by V. K. Sykes
Billie’s cheeks were flush, eyes glistening like jewels and her long hair hung carelessly past her shoulders, the ends still damp and waving against her leather jacket. Jesus Christ, but he was a sucker for long hair.
Logan stood a little straighter, aware that most eyes in the place were centered on them. Or rather on Billie. On her soft, faded jeans. The ones that cupped her butt in a way that made any man with a libido look. His gaze dropped to the area in question—hell, he was a man after all and couldn’t help himself—and he swallowed heavily as she leaned forward to grab the beer Shane had bought for her.
She smelled fresh. Clean. Uncluttered with the cloying perfumes that most women he knew wore.
His nostrils flared and he took a step back. He liked it.
What the hell was wrong with him? This was Betty’s sister. Little Billie-Jo Barker and just because she wasn’t little anymore, or walking around in hockey jerseys with her hair in a ponytail…
He must be tired, because an image of Billie clad in a hockey jersey—a tiny pink one with his number emblazoned across her chest and that long inky mess of hair around her shoulders—nearly did him in. The girl was off limits. There was no way he’d even entertain the idea.
Logan dropped his gaze from that sweet butt, ignored the sly smile Gallagher shot his way and downed his beer. It was time for him to go.
It had been a long week and he was better off relaxing at home and working off his frustrations the old fashioned way. A hot shower and a little manual stimulation should do the trick.
Duke cleared his throat and arched a brow as he leaned in to wipe an invisible speck of dirt from the bar. “I can’t lie, Billie, things have been better.”
Billie took a long drink and then held the bottle loosely, her long, elegant fingers tapping the side of it nervously. Her fingernails were short, but coated with clear gloss. Billie might be a jock when it came to hockey, but she was all woman. There was no mistaking that.
“Sorry to hear that you and uh, Jackie are,” she faltered as Duke’s face tightened, his handlebar mustache quivering in indignation. “Um, having…issues.”
Billie’s eyes swung to Logan and she stared at him for a few seconds before dropping her gaze and glancing away. She pushed a long chunk of hair behind her ear and Logan immediately zeroed in on the creamy skin now exposed.
His mouth went dry as he followed the line of her cheek bone, down to the shadowed hollow at her neck. His groin tightened and he had to shift, suddenly uncomfortable and more than a little horny.
What the hell? He really needed to leave.
Logan glanced at Shane. “I’ll see you at home.”
“Sure will,” Gallagher answered softly. “But don’t wait up, darling.”
Logan’s gaze traveled from Shane to Billie. He didn’t like the way her eyes slid away from his, like she was hiding something. Had they planned on hooking up? Is that what this was all about?
With a sigh, Logan nodded and turned on his heel. The two of them were adults—consenting adults—and if Billie-Jo Barker wanted to sample Shane Gallagher’s moves, who was he to stop her?
The cool night air did nothing to assuage the heat that pressed down on him like a hammer. By the time Logan reached his home he was royally pissed off with no explanation as to why.
He parked inside his garage and glared at the empty space beside him. As a condition of Shane’s parole, Logan had agreed to let his buddy live in the loft apartment above his garage.
“Ah, hell.” Logan slid from his truck and slammed the garage door shut behind him. He glanced up at the dark loft and frowned before heading toward the main residence several feet beyond an ancient oak tree.
His house was well over a hundred years old—a century home, built in the 1800’s. He’d picked it up for a song a few years earlier, and he’d been working on it ever since.
Logan hopped onto the porch and let himself inside where he was immediately accosted by a purring bundle of energy. The cat had come with the property. It was a stray and he hadn’t had the heart to turn the pathetic creature away when it had shown up the first morning after he’d moved in.
The animal had been nothing but a bag of bones, with matted fur and a missing right eye. Its tail was crooked, the bone permanently altered—whether by foul means Logan couldn’t be sure. The only thing he was sure of, was the fact that the cat was about the ugliest thing he’d ever seen with its gray/black fur and mottled orange accents.
His nephew had called it weird and oddly enough, the name had stuck.
Logan slipped out of his boots and trudged upstairs, still feeling restless but not knowing what to do. He decided another shower might do the trick, but hours later he was still wide awake, with Weird curled next to him, purring loudly.
He cursed, rolled over and sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A glance at the clock on the dresser across the room told him it was half past three. He’d been home by eleven.
For several moments he stared at the clock, running his hands over the shadow that now graced his jaw. He hadn’t heard the low rumble of Shane’s bike, so he was pretty sure Gallagher wasn’t home.
What the hell was he doing? Was he out with Billie? Up to no good?
Why did he care?
