Connell
A Carolina Reapers Novel
Samantha Whiskey
Contents
Also by Samantha Whiskey
Now Available In Audiobook!
1. Connell
2. Annabelle
3. Connell
4. Annabelle
5. Connell
6. Annabelle
7. Connell
8. Annabelle
9. Connell
10. Annabelle
11. Connell
12. Annabelle
13. Connell
14. Annabelle
15. Connell
16. Annabelle
17. Connell
18. Annabelle
19. Connell
20. Annabelle
Epilogue
Grinder Sneak Peek
Connect with me!
Grinder
About the Author
Acknowledgments
By Samantha Whiskey
Copyright © 2019 by Samantha Whiskey, LLC All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Samantha Whiskey
The Seattle Sharks Series:
Grinder
Enforcer
Winger
Rookie
Blocker
Skater
Bruiser
Wheeler
Defender
The Carolina Reapers Series:
Axel
Sawyer
Connell
A Modern-Day Fairytale Romance:
The Crown
The Throne
Now Available In Audiobook!
Grinder
Enforcer
Winger
Rookie
Let the Seattle Sharks spice up your morning commute!
To those who need to laugh, and to the ones who go out of their way to ensure we do
1
Connell
Stifling, oppressive heat smacked me in the face as I stepped out of the Jag in front of the Sweet Water courthouse. Not that the tiny building just off Main street was much to boast about, but whatever happened here today determined if I got to go home to Scotland next week. Charleston, and the little town of Sweet Water—where myself and the rest of my NHL team made our homes—was lovely most of the year, but I’d rather be in the highlands than sweating my balls off during the off-season.
“Just let me do the talking,” Gregory Chastain, my overpriced, pretentious prick of a lawyer instructed as he fell into step next to me.
“Considering that’s what I pay ye for, I figured I’d sit back and watch it play out,” I told him as we walked through the door. Thank you, sweet mother of Christ, the air conditioning was in perfect working order.
“Right, and that’s what you said last time in Miami, remember?” He cocked an eyebrow and straightened his tie.
“The other lawyer was being a daft—”
“Connell!” Langley, the head of public relations for the Carolina Reapers, came down the small hallway, clicking her heels on the stone floor. Her black hair was tied up in a professional-looking twist, which told me this wasn’t a social call. “Glad you boys made it on time.”
“I was just telling Connell to keep his commentary to a minimum,” Gregory drawled.
“On that point, we agree.” Langley’s lips flattened.
“What’s got ye frazzled?” I asked. If Langley was worried, there had to be a reason. The woman was cool and calm even when shit hit the fan. Considering she was married to my Captain, Axel Nyström, she knew how to handle her fair share of Reaper drama.
“Oh, nothing, as long as we can get into there a few minutes early. The Judge is ready, so if you guys are, we can move this right along.” She nodded and motioned toward the double doors that separated the sparse waiting area from the courtroom.
“I’m fine with that,” Gregory agreed.
“Let’s get this over with.” I adjusted the wrists of my sleeves under my jacket. Going to court meant breaking out the big guns, also known as my gray Armani suit.
We entered the court—wait, was this really a courtroom? There were folding chairs set up in rows, then two tables each with two chairs, and a larger table on what looked to be a small stage.
“It doubles as the community center,” Langley explained in hushed tones as an older woman carrying a laptop entered the room from the door toward the back—on the side of the stage. “They only hear cases in here once a week.”
“Between Bingo and dodgeball?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t. Not today. No jokes. No humor. No excuses. Yes, sir. No, sir. You get the point.”
This time my eyes were the ones rolling. “Aye, Langley. I understand.”
Gregory and I took our seats at the right-hand table, and Langley took one of the folding chairs behind us as an officer walked in the same door the woman had used.
They talked for a moment as she set up her laptop, and I tried not to twiddle my thumbs. Had I been an idiot? Sure, but this wasn’t anything a ten thousand dollar check and an apology couldn’t fix.
“Carson, it’s good to see you,” the woman said with a soft smile as a middle-aged man in a suit took the table opposite ours.
“The city attorney,” Gregory whispered. “He’s really just after restitution. Don’t worry.”
“All rise, the honorable Judge Neil Hurston presiding,” the officer said in a deep, drawling voice.
We stood, and the chairs made a God-awful shriek against the gym floor.
The Judge walked out onto the stage like he was here for a Saturday matinee. His glasses slipped down his nose, but he pushed them back up as he took his seat at the table.
He banged his gavel. Why? Like there were dozens of people here to bring to order? “And we’re in session. Why don’t you all sit down?”
We sat. Some people thought my Scottish accent was thick—probably because it was, but I had nothing on a few of these Southerners around here, this Judge included.
