Home > Dirty Talker (Slayers Hockey #4)

Dirty Talker (Slayers Hockey #4)
Author: Mira Lyn Kelly

Chapter 1

 

 

Wade

Off-Season

 

 

Another fucking club. Not my scene, but Boomer and Bowie love this shit, Axel too. They can’t get enough of the velvet rope and VIP treatment. The noise that passes for music, and the lights that require a photosensitive warning.

They thought they’d be safe hiding out here, but enough is enough.

I cut past the muscle with a rock the size of my thumb in his ear to the balcony end of the room where my teammates are sprawled across a couple weird-shaped couches surrounding something that’s supposed to pass for a table.

Boomer’s the first one to see me and yeah, that guilty look and elbow jab at Bowie say I was right. They were hiding. Pussies.

Axel’s back is to me, but when he turns, it’s with the lazy smile that says he couldn’t give a shit that I found them. Typical. “Hey, man. Sign your new contract yet?”

“Not yet.” And I’m not about to be derailed by talk about my NHL contract when I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Dropping into an open club chair, I eye each of them in turn. “Swear you don’t have an available sister, cousin, or trusted friend you’re holding back on me.”

I’m supposed to be home in less than a week, and if I show up to my brother’s wedding without a date—

Shit, I can’t take another week of apologizing and coming up with polite ways to extract myself from one soul-baring conversation after another. From the hope and heartbreak and pained disappointment that make me feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

Boomer starts picking at the label on his beer and Bowie’s suddenly mesmerized by the ceiling. Meanwhile, Axel, that fucker, looks me dead in the eye and shrugs.

Christ, I’m the guy who can talk anyone into anything. Yet somehow, not one of these dicks is willing to cough up a sister for me. “What the hell, man? I’m a good guy.”

Nothing.

“I’m dying here.”

“Uh-huh.”

I huff, because that’s how far this has gone. I’m arguably one of the toughest sons of bitches—after Static anyway—on the Chicago Slayers hockey team. And I’m huffy because my friends won’t share. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“What do you want me to say, man?” Axel rakes a hand through an overlong hank of hair he won’t cut again until preseason. “I’ve got all three… plus a single brother two miles down the road. But you can’t have any of them.” He meets my eyes again, no fucking nonsense in his. “I don’t pimp my sister out for weddings. My cousin would straight-up stab me if I so much as suggested she let one of my teammates act like she was his. And I keep my friends by not asking them for bullshit favors, especially week-long ones.”

More like ten days, but that clarification sure as hell isn’t going to help me out.

Axe sits back. “As for my brother, he’s a dog. He’d be banging the bride before the rehearsal dinner was over. You can do better.”

I’m weirdly touched, but that still leaves me screwed.

I turn to Boomer. “Come on, man. I know you’ve got a sister. Just let me borrow her. One week. Please?”

Ben Boenboom’s one of those guys with a resting goof face. He’s friendly, always grinning at something. But not now.

“Borrow my sister?”

Uh-oh.

“A week? Of sharing your bedroom?” Bowie leans in next to him, his scowl taking on a menacing glint that reminds me these two have been friends long enough he’s probably as protective of said sister as his roommate.

Boomer’s eyes go hard. “You can fuck right off.”

“Dude, I’m not trying to bang your sister. I would never—”

“Try to borrow my little sister for a week of sleepovers?”

Ten days. But, Jesus. “Yeah. That.”

The guys sit back with matching nods that has me pinching the bridge of my nose.

All I need is one girl. Something I’ve never had any trouble getting. There are women aplenty in the crowded club, bunnies lined up at the bar, just waiting for the signal to come over.

Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

I can’t bring any of these girls home. If anything, it would make the whole situation worse.

But now that I’m thinking about it— “What’s with the bunnies?”

Usually, they’d be doubled up on Boomer’s lap by now.

“Axe won’t let us invite them over,” he announces sullenly.

I raise a brow, turning to Axel. “No?”

“Got a friend stopping by. A friend. You know, the kind of woman I don’t dip my wick in, and therefore can ask to be my date for a wedding without worrying about her getting the wrong idea. Also, she’s married, so don’t bother trying to poach her.”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Dick.

“There she is.” Axe whistles, holding up a hand to where a dozen girls are making their way up the private staircase. It’s a tide of short dresses, stacked heels, and giddy laughter rolling in.

I should get out of here. Let these guys have fun while I go home and—

Whoa. No way.

From the sea of feminine faces, one stands out from the rest.

I know her. Sort of.

Harlow Richards works at the bank. Not on my accounts. But I’ve seen her on the private banking floor. Ridden the elevator with her. Noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring and might have tried chatting her up a time or two.

Tried being the operative word there.

It’s her. I recognize those burnt-umber eyes and the way she twists the soft spill of her hair over her shoulder. That lush mouth when she takes a sip of whatever girly drink is in her stemmed glass.

I wonder what kinds of plans she’s got over the next few weeks.

Ha, forget that.

The only thing I know about this girl is her name, and that’s because I talked it out of the coffee cart dude from the lobby. I might need a date, but no way am I bringing some unknown quantity home for more than a week with my family. Not without a solid stamp of “psycho-free” from a reliable source anyway.

Still, she’s got my attention.

It’s curiosity more than anything else. With the way my hockey career is finally coming together, I don’t have the bandwidth for a relationship. But a night or maybe just a couple hours?

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