- Chasin' Eight
There was nothing like live porn.
Chase McKay rested his shoulders against the cheap headboard, taking a long pull off his beer as he settled in for the show.
The naked blonde with the huge rack balanced on her knees, head thrown back as the naked brunette, with an equally impressive set of double D’s, feasted noisily on her nipples. When the blonde—Lanae, or was it Renee?—grabbed the brunette’s head, trying to force her to take more of her nipple into her mouth, the brunette—Leah, or was it Gia?—smacked her ass.
“Rhea,” the blonde whimpered, “that hurt.”
So the brunette was Rhea. Check.
Rhea fisted her hand in the blonde’s mane, gaining her full attention. “Every time you touch me without permission, I’ll stop what I’m doing, Janae. Understand?”
Ah, so that made the blonde Janae.
And people said he was bad with names.
Janae’s nod of assent earned her a reward from Rhea. A kiss. A deep, openmouthed kiss, with lots of glimpses of flashing pink tongues and feminine moans.
Damn. That was freakin’ hot.
But not as hot as watching Rhea’s hand gliding down the center of Janae’s body.
Chase’s dick stirred—a happy surprise as he’d already received the duo’s oral worship. Talk about a tandem effort—French kissing with the head of his cock between their warring tongues and lips. Then Janae jacked his shaft while Rhea’s hungry mouth milked him to orgasm, but Rhea didn’t swallow. He watched, panting and wide-eyed as Rhea kissed Janae, sharing his come with her.
Yeah, that’d been something new for him. But not for them apparently.
“We’ve been selfish,” Janae cooed, adding a husky, “your turn.”
As he sank into a blissful place where embarrassing buck-off times were a bad memory, and two sets of soft, talented hands caressed him, he heard the door open and then slam into the wall.
“Chase? Honey? Are you okay? I’ve been so worried…” A gasp. Then another. Louder. More horrified and theatrical than the first. “And to think I came here because…” The length and pitch of her sobs escalated.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” boomed an outraged male voice.
Chase’s impassive gaze zoomed from Sheree Bishop—her triumphant eyes filled with crocodile tears—to her father, Lou Bishop, then to Winnie, his PBR publicist, and Elroy, his PBR liaison.
Hail! Hail! The gang’s all fucking here.
“How did you get a goddammed key to my room?” Chase demanded.
“See, Daddy? He isn’t even the least bit sorry for being caught red-handed with…” Sheree gasped dramatically. “Are there two of you?”
Janae waggled her fingers at Sheree as Rhea said, “Hey. What’s up?”
Chase might’ve laughed if he wasn’t so incensed.
Sheree burst into tears.
Lou Bishop patted his daughter’s heaving back as she fell into a fit of hysterics. “I’ve heard rumors about you, McKay. And you’ve outdone yourself this time.” Lou glared at Elroy. “The PBR condones this behavior from riders?”
“No,” Elroy assured him, “but I think we all oughta take a deep breath and a big step back—”
“Yeah, feel free to take a big step right the hell outta my room,” Chase snapped.
Lou stabbed his sausage-shaped finger at Chase. “Don’t think I won’t knock you on your ass, punk, for your smart mouth and for what you’ve done to my Sheree.”
The absurdity of this situation was the only thing stopping Chase from leaping out of bed and laying Lou Bishop out cold.
“Daddy, please,” Sheree sniffled. “Let’s just go.” In a calculated move that so perfectly defined the type of manipulation Sheree Bishop specialized in, she yanked a ring from her finger and threw it at him. “You can have this back, Chase McKay. We’re done. For good.” Wailing, she ran out, Winnie close on her heels.
Lou’s fury pulsed through the room. Without taking his burning gaze away from Chase, he spoke to Elroy. “I want this handled. Tonight. You know what’s at stake.” After aiming one more death glare at Chase, he lumbered after his daughter.
Trying to remain calm, Chase picked up the ring and slid it to the first knuckle of his pinkie finger.
He glanced up at Elroy.
“Meet me in the parking lot. After you put on some clothes.” Elroy glared at the women who were hurriedly getting dressed. “Alone.”
Chase let his head fall back against the cheap headboard after the door slammed. “Fuck.” This was the last thing he’d needed tonight. He never should’ve gotten mixed up with Sheree Bishop.
Or maybe you shouldn’t have comforted yourself about your disappointing buck-off time by instigating a threesome.
