Personal Fouls Book Three of the Fantasy League series

By Davee Jones

Personal Fouls gets down into the thoughts of Marty, Eugene, and Rudy. From the first time Marty and Lola meet, make love, and find their relationship destroyed by secrets of her past, you will know where he stands. How will Marty get over losing the love of his life, knowing he will see her until he dies? Was helping Sharlyn live the decision putting him over the edge?
Eugene portrays the image of uncaring, social misfit detached from the frivolous antics of society. What no one knows is how deep the longing of human companionship dwells within his soul. When Prisha is ripped from his life, without explanation or good-bye, he fails to recover from her deep brown eyes and irresistible challenge. Will he ever find the courage to connect again?
Rudy fell from football superstar to forgotten paraplegic. Mourning the loss of his career is secondary to losing the ability to make love, father children, or play in the LockHim Room. Wanting his personal life back so badly, he’s willing to explore options putting him back in love’s game. But, is Lola the one he really wants? How will he know the difference between love and lust?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Davee Jones
• Release date: Mar 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311384607

Davee Jones

Davee Jones began a career in the counseling field with her M.Ed. She then diversified and began work for the federal government. The dryness of the day to day assignments fostered the desire for her to do something more creative. Everything between the covers comes from the heart. Now avidly writing, she has several other books in progress. She has books that draw from eroticism, romance, suspense, drama, and sometimes comedy. A few of her books garner only one flame, but, others will secure all five flames in the heat index.

Book preview

Personal Fouls

The Fantasy Leagues Book Three

Davee Jones

Published by Davee Jones

Copyright 2015- Davee Jones

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Lovely readers, please enjoy the third installment of the Fantasy League series. The story continues to surprise me as I write it. For book three, I chose to take you into the lives of Marty, Rudy, and Eugene. To completely understand their role, I believed you needed some history, as well as their perspectives to what occurs in the story. This book is divided into three parts. Part one will be all Marty, part two will be all Rudy, and part three will be all Eugene. Their perspectives include past and present. Thank you for joining me through their struggles and triumphs. Part of the reason they come to life is all because of you.

Thank you.

Also, Lee Alviar, you’re beautiful and continually instrumental to me. Your input is invaluable. The Husband, Alan, who creates beautiful covers and the art for my website, I appreciate you so much. Finally, my readers, without you the stories would lie dormant, untold, not shared, you make their lives happen.

Now, on three….One! Two! Three!

It’s Go Time…

I’m not sure who I was worried about most- me or Sharlyn.

Okay, Marty, we are getting everything ready. Pretty soon we will have you count back from ten for us. You know, ten, nine, eight, just like that.

Groovy. I used some lame answer attempting to show bravery. They didn’t need to know how false it really was. Was this how a psychopath’s victim felt? Helpless, can’t stop what’s coming next, strapped down, already sedated, at the hands of drugs, overcoming my senses, rendering lame unconscious?

I’d never been completely under anesthesia. The first drug they gave me in my IV was extremely cool. I loved everything and everyone, nothing but sunshine and orgasms in my medicated world. But, now, I gave myself over to a team of medical professionals ready to cut into me and excise a portion of my liver. I believe any possible reconsideration was out of order.

I fidgeted watching the doctor inspecting images on a screen, while the nurses lined up trays, instruments, and large amounts of gauze. Soft music played in the background, a jazz station of some kind I assumed. Someone put a blood pressure cuff on my arm. Someone else put an oxygen mask over my nose.

The oxygen will make sure your body gets what it needs while you’re under.

Oh shit, I was gonna have to count soon.

Marty, we’re ready, I’m starting the anesthesia now, count with me- ten, nine, eight.

Through the mask, tubes, and fear paralyzing my mouth, I dryly mumbled down to eight, how did he know eight was my lucky number?

What the fuck…

Chapter One

A History Lesson in Marty

Fundamentals

No, I’ve never particularly been a man’s type man. Far from gay, I lingered in the middle ground with just enough estrogen to understand feminine meltdowns, the importance of chocolate, and how to listen. I found a quiet sensitivity soothing in the discreet torment making up my home life. I wanted to be everything my father was not.

