Pass Interference. Desiree Holt
Читать онлайн книгу.
seem to stop herself.
Did he think that by forcing her to attend these, she’d begin to bond with the Hawks? She hated the effing football team. She saw it as the child that had usurped all her father’s affections.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Chad told her.
“Fine.”
“So, I wondered if you’d like to have lunch with me today?”
This was only about the fiftieth time he’d asked her. She had no interest in spending time with him beyond what she had to.
“Thanks, but I already have plans.” Or she would as soon as she made them.
“You know,” he said, in what she assumed was his most seductive tone. “I’m really a nice guy if you’d get to know me outside of our obligatory dates.”
“I’m sure you are. I’m just not interested. See you Saturday.”
She clicked off and finally managed to get her mug from the coffee machine.
Chad was always the perfect escort, dancing attention, even after she started drinking too much, often making a real fool of herself. A few times when he brought her home, he’d actually had to half carry her into the house and up the stairs. She always had enough wits about her, though, to make sure he left before he could try to take things further.
When she heard the chimes for the third time, she let out a string of curses.
Ed Spinelli. What did he want now?
Had she pissed someone off royally? Was that why the three men who annoyed her the most all just happened to call her this morning? Or was Mercury in retrograde or the stars out of alignment? Did that mean she could expect a call from her father, too?
Ed wrote a sports blog that was followed by half a million people. He’d hit on her at a Hawks barbecue where she’d given one of her many command appearances. She’d gone out with him for a couple of reasons. For one she was curious about someone who had a blog that people followed religiously. For another, he’d written a lot of unflattering things about the Hawks, so it had been another big Fuck you to Kurt.
The man was hardly her type, tall and skinny with an ego bigger than the stadium. She’d expected him to be funny, charming, full of exciting and interesting things to do. Instead she’d discovered that his entire personality was confined to the words he wrote on his computer.
She’d been stupid enough to date him more than once. She’d broken it off when she found out that his goal was to get in her pants as his way of giving her father the finger. Apparently he was the only person in San Antonio who didn’t know Kurt Gillette didn’t give two hoots what his daughter did.
He hadn’t been too happy when she broke it off, but at least he hadn’t stalked her via her cell phone, unlike her ex. When she’d sent Ed a text telling him to lose her number or she’d do a blog about him, he finally got the hint. She had seen him out a few times with other women and figured he couldn’t be too heartbroken. She hadn’t heard from him in ages now, and wondered what was up with him now.
She had barely tapped the button to send the call to voice mail when—damn it!—here came another one. She looked at the screen and couldn’t decide whether to answer it or not. The number wasn’t familiar but the readout also didn’t say Unknown or Blocked like the other weird calls she’d been getting, so she took a chance.
“Hello.” She waited but no one replied. “Hello,” she repeated. Still silence. Not even any background noise. Her fingers tightened on her cell and her stomach cramped with tension. Would this never stop? “Hello.” This time she shouted it as anger bubbled up inside her. “Listen, whoever you are, this is not fun. Don’t call me again.” She paused. “Do you hear me?”
When there was still no answer, not even heavy breathing, she disconnected the call and tossed the phone down on her bed, as if it had a disease.
Crap.
Damn it all to hell, anyway.
The calls had started three weeks ago, silence, then heavy breathing. In the beginning, they’d only come once a day, then it had escalated to two, then finally four. At first, she kept saying, “Hello? Hello?” but no one ever answered. All she heard was that damn heavy breathing. Then whoever it was would hang up.
She’d thought it was some guy who’d somehow gotten her number and was pranking her. Since she didn’t make a habit of giving it out, the choices of who the caller could be should be limited. She’d changed her number twice since it started, to the irritation of her carrier, but too bad for them. They got paid, didn’t they? So how did some stranger keep getting his hands on it?
She was pretty sure they hadn’t gotten it from any of her friends. They were all very careful not to share each other’s information with anyone. If it was Nate or Chad or even Ed, what would she do next? Who would she tell? Tyler Gillette, the wildest woman in San Antonio. As she’d told Betsy, everyone would just think all this was a by-product of her crazy lifestyle. She’d stitch her mouth shut before running to her father. Maybe Rafe would help her, but he was off-limits. Besides, after last night he’d probably never go near her again.
Her own damn fault, for playing out this outrageous charade all these years.
Taking a deep breath, she dialed the number from the readout. No luck, just as the other times she’d tried. All she got was “That is not a working number.” As someone who didn’t live under a toadstool, she was aware that telemarketers bought phone numbers that they could hide behind. But no one spoke up and tried to sell her anything.
Climbing the stairs, she reviewed other possibilities, ticking off more names.
Maybe someone from the Hawks who’d seen her and wigged out on her? Was it someone hanging around the fringes of her life, lusting after her or angry with her for something? She tried again to think of every man she’d picked up and walked away from. Or those she’d hung tight with for a few days, maybe even weeks, then ditched with little more than a verbal kick in the ass.
She gave herself a mental shake. Time to get dressed and get moving. Nothing would get solved this way. She just kept hoping whoever this was would finally get tired of the game.
She stood in the shower, spreading the body wash lavishly over her skin, hot water sluicing over her, and tried to remember every place she’d had her phone for the past couple of weeks where someone could palm it long enough to check the number. She had to admit sometimes she wasn’t as careful about keeping it in her purse as she should be. Maybe it had happened before that, and whoever was doing this had just been biding his or her time. Who had she pissed off so much that they were making these kinds of calls to her?
Oh, well, Tyler, how much time do you have?
She hadn’t made any friends in the dive bars she trolled. Besides, that had all been nothing but a ploy. What had she thought? That the famous Kurt Gillette would finally ask her what the hell this was all about? Clutch her to his heart and ask how he could help? Unfortunately, her plan bombed since she never got the reaction she wanted. She wondered who was more disgusted with the person she’d made herself into, her father or herself?
In any event, she was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone from her nightlife. They were all highly unlikely to indulge in games like this. She could barely recall half of the idiots she’d strung along in the bars but none of them would have her number. Would they? And no one else jumped out at her.
Maybe, possibly, one of her friends had laid their phone on a bar or table and someone had managed to scroll the contacts list. Or… The list was longer than her driveway.
First thing today after she dressed, she was getting another phone with yet another new number. She’d keep this one for all those annoying calls and use the new one for personal calls. That way she’d have some control over the situation. Maybe the person would get tired of it and go away.
She dried herself off, her mind doing a quick flashback to the