and help me. “You are doing the absolute most right now.”

  “Am not,” I whisper yell at her. The upper clasps opened fine, so both of my hands are working to keep my girls covered. “Can you hurry before someone walks in and thinks I’m trying to get onstage tonight?”

  “You suck in and squeeze the top as tight as you can. I’ll try and rip the bottom ones open.” She’s biting her lip, and I know if she were to let go, she’d be laughing in my face. “Ready?”

  I appreciate her restraint.

  “Ready.” I nod.

  “Go!” She pulls as hard as she can. Which, unfortunately for me, is much stronger than I was bracing for and I go flying.

  Face first.

  With the reaction time of a sloth.

  Of. Course.

  I say nothing when I hit the ground. I just lie there, unmoving, taking inventory of my face. Running my tongue along my teeth, all still there. Feeling for the wetness of blood dripping from my nose, all dry. Everything is intact.

  Well, everything except my right breast.

  And my pride.

  But I lost that years ago.

  “Holy crap,” I moan. “I never thought I’d ever in my life say this, but thank God for thigh-highs.” A pile of the lacy little buggers saved my face!

  And then I hear it.

  Sadie’s self-control has left the room.

  “Why didn’t I have my camera on?” she manages to get out through her peals of laughter. “You should have seen your face going down.”

  She does her best slo-mo replay for me, complete with openmouthed horror and wide-eyed fear.

  “I kind of hate you right now.” I fight my own smile. I’m secretly also bummed she didn’t catch it on camera. I know it makes me seem like a nine-year-old, but watching people fall is a favorite pastime of mine . . . even when it’s me. “You pushed me.”

  “That’s what happens when you ask someone to undress you while wearing four-inch stilettos.” She gestures to my weapon-adorned feet. “I accept none of the blame.”

  “You’re a terrible friend. You could at least pretend to feel bad.” I don’t even try to stand up. I just lie on the floor and twist the clasps until they come undone . . . about four minutes too late. I’m half tempted to throw on my leggings and take my ass home.

  Alas, the nearing empty gas tank in my car and electric bill that was fifty dollars more than normal pop into my head, reminding me I am a certified adult with certified adult problems. So my adult ass has to stay and serve adult drinks.

  “Pretending is for porn stars, darling,” Sadie says. “Now throw on a robe so I can fix your hair.”

  Ugh. My hair.

  I don’t hate much about my job.

  But nearing the top of my hate list is burning my curly locks into submission. I’ve always loved my gravity-defying hair, but Phil—the club owner—has a strict “straight hair only” policy. I think it’s bullshit and low-key racist, but I need a paycheck more than I need to stand on this Black Girl Magic mountain.

  “How are the tips for you tonight?” I ask as Sadie yanks my head around, trying to get as close to my roots as possible without scorching my scalp.

  “Not great.” She avoids my eyes in the mirror. “But Phil put us on the VIP table tonight and they were walking in when I was heading up here, so things should get good.”

  “If it doesn’t, let me know if you need one of my tables after they leave. I’ve worked overtime this week and my feet could use a slow night.”

  In reality, I could use every spare cent I can get.

  But Sadie’s been having a rough go as of late with her mom crashing at her place and giving her exactly zero extra dollars a month for rent and food. Plus, with prices skyrocketing in Denver, thanks to the thousands of marijuana enthusiasts moving in, she’s struggling.

  Something I understand all too well.

  Supporting two people on this pay isn’t what one would call a cake walk.

  “Thank you,” she says into my smoking tresses. “Maybe I could take one.”

  “No, thank you.” I reach my arm beyond me, blindly searching for her hand to squeeze. “I have to spend the rest of the night in a uniform a size too small. I’m going to look like a stuffed sausage. You’re saving me from extra humiliation.”

  “Oh, stop it.” She finally looks at me, her eyes lit with humor. “The only thing it’s going to do is make your waist look smaller and your already massive boobs look even bigger. You’re going to rake it in tonight.”

  “I can always count on you to look on the bright side.”

  “That you can.” She smirks at me and, as if by magic, conjures up a handful of glitter and throws it over my head.

  I don’t even attempt to brush it off me. This has happened to me enough to know glitter is like quicksand—the more you fight it, the more it sticks to you. Instead, I hang my head, resigned to the fact that I befriended a glitter-wielding psychopath.

  Sparkly bitch.

  * * *

  • • •

  IF ANYONE TRIES to quote me, I’ll deny it with every last breath, but I adore my waitress costume—not uniform, this is straight dress-up.

  Well, when it’s not crushing my lungs.

  When I’m not at the club, I’m at home or school pickup in leggings, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. I never, not in a million years, imagined myself working at a club, but I do take a secret pleasure in playing sex vixen. When I first started, I convinced myself it was an acting job. I have zero talent in the arts, but ever since I watched season one of American Idol, I’ve wanted to “gig.” So that’s what I told myself. Just going giggin’.

  And it still works.

  I’m one of the best waitresses here, and I consistently bring in the highest tips. Because when I walk in the door, I’m no longer Poppy Patterson: single mother and disowned daughter. Nope. I’m Serena. My stretch marks are hidden under my corset and thigh-highs. The mandatory red lipstick only makes my full lips seem even fuller. The metal piping in the deep V corset makes my waist smaller and my post-baby boobs perky and full. Not to mention, the sky-high heels I was convinced would grant me a workers’ comp case make my short legs enviable even to someone who’s five eight.

  “I hate you,” Charity says as soon as I step on the floor.

  I jerk my head back. “What did I do?”

  “Sadie said you couldn’t find a corset in your size and you might go home.” She sets her empty tray on the bar and uses her free hands to gesture the length of my body. “But you’re still here lookin’ like your tits are about to slap you in the face and Phil just pulled me from the high rollers.”

  The thing with Charity is, even though I’ve worked with her for the last two years, I still don’t know how she feels about me. She either has the best, driest sense of humor, or she loathes me.

  My heart says I’m her favorite person on the
planet.

  My brain, on the other hand, says she’d run me over if given the chance.

  “If it makes you feel better, I can’t breathe. There’s a high probability of me spilling a drink all over someone tonight and getting fired.”

  “One can only hope.” She points at the tray Nate, one of the bartenders tonight, is loading with shots and cocktails and throws a sideways glance my way. “VIP. You’re up.”

  What a peach.

  You’d think with a name like Charity, she’d be obligated to be kind.

  She turns to leave and I call out to her back, “Thanks, Char-Char.” She doesn’t turn around, the slight stutter in her step the only indication she heard me at all. Maybe nicknames and Charity don’t go together. Point taken.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE EMERALD CABARET is in an old building in Historic Downtown Denver. I never knew such classy clubs existed until I came here. It’s almost like a speakeasy of sorts. The bottom floor is a steakhouse that costs a mint—not that I know from personal experience, I’ve never eaten there—and the upper two floors are the club. They had it remodeled so the third floor is the VIP section. It’s completely open to the lower floor, and from what the performers have told me, they had to special order the silks for them to be long enough to do all the aerial tricks they do. There’s also a private stage and a couple of private rooms I have no desire to ever step into.

  Every night I take a second to appreciate the girls.

  It is freaking art. You have to be strong as hell to do some of the Cirque du Soleil stunts they do. I swear, some nights I leave with my heart in my throat because of secondhand fear of these women flipping and twisting down the silk headfirst.

  Most nights, though, I’m just in awe.

  And thankful. Because of their skill set, we are filled with a certain kind of client. Besides a bachelor party here and there, we mostly serve the lawyer or businessman trying to have fun and make deals without seeming too sleazy. And not the football-playing variety. Something I made sure of before I accepted the job.