Love Letter for a Sinner (The Sinners sports romances) Read online

  The Sinners went to the locker room at halftime two scores up, both of them achieved with long passes into the end zone by Joe Dean Billodeaux. When the team returned, Rex threw the football into a net a few times keeping his arm warm. “Put in Worthy,” Layla shrieked, though no one except her guests heard her.

  She got her wish toward the end of the third quarter. Joe left the safety of the pocket and drew back his arm for another ground-eating pass. He got it off right before being smashed to the ground in a stealthy attack from his left side. His receiver caught the ball and ran it to the twenty yard line before being brought down. Shaking his head, Joe still sat on the turf. The medical men came out with their questions and held up fingers. How many do you see? The quarterback got to his feet to the cheers of his fans, but despite a brief argument about staying in the game, left the field for the locker room with the trainers. The camera panned to Nell, who preferred sitting on the fifty-yard-line among the team wives rather than a private box, and registered the concern for her husband showing on her face.

  “Put in Worthy,” Layla screamed again. Sitting beside her, the tranny, who went by the stage name of Lilah Divine, placed his masculine hands over ears adorned with rhinestone chandelier drops. The coach obliged his idol.

  “Worthy goes in while Billodeaux is being checked for concussion,” Al Harney, the announcer, informed the crowd. Anxiety did not grip the Superdome. The Sinners were two touchdowns up over a weak opponent who hadn’t scored at all or even come close. Their rival’s halfway decent defense kept the score from being worse.

  Rex took his place and called the play. Tricia found she’d crossed her fingers for good luck. Two wide receivers went right and left toward the end zone. The quarterback fake pumped left drawing off some of the defense, then tucked the ball and began running. His heavily muscular thighs churned. He stiff-armed opponents with a decisive shove sending some to the ground. Faced with a barrier of two tackles between him and the goal line, Rex made a leap over their hunched backs, tucked into a roll, and came up with the football still firmly in his grasp. No showboating for him. He tossed the ball to the official and pointed one finger skyward giving the glory to God.

  “That, my friends, is Rex Worthy’s first touchdown in the NFL,” Hank Wilkes up in the booth supplied, going on to fill in the color with statistics on the young quarterback’s career at Texas A & M as the teams traded sides.

  Joe Dean Billodeaux returned to the bench almost unnoticed. He shook Rex’s hand and said a few words. Al Harney could not resist commenting that if Joe had been on the field, the fake pass would have been thrown, sharp and arrow straight to the receiver in the end zone—not to take away from Worthy’s fine performance. “Two different kinds of quarterback, Hank, two different styles.” No one would argue that.

  “Patsy, I need a pen and paper!” Layla snapped her fingers.

  Before Tricia could make her way to the front, the actress’s transvestite double drew a small bejeweled pen and notepad from a sequined handbag. “Here you go, dear. Sending a love note to Rex? Yes, I saw your names linked in the gossip rags, but he really doesn’t seem your type.”

  “Who does?”

  “Moi?” The violet contacts the man wore glittered with speculation.

  “That would be like making love to myself.”

  “Not if I take off the wig and boobs, honey.”

  Layla laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind, but you are simply too easy. Let me see what I can do with the last virgin boy scout first.” She finished her note, folded it over, and thrust it at Tricia. “See Rex gets this after the game.”

  “I’m not sure if I can reach him.”

  Don’t come back to the hotel tonight if you can’t.”

  “Harsh,” the Layla impersonator said. “I like that.”

  “If I go now, I might be able to get a place near the entrance to the tunnel, but I don’t know if Rex will see me. I can’t guarantee…” Tricia insisted.

  “Get going. As for you, my violet-eyed hussy, I might need your help with Rex. You have any contacts in the Quarter? I need some special meds.”

  “Anything for my favorite star. But forget Rex. Catch my show tonight. The Quarter will be rocking after a Sinners’ victory.” His lavender-painted lips formed a seductive moue.