I don’t.
Except he kinda sorta did and it was the main reason hours later—after he’d eventually fallen asleep—that he woke up pissed off. Not even three cups of strong, black coffee made him feel better. He was grumpy, out of sorts and, he had to be honest, more than a little anxious. He thought of Sabrina. She’d left a message on his machine asking him to come over and work things out.
Women. Last week she’d called him an unfeeling bastard—no, an unfeeling selfish bastard. And this week she wanted him back. If he went over there right now she’d probably welcome him with open arms and open legs. But contrary to what she’d said last week, he wasn’t an unfeeling selfish bastard. If he was, he’d let her take the edge off and be done with it.
He was just uninterested in her.
Logan slammed his closet door closed. He sure as hell wasn’t interested in what Shane Gallagher and Billie-Jo Barker were doing either.
Fuck. It was going to be a long day.
After throwing on an old pair of jeans and simple black T-shirt, Logan opted not to shave and pulled on his boots instead. He fed the cat, giving Weird a scratch behind the ears before he headed out into the early morning sun. It was crisp and his breath hung in the air as Logan’s feet crunched over stiff, frost covered grass.
His home was surrounded by maple trees, their leaf heavy limbs a riot of fall colors. Burnt oranges, yellows, and reds were the palette, something that usually lightened his mood, but today, nothing was going to clear his dark mood.
He cut across to the garage located along the side of his house. Nestled between two ancient oak trees, it had at one time been a carriage house—hence the loft apartment overtop. Shane’s bike was parked inside, which he pointedly ignored, and a few seconds later he backed his truck out and drove away.
He didn’t work many Saturdays these days but good, hard, manual labor would go a long way in relieving the dark mood inside him. Besides, it’s not like he had much else going on in his life.
Logan passed the paperboy, Walt something or other, as he turned onto Main Street and waved as the kid rode past. His business, Forest Custom Design was located across the bridge at the far end of town.
Fog slithered along the road as the sun began to warm the earth and he watched lazy swirls of it roll away when he passed through New Waterford’s quiet downtown. A small cat scooted across the road, just past the bakery, and he braked slightly, swearing under his breath as he swerved to avoid it.
Someone walked along the sidewalk, he could just make out a shape in the heavy mist but he continued on, waving at Ed Cronkwright—out early towing someone no doubt. A few minutes later he pulled up in front of his shop.
Always inter
ested in mechanics and design, he’d disappointed his father years earlier when he’d declined an opportunity to join the family veterinarian practice—he liked animals but sure as hell wasn’t interested in fixing them. Instead, he’d studied engineering at a local college and opened his shop six months after graduation.
Specializing in bikes and cars, he’d quickly gained a reputation as a man of detail with a keen eye for design. He’d started out with one employee—himself –and now, nearly ten years after inception, Logan’s business had taken off with revenue tripling over the past five years. He’d expanded, buying property outside of town, and built an impressive new shop with additional units that he rented out. The revenue from that alone was enough to get by.
Logan now boasted clients from all over the United States as well as Canada and Mexico. His waiting list for custom bikes and specialty cars was nearly eighteen months and the bike he’d been working on for two weeks was a custom chopper for some Hollywood talent agent. It was one of the most daring designs he’d attempted.
He pulled into the parking lot and let his foot off the gas. It definitely was nothing like the hunk of junk that sat in front of his shop’s bay door.
Logan let his truck idle and frowned as he stared at the sad looking import. The car was a red Honda accord, with four flat tires and from what he could tell, a lot of damage to both the side panels and the trunk. Most likely it had been keyed.
“Shit,” he murmured, glancing toward Gord’s Garage and thinking of Ed Cronkwright. He must have had more to drink than he should have last night because he obviously had towed the car to the wrong business.
Logan grabbed his cell phone and was about to dial Ed when his eyes narrowed. He tossed the cell onto the seat, stepped out of his truck, and strode toward the car. The scratches weren’t terrible. They could easily be dealt with. It was the words and the sudden realization of their meaning that pissed him off even more than he already was.
Son of a bitch.
‘Ho’ adorned the trunk.
He walked around the car and gazed down at the hood. ‘Pussy.’
Logan’s mouth thinned and he whipped his head around, gazing back to where he’d come from. Ed had been alone but that figure he’d seen…
He jogged back to his still running truck and peeled out of the parking lot. Less than two minutes later he turned onto Duncan Street and as he slowed to a crawl, spied none other than Billie-Joe Barker, trudging along the sidewalk, with her hockey bag and two sticks in her hands.
Automatically, his gaze swung to that sweet butt—he was a guy after all, and couldn’t help it—and he realized she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before.
