Scott (Owatonna Book 2)

by RJ Scott

  “You’re a big, pushy jock.” I planted my hand on his pectoral, then jerked it away, leaving a red handprint on his skin. He glanced down and nodded in approval. “Get off me.”

  “You sure you want me to do that?”

  “What?” I asked, my voice mousy now that the ire had leeched out of me.

  “You sure you want me to get off you?”

  “Scott… I…”

  He fell forward, catching himself on his hands, his nose now a mere inch from mine. I couldn’t breathe right. My skin felt hot with static, the fine hairs on my arms rising. I peered up at him, into him, trying to see if this was yet another time when the athlete was jerking the dweeby art guy around, but I didn’t see pity or disdain in his gaze. I saw desire and something else, respect or admiration maybe? There was a small droplet of red by his eye. I had to touch it and work it into his skin. How I ever found the courage to caress him so intimately I don’t know, but I touched his face, using that drop to make a curlicue.

  “Curlicue for you, Boo,” I muttered because I’m a flaming asshole. I lay there under him, eyes wide, chest tight with mortification, heart slamming into my breastbone.

  “You’re too fucking cute,” he whispered, then covered my mouth with his.

  I gasped at the first contact of his lips on mine. They were so soft, so perfectly formed, and then they were demanding. My eyes drifted shut, and I opened for him, letting him lick into my mouth while Strauss filled the room with a glorious waltz. Scott lapped at the corners of my lips, making me chase his tongue with mine. He was delicious, hot and skilled. He nipped at my lower lip before coming back to my open mouth to taste and tease. I needed more. He ground his hips against mine as if he knew that was what had to come next. The music exploded over us, shaking the skylights with sheer volume. He mumbled something. I agreed to what it was he’d said. Then his hand slid into my pants, his fingers brushing over, then wrapping around my cock. I cried out. Scott and the music captured my yelp of pleasure.

  “You want this? You want me to get you off?” he asked, his words hot on my swollen lips.

  “Yes. Do it. Get me off.” I sounded so sure of myself, so gruff, so unlike me. “Please.” Ah there was the Hayne we all knew so well. “Please yes, I want you…”

  “I know you do,” he purred, stroking me from base to tip, twisting his palm over the wet head of my cock. “I want you too. Come for me, Hayne.”

  He buried his face in my neck and worked me hard and fast. I came with a shout that only I heard. Scott used my spunk to ease the friction. I dug at the canvas under us, my hips jerking with each shudder of release. Scott mumbled my name, then let go of my dick. Grabbing a hip to hold me in place, he rocked his cock into my leg, over and over until his big body shook.

  “Hold still, shit, yes,” he huffed beside my ear. I didn’t move a muscle. I couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. I was too spellbound listening and feeling his orgasm rock him. “God, ah God, that was fucking amazing.”

  He lifted his head to gaze at me. I felt my heart skip several beats. He was so beautifully powerful and so painfully weak, a wild and chaotic blend of things in one gorgeous man, who had blown into my life like a winter storm. Only Scott hadn’t given me any warnings. There was no red sky or fluttering weather flags the day we had met. Which was probably for the best because a man like me would have hidden from the signs of an incoming typhoon of angst and lust like Scott Caldwell.

  “Your curlicue isn’t curly anymore,” I announced and then painted a new one on his chin, which he found to be stupidly amusing. That spurred him to paint one on me and then kiss me again, this time with a softness that surprised and captivated me.

  He rolled off me, the canvas frame creaking as he flopped onto his back. “I think we should name this masterpiece, Semen and Storms,” he said, then slapped the canvas hard. Another staple popped off and hit the wall with a metallic little ping that made us both laugh. “What do you think of that name? Bet they won’t have another one like that in the art gallery.”

  “What makes you think anything of mine will ever be in an art gallery?”

  I’d still not heard about Winter Knight being hung in the museum...

  He pushed up to an elbow, then reached over to flick some sticky hair from my cheek. “Because you’re a fucking genius, Hayne Ritter. Just look at how nicely you’ve painted me.”

