Perfect Love (Perfect Series Book 2)

by Amanda Cowen

  Okay, either Louis is taunting me or he seriously does not know about the truth Cash hid from me. The innocent and concerned look on his face, tells me it’s the latter. I promised myself I wouldn’t get into a Cash conversation with Louis while I was back home. But their lack of contact and his oblivion to Cash’s secret has me curious and confused. Withholding everything from Louis feels like it’s choking me. I can’t shake the thought that Louis is right and something is up with Cash. Something much darker and deeper than I know how to deal with.

  The sound of the front door clicking open from the foyer and Aiden’s voice greeting my dad ends all conversation. Louis and I both turn around to see Aiden place two packages down on the entryway table before he presents my father with a bottle of wine. My father accepts the wine, shakes his hand, and hangs his coat on a hook. I can feel Louis at my side tense at their casual and easy interaction.

  “Lyndsey is waving me into the dining room,” Louis grumbles.

  I swallow hard and feel Louis disappear from my side.

  My father beams over at me. “Quinn, Aiden is here.”

  “Hey.” Aiden comes up to my side and kisses my cheek.

  He looks good in a light-gray button-up shirt, and just to stand out, a teal silk tie. His hair is perfectly swept to the side, as it always is, and tonight he has a glint in his eye that I’ve never really noticed before.

  “You look really nice,” I tell him.

  “Thanks,” he replies, and reaches behind him for one of the packages on the entryway table. “I know you said no gifts, but I ended up getting you a little something anyway.”

  I can feel Lyndsey’s eyes burning into my side from the living room. I casually turn my head and see her smirking, watching us. I can hear her voice in my head saying, I told you so.

  “Aiden, you really shouldn’t have.” I sigh and feel my cheeks heat. “I thought we agreed…I didn’t get you anything.”

  “Yes, I should have,” he assures me. “Because it’s Christmas, and we’re kind of, you know… I wasn’t coming empty handed. Now open it.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes,” he says with a grin.

  I slowly peel back the pink wrapping paper until a brown box appears. A heavy sense of anticipation pulses between us. Aiden with excitement. Me with apprehension. He watches me intently with a smile as I open it.

  I flip open the box and stare down at a teal-blue teapot.

  “Wow. A teapot.”

  I force an appreciative smile, only now seeing how proud he looks, how much thought he probably put into this gift knowing how much I love drinking tea.

  “I thought it could replace that ugly old floral teapot you use,” Aiden says. “This one is a little more modern and it makes six cups of tea.”

  I nod, unable to look at him. What Aiden doesn’t know is that that old teapot is irreplaceable. It was my mother’s. I take a deep breath and promise myself I won’t let him know I how much I dislike it, not because it isn’t beautiful, but because it would break my heart to stop using hers.

  Aiden brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course,” I lie. “Thanks.” I kiss his cheek with the sickest feeling in the pit of my stomach

  Behind me I hear Lyndsey calling us into the dining room. “Dinner’s about to be served.”

  There are far too many courses for Christmas dinner. Every dish is better than the last and I can’t stop eating. I’m thankful for my loose fitting dress and that I didn’t opt for a tight pair of jeans. After dessert, Aiden and I help the catering staff tidy up while Lyndsey starts a game of Pictionary in the living room with everyone.

  Carrying a stack of plates with Aiden at my side, I think about how our night was pleasant, perfect even. Everything about our night appeared right—laughter, great company, and a delicious meal. But I can’t shake the feeling that nothing feels right. Something is missing, and it is tugging at my heart strings.

  We round the corner into the kitchen and find my dad pouring himself a whiskey on the rocks.

  “Hey, Dad,”

  “Quinn, Aiden,” he says, lifting his drink to us. “Thanks for all your help tonight.”

  “No problem,” Aiden pipes up. “Thanks Mr. Ashby for having me. Not only was the meal unbelievable, I was able to have a conversation with the general manager of the Tornadoes about the team this season. It was awesome.”

