Jake Forever (Jaked Book 3) Read online

  Jake Forever

  NOTE:

  This is the third full-length novel in a three-book series.

  Jaked (Jaked, Book 1)

  Jake Me (Jaked, Book 2)

  Jake Forever (Jaked, Book 3)

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  Copyright © 2016 by Sabrina Stark

  Chapter 1

  I was in love with a maniac.

  No surprise there. I mean, this was Jake, after all.

  We were sitting at a table for ten near the front of a huge banquet hall. On a raised platform a few feet away, some famous sportscaster was entertaining the crowd with tales of player-exploits, both on and off the field.

  With a toothy grin, the guy leaned closer to his podium and said, "So remember, people, when you're gonna spike something, make sure it's the ball." He winked. "And not the referee."

  The crowd, nearly a thousand strong, roared with laughter. Around us, I heard glasses clinking and saw waiters moving. The way it looked, they were getting ready to serve dinner.

  I frowned. I'd ordered Chicken Florentine. I liked Chicken Florentine. But I had a sneaky suspicion that I wouldn’t be getting any tonight.

  In fact, I was pretty sure that by the time the dust settled, we'd be dining somewhere else. And if things went really bad? Well, in that case, Jake would be dining in jail.

  Again.

  I leaned toward him and whispered, "You're kidding, right?"

  He gave me a wicked smile. "Maybe."

  I studied his face. His thick, dark hair framed his perfect features, those luscious cheekbones, those dark, intense eyes, and that mouth. Oh, my God. I swallowed. That mouth, those lips, his tongue – I couldn’t see his tongue now, but I knew what it was capable of.

  Damn it.

  Focus, Luna.

  From the look on Jake's face, there was no maybe about it. Something was definitely going to happen, because Jake was going to make it happen. I looked around the huge room. The place was jam-packed with sports fans, players, coaches, and management types, along with a scary number of burly guys in business suits – security, obviously.

  This was the fifth annual Mid-Western sports award ceremony, and it had drawn a huge crowd, triple the size of last year.

  I knew why. It was because of Dorian North. The guy's little brother was up for college athlete of the year, and everyone knew he was going to win it – not because he was the best, but because he was the brother of Dorian, the big, bad-ass brute who'd ditched the wrestling ring to become the latest, greatest thing in Hollywood action movies.

  I looked to the far side of the room, where Dorian was sitting at a prime table with two brunettes and a blonde, along with the rest of his entourage. They'd arrived late – and loud. They were still loud. For the fifth time in the last half-hour, a cell phone rang.

  The phone belonged to Dorian. I knew because the ringtone, if you could call it that, was his own voice, delivering his famous catch-phrase, "Suck on that, Jones."

  God, what an asshat.

  Dorian answered the phone and started talking. "Screw that," he bellowed to the poor slob – whoever they were – on the other end. "You get me double, or the deal's off. Got it?" Not bothering to say goodbye, he ended the call and tossed his cell phone back onto the table.

  Next to him, the blonde squealed out, "You tell him, baby."

  Grinning, Dorian leaned back in his chair. "Already did, sugar-tits."

  I snuck a quick glance at the girl's chest. If her tits were sugar, they were definitely – How to put this? – in need of a bigger bowl.

  Her halter-dress, some silver thing with sequins, was overflowing on all sides. She gave a little jiggle, and I saw the briefest flash of nipple before she quickly tucked it back in.

  I heard a muffled moan and looked to my left. Sitting next to me was Trey, Jake's assistant. He was staring, hypnotized, at the girl's chest.

  I leaned toward him and hissed, "Did you just moan?"

  "It wasn't a moan." He straightened in his chair. "It was a sound of appreciation."

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please." If he were any more appreciative, he'd need a change of underwear.

  His face split into a huge, sloppy grin. "I think I saw a nipple."

  "So what?" I said. "Me too. But you don't see me moaning about it."

  "Yeah. Because you're not a guy." He frowned. "You can see them any time you want. Me? I've gotta take 'em where I find 'em."