  “You’re the most beautiful canvas I’ve ever worked on.” Wow, could we be any lamer, Hayne? “I mean, you’re the most beautiful man who I’ve ever had sex with. And I would love to paint you again… I mean, not literally like this, but… I loved the hand job.” Yep, we can be.

  That broke him up. He pulled at me until I was splayed over his chest. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed like this with a guy. Or anyone. You’re a beautiful canvas too, Hayne.”

  Heat crept up my neck. I liked him saying those kinds of things to me. I liked the way he touched me and kissed me, and I really liked the way he made me feel as if I belonged with a man like him.

  We lay there until the paint on our skin began to harden. He went off to shower, leaving colorful footprints on the hardwood floors. I decided to leave them there because soon he’d be stronger, and he’d leave this dingy little attic with the virginal artist behind. When he was gone, I’d have those prints to remind me of this amazing night when we had created something glorious and passionate in shades of fire and desire.

  I slithered off the canvas, my skin coated with drying paint and my hair a knotted mass of curls, sodden with orange and vermillion paint. The front of my underwear was damp with cold cum. I was a horrid mess, yet I felt like a newly formed star high in the heavens. I got to my feet and studied the painting lying on the floor. The colors had been well mixed—that was for sure. A tiny blush colored my cheeks. I glanced from the canvas to the corner where Scott was washing. I wished I could see him under the water, his skin slick and wet, his cock hanging spent and limp along the inside of his thigh. My dick kicked. Then the door to my attic blew open.

  I spun around and nearly went on my ass. The floor was nothing but paint splatters and colorful footprints.

  “I swear to God, Ritter, how many times have I told you about this freaking asshole music of yours?” Craig thundered into my space and threw a look around the attic. “I’m trying to cram for a test, and you two queers are up here screaming and playing this stupid shit music. I pay rent! I deserve some quiet!” He stalked to the stereo, his bulging eyes and fisted hands spelling out his intent pretty clearly.

  “No!” I shouted, sliding over to the stereo and placing myself in front of it. “I’ll turn it down, I promise. I’ll never play it loud again.”

  “Get the fuck out of the way,” Craig snarled, then shoved me into my palette table, the paints and brushes falling to the floor as the table rocked up and fell over. I went to my ass.

  “No! That’s my Mimi’s! No, don’t hurt it!” I yelled and watched in horror as Craig reached for the old stereo. Then Scott was there, in nothing but clean underwear and wet hair. I shimmied in reverse, crab-walking over the canvas until my shoulders met the wall.

  Scott was truly a warrior god. Fury roiled out of him as he slammed Craig against the wall not once or twice but three times. The two big men pushed and shoved. I curled into a ball, my chin on my knees, my arms tight around my legs, and watched as Scott easily maneuvered Craig out of the room, shutting the door after him.

  I could stil hear Craig shouting. Thuds and curses seeped around the doorframe. A moment passed, maybe two, and I couldn’t stop shaking. Then Scott opened the door. He scanned the room, his chest working like a bellows, his gaze rife with ferocity the likes of which I had never seen in those hazel depths before.

  “He won’t ever use that word in front of you again,” Scott said, his voice thick and gravelly.

  “Did you hit him?” I inquired, but the words were weak and mousy, so I asked again. “Did you hit him?”

  “
Yes.” He padded over to me, dropping down into a crouch as I processed. “Hayne, no one treats you like you’re nothing ever again.” He lifted a crusty curl from my nose and tucked it behind my ear. “No one ever says hateful things to you ever again.”

  I wet my lips. “Thank you for saving me. You really are my winter knight.”

  “Go shower. I’ll clean up.” He kissed me on the lips so sweetly that I uncurled from my protective ball and wrapped myself around him. Somehow, he managed to stand with me hanging off him like a lemur. He carried me to the shower, peeled me off, and then left me to scrub myself. I stayed under the water until it ran clear, shampooing my hair several times to get it clean. With a towel around my waist, I peeked around the curtain to find that Scott had cleaned everything up, even his bright red footprints. That made me sad. What would I have of him now when he left? The massive canvas had been propped up in the corner. Scott was in his bed, watching me with wary eyes. His chest had paint on it again from when he’d carried me to the shower.