  Worried, Trish left the box and took the escalators down to the first level. She posted herself by the wall framing the tunnel where fans gathered hoping for a high five or an autograph from their favorite players as they passed. She stayed there crushed between a fat man and a groupie with neon orange hair for the entire fourth quarter while Joe Dean Billodeaux orchestrated another touchdown, this time handing off to a running back as if to prove his versatility. Before the game ended twenty-eight-zip, the Sinners, Tricia succumbed to reading the note.

  Rex,

  Come to the Windsor Court after the game to celebrate your first NFL touchdown. Say around seven. I am so happy for you.”

  A simple offer, to the point, unsigned, and very unlike Layla. Uneasily, Tricia fingered the pink, perfumed paper with little rosebuds in each corner. No matter. Rex probably would not see her. Then, she’d have to ask the neon-haired girl where the groupies went to meet the players. Could take all night to hunt Rex down. She’d suggest he pen a refusal on the note as proof she’d done her job. By the time she returned, Layla might be passed out or asleep. A girl could hope.

  Reporters held both Joe and Rex back for brief interviews, but at last the two men moved toward the tunnel. Joe reached up to slap palms with a few children. The orange-haired young woman called out to Rex, “Hey, handsome, how do you like these apples?” She raised her black Sinners’ T-shirt and exposed two small naked breasts adorned with nipple rings.

  Joe did a double-take but kept on walking. Rex cringed and started to turn his head away, then noticed Tricia dangling the note over the barrier. He jumped up slightly to take it from her fingers and read it right on the spot. With that smile reminding her so much of her brothers, and Trish wished it didn’t, he nodded. “Sure, I’d like that. Seven.” Like the beta male in a pack, he trotted after Joe, the top dog.

  Orange-hair covered her tits and shoved Tricia resentfully. “What have you got that I haven’t?”

  “A bra?” Trish ducked behind the bulk of the red-faced fat man who’d gotten an eyeful. Other retorts played through her mind—natural hair, nipples without holes. That kept her amused until she reached the box, finding it deserted. Only as she made her way back to the hotel alone did it occur to her that Rex assumed she’d written the note—and Layla intended it that way.

  Chapter Twelve

  The knock on the door sounded promptly at seven. Layla’s orders that Rex Worthy be shown to her suite immediately upon arrival had been honored.

  “Let him in, Patsy.” Layla arranged her long limbs to maximum effect on the divan and made sure her nipples didn’t pop from her décolleté. She’d chosen a bra that gave lift from below but allowed her Pride and her Joy, as she called her breasts, to be mostly exposed. After hearing about the trashy flasher and Rex’s reaction, she’d decided to move cautiously lest she scare him off, at least in the early part of the evening. Pleased with the way the cerise silk gown clung to her curves, she had no need to worry about a panty line because she wore no panties. The less between her and her object, the better.

  Tricia pushed the lever. Rex Worthy stood there immaculately groomed in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie but still stubbled with a few days growth of beard. Regardless, an enticing aroma of lime aftershave wafted over her. He held out a bouquet of a dozen tightly furled pink roses wrapped in green tissue. “These are for…”

  Layla executed a neat interception, passing between the couple and seizing the flowers. “How did you know? Pink is my second favorite color after lavender.” She laid a chaste kiss of thanks on his bearded cheek.

  “I didn’t know. I…”

  “Come in, come in and see what a wonderful spread we have for the two
of us. Chilled oysters on the half shell, shrimp remoulade, cold rare roast beef with a dipping sauce, asparagus, a lovely basket of breads, nothing that needs to be heated up except me.” Layla paused for a compliment that didn’t arrive.

  “Isn’t Tricia staying? I mean I thought we were going out.”

  “You mean Patsy? She’ll be on her way after she serves the drinks. I’ve gotten her a room on a lower floor for the night. This is a private party, just the two of us. Let’s start with champagne and oysters. Patsy, open the bottle.”