  My gaze dipped to his black button-down shirt. Trey did have nipples, right? But I got what he meant. Probably, his weren't nearly as interesting – or at least, I sure hoped not.

  I looked to my right and studied Jake's face. Had he seen the nipple? Probably. But I didn't hear him moaning about it either.

  Then again, Jake was never lacking in nipple-viewing opportunities. Everywhere we went, girls practically threw themselves at him. Every once in a while, they threw their clothes too, which, come to think of it, didn't exactly cut down on the nipple sightings.

  Happily, Jake hardly seemed to notice – not since we'd been together anyway. From what I'd seen over the past few weeks, he was a one-girl kind of guy, which meant that my nipples were the only ones he paid serious attention to.

  Thank goodness.

  And just for the record, his attention was really, really good.

  With an effort, I turned my attention to the stage and tried to focus on things other than ripping off Jake's clothes and jumping into his arms.

  The sportscaster was still talking, louder now, in an obvious bid to drown out the latest interruption from Dorian and his entourage.

  It had been going on like this for a while. Just as the sportscaster was hitting his stride, Dorian and his companions would knock the guy off his game with some new interruption – talking across the table, calling out for more booze, and yeah, taking more phone calls than a pizza delivery joint.

  I snuck another quick glance at Jake, who was watching the scene with quiet amusement. As for the rest of the crowd, their amusement had faded fifteen minutes earlier, when Dorian had taken out his phone and ordered his driver to "be ready out front, the minute my little brother wins this piss-ant thing."

  Recalling Jake's words from earlier, I leaned toward him and asked, "When you say 'be ready,' what exactly do you mean? Be ready for what?"

  Jake flicked his head toward Dorian, but said nothing.

  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Don't tell me you're gonna mess with him."

  Jake shrugged. "Alright."

  "Alright? Meaning you're not gonna mess with him?" I paused. "Or, alright, meaning you're not gonna tell me?"

  He leaned close and whispered in my ear, "Just be ready."

  Again, I glanced toward Dorian's table. Across from him sat his little brother – although, to call the guy little was utterly ridiculous. Ronnie North was a head taller than his brother, and if the rumors were true, twice as mean.

  Ronnie was a football player of some sort. What position, I had no idea. I wasn't exactly a fan. Still, I'd heard the rumors. Apparently, Ronnie wasn't nearly as good as he thought he was, and had gained a reputation for being, as Jake had put it, a piss-poor loser when things didn't go his way.

  I glanced around. The odds of Ronnie losing anything tonight were slim to none. For weeks, rumors had been circulating that the whole award-thing was rigged, courtesy of Dorian, who'd been using muscle and money to boost his little brother's chances.

  Why, I had no idea. I mean, a regional sports award wouldn't be the thing I'd rig. But then again, I wouldn't be using my own voice as a ring-tone either.

  Again, I heard Jake's voice, low
in my ear. "And keep your purse handy, alright?"

  "For what?"

  "To get out of here." Jake pointed toward the other side of our table, where a brawny, middle-aged man in a sports-jacket was watching the crowd with wary eyes. "If things get bad," Jake continued, "go with him, alright?"

  I stared at the guy. Who was he, anyway? Yeah, he'd been sitting at our table, but so were a bunch of other people I didn't know. Other than Jake and Trey, I hadn't said more than a quick hello to any one of them.

  And now, I was supposed to leave with that guy? A total stranger? Screw that. I was leaving with Jake. I hesitated. Well, as long as he wasn't arrested or anything.

  When I said nothing, Jake spoke again. "You heard me, right?"

  Again, I glanced toward the guy, whose eyes were still scanning the room. "Him?" I said, forgetting to lower my voice. "But I don't even know him."

  Behind me, someone made a shushing sound. I turned and glared toward the unseen shusher. I couldn't even tell who'd done it, but that wasn't the point. Why were they shushing me when they should be shushing Dorian? He was a hundred times louder than I was.

  I felt a familiar hand on my knee and turned to meet Jake's eyes. The humor in them was gone, replaced by a look I knew all too well.