  “If you want me to go tomorrow, I’ll go,” he said, the stereo sitting still and quiet. I stared at him in confusion. “You probably don’t like guys like me, ones who use their fists to solve disputes, and I get that. So if you tell me to go, I’ll go.”

  I crossed the room and knelt beside him on the air mattress. “Come to bed with me.”

  “I… wait, what?”

  “Come to my bed. Stay in it, please.”

  “But that outburst with Craig…”

  “Yeah, that was pretty damn awesome.” I stole a kiss. “Will you sleep in my bed with me?”

  He replied by sweeping me into his arms, then pushing to his feet. I squealed and giggled as he carried me to my bed, then laid me on it reverently, as if I were a fine china dish or a delicate crystal statue.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked as I wiggled under the covers, then held them up for him.

  “As sure as I am that the fire gods are hockey players.”

  That made him smile, and his smile made me glow. I fell asleep with my head on his chest and my eyes on our fiery, passionate painting, my newfound love for him glowing like an ember in a fire god’s kiln.

  Nine

  Scott

  I couldn’t believe I’d lost control like that. I couldn’t believe I’d punched that dick Craig so hard.

  On the ice, when the blood was running hot, it was inevitable that there’d be pushing and shoving. If a shooter barreled into my goalie, then you can bet your ass I’d be all over them, and not just because our goalie is my best friend, not just because it’s Ben in net. The team has each other’s backs, as if donning the Eagles jersey immediately includes a man in a circle of trust. Outside of the rink, I could usually keep a tight rein on my physical reaction to shit situations. I didn’t shove people who line-jump, I didn’t whale on the idiots who messed around in lectures. I had restraint.

  Except where it came to Hayne, it seemed. When Craig went at him, I’d channeled everything I’d learned about how to handle the toxic abuse that Ryker would get thrown at him. Ryker had told me to hang back, to take a moment, to meet the abuse head on and challenge it, said he’d gotten that from Tennant Rowe, and it’s all about de-escalation.

  De-escalation, my ass. Craig had been all over Hayne, and he was intimidating and horrific, and oh my God, the fear in Hayne’s expression had torn me to shreds. Then I’d hit Craig. Hard. We were evenly matched for weight and height, but I had two things over him. The fact that I was a hockey player who knew how to use my body to advantage was one. The other was that he was messing with my Hayne.

  Mine.

  Hayne had rolled over in his sleep, and I spooned him from behind, holding him close, protecting him, making sure nothing could hurt him, and I felt like the knight he’d painted me as.

  Was that wrong? Was I just as intimidating? Had I crossed a line to come to his rescue? He certainly wasn’t some shrinking violet; he was small, yes, but he had a backbone of steel and the heart of a lion. I just wasn’t sure he knew it. I thought that maybe in the morning when he woke up, he would want to talk about what happened, and I’d apologize and explain what had been going through my head and how instincts had kicked in.

  First of all though, I would tell him that we had to figure things out because right now, I needed him on my team, however selfish that made me. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but the heavy weight of guilt over what I’d done began to change and curl and morph into something a lot darker. My chest hurt, my eyes stung, and I extricated myself from Hayne and rolled up and off the bed. My skin prickled and pulled with dried paint, and I stretched until some of the patches separated and I could peel off the vibrant colors. The rest would have to wait until I had a shower, and I wasn’t going to do that at four a.m. I was restless, aching, and then as I paced the room, I saw my bag. In there were my skates, and I itched with the need to get on the ice.

  I missed the ice, the game, but most of all I missed the camaraderie of the team, some of whom blanked me when I saw them. Ryker, Jacob, and of course, Ben tried to understand me and what I’d done, meeting me for coffee every day so I could talk. Only I mostly sat there and listened to them do all the talking, picking up on the subtle things I was missing out on. The saga of John and his search for the perfect shower gel, the prank on Mitchell that had led to the defender having purple hair, the beers the team had gone out for a few days ago. All of it was happening without me being in the middle of it all.

  I ached with the loss. More than I thought was possible, and the rational side of me knew that somehow, I was mixing the grief of Luke’s death with heartache at what my family had become and the year ban from the team. It was all there, an infinite vortex of shit that I was slowly being sucked into.

