Surrender (Harris Brothers Book 4) Page 3

  A STIFFY PALACE.

  That’s what my idiot of a brother, Tanner, calls my home. A stiffy palace. A sex mansion. A bone-a-thon fortress. I could keep going because his obnoxious phrases are endless, but repeating them might actually make me as stupid as him.

  Standing in my dressing room, I drop the damp towel from around my waist and reach up to pull down a navy cotton T-shirt from a hanger. The selection disrupts the perfect rainbow of colours positioned exactly an inch apart from wooden hanger to wooden hanger, all meticulously ordered and hung with care. My closet, while obnoxiously large, is organised impeccably. It pretty much has to be considering one whole side of the wardrobe is made of clear glass that overlooks my bedroom, like a giant fishbowl.

  My entire house is aquarium-like with floor-to-ceiling glass windows throughout, including my bedroom. It’s ironic considering I relocated to this secluded residence in rural Astbury to remove myself from the snow globe life I was living in Manchester. In my early twenties, I wanted to be immersed in the football scene. I lived in a posh downtown flat situated in the party district even though I rarely went out. My building had a butler and a chauffeur whom I never used. The paparazzi camped outside of my flat on a regular basis just to get a glimpse of what I ate for bloody lunch. And if it wasn’t photographers, it was fans trying to take pictures of me. I couldn’t go out for a coffee without feeling eyeballs on me.

  That’s what being a Man U football player gets you. The city is obsessed with footy players. With two professional teams and the National Football Museum plopped right in the middle, the people around there eat, sleep, and breathe football. Everywhere you look, there’s someone wearing some sort of a team shirt or a street vendor selling foam fingers and flags. And it never fails that at every city park, there are a couple of old geezers on a bench, arguing over which Manchester team has more silver in their trophy cases.

  It’s an odd feeling to be a part of something people are so obsessed with, but it’s the gig I signed up for. It’s the gig that’s made me millions. And it’s the sport that now holds my family together when we were once ripped apart completely.

  Our father, Vaughn Harris, was a star striker for Man U back when they won the FA Cup in ‘83 and ‘85, but he quit when our mum got sick with cancer in ‘93. Without so much as a goodbye to the team, he broke his contract, sold the Manchester flat, and moved us all out to the empty mansion he owned just outside of London in Chigwell. There, our mum got sicker and sicker, and he got angrier and angrier. When she died, he became a shell of a man. He had the outward appearance of a human, but he was stone on the inside. He stayed that way for many years, and I was left to pick up the slack. To hold our family together.

  It wasn’t until Bethnal Green F.C. came courting him to manage their team that he turned things around. But instead of atoning for what he’d done to all of us for so long, he simply acted like nothing happened. He started encouraging us to play football and embrace our God-given talents. My brothers were so eager and excited, I couldn’t say no to them.

  So we played. We kicked a ball around and soon saw that we all had quick feet and the natural movement of footy players. It was in our blood. Dad enrolled us in the Bethnal Green Academy, so we pretty much grew up on the Tower Park pitch. Vi was there a lot, too, but never seemed interested in playing. She was on watch to make sure we all finished secondary school.

  But school wasn’t something any of us spent much time on. We preferred retrieving balls and running plays with the team. Football was all Dad cared about, so it was all we did.

  Essentially, our dad went from being our pathetic excuse of a father to our sports manager. We never had a say in the matter. We never even had a say in what team we played for. It was expected that we play for Bethnal. We were just players in his game.

  I grab a pair of jeans off the shelf and slide them on, making sure to tuck every bit of me inside the denim before zipping up. Looking over my shoulder, I check the time on the large clock mounted on the wall next to three big screen TVs. A bit obnoxious for one room, but this is a bachelor pad. And with a family full of footballers, there’s usually more than one game I need to be watching at a time.

  Sloan Montgomery is due to arrive any minute. Having a personal stylist is something my brothers tease me mercilessly about. But as the captain for Man U, I’m required to attend a lot of events. And the fact that I am so particular about my clothes means that having her help is a tremendous relief.

