Page 123 of Playboy Pitcher
The dimple disappears into a frown as Ben glances down at my bare ring finger. “Trust me,” he says, that line sinking between his eyes. “You’re not going to sign a damn thing.”
“I disagree.” Circling around Ben’s back, Drake places both hands on my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin so hard I wince. “Willow knows what will happen if she doesn’t. Isn’t that right, princess?”
Ben balls his fist, shoving Drake’s shoulder so hard he has to catch himself on the table before falling. “Haven’t I told you once not to put your fucking hands on her?”
The seething hatred passing between them still has me in shock. Slowly, I rise to my feet. “You’re here. You’re really here.” The words barely slip past my lips as whispers, but Ben smiles.
“You’re not a part of my team anymore, LaCroix. You’re fired.”
“Your team.” Ben chuckles. “The thing is, Prescott, I don’t think you have any right to anything.”
“And you think you do?” Regaining his footing, Drake straightens his crooked tie. “Sorry, LaCroix, haven’t you heard? Your marriage has been annulled. I found out about that little prenup of yours.”
This has gone on long enough. This back-and-forth dick swinging is only prolonging the inevitable. However, the moment I start to speak, Ben lays a hand on the small of my back and pounces like a hungry Rottweiler. “Funny you should bring that up. I found out about yours too.”
My eyes widen. “His what?”
Ben’s smile returns as Drake’s face turns to chalk.
Crooking his finger, he tips my chin up and gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Perk up, Puddles. Here’s where it gets fun.” Picking up the abandoned folder, he taps it against his palm as he paces the room. “See, our friend Drake here signed himself a prenup too. Only his is a little less lucrative than mine.”
I’m not surprised. “I’d expect nothing less of Sam George’s daughter.”
Spinning on his sneakers, Ben walks back toward us, his steps synchronizing with my heartbeat. “Excellent point, Miss McBaine. However, Drake signed a no-cheat clause.” The closer he gets, the more Drake sweats. “You see, if our boy gets caught with his pants down, he walks away from his marriage with nothing but what he brought into it.” Dropping the closed folder in front of Drake, he shoves his hands in his pockets and smirks. “Which is nothing, am I right, Prescott?”
I feel like I’m in the middle of a movie, only there’s no script. “How did you find all of this out?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Drake snaps, picking up the folder and smacking it against Ben’s chest. “It’s a moot point. I love my wife. I’d never cheat on her.”
My own fist clenches at the string of lies spilling from his lips. “Just like you didn’t cheat on me, right?” I hiss.
Taking the folder from him, Ben places it in my hands. “Hmm, Drake, here’s where I’m a little confused. If you didn’t cheat on Samuel George’s daughter, then maybe you can tell me who Hunter Prescott is?”
I catch Ben’s eye. “Who?”
“Open the folder, Puddles.”
Drake is all but shaking now, but it’s not with anger. There’s fear in those dark eyes. “Shut up, LaCroix,” he says, jerking the folder out of my hands. “I’m warning you. You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
“No, asshole,” Ben growls, snatching the folder back. Without ever taking his eyes off Drake’s face, he pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. “You don’t know whoyou’refucking with.”
The pounding in my head escalates as I read the typed words in front of me. “It’s a birth certificate.” I glance up, the room starting to swim. “You have a son?”
“It appears so, doesn’t it?” Ben says. As Drake’s large frame sinks into the nearest chair, Ben leans in, planting his palms beside him. “Hunter is three, and you got married to Rebecca five years ago.”
“So?”
Ben smiles. “Help me out, Puddles. Who’s listed as Hunter’s mother?”
I glance down and almost swallow my tongue. “Kimberly Peters.”
“That’s not the little woman’s name, Drake,” he notes, a deliberate smile breaking across his face. “How can it be that your three-year-old son has a mother who isn’t the wife you’ve been married to for five years?”
“Shut up, LaCroix!”
Ben clamps a firm hand onto Drake’s shoulder. “Unless, of course, Drake stuck his dick where it didn’t belong.”
What. The. Fuck?