  “Scott?” Hayne called from the bed, and I stopped my pacing. The room was gently lit from the lamp we never turned off, and I had never seen anything as beautiful as Hayne sitting in bed, his hair sticking up, his eyes sleepy, his use of my name soft and inviting. “Are you okay?”

  “Hey. Go back to sleep.” I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t do it. I felt too big, too stretched in my own skin, too clumsy, and I was the last thing Hayne needed. On impulse, I pulled on jeans and a shirt, and he watched my every move as I bundled up in my coat and picked up my skate bag.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Skating.” I tossed him his key where it sat on the table. “I’m using my spare key to lock you in. Don’t go out and… just don’t, okay? Promise me?”

  “I won’t go anywhere,” he murmured and snuggled back down into the covers. “Don’t be long.”

  I escaped as soon as I could, using my key to lock the door. When I went down one flight, I paused and considered waking Craig and laying another warning on him, but what would that do? I’d made my point, and Craig knew I meant what I said.

  The door is locked. Hayne promised not to go anywhere.

  I hurried then, out into the frigid air, the ice taking my breath as I scurried away from Hayne and headed for the arena. I knew I was early enough to get some skating in because today was an official practice, so none of the team would be anywhere near the place that early. I might have had to share some ice with Lissa the figure skater, but she was a cool chick who would happily move aside and let a guy skate lazy circles. I gripped my stick harder the nearer I got, and only when I was in the locker room did I relax my hold. In jeans and my sweatshirt, I went out to the ice, lacing up my skates without even thinking, waving to Lissa, and then pausing at the gate. The opening was right by the home bench, and I could see the faint marks on the whiteboard that sat on the shelf at the back. The X’s and O’s meant nothing to other people, but I could see the marks that showed the team had been working on the power play.

  I used to be part of the power play. Hell, that was my biggest strength, backing up Ryker and making space to shoot.

  Does the team miss me? Do they see I was someone who gave my all to the team? Or do they
see me as a steroid-abusing asshole whose departure might well hurt their championship chances?

  There was grief again, the blackness pushing up inside me, and I bowed my head, and I don’t know how long I waited there, but I snapped out of it when I heard a yelp.

  I glanced out at the ice to see Lissa sprawled right over the center circle, and she wasn’t moving. Without thinking, I pushed onto the ice, and in seconds I was at her side, falling to my knees and sliding to a stop.

  “Lissa! Fuck,” I said and looked around me. Where was she hurt? Should I call 911? I should. I need to do it now, but my cell is back in the—

  “Will you kiss it better?” Lissa said and snorted a laugh, rising to her skates gracefully and holding out a hand.

  “What the hell?”

  I stood, without her help, and glowered at her in my most intimidating manner. All she did was grin at me.

  “Something needed to happen to get you on the ice, Scotty,” she singsonged, then shoved my chest and skated away, executing some crossovers and falling into a sitting spin. I stood absolutely still, watched her through narrowed eyes, and then she skated so close I felt the rush of air. “You need to move, moron,” she teased.

  So I did.

  I didn’t think I would ever forget how to skate; I’d been a skater since I was three, when that was all tumbling to the ice and laughing like a loon as my big brother swept by me. I remembered Dad dishing out drills. Not to me, I was too little, but Luke was always being given a list of things to do. Work those crossovers, get your balance. What the hell do you call that? Jesus, Luke, your little brother could do better than that. Stay on your damn skates, kid.

  Me? I was stepping around the ice having the time of my life as my dad shouted at Luke, and Mom sat with her book not really watching us at all.

  It was funny how certain images could stick with you. Like finding Luke crying at age eight, when I was only five, him telling me that his ankles hurt. Or discovering him in our shared bathroom when he turned sixteen, crying because he’d had his heart broken. Or that moment I’d waved him off on spring break, seeing him smile, grateful because I’d fixed it with Dad for him to go. I’d been the one to talk Dad around. I’d made Dad see that Luke needed time with friends when I’d explained to him that all work and no play made Luke pissed and it showed in his playing.