by V. L. Locey
Loving Layne
A Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid MM Romance
V.L. Locey
Contents
A Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid MM Romance
Loving Layne
Acknowledgments
Loving Layne
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Linked books in the bachelor bid series
A note from the author…
Other books by V.L. Locey
Meet V.L. Locey
A Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid MM Romance
Hot hockey players on the auction block...
Win a date with a professional hockey player during All Star weekend in Chicago. From leading scorers to fan favorites to guys you love to hate, watch the players strut their stuff in support of the Hockey Allies charity. Place a bid. You just might find someone to keep you warm.
One night. One bid. One hockey bachelor auction... could change everything.
Guarding Garrett – RJ Scott
Loving Layne – VL Locey
Keeping Kyle – Jeff Adams
Scoring Slater – Susan Scott Shelley
Absolving Ash – Chantal Mer
Loving Layne
Sometimes the last thing you expect to happen might turn out to be what you needed all along.
Roman Kennedy’s first trip to the Windy City isn’t going quite as planned. Mysteries intrigue him, and his best friend Dillon seems to be sitting on a whopper. So, with his grandfather’s favorite hat on his head and his notebook in hand, the journalism major starts digging. Sadly, getting his bestie to spill the beans on what the secret is isn’t as easy as Roman had hoped.
Now, through no fault of his own, he’s stuck in an expensive hotel attending a bachelor auction of all things. He’s surrounded by lumbering jocks who, he’s sure, are just waiting for the chance to poke fun at the skinny, gay Jewish guy. Imagine his surprise when one of the big lugs sits down with him and talks Bernstein and Woodward.
Layne Coleman is sexy as sin, smart as a whip, considerably older, and has the same passion for investigative journalism as Roman does. His deep blue eyes and dark hair make concentrating on anything but the soft kisses they’re now sharing difficult. Roman’s keen instincts are understandably clouded by romance, so when Dillon reveals his secret in a highly public way, it’s hard to say who is more stunned—Roman or Layne, the man at the center of it all.
A V.L. Locey MM Hockey Romance
Loving Layne – A Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid MM Romance
Copyright © 2020 V.L. Locey
First E-book Publication: April 7, 2020
Cover design by Meredith Russell
Edited by Kathy Krick
All cover art and logo copyright © 2020 Meredith Russell
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Acknowledgments
To my family who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.
To my alphas, betas, editors, and proofers who work incredibly hard to help me make my books the shiniest we can make them.
To Rachel who helps keep me on time, in line, and reasonably sane.
If you want to keep up with all the latest news about my upcoming M/M releases, sign up for my newsletter by visiting my website:
vllocey.com
Chapter One
There were only so many games to play within the confines of a Chevy Sprint during a thirteen plus hour drive. I was pretty sure Dillon and I had covered them all. My bicep still ached from the last game of punch buggy. Who knew there were so many damn VW bugs on the road from New Jersey to Illinois?
“What’s wrong with your face?” Dillon asked, breaking into the forbidden path in my head.
I reached up to tip my grandfather’s Fedora up a few inches. “It’s the nose. Not so bad from the front but from the side it screams Fran Bernstein’s boy.”
“No, not your nose, the stink that must be in it. You always wrinkle your face up.”
“Oh.” Yeah, I did tend to wrinkle when deep in thought. Another Bernstein trait. There wasn’t much I’d gotten from my dad other than his last name and all his father’s cool as shit hats. Men wearing hats was going to make a fashion comeback, and Roman Kennedy was going to be a torchbearer for the retro look. A semi flew past us, rocking the tiny red car gently. “I was just thinking. Not about you, this super-secret trip, or why we had to rocket out of Trenton like the mob was on your ass.” I paused then studied him closely. “The mob isn’t on your ass, is it?”