  "Yeah," he said. "You don't know the guy. But I do." He flicked his head toward the nearby side exit, and it suddenly hit me that it was probably no accident we were sitting so close to an easy out. Even at regular restaurants, Jake picked tables like this all the time, whether there was trouble brewing or not.

  For all his easy ways, he had a paranoid streak that was more than a little scary.

  Into my silence, Jake spoke again. "So if anything happens, listen to what he says, alright?"

  "If anything happens?" I swallowed. "But you never told me. What's going to happen?"

  "Eh, hard to say. Depends on Dorian."

  None of this was making any sense. But by now, I should be used to it. With Jake, things tended to get a little crazy – because Jake was, well, Jake.

  To me, he was the guy I'd been crushing on for years, starting when I'd been a bratty twelve-year-old back in our hometown. And Jake? He'd been the teenage bad-ass who, to my infinite frustration, had treated me like some sort of little sister – and not the dream-girl I wanted to be.

  I met his gaze, and my stomach gave a funny little flutter. He was still a bad-ass, a tattooed, muscle-bound thing of beauty with a quick brain and wicked sense of humor. But these days, the sister-treatment was long gone.

  I felt myself smile. He especially hadn't treated me like a sister this morning, when he'd given me three orgasms and waffles for breakfast.

  Watching him now, I felt that thrilling warmth in all the right places. It was making it hard to think. Just above my knee, his hand drifted higher. It wasn't obscene, but it was a promise. I could feel it in his fingers, the hint of what might happen later, once we were alone.

  My mouth grew dry, and I felt my tongue brush the back of my teeth. I liked being alone with him. In fact, I was kind of wishing I was alone with him now.

  I gave my head a quick shake. Damn it. He was distracting me again. Probably, he was doing it on purpose.

  Talk about devious.

  Steeling myself, I tried again. "Seriously, what are you gonna do? You're not gonna start a fight with him, are you?"

  "Me?" He grinned. "Never."

  My gaze narrowed. Technically, Jake never started fights, but he had a funny way of finishing them. It was the reason he was rich, and yeah, famous if you knew where to look.

  Unlike Dorian, who made his money on the big screen, Jake had built his audience on the internet, where he had twelve-million rabid subscribers, consisting of frat boys, mixed-martial arts fans, and slobbering groupies who sent him more suggestive pictures than I cared to think about.

  I glanced to my left and saw Trey pulling out a small video recorder. He was grinning like he always did right before everything hit the fan.

  Mentally, I braced myself.

  The way it looked, our night was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

  And I still hadn't gotten my chicken.

  Chapter 2

  On stage, the sportscaster finished his talk and turned the microphone over to the emcee, who started doling out the awards one-by-one. With growing nervousness, I watched as athletes from virtually every kind of sport – football, hockey, baseball, whatever – were called up to the stage, where they accepted their awards, had their photos taken, and returned to their seats without incident.

  Because of where we were sitting – near the short stairway that led to the stage – most of the athletes passed us within arm's reach. I didn't recognize a single one of them. No surprise there, given the fact I was embarrassingly clueless about the college sports scene.

  As time went on, and nothing happened, I almost started to relax – until I recalled all those security guys.

  Jake was a fighter. He was a great fighter, actually. But if things went to crap, this wouldn't be a one-on-one kind of thing. Tonight, most of those security guys had arrived at the same time as Dorian, which meant they were on his payroll, not the convention center's.

  And they definitely weren't on Jake's, with the possible exception of the stranger sitting at our table. I snuck a quick glance at the guy and felt myself frown. He was still scanning the crowd, as if waiting for trouble that was guaranteed to happen.

  Well, that wasn't ominous or anything.

  On the far side of the room, the waiters had finally started serving dinner, delivering covered plates while the awards droned on.

  By now, I was barely listening. Instead, I was keeping one eye on Jake and the other on Dorian, who was, once again, talking on his cell phone.

  "Be ready," he was saying, "we've got like a dozen more of these chicken-shit awards before Ronnie does his thing."

