Page 3 of Enslaved

“Good morning. I assume you heard from the attorneys.” He stepped inside without being invited.

Court closed the door. Unfortunately, he had heard from his lawyer first thing. The contract was solid. There was no wording that stated it couldn’t be sold. “Yes. I heard. Thankfully, Portland Wales intends to take on my contract, so…” As the words left Court’s mouth, he realized the stupidity of them. If Heath had bought him from Wayne, then he likely wasn’t interested in selling.

“No, thank you. I won you fair and square. Now—”

“Won me?” Court was too shocked to formulate a single thought.

Heath didn’t give him time to rage. He gestured wildly. “I see the cogs turning in your head. Don’t even think about it. There’s also nothing in the contract that states you can’t be wagered away.”

Court couldn’t decide which was more insulting, being sold or lost on a bet. Either way, Wayne was definitely on his blacklist now. “If you won’t sell, then I’ll just break the deal.”

Heath shrugged and headed back to the door. “Fine. I’ll see you in court and your reputation will be in tatters, but it’s completely your choice if you want to ruin your business.”

A growl rose and stuck in his throat. No one could possibly understand how much he loathed every second of this. “Fine. What are we doing today?”

Heath turned, all shit-eating smiles. “Excellent. Put on some shorts and grab your tennis gear. I have a court reserved.”

For a moment, all Court could do was stare. Heath was for real, and it was a nightmare. “I don’t play tennis.”

Heath’s smile somehow grew. “Well, then. Today is a good day to learn.”

Court turned away. He could be the professional.

“Don’t forget the comfortable tennis shoes.”

The way Court wanted to start throwing punches was real, but he could survive two months. He had survived worse.

It was possible Heath didn’t have to lob balls past Court at such a high rate of speed. He was actually a pretty good tennis coach. But Court still treated him like a burden rather than a client and—quite honestly—Heath had never wanted to break anyone as badly as he did the smug bastard across the net from him.

Heath threw up his hands when Court let another ball go flying past him. “Damn, Court. I know you said you’ve never played before, but I still expected better. You’re not even trying.”

Court stared at him with murder in his eyes. “I can’t help it. You didn’t listen when I said I don’t know this game.”

Heath made a dismissive motion. “Don’t worry. You’ll do much better at golf. I have a six-a.m. tee time scheduled for us so we can beat the heat.”

The intent to kill didn’t lessen in Court’s expression. “I don’t play golf either.”

“Really?” Heath’s surprise was genuine. He thought everyone in their circles played. “No golf. No tennis. Basketball? Squash? Croquet?”

“Nope.”

Heath’s confusion grew. “You’re in great shape. What do you do? Don’t tell me you just go to the gym and pick up weights. That’s incredibly boring.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I do.” A wicked-looking smile stretched his lips. “Would you like to join me for that?”

Heath was fairly certain that smile was Court picturing his death. He waved his racquet. “Serve the ball the way I showed you.”

While looking resigned as hell, Court retrieved the ball and did a somewhat decent job of serving. Heath swatted it back to Court. The ball hit him in the chest. The people on the court next to them laughed.

Court growled. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand why you have this perverse desire to always humiliate me. Tell me. Why?”

His explosion of anger was disproportionate to the day they had shared so far. But if Court was already ready to throw in the towel and have this out, Heath was game. The contract meant nothing to him. He didn’t give a damn if he ever saw Court again. “I will as soon as you explain why you’re always such a douche.You don’t even know me. Yet the first time we met, you couldn’t wait to toss insults my way.” Even Heath couldn’t explain why Court’s jab about him being spoiled had stung so much. He was spoiled and didn’t give a fuck. But—for whatever reason—coming from Court, it pissed him off.

“Don’t know you,” Court repeated, as if more for himself. His expression turned incredulous as hell. “Don’t know you. I absolutely know you, Heath Overton.”

Heath’s brow furrowed at the hatred that dripped from Court’s lips. “I never met you before the night Lazarus carried Noir from the club.”

Court’s expression snapped closed. His eyes turned dead. “Sophomore year. Five minutes in the closet.”

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