Free Night Games by Collette West Page A

where I draw the line. I have my celebrity girlfriends for show. The ones I take to awards shows and charity events when I have to make a public appearance with someone on my arm. My agent is an expert at drawing up these kinds of contracts. The non-disclosure agreement is especially binding. If they spill any details to the press after we ‘break up,’ they’re in for a world of hurt. Sure, I’ve banged them all. Why wouldn’t I? None of them particularly care for the fact that I sleep around when I’m on the road, but I’m careful when it comes to STDs and unwanted pregnancies. I always wear protection. I always pull out. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
    One of my rules is that I never look them in the eye when I’m inside them. I focus on a scratch on the headboard or their dyed hair spread across the pillowcase. They’re just a means to an end for me. They’re willing to offer up their bodies, so I’m willing to take them. It’s not like I’m forcing them to have sex with me. Even if I did, they’d still be lining up outside my door. Every woman wants a chance to be with Chase Whitfield.
    Except for this one, it seems. But I did screw up—twice now. I yelled at her friend. No wonder she’s not exactly running over to my table. Whatever courage she had walking in here was probably dashed the moment I started ragging on them. I don’t know what came over me. I was completely taken aback seeing her again. I got flustered, just like I did behind home plate. And I never get flustered. Ever.
    For some reason, she’s messing up my game. She’s drawing me in, even if I seem to be pushing her away. I want her to fight with me. I like a good challenge. I’m curious to see what she’s made of.
    Maybe it’s time to up the ante and make her jealous. There’s a table of scantily clad twentysomethings sitting next to us. Noah is a friend of the owner’s son, and he told him we were coming and that I was interested in meeting some of Stockton’s finest. Out of the five girls at the table, one of them looks halfway decent. I should invite her over and have some fun. It’s a move that’s worked in the past. Serve up a little competition and the girl I really want to talk to will come waltzing over to stake her claim. Happens all the time.
    But damn, she’s still sitting with her back turned when I reenter the room. However, now she’s alone. Her friend is up at the bar. This would be the perfect opportunity to go over and talk to her. But I’m Chase Whitfield. I don’t approach women. They come to me. And for about the millionth time tonight, I wish I were just a regular guy who was able to hit on the girl I’m into instead of having to engage in these stupid games in order to get what I want.
    Everyone’s eyes are always on me. All it would take is one tweet or an emailed photo of me bending down to talk to her and we’d be embroiled in a shitstorm even I couldn’t contain. Her world would be turned upside down as everyone Googles to find out who she is and what she’s all about. Her privacy would evaporate the second a hint of a rumor hit the web. It can’t look as if I’m pursuing her. The only way this works is if she throws herself at me. That’s the image people are used to seeing.
    Sometimes it seems like the world is waiting with bated breath to see which girl I’m finally going to settle down with. Will it be Irina Portanova? Fat chance. No one expects me to date the girl-next-door type, especially one from Stockton. That would send a shockwave that would ripple across entertainment shows and gossip sites for months, if not years. And for some reason, I don’t want to do that to this girl. Why subject her to that level of scrutiny? I hate being in the spotlight, and I would never force her under its glare unless she went into it with her eyes open, aware of the consequences. Just because I wouldn’t mind her coming back to my hotel room with me doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.
    I