Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(6)

Touching my lips to hers, I wait for hers to part. When they do, I slip my tongue inside. She tastes like whiskey and vaguely some guy’s aftershave. I don’t have a chance to ask about the source of that.

“What the fuck are you doing?” A loud male voice stops the party.

Mindy shoves away from me, her eyes wide with panic as we turn and come face to face with a human tank.

“Kevin? What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he snaps and turns his angry gaze on me.

I’m a big guy. Pushing six four, I weigh in at two twenty on a light day. This guy has got to be two fifty, and he’s probably the same height as me. Based on how flat his nose is, I’m gonna go ahead and say it’s been broken a few times.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” The tank grabs Mindy by the arm and yanks her out of her seat. “Fucking whore.”

Now, that unkind name may very well be accurate. I have no idea, but I have never and will never tolerate that kind of shit. Not even when Tash asked to be called names could I ever give in. Also, manhandling a woman in a bar is another thing at the top of my don’t fucking do it list.

“He was just buying us a drink. Isn’t that right?” Barbie says, like that explains what her friend was doing with my tongue in her mouth.

I feel played, which is fitting since my plan was to play these girls. Mindy has a look on her face I know well. I wore it frequently as a kid. The hits I took on the ice were just a warm up for the abuse I’d sustain when I didn’t live up to the expectations set for me at home.

“We have one fucking misunderstanding and you whore yourself out to the first guy who gives you a little attention?” the tank says to Mindy.

His grip on her arm is tight, and she makes a sound that melds pain with fear.

I push up out of my seat, adrenaline rocketing through my veins, burning off enough of the alcohol to give me back my coordination. I step around Barbie, who tries to grab my arm, maybe to stop me, but it’s too late. I need a way to unleash all the blackness Tash has filled me with.

I roll my shoulders. “Get your fucking hands off her.”

“Fuck you and fuck her.” He lets her go, though, which is what I want.

We’ve gained the attention of the bartender and some of the guys in the corner. The bartender calls the tank’s name, but it doesn’t seem to register with him.

This guy is pissed—not just angry, but drunk, drunker than me. His lazy, dark eyes tell me that. I realize now, as I take in the slope of his forehead, that there’s a good chance he’s a juicer and his rage and mine are not going to be quite matched. My red and his are on totally different levels. Still, the hot tingle that runs down my spine fires me right up.

I’m probably not going to come away from this unscathed, and the karma in that makes me happier than it should. I anticipate the first punch and block it with my forearm, feeling the sharp pain that travels all the way to my shoulder and up my neck.

I don’t retaliate right away, aware that if I do, it’s no longer self-defense. But it’s more than that—I want this pain. I would’ve screwed these two girls and maybe gotten them to do something that, under any other circumstances, they wouldn’t have considered. This is retribution for what could’ve happened.

When Mindy throws herself between us, I’m forced to absorb the third punch—in the jaw—so she’s not on the receiving end. It feels like his fist is made of titanium. I reel and stumble back, hitting a table and knocking over chairs as I go down. The tank is on top of me before I have a chance to do anything beyond raise a defensive arm.

I’m past letting him have the advantage now, but being on the bottom makes it tough to gain leverage. He grabs me by the shirt and yanks me back up, slamming me into the table while high-pitched girl screams echo in my head. They’re joined by a hollow ringing when my head hits the wooden tabletop a second time. His fist connects with my face, and I taste blood. An elbow to the ribs and subsequent searing pain tells me tomorrow is going to hurt.

I roll to the side as Mindy comes flailing at the tank, screaming for him to stop.

No matter how much Tash has fucked me around, no matter how bad it’s been between us, it doesn’t give me the right to headfuck someone else, I remind myself. And particularly not someone else who’s already involved, even if the relationship was undisclosed and appears to be screwed.

But I’m still not willing to take any more hits now. Especially when the tank comes after me with a chair. He doesn’t get very far, though, because that’s when the police show up.





CHAPTER 3


NO CHOICES

LANCE

I give the police my statement while a doctor fly-bandages my eyebrow. Just because I didn’t start this doesn’t mean I’m not going to catch heat for it. I’m notorious for starting shit on the ice. I never throw the first punch, though. I’m smarter than that. I push buttons and needle players until I piss them off enough that they lose their cool.

This isn’t like a hockey fight, though. This was a brawl in a very public bar that caused more than ten thousand dollars damage. Because of Tash. Because I can’t stay away from her, and I keep letting her screw with my head. I’ll need to call my publicist to deal with the fallout, but right now I’ve got a throbbing headache, and I just want to go the fuck home.