Now it was time for him to wrinkle his nose. His was much cuter and smaller than mine. Also, he didn’t need a hat to help keep his wild brown kinky frizz under control. Dillon North was all kinds of pretty with black hair and deep blue eyes. His genetics followed his creep of a dad who’d ditched him and his mom before Dillon was even born. Mrs. North was a natural blonde with pale blue eyes and a slim frame. Dillon was a big guy, athletic, a runner for the track team in high school and now for our alma mater William B. Ogden University in Trenton. Go Snapping Turtles! Yeah, our mascot did not fit our track team at all.
“No, of course not. What? You think I borrowed money from a loan shark to get into a better food plan or something?”
“Anything’s possible. Remember that kid last year who took out a questionable loan to pay off his gambling habits and got his kneecaps kicked in?”
“First of all, he fell down the steps outside the English department and broke his kneecap. Secondly, he owed like fifty bucks to his frat brothers for some online challenge he didn’t do, and thirdly, your hats are too tight.”
He swatted the gray Fedora off my head, and it flew into the back. My hair expanded instantly.
“Asshole,” I grumbled, slipping free from the seatbelt to find my hat. “My hats fit fine. The problem is…oh gross. Whose underwear is this?”
“Heathers. Just leave it there, it’s a memento.”
“And people say gays are gross.” I shoved the pink panties under the backseat, snagged my hat with a crooked finger, then sat down with a huff. “It’s up to investigative journalists to be inquisitive. You business majors wouldn’t understand the drive we reporters have to ferret out the truth. Like say, for instance, the need to make this trip and your mother’s obvious distress when you left. Also, why did she want me to come along?”
He threw me a dark look as I tucked some frizz back under my hat. “Drop it.”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I bit back several more questions. I’d met Dillon three years ago when we’d both moved into the same dorm room as freshmen. Once we got over a few bumps—him being a slob and me not being able to sleep with any doors open—we became bosom buddies, closer than brothers, and generally unable to keep secrets from the other. Which made this mad sprint to Chicago under a cloak of secrecy that much more confusing and tempting. Secrets were like tight abs to me. I couldn’t resist them. Some called it fucking nosy, but I called it first amendment rights so back off and let me ru
mmage in the dean’s trash, okay?
“But this whole thing is just so—”
“Roman, drop it. I mean it.” His tone brooked no further discussion. I nodded, pulled my hat down over my head, and let my mind spin fanciful yarns. Maybe Dillon was making a drug run for his mother. No, that was stupid. She worked at a grocery store in Paramus, which was, oddly enough, not far from where I’d been born and raised in East Orange. “There are just some things that need to be played close to the vest.”
I bit my tongue. “Sure, I get that.” I really didn’t but I said I did so he didn’t glower at me for the next six hours.
“Thanks.” He cranked up the radio, effectively ending any conversation for another hour.
By the time we crawled into Chicago at ten that night, I was too tired to even try to come up with ways to sniff out a clue or two. My fuzzy mind did snap to attention a bit when we got out of the car and a valet raced around the rusty, dented car. The man in the blue vest blinked at the ’87 Chevy sitting there under the porte-cochere of The Windward Way Hotel looking like something that had tumbled off a passing junkyard rollback.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked, tipping my head back to admire the white marble and stonework façade of what was obviously a highly expensive hotel.
“Yeah, this is the place.” Dillon tossed his keys to the valet while I gawked.
“I’m not sure I can afford this.” I hoisted my old JYEP duffel bag higher on my shoulder. “I assumed when you said hotel you meant like something a little less…” My gaze roamed the front of the hotel again as I searched for words. “…grandiose. Like the places we stayed in when we were in Wildwood last summer.”
Dillon padded up to me, his face set in stone. “That was a motel that my uncle owned so we got the family rate of twenty bucks a night.”
“And that was too much,” I mumbled under my breath as I followed Dillon into a lobby that made my mouth fall open. “Holy shit,” I whispered, my gaze moving over chandeliers, twin grand staircases, a fountain, sofas and chairs of cool blue and gold, and a concierge desk with ten people behind it, all in dark blue vests. “Okay, there is no way we can afford to stay here. Dillon, we can’t even afford a soda in the guest lounge.”