  I leaned toward Jake and asked, "What does he mean? What 'thing' will Ronnie be doing? Do you know?"

  Jake flashed me a grin. "He means that if Ronnie wins Athlete of the Year, he'll be giving a nice, little speech."

  I glanced over at Ronnie, who'd pulled out his own cell phone. His voice rose and carried above the crowd. "Listen, you don't pay my bills. Dorian does. So quit ragging on me, alright?" He paused. "Yeah? Well screw you, too, Mom."

  I glanced back to Jake. "About Ronnie," I whispered, "I'm not sure his speech will be all that nice."

  Jake turned and gave Ronnie a long, speculative look. "Or maybe, he won't be making that speech at all."

  I snuck a quick glance at Trey. He was still clutching his video recorder. He was still smiling. I still hadn't gotten my chicken.

  It was kind of a bummer, actually. I hadn't eaten since the waffles. That was how long ago? Twelve hours? Probably, I should've had a sandwich or something. But between my new job and getting ready for tonight, I'd been seriously short on time.

  I'd been rushing around all day – first at work, and then to come here. Now, after all that, I wasn't terribly thrilled with the idea of rushing for the exit, assuming I'd even need to.

  I tried to look on the bright side. Maybe Jake was just messing with me. He did that sometimes. He had a wicked sense of humor, and always kept me guessing.

  In spite of my nerves, I felt a reluctant smile tug at my lips.

  Last night, he'd kept me guessing too – not in the funny way, but in the hot, naked way. At the memory, I shifted in my seat and reminded myself that we weren't exactly alone. Still, I felt that familiar warmth creep up my face, and then, by some medical miracle, settle somewhere between my thighs.

  A dreamy sigh escaped my lips. Forget the chicken. I wanted Jake.

  Next to me, Trey said something too low for me to make out.

  I leaned toward him and whispered, "What?"

  He gave me a smug smile. "Who's moaning now?"

  Horrified, I drew back. "I wasn't moaning. It was a sigh."

  But Trey was shaking his head. "It sounded lik
e a moan to me."

  My cheeks were burning now. I gave a nervous glance around the table. Was anyone staring?

  No. They weren't. Thank God.

  Trey had to be exaggerating. And besides, if he thought that was a moan, he should've heard me last night – and this morning.

  And there it was, that warmth again, creeping downward at the memory of Jake's lips grazing my navel, just before drifting lower. Damn it. I gave a little shake of my head. This was so not the time or place.

  Deliberately, I turned my attention to the stage, where the regular awards were finally winding down.

  "And now," the emcee was saying, "it's time for the one we've all been waiting for." Dramatically, his voice boomed out, "College Athlete of the Year."

  I looked to Dorian's table, where the brunettes were laughing at some secret joke. Dorian ended his latest phone call, shoved the phone into his pants pocket, and turned to glare at the girls. "Shut your pie-holes," he said, glancing toward the stage. "Can't you see the guy's talking?"

  The girls stopped laughing and frowned. The nearest one made a pouty face and said, "But you told us it didn't matter."

  Dorian gave her a withering look. "It matters now, so shut it." He looked toward his brother and called out across the table, "This is it, bro. Be ready."

  Ronnie shoved his own cell phone back into his pocket, and then, with a self-satisfied smile, turned his chair toward the stage and waited.

  The lights in the audience section grew dim, while the lights on the stage grew just a shade brighter. From some unseen source, dramatic music – the theme to Rocky, maybe? – swelled out of the shadows.

  Two tables over, the waiters were delivering covered plates. Next to me, Jake looked easy and relaxed. On my other side, Trey gave something like a laugh.

  I turned toward him and asked, "What's so funny?"

  "Nothing." He gave an evil chuckle. "Yet."

  Up on stage, the emcee was still talking. "And, as we all know, it's an honor just to be nominated."

  Dorian gave a loud snort. He called out toward his brother, "Even better to win." He roared with laughter. "Right, Ronnie-boy?"