Brutal Obsession (7)

“You look like you have room for two more,” I say.

The girls giggle. Except the one on the end, across from Violet.

A best friend? She seemed to catch whatever was going through Violet’s mind.

“No,” whoever she is says. “We’re celebrating—no boys allowed.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Oh? Hear that, Jack?”

He flushes. “She meant no hockey boys allowed.”

I sneer. “Right. Well, catch you later.” I stick my hands in my pockets and follow Steele back to the bar. More dance girls—the ones I’m more familiar with—are waiting for us with my buddies, Knox and Jacob. The right wing, Erik, leans against the bar, as well. He and I don’t get along as well as Coach hoped.

Not my fault he’s a fucking dumbass. He’s graduating this year, though. Good riddance. Next year, when Knox, Steele, and I are seniors… we’ll take the hockey world by storm. More than we already are. Then we’ll take on the NHL.

“You meet the rest of the dance team, Greyson?” Paris puts her hand on my arm.

I let her. Why the fuck not? She’s pretty, too. And she sucks dick well enough. Found that out last month, before we all split for winter break. The hockey team came back a week ago to get back into practice, and now everyone has returned to Crown Point. School starts back up on Monday, and this is the last weekend hurrah.

There’s a new reverence around me. My old school didn’t have that, although I sure as fuck made the title for myself. Everyone knew who I was at Brickell University because of my last name. Money can open a lot of doors—but charm keeps them open.

Good old Dad taught me that one.

It worked, too, until everything blew up in my face.

I order a beer and rest my elbows against the bar, sandwiched between Paris and another girl. Paris has her long blonde hair loose, fanned out across her shoulders. Despite the fact that it’s January—and fucking cold out—she only wears an off-the-shoulder black blouse and tight jeans. She’s still running her hand up and down my bicep, stroking me like a fucking dog.

“Grey?”

My brow lowers. “It’s Greyson or nothing at all, Paris.”

She flushes. “Sorry.”

“Steele introduced me to the rest of your team. What’s up with the moody one?” I tip my head back to the table we just left.

Paris scoffs and glances over. “I don’t know. Everyone’s hung up on Violet not coming back to the team.”

I rotate a bit and study Violet. Her hair is ashy, and the bangs that sweep to either side of her face hide half her forehead. In a split second, I can see her clear as day with blood running down her temple. The way she was after the crash.

Did she get that haircut to hide a scar?

Even now that I’m gone, she still seems stiff. She drums her fingers on the table and doesn’t seem to care much when Jack leans into her. He whispers something in her ear and doesn’t get a reaction.

My blood boils.

Instantly.

I clench my jaw and force my reaction to be minimal. So slight, the girl in front of me doesn’t notice until I ask, “You friends with her?”

“Violet?” Shock colors her tone. “We’re friendly, sure.”

“But not best friends.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. She was Coach’s favorite.”

Was. I read between the lines—now that Violet’s gone, the top dog spot is open for Paris to take. For a second, I’m impressed with the level of ruthlessness girls like Paris possess. But then I remember that, if not for me, Paris would probably still be seething in silence. She wouldn’t have done anything to unseat Violet.

That’s fucking cowardly.

Jack stands, and Violet slips from the booth. She hurries to the bathroom, still so stiff. Her outfit is drastically different from the girls I’m used to seeing here. Even from her teammates at her table. Friends. They wear dresses, the skirts short enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination.

I gulp my beer and wait a second, then follow her.

It isn’t anything I consciously decide—I want to, so I do.

I push into the women’s restroom and duck down to check the stalls. They’re all open except one. A thrill goes through me, and I flip the lock on the exit door. I lean against it and wait.

Maybe she heard me enter, because she doesn’t seem particularly surprised to find me. She’s shorter than I would’ve guessed. Her pink sweater hides her body, the leather pants only giving away muscular thighs and calves that must’ve come from years of dancing.

Did she pick pink to look innocent? If she did, her red lipstick throws it off.

She goes still, her hand gripping the edge of the stall. Her chin lifts. “What do you want?”

I laugh.

What the fuck do I want?

I shake my head slowly and step toward her.

She steps back.

Mistake.

I’ve never quite felt such an awakening to my anger like this. Like… like I can get my revenge and actually satiate that part of me. The craving for retribution.

After I was arrested, a local news outlet picked up the story. They smeared my name across the state, and the effect on my life was immediate.

The Brickell hockey coach called and said I was off the team. Bad publicity. Even though the article was only live for a few days, the damage was done.