“The room is paid for.” He was all manner of business now, eyes straight ahead, shoulders stiff. I followed along behind him, darting out of the way of bellhops with luggage trolleys, women with tiny dogs on skinny leads, and men in suits that were cut to perfection.
Okay, this so did not compute. Dillon was as poor if not poorer than I was. In all honesty, he was much poorer. He came from a single parent home where I at least had two working parents. We weren’t rich by any means, hell, we barely clawed our way into low middle class. But this? This hotel was so far removed from our way of life that it could have been situated on Mars. How did a poor kid from New Jersey afford a weekend at a place like this? Maybe Dillon had begun working for Billy ‘Bent Nose’ Berkowitz, the resident bookie/barber from back home. No, not even running numbers for Billy Bent Nose would cover the charge for three nights in a place like this.
I tapped at my lower lip with a pen. My fingers curled around the small notepad I kept in my front pocket at all times. The lobby was warm. I wanted to shed my winter coat, but I’d worn old jeans—or as fashionable folks called them “distressed”—and a hoodie that my folks had given me for Hanukkah last year that read Journalism is Literature in a Hurry. It had coffee stains on it from a late night camped out behind the science building to see if they were really dumping radioactive waste into the chicken gravy in Dewey Hall as students had reported. They’d not been but I did get a kiss from Reggie Parkman so the night wasn’t a total waste.
Check-in went smoothly. No one called security to come remove the waifs from the front desk. I tapped the brim of my hat at the friendly young lady who handed us our key cards. Dillon stalked off, his bag bouncing off his ass, his attention on the far end of the lobby and the four elevators. I pounded along after him, hand on my hat, and hustled into the elevator just before the doors silently closed.
“Which floor?” I spun to face the man who pushed the elevator buttons. My mind was officially blown. An elevator operator. Could the super-rich not push a button?
“Twelth,” Dillon replied as I gawped at the smiling older gent. With the tap of his white-gloved finger, the elevator lifted off. I gave my buddy a long, long look. He ignored me, his dark blue eyes on the scarlet numbers ticking off rapidly.
“Here we are gentlemen. I hope your stay at The Windward Way is a good one.” I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill that I passed to the elevator operator. Dillon had thundered off down the richly appointed corridor.
“Great job making the elevator…elevate.” I smiled then ran off to catch up with Dillon. “Dude, what the hell are we doing here? Whoa, is that a Monet?” My brakes locked up in front of an oil placed above a small table with a French-style phone. “Is that Water Lilies and Japanese Bridge?” I asked on a reverent whisper. I touched the painting and sighed in relief. Okay, no, not a real Monet but a damn good replica. I snorted at my foolishness. “That was stupid of me. As if a real Monet would be in some Chicago hotel hallway.” I snorted at myself, turned from the replication, and stared down a lonely and empty hall of doors. “Dillon?”
No reply. What a dick. I dug my key card out of my front pocket, checked the room number on it, and then stamped down and into our room, wishing I could slam the door behind me but that would be rude and disruptive to the other guests. Instead, I threw my hat at him. My hair shouted in joy at the freedom it was now experiencing.
“Wow, thanks for waiting for me in the hallway.” I bitched then fell into stunned silence as the beauty of our suite slapped me right in the face. Rose and gold were everywhere, from the carpets to the thick draperies to the loveseats and wingback chairs to the peek at the bedding in the other room. “I don’t think we’re in East Orange anymore, Toto.”
Dillon made a soft sort of amused sound, kicked off his ratty sneakers then fell into a pink and gold brocade chair that nearly swallowed him whole. A smile appeared on his face, the first glimpse of a real smile I’d seen on him for days now.
“Nope, we’re far from our shitty run-down neighborhoods now, Roman. This is how we could have been living…” His voice drifted off right before I lost the old Dillon and this new tense, angry one reappeared. “I’m going to shower and go to bed.”