  My father chuckles and takes a long slow sip of his drink. “Are you a big fan of the Tornadoes?”

  “Love them,” Aiden gushes.

  My father nods, impressed. “Have you been to a game this year?”

  “Unfortunately no.” Aiden frowns. “School has been too intense to do too much of anything else.”

  “The Tornadoes have a game in Boston over Spring Break. Let me get you and Quinn some tickets.” My father suggests. “My treat.”

  My chest aches, stomach twisting with frustration. Seriously, it’s not possible for my annoyance to grow any greater than it is right now.

  “That’s not necessary,” I interject.

  “Yes, it is,” my father says. “Expect two tickets to the game.”

  “Wow,” Aiden breathes out. “Thank you, Mr. Ashby.”

  “My pleasure.” My father raises his glass to Aiden. “Just keep on taking care of my Quinn.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aiden glances over at me with a smile. “If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll be right back.”

  With a small pat to my father’s back, Aiden is gone from the kitchen, and my father and I stand face to face.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” I scowl at him.

  “I wanted to,” he says. “I’m in good spirits and feeling quite generous. I’m very happy to have you home this year.”

  I nod and heave a sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “So, you and Aiden huh?” He raises a brow with a smirk.

  My dad has always loved Aiden, mainly because he’s always been very studious, polite, and respectful. Aiden really is every dad’s dream come true. Which is probably why I’m so nervous. Hell, I’m terrified. Because I can’t help but think that having Aiden here as more than a friend was a huge mistake.

  “He’s a fine young man. You guys were great friends growing up, and he’s brilliant and driven. For a while I was quite worried about you hanging around Cash Brooks.” He takes a long slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of his glass. “But I’m glad to see you are focused again and making good decisions.”

  I nod, turning away from him, and pull open the dishwasher. As I start to load the dishes, he says, “Don’t worry about the dishes. Come join the party.”

  “Yes, I’ll join you shortly.” I’m pretending to be engrossed with cleaning up the kitchen.

  “Good,” he says, walking into the living room.

  A few moments later, Aiden walks back into the kitchen, holding the second package he brought in with him when he arrived. His eyes make the circuit of my face and down over my entire body, hidden by my flowing red dress.

  I clear my throat to bring his attention back to my face because his eyes are fixated on my long bare legs. “What is that?” I ask and point to the small package he’s holding.

  He shrugs, “It was delivered to the apartment after you left for Santa Anna so I brought it with me. I figured whoever sent it to you was hoping you’d get it in time for Christmas.”

  I find myself staring down at the small unfamiliar package, unable to quell the unease I feel at whom it may be from. It’s such an automatic reaction, the way my stomach tightens at the thought of it being from Cash.

  “Are you going to open it?” Aiden asks.

  I nod and flip open the box. My nerves creep back in at the sight of an envelope placed on top of something wrapped gently in white tissue paper. Slowly, I slide a single piece of paper out of the envelope. I read his familiar me
ssy handwriting, begging my pulse to slow.

  I know you will make something beautiful.

  Cash

  “Are you okay?” Aiden asks.

  The question hangs between us, and I swallow back tears refusing to look anywhere but at Aiden. His knowledge about my relationship with Cash is minimal compared to the number of things he knows about me. I don’t even know how to answer his question, because I am not okay and I haven’t even seen what is inside the box.

  He takes a step closer, “Quinn, who is it from?”

  I stuff the single sheet of paper back inside the envelope and shove it inside the box.

  “Can you give me a minute alone, please?” I ask him.

  He winces. “You want me to leave?” When I nod, he swipes a palm across the back of his neck. “Yeah, for sure.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath listening to Aiden’s footsteps disappear into the living room. Once I know I’m alone, I open the package, and unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a tiny white box. What’s inside steals my breath. It’s filled with masterfully cut and polished labradorite stones. These gems stones are native to the Newfoundland/Labrador region of Canada, and they make the most exquisite accent for jewelry. Their blue and greenish iridescent color looks almost magical. And these ones are all well-cut, beautiful, and I love them.

