Siren in Waiting

By: Lexi Blake
Texas Sirens, Book 5



Dedication


For my husband – who understands a little about the addictive personality since he has to live with me. As always, thanks to everyone who makes my life work – Chloe Vale, Shayla Black, Kris Cook, my mom and kids.





Dedication 2018





As I went through this book again, I realized Trev is the first time I had the courage to write an addict as a hero. Since then I’ve done it several times, but Trev still holds a place in my heart. Over the course of my life, I’ve been lucky enough to have had relationships with a couple of remarkable men. One was my college boyfriend. He formed the core of Trev, the idea of a golden boy who fell and had the heart and soul to pick himself back up, to find a way to be kind, to have seen the dark core of himself and still have faith.

This book is for everyone who lives one day at a time, for everyone who stumbles and falls and picks themselves back up.

This one is for Kevin.





Prologue





San Antonio, Texas



Trevor McNamara looked around the office he found himself in. Found was the right word since he definitely hadn’t meant to be here. It was a pristinely kept workspace, neat and pin perfect, much like the man who sat behind the opulent desk—a man Trev was sure had to be joking. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

The general manager of the San Antonio Bandits leaned forward. There was a slightly sympathetic look on Curt Goff’s face as he steepled his hands together. “You’re fired, Trevor.”

“You can’t fire me.” His brain was still trying to process those two words that threatened to end his football career.

The words didn’t end your career, idiot. You did that when you started in on the coke. The booze wasn’t enough, was it? You just had to go for more.

“I think you’ll find I can,” Curt said, his voice sure. “In your contract, there’s a clause that states plainly if you flunk three drug tests in a row, I can fire you.”

Trev’s head pounded. How had he flunked the last drug test? He’d paid the tech off to switch the results. Or he’d had his assistant pay the fucker off. Had he forgotten? Panic threatened to swamp him. He couldn’t get fired. He had bills to pay. Lots of fucking bills. “I’ll call my union   rep.”

Curt nodded as though this move had been anticipated and potentially blocked. Once upon a time, Goff had been the San Antonio Bandits’ quarterback, but he’d retired a few years back and now ran the front office. Everyone in the business considered the man a shark. “I assumed as much. I think you’ll find the contract is ironclad. It’s possible the union   will sue for you, but I intend to go to court and I’ll make that plain. I won’t settle. I’ve talked to Frank, and we’ve decided that we’ll spend what it takes in order to enforce your contract.”

His stomach turned over a couple of times, and he wondered if the contents of his last meal weren’t about to come back up. Frank Boyle was the owner of the team. He owed Trev ten million dollars on the last year of his contract. A protracted legal fight could cost Frank much more. Why would he do that? How could this be happening?

“It’s happening because you can’t control yourself, Trevor.” Curt’s eyes pinned him.

Damn, he was far gone. He hadn’t even realized he’d said the words out loud.

“I’m going to call my agent.” He pulled out his phone and glanced down at the screen. Fifteen messages. “You’re going to have to deal with my agent. He won’t put up with this shit. You can’t treat me this way.”

Curt’s face hardened. Trev had heard rumors about the man. He was into some strange shit. Supposedly he tied up his wife and spanked her on a regular basis. Of course, there were other rumors about his perpetual houseguests. Two of the veterans on the team lived at Curt and Tess Goff’s multimillion dollar compound and had for years. Pervert.

“I think you’re going to find out that your agent quit after this morning’s headlines.” Curt’s words fell in the silence with all the subtlety of a buzzsaw.

Bile crept into his throat. Headlines? He didn’t remember much about the night before. He’d gone out with some friends. Friends. He didn’t have friends. He had people who hung around because he paid for shit. He’d woken up in bed next to some bleach blonde with fake tits this morning. He didn’t remember her name. She could definitely be a stripper. Shit. What had he done?

He hadn’t gotten arrested. He would remember that. Fuck, when had he started to think a night when he didn’t get caught was a win? “Bullshit. Marty wouldn’t dump me.”

“No. Not bullshit. Marty has moved on to greener pastures. I informed him this morning that we would be using the clause in your contract to release you. The Internet is already full of stories about what you did last night at a strip club. It wasn’t a particularly upscale one, hence the fact that they have photos. There’s a good one of you doing lines of cocaine off a stripper’s body. It’s not the image this club wants or needs. You tested positive for cocaine and marijuana. We didn’t run a test for alcohol, or you might have broken the equipment. Can you honestly tell me you’re not drunk right now?”

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