  I’ve had difficulty wearing certain fabrics ever since I was a kid. Anything that feels stiff on my body—like bumpy seams or rough material—sends chills down my spine. Dad actually ordered our team football kits from a special company because of my issue.

  Shopping was a nightmare, so I wore and re-wore the handful of clothes that worked for me. I’m not typically one to give a shit about gossip rags, but the papers started remarking on my appearance. So when I met Sloan at an endorsement shoot a couple of years ago and she knew exactly what was going on, it seemed like a no-brainer to hire her.

  And let’s face it, between my Man U salary, product endorsements, and business investments, I have more money than I know what to do with. My empty fishbowl closet was also looking rather pathetic. Having someone fill it for me was the grown-up thing to do, even if the only other person who sees much of my home is my house manager, Dorinda.

  Within a week, Sloan and her assistant flooded my closet with a whole new selection of soft shirts, pristine suits, expensive jeans, and boxers that I rarely wear. Items that don’t feel like wet polystyrene sliding against rubber. Sloan even took the time to remove the labels from the necklines. She pays attention to everything, so I never have to give clothes a second thought. I love that. The sense of confidence she has in my needs is a luxury I haven’t had too often in my life.

  We’ve developed a sort of friendship over the last couple of years, which says a lot because I don’t really have friends. Sure I have teammates and my neighbour up the road, but I tend to keep everyone at arm’s length. I don’t have time for expectations. I’m also usually wary of people because, with the level of success I’ve achieved, it’s rare for me to meet someone who isn’t angling for something that’s self-serving.

  Besides, if I did have free time, my siblings would most certainly find a way to consume every second of it. On any given day, I get a call from at least one of them. Often, it’s Booker checking in because he’s awkward and needy like that. Dad calls to talk football; Camden calls to talk women; and Tanner calls with a dick joke. Most of the time, it’s Vi relaying an issue that one of our fully grown, idiotic brothers is dealing with and how we’re going to handle it because handling things is what I do. I’ve been doing it since I was barely eight years old, and it’s become my lot in life.

  Needless to say, I’m an extremely private person, so the fact that I connected with Sloan almost instantly when I met her wasn’t something that was easily ignored. There’s just something about her that’s easy to be around. Perhaps it was the way she instinctually knew how to touch me without me really having to tell her. It formed a bond between us.

  And the views of her inside my bedroom for the past two years have been an added bonus. Looking is all I’ve ever done, though, because the rock on her finger isn’t something I would overlook. In fact, I annoyingly notice it every time she comes by. I also notice how she never speaks of her husband or her home life. She’s a stunning little untouchable mystery.

  A million different scenarios have played in my mind about what Sloan’s life is like outside of my bedroom. I imagine she is unhappy in her marriage. I imagine her husband travels a lot and comes home just to fuck her. Not even asking, just taking. Constantly taking because it’s what he wants. I wonder if she ever orgasms. If she ever screams with pleasure. Or if her husband ever asks her what she desires. What her opinion is. I doubt it because the one thing I’ve learned about Sloan is that she can be a bit of a chameleon, which I find rather frustrating.

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bsp; She’s been to my house numerous times for fittings and restocking my closet. Every time she arrives, she has an uncanny way of shifting her mood to what suits me. If I’m angry at my dad about something, or if we’ve lost a match and I’m in a foul state, she instinctually senses it and addresses me with care. Or if I’ve just gotten off the phone with one of my brothers, who always manage to make me laugh, she absorbs my demeanour like a sponge and projects a beaming reflection of warmth. I remember when Vi called to tell me she and her fiancé are having a girl. I was so bloody happy when Sloan showed up while I was on the phone. After I hung up, we were laughing so much, she could hardly take my measurements for the tux she was fitting me for.

  I’ve never met anyone like her who is so adaptive. It makes me wonder if anyone ever alters to her mood. How much of herself does she suppress every day just to keep other people happy?

  Who keeps Sloan happy?