Because Martin Senior was a district superintendent, I inherited the popular jock status in school by default. Popularity by association wasn’t as much pressure as gaining stardom the good old fashioned way. As long as dear old dad kept his tenure, I had a place in the top ten percent of who’s who among young socialite assholes. I didn’t have to wear the latest brands, attend the parties, or engage in meaningless conversations about things I didn’t give a rats ass about.

On the down side, I didn’t have to listen to girls to gain their attentions. They threw themselves at me like I was an original Beatle. None of their blatant affections mattered to me.

Don’t take away my man card just yet.

Girls scared me. The way my father looked at my mother, she seemed like the worst decision he ever made. If this intelligent man dated, got married, then became so unhappy, who was I to say I could do a better job? I also didn’t enjoy random sex, a trait also stemming from a frosty family. I wanted the intimacy behind the physical, something missing from my parents for as long as I could remember. To stave away the social climbers, I kept one steady all four years. Joanie Oaks was a quiet bookworm with a penchant for Hemingway tucked just behind her interest in Jane Goodall.

A fellow intellectual romantic, we spent hours discussing theories, studies, the Universe, just about everything. Occasionally, we allowed ourselves to dip into the sinful pool of sexual activity. However, the awkwardness never quite left our actions. Joanie’s discomfort being naked, together with my performance anxiety prevented much coupling. We spent more time holding hands, talking about the future instead of acting on it.

I masturbated a lot. I knew how to do that, how long it would take, and didn’t have to worry about stage fright. Self- love got me through high school, allowing me to let go when Joanie and I went to separate colleges. No chance of a Dear John letter from my hand, old rightie stayed at the ready until I discovered college women.

Joanie who?

I played several sports growing up. Basketball was my favorite. I developed a talent for free throw shooting, setting wicked screens, and drawing the foul. I joined co-ed sports leagues in college, where I met an abundance of confident athletic women. Damn, nothing like drawing a foul from a hot, sweaty, woman breathing hard. I loved those kind of personal fouls, they changed my mind about sex, opened new opportunities, and gave rightie more rest.

I discovered an easy way to get women into questionable situations with bets on free throws. I hustled more girls into stripping than a man should have- a valuable gift the Universe rewarded me by leaving all the high school girls alone. I’m proud of my skills, another Paul Newman of the pool halls on a basketball court. The layup Lothario, loving the one night stands. My emotions scared the hell out of me, I decided to keep those out of the playbook.

Even after all the girls I met, how sincere I was, the whole nine yards, I shied away from long term relationships. I established a career, kept a few friends with benefits, forgetting any plans to find the right girl and settle down. Time went by and somehow I met her, out of the blue, she hit me like a passenger bus, a freight train, a 747 jet.

Lola Fontaine.

I vaguely knew who she was, well, maybe not much. She knew of me from high school athletic circles. Lola seemed to know more people than I did, yet, comparably, I was more popular. Growing up must have done us both good, because we never fully made the connection until much later.

We met in the most obscure of places, a funeral. A beloved English teacher from the district passed away quietly in her sleep. My mother knew her well, as did most everyone from not only her home school, but, in neighboring towns. My father was gone yet again, and I agreed to accompany mom to the services.

It was the luncheon afterward, held in the community center where I noticed her. Lola sat alone at the back of the room. She watched the crowd, obviously a consummate people watcher. Better than a high school reunion, a funeral offered less pressure to measure up, but, just as many opportunities to mingle. She looked familiar to me, stunningly familiar. I had to find a reason to sidle up and invent a conversation.

Marty, would you please get me another iced tea? Mom smiled, holding her fork just so. The table-full of attendees continued talking, laughing, sharing tales of the past.

Eager to take advantage of the opportunity, I slipped off, detouring to Lola’s table. What would I even say? My feet made the short journey before my brain had a chance to work out something smooth. H…Hi.

She turned on that power smile. Hello.