“Carson, what do you have for me today?” Judge Hurston asked.
The other lawyer walked up to the stage and handed the officer—apparently the bailiff—a packet of papers, which he forwarded to the Judge.
“Your honor, we’re here in the matter of the Town of Sweet Water versus Connell MacDhuibh—”
“MacDhuibh,” I corrected his pronunciation. There was no need to butcher my name while we were at this.
Every gaze swung my way.
“MacDhuibh,” I said again, slowly. “You doona really say the ‘h.’”
Gregory’s sigh could have blown away the table cloth if we’d had one.
“Right,” Carson said slowly. “MacDhuibh.”
“That’s better,” I said with a nod.
The Judge looked over his glasses at me, but there was a slight smile as he shook his head. “Go ahead, Carson.”
“Right, as I was saying. On the night of June ninth, Mr. MacDhuibh,” he paused and looked my way until I nodded. Guy’s pronunciation was shite, but it wo
uld do. “Did drive his four-wheeler at irresponsible speeds down Main street, at which point he lost control of his vehicle—”
“I swerved to avoid a wee rabbit,” I said to Gregory.
He shot me a glare. Guy probably would have elbowed me into silence had we not been in the middle of a courtroom...community center...thing.
“—causing a crash that resulted in a great deal of damage to—”
The door opened behind us and shut with a god-awful slam.
“You started without me?” The sweetest southern accent I’d ever heard in my life filled the community center, bouncing off the empty walls. Unfortunately, that sweet little voice belonged to the biggest pain in my arse I’d ever known.
Annabelle Clarke.
“Ms. Clarke, we were all in attendance and decided to start early,” Carson explained with a slight cringe.
“Well, I never.” She came into my peripheral vision and stopped just behind Carson’s table—the same row as Langley but definitely not the same side.
“Annabelle, as the city clerk, you are not required to be at every case this court hears.” Judge Hurston leaned back in his seat like he needed to settle in for the long-haul.
“Well, I certainly want to be present at this one!” She fisted her hands on her hips, and I gave into temptation, leaning back past Gregory to look at her.
The lass was bonnie, and that wasn’t a term I used lightly—certainly not since moving to America when I got drafted.
Her brown hair curled in thick waves that made my hands twitch as if they knew how soft it would feel. God, the woman was built for sin. That prim, tailored suit only accented the curves that starred in most of my x-rated fantasies lately. She wasn’t stick-thin like so many of the puck-bunnies that wiggled themselves into my lap at every opportunity. No, Annabelle was shaped like she’d been put on this earth purely to drive me bat-shit crazy—all soft skin, ample curves, thick, grippable hips, and breasts that belonged on a porn star.
Not that proper, orderly, stick-up-her-ass Annabelle Clarke ever watched porn with those big brown eyes—no, those were for spotting every single violation of the home owner’s association covenants or city ordinances possible. God, were they beautiful eyes, with thick, dark lashes.
Eyes that were currently glaring daggers into me over a lush mouth painted the most irresistible color of red. I bet she’d leave amazing prints on my—
“He destroyed our beloved Oliver!”
I did what?
“What are you blethering about, woman?” I asked, earning me a blistering look from Gregory.
Annabelle scoffed. “Oliver! Our cherished statue!”
“You named the bloody ostrich statue?” The woman might be the most fuckable piece of womanhood I’d ever seen, but damn was she daft.
“Take this seriously!” Langley hissed as she leaned forward and swatted my shoulder.
“I didn’t name it! The town did in 1933!” Annabelle exclaimed.
“Annabelle, sit down,” Judge Hurston ordered.
She shot me another quick glare but did as he bid.
“Carson, you were saying?” Judge Hurston finished with a sigh.
Carson shot Annabelle a look that said he clearly wasn’t comfortable with her sitting behind him, and then cleared his throat. “Right. Mr. MacDhuibh’s drag race—”
“Which I was winning,” I muttered under my breath, earning me another swat from Langley.
“—ended when he crashed into the ostrich statue.”
“Oliver!” Annabelle corrected.
Carson’s shoulders dipped. “Oliver,” he repeated with exasperation.
“Son, were you hurt?” Judge Hurston asked me.
“Bruised shoulder and broken ego, sir, but that’s all.” I bit back the instinct to tell him I wasn’t his son. Or any man’s son in any way but the most biological sense of the word.
“Glad to hear it. Carson, what are the damages to the statue?” The Judge flipped through the papers he’d been handed earlier.
“It’s about nine thousand in damages, but we’re waiting on one last estimate from a local company to be sure. It’s only the pedestal that’s affected—”
“A priceless pedestal!” Annabelle seethed.