  Regardless, a quiet friendship developed between us over the past couple of years. I’m comfortable with her, and we’re familiar enough with each other now that all of our meetings feel very natural. We know what to expect from each other, and that realisation has a certain peacefulness about it.

  But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to fantasising about her firm hands on my body as they were the first time we met. She’s careful not to touch me like that anymore, and I can’t help but wonder if she was as affected by that day as me. I liked that side of Sloan. The unwavering confidence she has is sexy. I wonder what shade of her I’ll be seeing tonight? Likely whatever shade I project.

  I yank my shirt down over my head and stride barefoot out of my closet just as my gated driveway entrance buzzes. I make my way over to the small LCD screen mounted by the light switch. It shows a black SUV waiting at the gate. I tap a button and Sloan’s face fills the screen. The quality of the security camera isn’t great, but I can make out her facial features. She looks different than normal. Still sexy, though.

  Sexily married.

  “I know you’re there.” Her voice cuts through the speaker, making me jump. “There’s a little red light on that wasn’t there a minute ago. Can you let me in, please?”

  My brow furrows at her unusually brisk tone, but I hide it as if she can see me through the one-way camera. Without a word, I press the admission button and make my way out of my bedroom, stopping for a second at the propped hallway mirror to check my appearance.

  My dark brown hair is tousled and still damp from my shower, so I run my hands through it to smooth down the edges. My hazel eyes look tired, creases beginning to show signs that I’m not in my twenties anymore. My five o’clock shadow is overgrown and patchy, but I save shaving for the morning of a match. It’s part of my ritual, and you don’t mess with game day rituals.

  I jog downstairs and open the double front doors, propping myself on the frame just as Sloan steps out of her car. Her strides are long, her tall body lithe and fit beneath her demure black dress. Her chestnut hair is tied back into a low ponytail, revealing the smooth contours of her pale complexion in the evening light. It’s late for a house call, and I’m sure she’s not happy about driving nearly an hour out to Astbury. Although, most women would be thrilled to be working in the fashion industry up close and personal with a footballer. They’d trip over their words and show off their cleavage. Anything to get noticed.

  However, Sloan doesn’t seem to be in the industry for the fame. She’s never dressed to impress. She’s never star-struck. She doesn’t make a fuss.

  She lifts her eyes as she climbs the stairs and my heart sinks. Her normally vibrant, honey-coloured gaze is red-rimmed and the skin beneath her nose is pink. She looks like she’s been crying.

  “Hey, Gareth. How are you?” Her wobbly smile is disingenuous. Forced. She looks as beautiful as she always does, but something is seriously wrong.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask, concern pulsing through me as I puzzle over what could have possibly happened.

  “Of course!” She smiles again, but the trembling of her chin says otherwise. “I have your suit.”

  I stare back at her in confusion because this is not a side of Sloan that I’ve ever seen. She’s normally cheerful and composed, completely put together. But it’s clear she’s a mess right now, and it’s killing me that she’s acting like everything is fine.

  This is the problem with having a friend whom you know very little about outside of work. It’s similar to knowing your teammates. I might know which foot our star striker prefers or what kind of drink he keeps in his water bottle, but I know sod all about his home life. It’s the same with Sloan. I know that she hates tea but loves teacups. And that she has a genuine laugh and a fake laugh, and the genuine one is a rare unicorn that only comes out when she is completely surprised. But none of that knowledge will help me figure out the baggage she’s carried to my doorstep.

  “Has someone died?” I ask, cutting to the chase because the longer she stands in front of me acting like she’s fine, the less civil I become.

  “No!” she exclaims, her fake smile finally dropping as her shocked eyes dart to mine. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because it’s clear something is wrong, Sloan, and I’ll be damned if I just stand here and don’t bloody well get some answers.”

  “Why do you assume something is wrong?” she asks, covering herself with the garment bag as her suit of armour begins to disintegrate.

  “Because it’s written all over your face and you’re a crap liar.” I step closer to her and hear the shakiness of her breath as she inhales. It triggers a deep, burning need to fix whatever is hurting her. Desperation taints my voice. “Tell me what I can do?” Who do I need to fucking murder?

