Awk-Weird (Ice Knights, #2)(82)
One of the stairs creaked and then another as someone who sounded very un-ghostlike let out a long sigh that under other circumstances would have sounded tired as hell, but considering it was made by a house burglar serial killer, she wasn’t about to give him any sympathy.
A nervous giggle started working its way up from her belly. Gritting her teeth, Shelby tightened her abs, hoping to stave off the very inopportune timing of her most hated reflex.
Fuck.
This was not the time for making noise—especially not the high-pitched sound that had resulted in her having the nickname The Squeaker growing up. Okay, it hadn’t just been the giggle. She’d never gotten rid of her little-girl voice—no matter how many voice lessons she’d had—and now it was that sound that had telemarketers asking if her mommy was home when she answered the phone that was going to get her straight-up murdered.
Focus, Shelby. Be the badass your tats promise you are.
She had several, but her biggest was a detailed leaf tattoo the length of her forearm. It wasn’t exactly a skull and crossbones with a bloody dagger tough, but getting it had hurt like a bitch and she’d survived. That meant she could live through this.
The steps got closer, and she pictured a Goliath of a guy, maybe with a little drool stuck to the corner of his mouth and wild black eyes, walking toward the open bedroom door. She adjusted her sweat-slick grip on the flashlight stun gun—thank you, nerves, for adding that to the mix. Letting out a deep breath, she put her thumb on the switch that would turn on the super-bright light and her finger on the button that would turn on the arc of electricity.
According to the self-defense course she’d taken after the threats got more than the usual you’re-a-real-bitch-and-I-hope-you-get-raped variety of being female on the internet, the light would momentarily startle her attacker so she could get in close enough to jab the electric arc into a sensitive spot. The jolt wouldn’t be enough to knock him out, but it would incapacitate him long enough for her to run down the stairs, grab her car keys, and get the hell out of this Stephen King book in the making.
He walked through the door, pausing just inside, presumably looking at the tumble of sheets and blankets on the empty bed.
Too bad, asshole, I’m not waiting for you to attack.
Shelby let out a banshee shriek—okay, squeak. The man whirled around, hands curled into fists. She flipped on the flashlight on the inhale as he reared back, and then she shoved the arcing end into his stomach. Technically, she was supposed to hold it there for three seconds. She got maybe half of one before her grip slipped and she lost contact. He stumbled back, letting out a low rumbly yowl of pain.
That’s when she was supposed to run, sprinting away from death and danger. But she didn’t, not once her flashlight’s beam landed on the man’s face and her stomach dropped down to the cabin’s wine cellar.
Ian Petrov. Hockey player. Curly haired, bearded sex god. The one person in the world who hated her more than anyone else in the world.
“What the hell,” Ian yelled, holding a protective arm over his gut as he advanced toward her. “You better get the fuck out of here before the cops show up.”
“Did you follow me?” Brilliant question? No, but her brain was a little shell-shocked at the moment.
“Why in the hell would I do th—” The word died on his lips as recognition and something that looked a lot like disgust crossed his way-too-ruggedly-handsome face. He stopped walking and groaned, letting his head drop back as he mumbled curses at the ceiling. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. You? Here? What are you, stalking me? Haven’t you fucked up my life enough?”
Shelby winced. It had been an accident, but the result was the same. She was the reason why everyone in Harbor City now knew that Ian’s best friend and fellow Ice Knights hockey player Alex Christensen was actually Ian’s secret half brother.
When it came out that Alex had known the truth for years without telling Ian, the two men had stopped speaking to each other. Now, the Ice Knights had been torn in two just as the playoffs were starting. It was an unmitigated mess.
Ian may not be a friendly neighborhood murderer, but he might just kill her—metaphorically. All the same, still looked like he wouldn’t mind tossing her out into the snow and leaving her to freeze in the night. And part of her couldn’t even blame him.
…
Ian Petrov had been in some weird situations with women before.
There was the date who showed up in head-to-toe Ice Knights gear and asked if he wanted to see the tattoo of his face on her ass. He’d declined.
One woman had pledged daily blow jobs in exchange for helping her hook up with stern brunch daddy Coach Peppers. Ian still had no idea what a stern brunch daddy was, but if it was a guy who walked around the locker room drinking coffee that was more sugar and milk than caffeine, the team coach would qualify.
His favorite, though, was Clarissa, who had brought both her parents and her little sister along on their date. He’d had a blast at the amusement park with them, but a second date hadn’t been a priority for either of them.
Never—not one single time—though, had he ever been stun gunned in his rented AirBNB by the woman who’d ruined his life with her big mouth and who’d managed not just to figure out where he was staying for the next two weeks but to get there early. He had to admit that before he’d Googled her, he’d never pictured the woman behind Harbor City’s favorite hockey blog, The Biscuit, to have a Jessica Jones tough-chick look, but now it was made all the more jarring by her high-pitched pipsqueak voice.