Judge Hurston looked over his glasses at her, and she folded her arms under her breasts. If that neckline was just an inch lower, I would have had a whole new fantasy to work with tonight.
“Your Honor, if I may?” Gregory interjected.
“Please do,” the Judge answered.
“My client is prepared to pay any and all damages to the statue. He acknowledges his—”
“Idiocy?” Annabelle suggested sweetly.
“—mistake. I’m sure you know that June ninth was the day of the Stanley Cup parade, and my client is the first to admit that he was so overcome by that experience that his judgment was impaired.”
“Impaired by alcohol is more like it,” Annabelle quipped.
“He wasn’t drinking, Annabelle,” Carson retorted. “We have his toxicology report. For the love of God, would you like my job?”
Her cheeks ripened to a shade of pink just darker than the suit she wore. Her eyes flickered toward mine, and she mouthed, “sorry,” to Langley. Not me.
Hard to believe those two were friends, but since Annabelle happened to be the best friend of Echo Hayes—the fiancee of our goalie, Sawyer, they weren’t exactly strangers. The women who put up with us Reapers weren’t only gorgeous and smarter than we were—they were thick as bloody thieves.
“As I was saying,” Gregory brought us back on track. “Mr. MacDhuibh recognizes his fault and is willing to do whatever the court deems necessary to make it right.”
“I will take that into account, Mr. Chastain. Carson, is the city satisfied with reparations in this matter?”
“We are, your honor.”
“We are not!” Annabelle blurted, coming to her feet. Surprisingly dainty feet at that.
“Annabelle!” Carson groaned.
“Judge, if I may?” she asked sweetly, stepping into the aisle.
“Well, it’s not like any of us can stop you, apparently,” Judge Hurston drawled with a long-winded sigh. “Come on up.”
She walked right past us, and I kept my eyes off her arse. Barely.
“Your Honor, this man has no understanding of our community—”
“Objection!” Gregory exclaimed, standing quickly.
“Mr. Chastain, we’re not that formal around here, but go ahead,” Judge Hurston waved him on.
“My client is a homeowner here in Sweet Water. He’s invested in the community—”
“Hardly! He lives in Reaper Village, sure, but invested? Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?” She turned a glare on Gregory that would have made a weaker man’s balls wither.
“I have over nine million dollars invested in Sweet Water Bank and Trust. I’d call that an investment,” I retorted. That wasn’t counting what I had put away in stocks and ventures.
Her jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered. “Money isn’t what I’m talking about, Mr. MacDhuibh.”
I grinned at her spot-on pronunciation. Lass had to have practiced, which meant she’d thought about me when I wasn’t around. Maybe it wasn’t in a favorable light, but I could work with that. “Well, what are you talking about?”
She blinked rapidly and turned an even darker shade of pink.
“While we here in Sweet Water are incredibly proud to be the home of the Reapers, we’d like you to be proud to be a resident of Sweet Water. That’s not about money, Mr. MacDhuibh.”
Connell. Och, I wanted to hear my name on those lips.
“I’m already a proud resident of Sweet Water.”
“How can that be when you don’t know a stitch of our history? You didn’t even know that ostrich racing saved this town during the great depression.”
Surely, I heard that wrong. “You used to race those great big birds?”
“I didn’t, of co
urse. It’s actually rather inhumane, but in the thirties, those ostrich races brought in the only income our little town could count on.” Her fists landed on her hips again. “You can’t make this up to us by replacing what you broke. We don’t want or need your money.”
“Actually—” Carson started.
“Shh,” Annabelle threw her finger out at him without breaking eye contact with me. “What we want—no, what we demand is your respect.”
“I respect you just fine,” I assured her.
“Enough,” Judge Hurston declared, and immediately had our attention. “Ms. Clarke makes a point. Now, don’t get all excited over there, Annabelle, we’re not going to tar and feather him. If you think you can teach him to respect our community, then I’m happy to task you with that.”
“Wait...what?” Annabelle’s hand fluttered to her chest.
“I rule that Connell MacDhuibh pay all costs associated with restoring the…Oliver statue, as well as perform six weeks of community service to be served under your supervision, Ms. Clarke. Put him to work in the clerk’s office or on the reserve project; it’s up to you.” He slammed his gavel. “We’re adjourned.”
He got up and left without any further comments, leaving us all staring at one another with a mix of horror and confusion.
“Community service,” I heard Langley say on her phone as she walked out of the room, no doubt filling Asher Silas—the owner of the Reapers—in on what had just gone down.
“I’ll get the reparations set up,” Gregory said, picking up his briefcase. “Damn small-town judges. I guess the good news is you can knock it out before the season starts, which I’m sure is what Silas is going to demand.”
Connell (Carolina Reapers Book 3) Page 1
