A Lie for a Lie (All In, #1)(3)

Lainey.

Alaska girl.





CHAPTER 2

ALL THE CRAZY BUNNIES

Rook





Fourteen months earlier


“Oh my God! Oh my Gooooood! ”

My eardrum is probably broken, based on the sheer volume of the scream and the sudden ringing in my ear.

Once upon a time it would have been reasonable to assume I was eliciting this reaction because of my amazing stick-handling skills—not the on-ice kind either. However, I’m currently seated on an airplane heading for Seattle, waiting for the rest of the passengers to load. And while I’ve engaged in public sex, I usually kept it confined to places with doors, like bathrooms. But I don’t do that anymore. I’m a reformed public-bathroom fucker.

I cringe as the screamer drops into the seat beside me, still yelling in my ear. “Rook, I haven’t seen you in forever! How crazy is this? I can’t believe we’re on the same plane!”

“Totally crazy?” I’ve managed to stay under the radar without being recognized . . . until now. “Is this your seat?” Please say no.

“No.” She pouts for a second, before a wide grin breaks across her face. “But I’m right behind you! Last-minute upgrade. Are you flying alone? What are you doing in Seattle?”

“I’m meeting my brother.” That’s not exactly true; my brother and I are meeting in Anchorage, but she doesn’t need to know that. How the hell do I know this chick? I rack my brain for a name, something, anything. She’s familiar—and not in a good way.

“In Seattle?”

I nod.

“So you are flying alone! Me too! I bet we can get the person sitting here to switch spots.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“Of course I do, silly!” She hugs my arm. “Then we can catch up!”

I’m still trying to place her, but that’s not always easy. I’m embarrassed to admit that in the time I’ve been playing professional hockey in Chicago, there were a couple of years where I did a lot of fucking around. Literally. I screwed pretty much any bunny who dropped into my lap. Until the shit hit the fan.

I took a break from the bunnies after I mistook a case of jock itch for crabs—which resulted in the nickname Crabby for the better part of that season, thanks to my asshole teammates. But every once in a while, I run into one of the women I slept with during my partying days. It’s always awkward. There were a lot of women in a very short span of time. Sometimes more than one at a time. It was bad. I’m not proud.

And then there was that fake pregnancy blackmail—

Oh hell no. Now I remember exactly who this woman is. She’s the blackmailer. It was literally the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. She took plaster casts of her sister’s growing baby belly every couple of weeks and then stuck them under her shirt and posted pictures online, tagging me in every single one. Until my lawyer got involved. The jock itch incident happened right around that time too. Thus ending my puck-bunny days for good.

“How’ve you been? What’re you up to? You look great! What are you doing in Seattle? Wait, I already asked that last question!”

There is no way I’m going to be able to sit next to her for five hours and stay sober.

When the woman who’s supposed to be beside me finally boards the plane, my extra enthusiastic companion takes control of the seat situation. She hugs my arm and presses her cheek against my shoulder, her extra wide smile matching her extra wide eyes. I think she’s going for innocent, but she really just looks bent.

“Hiiiii!” she says to the middle-aged woman. “So I hope you don’t mind, but my boyfriend booked our seats, and he couldn’t get ones beside each other. We’re celebrating our one-year anniversary, and it’s the first time we’ve flown first class.” She crinkles her nose. It makes her look odd. She’s also disturbingly convincing in her lie. “Would you mind trading seats with me so we can be together?” She bats her lashes.

I try to make eye contact with the woman, but she’s too focused on the blackmailer to notice my panicked expression. “Aw. Aren’t you two sweet? Of course I can trade seats with you.”

“Thank youuuuu! I’m seat 3C.”

The lady moves to the row behind us. Awesome. Now I have no escape.

Sissy—whose name I finally remembered—doesn’t stop talking all through takeoff. Once we’re in the air, I order scotch on the rocks and make it a double. I’m going to need a lot of alcohol to survive this.

About a half hour after takeoff, she leans in, her mouth at my ear and her hand on my leg. She’s way too close to my junk to be appropriate. I try to move her hand, but she digs her nails in. “I need to use the bathroom. Wanna meet me in there?”

“Uh, I hardly fit in there on my own, let alone with another person.”

“Maybe I should ask for blankets instead.” She gives me an exaggerated wink.

I drop my voice to a whisper. “You do remember how you pretended to be pregnant and said it was mine. All over social media.”

She throws her head back and laughs loudly. “Oh my God! Rook, you are sooooo funny! That was just a joke!”

This chick is legit out there. “You posted about it for two months.”