  Tricia struggled with the foil and the wire and the stubborn cork while Layla escorted Rex to the divan. Stupidly, she dwelled on the fact that he had seen her in this same simple black dress, pumps, and hair in a tight chignon during that embarrassing episode in the bar. She must look like a member of a funeral party rather than a victory celebration compared to Layla who looked like a—slut. There, she’d thought it if not said it. The damned cork would not budge.

  “We’re waiting—impatiently,” Layla called.

  She tried again to open the bottle, but suddenly noticed the scent of lime and the heat of a large, masculine body behind her. Rex reached around her, almost an embrace, and worked the cork with his big thumbs. The festive pop sounded, and champagne foamed over the neck of the bottle. He stepped to one side, filled the two flutes waiting on a tray behind the suite’s bar, and took a third glass from the rack above it. “I want you to celebrate with me, too.”

  “Rex, sit down. You’re the guest of honor,” Layla said. “Oh, I’ve forgotten to put your lovely flowers in water.” She flounced, breasts a-jiggling, to the bar and gave him a playful shove back to the sofa. Turning the bouquet over to Tricia, she ordered, “Find a vase.”

  Tricia searched the cabinets for a container and finally found a tall, glass cylinder that would do. She turned to see Layla emptying a packet of crushed white powder into one of the flutes and stirring it with a long, red-polished nail. A sudden image of the witch in the tale of Snow White preparing the poisoned apple flashed into her mind.

  “What are you doing?” she asked beneath the sound of the water running into the vase.

  “The boy scout needs to relax.”

  Layla flashed a smile wasted on Rex who sat with his eyes closed on the couch, his large hands clasped tightly on top of his knees. Tricia thought he might be praying for deliverance.

  “Are you trying to ruffie him?” she whispered.

  “None of your business.” Layla lifted the tray and carried it to the low table, carefully positioning the glass in front of Rex. Trish followed close behind her. “Oh, I forgot to bring the bottle. Surely, we’ll want to make more than one toast.” With a significant gyration of the hips, Layla returned to the bar.

  Tricia grabbed the flute intended for Rex and shoved hers in his direction. When Layla returned, she held the ruffied drink as steadily as a chalice at communion. Raising the glass, she offered a toast, “To Rex’s first touchdown in the NFL.”

  Displeased, Layla grumbled, “I wanted to say that, but I am sure I can come up with something better.” She touched her glass to the one Rex held, and he in turn clinked his against Tricia’s flute. They drank, though only Trish, hoping Layla had no more doses of the drug, drained hers to the bottom.

  “A second toast to a long and interesting evening full of new experiences,” Layla offered with a pout. She topped off all the glasses. This time Trish merely sipped.

  “Time to leave, Patsy. The key card to your new room is on the table by the door. I’ve had your belongings moved there. I’ll call you when I need you. Feel free to sleep in tomorrow. Rex, shall we start with the oysters?”

  “That’s a bunch of food for two people. I think Trish should have some after two glasses of champagne.”

  “She’s fine!” Layla snapped. “She only has to walk down a few flights and call room service if she wants anything.”

  “That would be a waste. What can I bring you, Tricia?” Rex set his drink aside and got up. “How about a little bit of everything/”

  “No oysters!” The thought of the slimy gray globs going down her throat suddenly made her want to gag.

  “Okay. A few shrimp, some beef and asparagus, a nice roll. Everything looks great, and hey, we got chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert, looks like.” He presented Tricia with a neatly arranged plate. “Eat it all and slowly now.”

  Layla stalked to the buffet and downed several oysters, sucking them directly from the shell. “Try these, Rex. So delightfully salty. Wash them down with the rest of your champagne. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Rex humored his hostess. He doctored a couple of oysters with hot sauce and slid them between his lips, followed them up with saltines and the rest of his drink. Layla squeezed his arm. “We are going to have such a good time tonight.”

  Tricia did eat slowly hoping the food would offset whatever Layla put in the champagne. A half hour passed while Layla and Rex ate directly from the plates on the buffet. She began to feel woozy. Good, if she threw up, all might be well. Trish stood and wavered.