  I can’t pretend my heart doesn’t twist painfully at his gesture, or twist with hope wondering if this means he’s okay and not using again like Louis suggested. I can’t pretend that I still don’t have feelings for him or that finally what I felt was missing earlier just disappeared and suddenly I feel whole again.

  “Quinn! Are you coming to play Pictionary or what?” Lyndsey’s voice shouts from the living room.

  I put the lid on the tiny white box and wipe a tear from my eye.

  “Yup. Be right there.”

  Chapter 8

  Cash

  “Brooks! Brooks! Brooks!” the crowd’s chants. Hymns of praise echo up into the rafters as I fly from one blue line to the other.

  The puck dances against my stick as I weave my way past the opposing team’s defensive line. I break free and come face to face with the goalie. The crowd ripples into a heated frenzy of cheers and screams as I crack a shot on net. It slices past the goalie’s helmet and pings on the top post, tipping into the mesh.

  The sirens go off. The cheers of the crowd vibrate in the ice beneath my skates and music booms through the Jumbotron. I shoot my fist in the air and slam into the boards. My teammates skate into me, patting my helmet and back.

  I’ve tied up the game against the Ohio Bulldogs, the team hockey critics said we’d never beat.

  The crowd goes crazy again, their cheers rising and getting louder as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron. I glance up at it, my brow furrowing. It was a wicked play and I buried the puck hard into the net, but as I watch it, I have no desire for the spotlight that will come with my game-tying goal. I’d rather not be here, pretending to be something I’m not, when all I can think about is how much I’ve fucked up my life.

  The announcer’s voice comes over the PA system: Santa Anna Tornadoes goal! Scored by Number Seventeen, Cash Brooks…

  We skate back to center ice, ready for the next puck to drop. Sweats drips from my brow, and adrenaline pumps through my veins. I glance up into the crowd, my breathing heavy, as I scan the sea of bodies calling my name. They roar and throb with fervor, cheering me on. I love being back up in the pros. I am exactly where I need to be. Except no matter how many goals I score, or how many fans worship the ground I walk on, it’s painfully evident that something is missing in my life. Or more pointedly, someone. My fans think I have it all together, but what they don’t know is that once I untie my skates and hang up my jersey, my life is a living hell.

  For a brief moment, I feel lightheaded, my vision blurs, and my hands begin to shake. I take a deep breath and ignore my rapid heartbeat as it pounds in my ears. The puck drops, and our sticks tangle as I steal it from the opposing center man. A quick pass to my teammate on my right, sends him flying down the boards. I can hear my coach hollering my name from the bench.

  Time to switch it up.

  Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and take a seat. Our trainer hands me a water bottle, and I squirt it into my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out. I wish it were whiskey. I’m not stupid enough to drink before a game, which is probably why my hands won’t stop shaking like a motherfucker. I can’t wait for this game to end. I need to get the fuck out of here and have a goddamn drink. My self-disgust spurs me to keep slamming more water. These tremors in my hands need to go away. Unfortunately, the only way I know to get rid of them is to slam a glass of whiskey. This water isn’t doing shit. Thank God, I’m going out with some of my team after the game.

  My teammate Jason nudges me. “Nice goal Brooks.”

  “Thanks,” I grumble and splash another bit of water into my mouth.

  “Brooks! Get back out there!” Our coach hollers at me to make the next shift change. I grab my stick and head over to the bench door. “Get me that winning goal, Brooks,” he says, before I bolt out from behind the bench and back onto the ice.

  For the rest of the game, I pass, I skate, I shoot. But I can’t catch a break. The tremors in my hands worsen by the second period, and an opposing defender is really pissing me off. With minutes’ left in the game, he slams me into the boards and I lose my footing.