  I know I’m coming on rather strong, but I simply can’t help it. I’ve always reacted intensely when women cry. Perhaps it’s because I only have one sister, and my brothers and I take protecting her so seriously that I nearly went to jail after choking the last fucker who broke her heart. Or maybe I am this way because of those months as a boy when I literally had to defend my mum against my dad because he couldn’t cope with the fact that she was fucking dying.

  The wateriness in Sloan’s eyes doesn’t seem to get better when she looks up at me. It seems to get worse. Her voice is hoarse when she replies, “You can just let me do my job.” It’s a demand and a plea all rolled into one. She could bark it or beg it and I’d submit if that’s what takes the sad look off of her face.

  “Whatever you say.” I step back, holding the door open. “Please, come in.”

  She moves past me to head inside. Her posture straightens now that she has purpose again and I make another mental note about Sloan. She doesn’t do conflict. The creamy scent of her vanilla perfume wafts over me, and I follow it like a starved dog as she makes her way toward the staircase.

  “Has your exercise regime changed recently?” she asks, clearing her throat and attempting to change the focus to me. “I used the same measurements on your suit, and they weren’t too tight on your legs before.”

  “Erm, yes. Man U got a new trainer and…” I continue jabbering about the new leg work we’ve been doing while trying not to trip as I notice her left hand clutching the railing.

  Her ring finger is bare.

  As in no wedding ring.

  In all the times I’ve seen her, she’s never not had her ring on. Not once. This has to mean something.

  My eyes mindlessly drift from her delicate hand to the curves of her hips. It’s amazing how the lack of a wedding ring changes how you see a woman. The black dress she’s wearing is nothing special, but the thigh-high boots revealing a couple inches of thigh at the top…Fuck me.

  Suddenly, her tears don’t hurt me. They excite me. If she’s crying over a failed marriage, I can think of a myriad of ways for her to truly forget about him. My stomach somersaults with visions of Sloan naked and screaming my name.

  The fact that my body is reacting like this is impressive. There haven’t been many women I�
��ve looked twice at over the last several years. I’ve grown tired of the Harris Ho groupies who blatantly rub up against me any chance they get. The neediness they emit isn’t a turn-on anymore. They expect me to throw them against a wall and fuck their brains out. Go complete dominant alpha dog on them, and that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m exhausted from having control over every other aspect of my life. I don’t need them coming at me with thoughts of who they expect me to be.

  Even if I try to force myself to engage with them, my body refuses to react. It’s not impotence because I have no problem getting rock-hard in my dreams. And lately, they’ve been so bone-chillingly intense, I wake up and only need to jack myself a couple of times before coming like a bloody freight train. The problem is, the women I’m seeing in my fantasies don’t exist in real life.

  Sloan turns to make her way into my bedroom and drops the garment bag on my bed. She unzips it and pulls out three morning suits in varying shades of blue. The femininity of her curvy body in the masculine design of my room is always a sight. My room is various shades of grey, black, and white. At the foot of my bed is a charcoal tufted lounge sofa, like something you’d see in a high-end porno. The truth is, it’s never looked more appealing than it does now that Sloan is in my room, seemingly unattached for the first time since I’ve known her.

  “I brought three options for your press conference,” she says with a sigh as she spreads them out on the grey duvet. “One of these should definitely fit over your thighs or I’m going to start to think you’re on ‘roids.”

  I chuckle, relieved to hear her having a laugh. “I assure you, I’m definitely not on steroids.”

  “I know you’re not,” she replies as she turns toward me. She crosses her arms and slides her gaze up to my face with a curious sort of expression. “Tell me, Gareth, why do you have a morning press interview tomorrow? Usually you talk to the press after a match. This isn’t something I’ve styled you for in the past.”

  Clearing my throat and trying to ignore the fact that Sloan fits perfectly in this space in all her womanly glory, I reply, “We’re playing Arsenal for the first time since my brother Camden signed with them as a striker.”