  “I’m going to my room now. I feel very strange.” She started to wobble toward the smaller of the suite’s bedrooms.

  “Not there! You’re downstairs tonight, remember?”

  “Not really.” One of her legs buckled and Rex, the Eagle Scout, caught her before she hit the floor. He took her into his arms. Yes, he did, swept her into his arms actually. She patted his cheek. “Why don’t you ever shave?”

  “Tell you later. I should take her to her room and call the house doctor.”

  “No! Patsy is hearty country stock. She’ll be fine,” Layla said as if her assistant were a prime dairy cow.

  “I’ll sit with her until she feels better. You don’t have to worry. Ah, thanks for the nice party, Layla.” Rex moved to the door, scooped the key card from the table, and elbowed the door open. He shut it with a decisive kick and went directly for the private elevator. It took them nonstop to the ground floor. He checked the card for a number and summoned the next elevator going up.

  The concierge rushed over. “Do you need assistance?”

  “Just too much champagne, I think.”

  Tricia, bright-eyed, waved a hand in the man’s face. “Yep, yep, too much champagne. See, Rex Worthy is carrying me in his very own arms. Wheeee!”

  “I’ve seen worse working here. Do call the desk if you need help.” The uniformed man went back to his post, and Rex entered the newly arrived elevator with his passenger.

  At the door to her room, he propped Tricia against the entry while he fiddled with the key. No luck on the first try. A red light still winked at him. The hallway of Tricia’s exile was significantly busier than the private floor. A weary family done in by a day on the town passed. The little boy had his face painted like a tiger. The elfin black-haired daughter carried a flower made of balloons that she held like a bridal bouquet.

  Trish smiled at them broadly and waved. The little girl resembled a tiny princess, which brought Snow White to mind again. She felt a great urge to sing Some Day My Prince Will Come. After all, bluebirds circled Rex’s head as he reversed the card and tried again. Must be a sign.

  “I know that song,” the tiny princess twittered.

  Oops. She must be singing. Tricia covered her mouth with both hands and giggled.

  “I know that player,” the stocky dad in Bermuda shorts said.

  “Taking advantage of a drunken woman,” his blonde wife added. “What a phony.” Her tiger-painted son growled.

  Tricia felt moved to point out to the woman, “Your dark roots are showing. I bet you have pretty black hair exactly like your daughter. Hi, honey.” She wiggled her fingers at the child and stared at the mother’s prominent breasts. “Are those for real?” When the woman reddened, she added, “Didn’t think so, but nice work.”

  To Rex’s great relief, the light turned green. They stumbled into the open space with Rex nearly landing on top of Trish when she fell across
the single king-sized bed in a significantly less luxurious room compared to the suite. He got up leaving her hanging half off the mattress and went to close the door. The two wide-eyed children backed by their furious mother stared from the hall as he gave them some privacy.

  “Maybe you’d better stay down, Trish. I’m not a big drinker, but those two glasses of champagne sure went to your head faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”

  Tricia rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. “Not champagne. Ruffies. Layla wanted to make you relax, but I stopped her. You can be as uptight as you want now.”

  “Thanks for that, I guess. Should I call a doctor?”

  “Nope! I feel great.” Tricia nodded her head so emphatically the tight chignon at her nape unraveled and released her long, dark hair. “You know what? I think you like me more than Layla.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “She’s on to us, probably spying on us right now. Better check for bugs.” She got down on her knees, rump in the air, and peered under the bed, then upended a table lamp and left it lying on its side. “I don’t see any, do you?”

  Rex surveyed the room to make her happy. A large, soft-sided suitcase, lumpy and overstuffed having been hastily and badly packed, lay on the luggage rack with her huge, black handbag on top. A small laptop sat on the desk. “No bugs. Really, you should lie down and rest. Mind if I use your computer for a minute?”

  “Help yourself to anything you want.” Tricia stood and twirled around with arms outspread, lost her balance, and collapsed on the bed again.