  Coach yells at me from the bench, “Get me that goal! Dig harder, Brooks!”

  I know Coach wants that winning goal, but I want to smash that defender’s face in. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and all the pent-up rage I’ve been suppressing over the past few months boils and steams inside me until I see red. I know I shouldn’t do it. I’ve been warned to keep my temper under control. But I want to smash that son-of-a-bitch for knocking me off of my game. The faster I skate, the harder my heart pounds in my ears.

  WHACK!

  I cross-check the defender. He flies into the boards, and the crowd goes wild. He steadies himself and shoves me in the chest. I whip off my helmet and toss it to the ice. My first swing hits him in the helmet with bone-cracking impact. My fist stings with pain and blood drips from my knuckles, but I don’t care. I continue to pound at him until my fist successfully knocks off his helmet. He gets a few swings at my chest, but before I know it, the referees pull us apart. He spits and spatters out blood onto the ice.

  As the referees drag me away I shout at the top of my lungs, “There’s more where that came from!”

  _________________

  I sit in the empty locker room, head down, shoulders hunched. I grab the nearest item— which happens to be my helmet—and hurl it at the wall. The knuckles of my right hand are cracked and bleeding, thanks to the punches I unleashed on that defender. I press my palms against my thighs and let the blood soak into my hockey pants.

  I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve been warned by Coach that I’m on a short leash. The league is watching me, waiting for me screw up. I know this is my last chance. I've made a lot of gains on the ice, but I’m still fighting to tame my temper. And it doesn’t help that Quinn’s no longer mine. The slightest thought of her makes me feel hopeless, raging, and wild.

  I unlace my skates and then whip them at the wall too. They thump against the concrete wall and crash onto the floor. I drop my head into my bloody hands and run them through my hair.

  A glass of whiskey would be great right now; I think to myself.

  If I’d had one before the game, it would have dulled my hot-temper and kept me from unloading on that asshole who decided to slam me into the boards. Instead I’m tossed out for the rest of the game. Waiting and stuck in the locker room until I get my ear chewed off by Coach.

  When the rest of the team pours into the locker room after the game, my mood is foul as they strip off their gear.

  Jason flops down beside me on the locker room bench. “Hey Brooks,�
�� he says. He glances down at my bloody hands with a smirk. “Nice blow.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it,” I grumble. “I’ve been warned to not lose my cool.”

  “That asshole deserved it.” Jason laughs. “You did what you had to do.”

  Coach debriefs the team on the pros and cons of the game. Congratulates us on the win (Jason scored the winning goal in the last thirty seconds) and then asks me to meet with him in the physio room. After he reams me out for a good thirty minutes about acting like a goon, he continues to lecture me on proper focus and not letting my temper get the better of me. When he’s done with his rant, I walk out wanting a whiskey more than ever.

  “You coming out with us?” Jason asks as we hit the showers. “We’re going to Club Mirage. Nick made sure we got a section in VIP with bottle service. You in?”

  I know I shouldn’t go. I’ve been going out way more often than not lately, and being out at a club in the public eye with my history is a terrible idea. But I feel like I need to go. I need to get out and go somewhere else besides my condo, locked away in my misery drinking alone. And even after Coach just warned me not to mess my future up, my need for a good night out is overshadowing my ability to give a shit.

  “Fuck yes, I’m in,” I reply.

  “Good. It’s good to have you back, man. I missed you, Brooks.”

  __________________

  The club is dark, deafening, and stuffed with boozing bodies…on the dance floor, in the VIP section, against the bar. I've been sitting on a blue crushed-velvet sofa, legs spread, arms draped along the back, with girls rotating on and off my lap. A DJ spins music from a small stage while my teammates celebrate our win with expensive bottle service. Jason and a few of my teammates dole out shots to a bunch of our female visitors. Of course, I'm not included, because I'm supposed to be sober. Luckily, I hid a flask inside my suit jacket to spike my Coke and limes. No one can come to this type of club sober.