Page 111 of Renegade Ruin

She pokes her head through the door of my room, her tight dark curls falling over her shoulder dramatically. She smirks. “I’m really hoping you mean she’s got a dick she’s riding and not that she’s suddenly sprouted an extra appendage.”

Leigh and I tip our heads back, absolutely losing it when she fully enters the room swinging her hips as if she were trying to do the helicopter.

From the moment I picked up Leigh and Indie at the airport, it’s been nonstop laughs. Which is exactly what I’ve needed to keep me from stressing.

Indie crosses her arms over the white designer Renegades tank that perfectly complements her dark skin and pops her hip, a wicked smirk painting her lips. “Before I get to the dick situation, you’re not really wearing that to the game, are you?”

I look down at what Bishop deemed my owner’s uniform—a light short sleeve blouse and the pencil skirts he loves so much. This time it’s gray.

“I’m the owner of the team. I need to dress the part,” I counter. As much as I would love to wear Renegades gear and shorts like the two of them, I’m already on thin ice with the exec board after showing up to batting practice in Bishop’s jersey. The only reason they stopped was because I did it for Phoebe, and the photo the press caught of me walking in with her came across in a positive light. Still, I don’t need them spouting off at the mouth again about how unprofessional I am.

“I’ll let it slide, but I still think you should be able to dress it down with your best friends.”

I wish, but if there is anyone who gets the double standard, it’s Indie. She lives in the spotlight as America’s sweetheart. When she does something, it’s embraced by the masses to her face and torn apart later on the internet.

“Now about this dick.”

“It’s not Bishop, is it?” Leigh asks too quickly for her not to already be putting the pieces together.

I turn away immediately to hide the flush on my cheeks at just the mention of his name. “It’s nothing. Just casual.”

Indie snorts. “That wasn’t a no.”

Leigh’s blue eyes narrow, and I know I’m in for it. “Willow Mae York, are you?—”

The doorbell rings and all three of us swing our attention toward the front of the house, interrupting what I’m sure was going to be a riveting explanation of why any and all dick needs to be run by them, no matter how casual. Especially if that dick is attached to one Bishop Lawson.

Ignoring their demands for an explanation, I slip from my room and head for the door. When I open it, I’m surprised to find a package sitting on the porch since I don’t remember ordering anything.

The box is discreet without any indication of where it came from, and aside from my name and address, there isn’t a clear business name.

By the time I reach the kitchen and start looking for a knife to open the package, Indie and Leigh have settled around the island. Indie is busy crafting the perfect pregame drink while Leigh has buried herself in the pages of the bodice ripper romance I gifted her when she arrived.

She looks up over the top of the book, curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Open it—quick,” Indie says between shakes of the ornate gold and glass cocktail shaker my dad loved. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the driver gets here, and I’m planning on the three of us taking at least two shots of this outrageously expensive tequila Papa York left for us.”

A smile edges through as my heart simultaneously breaks, wrecked by the paradox of being happy my best friends loved my dad as much as I did, but also crushed that he isn't here to laugh at our expense and give us a playful fatherly pep talk about behaving like ladies at the stadium.

“Here.”Leigh offers me a knife from the block in front of her with a sympathetic smile. Her gaze narrows, letting me know she sees me.

We are the three musketeers, all having complicated parental relationships or really lack thereof. But where Indie is estranged with her parents because they are even more shitty than my mother, Leigh is in the same boat as me—orphaned too soon.

I shake off the melancholy thoughts and slide the knife through the blue tape. A loud pop of one of the packing bubbles startles me, causing me to knock the box off the counter and onto the floor. Leigh and I laugh and lean over the island, staring at the contents that tumbled out of the box.

“Is that—” Leigh snorts. “Holy shit, that’s a dick.”

It is.

And not just any dick.

There on my kitchen floor, is an eight-inch purple and veiny dildo with a suction cup on the bottom, and it’s not the only toy littering my floor. There’s a butt plug, a second dildo—this time orange—and a little, green u-shaped silicone toy. I get the impression it’s meant to hit the clit and g-spot at the same time. And those are just the toys that fell out. There’s still a colorful array of things left in the box.

My face heats as the butt plug with a shiny green jewel at the base rolls and hits my foot.

“I think I’ll take that shot now,” I mutter, wishing a hole would open in my kitchen floor and swallow me.

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