I saw you sitting alone, are you handling the funeral okay? Geez, could I sound any more like a pansy?

Yes, it was a lovely service. Mrs. Rose would’ve been pleased to see so many caring friends.

Or, maybe she’d suspect they only came for the free lunch? What the fuck was I even saying?

Free lunch? Oh, you are a character.

I know, funerals make me feel awkward. Hopefully you won’t tell me you’re her granddaughter or something.

Just a niece, nothing too close. She sipped her drink.

I’m a jerk, I’m so sorry. I was being so rude. I felt hot and stupid.

I’m joking. Chill out, would you? Mrs. Rose was one of the only teachers who gave a shit about me. I wanted to pay my respect.

They don’t make many teachers like her anymore, or so I’ve heard from almost every conversation I’ve eavesdropped on today.

Teaching’s a hard gig. Frankly, I’d rather sort mealworms with my teeth.

She made me laugh, that statement came out of nowhere. I like your sense of humor.

I’m happy you laughed. We’re at a funeral, you know?

I didn’t really know her that well.

But, I did and I started the humor. Good dang thing we aren’t still in the church. Sometimes I say the most inappropriate things.

I’m sure your intentions are good.

My intentions have usually been…oh so bad, I’m not even gonna lie. Apparently, there’s this thing called a filter I’m lacking.

I find it refreshing.

Most guys say that, but, after about a month they block their phone number.

Variety is the spice of life.

I’m sick of spices, they’re overrated and give me heartburn.

I’ve never had heartburn. I’m a lucky guy.

Luck in my presence? There isn’t such a thing.

I’d like the chance to prove you wrong. Will you go to the casino with me next Saturday night?

The casino? Is that your idea of a date?

No, I’m not sure we should go out on a date yet. The casino is safe. If either of us decides to bail, at least there will be something for me to do.

Wait, you just said, if either of us decides…but, then you expect it’ll be you anyway?

Lady, I could never tire of someone as delightfully tacky and beautiful as you. I must assume you’ll end up ditching me.

Well pickle juice, funeral-guy, you’re crazy good at smooth.

My charm sealed it. Without even exchanging names or numbers, we worked out the details to meet at the local casino the next weekend. She stayed true to her word and really showed up.

I saw her before she saw me. I watched from the seclusion of a tucked away table. Walking through the front entrance, adjusting her necklace or her top, I couldn’t tell. Nervous fidgeting accompanied a bright smile, hopeful, from my interpretation. Touching up the lipstick, she pretended to intently study her lips, but, really checked out the surroundings with the hand-held mirror. After a solid five minutes, I strolled up behind her, touching the soft skin of her shoulder.

Hi.

Well, hey, you made it!

I wouldn’t stand you up.

Oh, but, you’d stand someone else up.

Nope, not what I meant at all. I’m a nice guy, chivalrous as well as charming.

Okay, nice guy, pick your poison. What’s your vice? The dice?

I’m all about the cards, a sucker for blackjack.

The tables it is! She took off, the sexy saunter looked even better from the back.

Hey, mystery lady, hold on.

Turning slowly, the eyes, the smile, the lips, wow, I almost forgot my words. Don’t you think it’s time we exchanged names?

Somehow, the smile lost wattage, a bulb dimmed from her eyes. Did she not like her name? "Yeah, I suppose that’s better than hey you. I’m Lola." Not moving, not putting forth her hand to shake, hmm, almost afraid?

I’m Marty. I walked to her, my best handshake in place.

Oh. The expression fully crumbled for a nanosecond, if I’d looked away I’d have missed it. Proceeding weakly, Lola found her voice again. Nice to meet you. Cards, you said?

Unless she was in a witness protection program, I had no idea our names meant such a great deal to her. The mood immediately changed to something solemn, almost regretful. I maybe faintly recalled her name. During high school I never hung out with her, we attended different schools, probably different circles.

Although I walked out with an extra five hundred bucks in my pocket, with Lola hand in hand, the evening started shakily. I still didn’t understand why when we finally exchanged first names, the smile immediately faded.

How could I have known