Probably true. But it pissed him off that Elroy and his publicist had just burst in on him, like he was some delinquent kid who needed constant supervision. What he did off the dirt was nobody’s business but his. No matter who they were.
Chase slid his jeans up his naked flanks. Zipped, buttoned and buckled, he reached for his shirt. “You ladies goin’ someplace?”
“Don’t you want us to go?” Janae said.
“Maybe they did, but I sure as hell don’t.”
“That woman wasn’t your wife…or something?”
“Not even close.” He jammed his feet in his boots without socks—God he hated that—and snagged his hat off the nightstand. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?” they cooed in unison.
“Oh yeah.” He ran his fingertip up the inside of Rhea’s left arm, mirroring the motion on Janae’s right arm. “I’m sure you two can find interesting ways to entertain yourselves while I’m gone.”
Snagging a keycard from the dresser, he slipped into the humid night. The parking lot was nearly empty. He’d chosen this motel for its off-the-beaten-path location, which made him wonder if Sheree had planted a tracking device in his truck. He wouldn’t put it past the psychotic broad.
Chase stopped ten feet from where Elroy paced in front of a big semi emblazoned with the PBR merchandise logo.
“No, sir. It’s an extreme solution.” Elroy gestured wildly. “Because sponsors shouldn’t have that kind of power—” He hung his head. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I said I didn’t agree that it needed to be done at all. Fine. Your call.” He poked a button and let the phone dangle by his side.
Chase ambled across the asphalt. “Getting your ass chewed by the big boss?”
“Jesus, McKay. Ya think?” Elroy rubbed the skin between his eyebrows. “I can’t fix this for you. Lou Bishop is threatening to pull every penny of PBR sponsorship money if we don’t take action against you.”
“What kind of action?”
“Lou wants you suspended from competition.”
Chase’s blood boiled. “I’m getting suspended because Lou Bishop barged into my private room and didn’t like that he’d caught me in bed with two women?”
“Neither of the women in question was his daughter.”
“So the fuck what? I’m not with Sheree.”
Elroy cocked his head. “Does Sheree know that?”
“What the hell kinda question is that?”
“FYI, McKay, Sheree’s been blabbing to every bull riding mag and pro rodeo blog that you two are practically engaged.”
He never read those magazines. It pissed him off that some “expert” asshole gave commentary about how to improve a specific bull rider’s riding percentage. Yeah, Chase had an idea how to improve too—stay on the damn bull for the full eight seconds. “That’s bullshit.”
“So why’d she throw the ring at you?”
“I have no idea.” He held up his pinkie. “You think I gave her this ring? I’ve never given a woman a piece of jewelry in my life.” Chase tossed the ring to the ground and pulverized the cheap piece of shit beneath his boot heel. “Besides, no one believes her.”
“Her father believes her. That’s our biggest problem.”
Chase froze. Our. Not his.
Elroy started pacing. “I told you not to get mixed up with her, Chase. Told you not to take her to dinner. Told you not to encourage her. Told you whatever you do—don’t sleep with her. But did you listen? No. Women like Sheree get what they want. Period. For some reason, she set her sights on getting you.”
“Since she can’t have me, she causes a scene with Daddy as a witness to get me tossed off the tour.” He hadn’t a clue a total lunatic lurked beneath the surface of polished Sheree Bishop, former Miss Rodeo USA. Sheree was on the hunt for a husband—a bull rider husband. His biggest mistake was ignoring her, believing she’d switch her affections to another rider once she got wind of his extracurricular sexual activities. But Sheree’s determination had only increased.
“So this incident, coupled with the one in Lubbock last week…”
His thoughts rolled back to his last PBR performance. He’d bucked off at two point four seconds and decided to drown his sorrows at a local honky-tonk. Some dumbass redneck made a remark about the superiority of Texas bull riders. Given Chase’s shitty mood and four shots of Chivas, he let loose on Texas cowboys being soft, jeering they wouldn’t last a single winter day in the real West. Then he added a crack about butt-ugly Texas longhorn cattle not being good for nothing but trophy heads. Two Texas guys took offense. They dragged him outside, puffed up with Lone Star pride, intent on teaching a Wyoming sheep fucker a lesson.
Chase beat the living shit out of them.
Three other guys jumped in the fray. When Chase got control of his rage, five men were moaning in the dirt, mopping blood from their bruised faces, and he was still standing. Wobbling a little, but still standing.