“Okay.” What else could I say? He moved around me, grabbed his sneakers, and slid into the bedroom, closing the door softly in my face. I walked over to where he’d been seated, picked up Grandpa Frank’s hat, and then plopped into the chair. Staring out at the bright lights of Chicago through the wall of glass that led to a snowy patio, I let out the sad sigh inside me. Something was definitely wrong with my best friend. I vowed that I would not rest until I got to the bottom of this mystery. First thing tomorrow.
Chapter Two
There are breakfast buffets and then there are breakfast buffets.
Most of the motels I’d stayed in on vacations, be they with my parents or with Dillon, had buffets that were mostly cold Danish and weak coffee. The Windward Way bitch-slapped stale cherry tarts then kicked them to the gutter where it then ran over them with the deeply treaded tires on its Lambo.
Stepping into the lobby the following morning, dressed and showered, with Grandpa Frank’s hat on my head, I was greeted by a slim young lady in the required dark blue vest, white shirt, and crisply pressed blue trousers everyone who was employed here wore.
“Good morning! Chef Donatello is just inside the Atlantis buffet room where he and his staff are preparing crepes, eggs Benedict, farm vegetable frittatas, and tofu scrambles. Please, feel free to enjoy your complimentary breakfast and thank you for staying at The Windward Way.”
“Thanks,” I replied, unable to match her cheeriness at eight o’clock in the morning.
Dillon and I had not slept well
last night. He kept tossing and turning then finally got up to slam around the room and suite, cursing at the city, the hotel, and the motherfucker, whoever that was. I laid in my bed, one of two kings in the sleeping quarters, the covers up over my nose, listening to my friend meltdown, unable to help him through this…whatever it was. When I asked he would shut me down, which was why I was here alone. I’d dared to broach the subject and asked if he wanted to talk. He’d slammed the door in my face, not physically but emotionally. Off he went to the gym to beat up whatever exercise equipment that wasn’t quick enough to run away. I got cleaned up and came down to eat, my anger over being treated like a doorstop spurring me to find a table, alone, with my book, and sulk. Maybe I’d just go out and see the city without Dillon. Why let his sour mood ruin my only visit to the Windy City?
I moved through the line of enormous men all chatting away. It did not escape my attention that the Atlantis buffet room was packed with large, buff males. Being a not-large, unbuff male, my threat ganglia stood up at attention. I rolled my eyes at myself for being a big geek so early in the day. Star Trek references should not be bandied about until at least noon according to my mother. But in all honesty, Mom couldn’t tell the difference between a Klingon and a Kelpien so her comments had to be taken with a grain of salt.
After I had my plate full, I grabbed a cup of coffee and then began searching the white, gold, and teal room for an empty table. I found one, a small thing with four chairs, tucked back into a corner. A perfect place for the skinny guy with a copy of The Final Days to hide and eat his mushroom and cheese crepe. Eyes down, hat low on my brow, I slipped around tables and hulking guys in gray T-shirts extolling sports teams and the size of the man inside the T-shirt. BUFFALO BEDLAM XXXL, NEW JERSEY JACKALS XXL, or BURLINGTON DRAGONS XXXL just three of a dozen examples milling around the room. My bet? They were all jocks. I had a kind of third sense for jocks—hence the tingling in my threat ganglia—given the torture they’d perpetrated on me during my high school years. So right, the jocks had all been up early to pump iron, or run, and then filed into the morning buffet to talk about women, cars, and new skates. So hockey jocks yay. It was always in my best interest to sneak past big guys who were jocks so I did just that. I claimed my table, sat down, and then immediately opened my book and buried my nose in it. Standoffish yes, but I had no desire to converse with any of them. What would we possibly talk about? Not to sound uppity but only a few of the meathead athletes who I’d encountered so far could read past a sixth grade level. They also shoved you into a locker if you pointed that out.