Immediately his eyes narrowed. Had she spent the night with Gallagher? What the hell was going on?
Logan pulled just ahead of her and hopped out of his truck. She’d already walked a few miles from his shop and he knew she still had a ways to go, with the bag it would be heavy going.
“Hey,” she said haltingly, her eyes huge in a face that was something else. She really was striking.
“Hey,” he answered back. “I see someone did a number on your car last night.”
She nodded, but didn’t answer and he thought that maybe her eyes were real shiny, like they were filled with tears.
Shit. Not again. He wasn’t real good with tears. Just ask Sabrina.
“You want a lift?” he asked gently, nodding toward his truck.
At first he thought she was going to refuse, but then something seemed to break inside her and without uttering another word, Billie hauled her bag into the back of his truck and slipped inside.
Chapter Seven
Billie kept her eyes averted the entire five minutes it took to get home. She was raw inside and hated that Logan had caught her when she was so vulnerable.
The damage to her car had been bad enough. Almost causing a brawl in The Grill had been bad enough—that’s what an intentionally spilled beer would get you, but shit Seth had totally deserved it.
Hearing the taunts from some of the guys, words meant to hurt, to humiliate and put her in her place…that had been bad enough.
But the smug look on Ed’s face when he’d pulled up to tow her car had set the tone, and his snotty attitude stung. Ed refusing to give her a ride home had just been the icing on the cake.
She sighed softly as her house came into view, and ran fingers along the side of her temple. A nasty headache was on the horizon—not because she’d drank too much at The Grill. Heck, she’d barely downed a beer before the shit started flying. After Longwood had gotten in her face for the second or third time, and her second beer had ended up in his lap, she’d pulled Shane away, afraid he’d get into a fight. The guy was on parole and there was no way she was going to be responsible for him getting into trouble.
“So,” Logan’s voice drew her attention and she shifted in her seat, though she kept her eyes trained on the house. She was tired, sad, and on a good day Logan Forest had her tied up in knots. She didn’t think she could handle him right now.
“Yeah,” she answered softly—not so much a question, but a statement. A confirmation that things were that bad.
“Do you know who keyed your car?”
She shook her head and swallowed, not trusting an answer because all the hurt and anger inside, pressed something fierce.
“I’ll see if I can find out.”
“Don’t bother,” she managed to say and opened the door. Logan met her around back and she moved out of the way as he grabbed her hockey bag and sticks and set them on the ground.
She watched the muscles stretch beneath his T-shirt and the way his jeans cupped his butt as he bent forward. When he straightened, Billie exhaled a shaky breath, suddenly so weak she thought there was a good possibility she’d slide to the ground like a limp noodle.
Her blood sugar must be low or something. When was the last time she’d eaten?
“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly and he so didn’t deserve the ‘I’m fine’ she snapped back at him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
For a moment there was silence. Nothing but the gentle whistle of wind in the trees and the scatter of leaves to the ground. A shiver rolled over her and she wanted to look away from him, but she couldn’t. It was that damn superpower thing he had going on.
Her mouth went dry.
His eyes were intense, their depths shiny, like liquid chocolate and that flutter in her belly began all over again. Sweat broke out along her forehead and for a moment she didn’t know whether to leave or stay or leave or…
“I’m just trying to look out for you, kid.”
Kid.
Something unraveled inside Billie. Something hot and urgent and big. It swooshed through her like a tornado, filling her up until there was nothing to do but let it out.
She took a step toward Logan and glared at him. The air crackled between them. She felt it like an electric shot that went right through her.
Billie was indignant. Annoyed. Pissed.
Aroused.
Kid? Really?
“I don’t need anyone to look out for me. I’ve been doing just fine on my own for a long time now.” She paused and tried to grab hold of the emotion inside her. “I’ve dealt with sexism and small minds for most of my life. They may have loosened their restrictions in the pro league in Sweden, but that doesn’t mean any of the women who played were welcomed with open arms.”
She ran an agitated hand through the tangled hair at her nape. “I just,” it took a bit of effort to keep her voice calm. “I just didn’t expect that kind of crap here.” She shook her head. “I really didn’t, but if that’s the way the guys want to play, they’re stupid if they think it’s enough to stop me.”
“Billie—”
“I’m not done.”
Logan arched a brow—one that Billie missed—but she was roaring ahead like a freight train and nothing could stop her now.
“I’m a big girl.”
> His brow arched a little higher and if she was paying attention she would have seen the slight lift to the edge of his mouth. It was a sexy lift.
A dangerous lift.
“I can see that,” he replied softly.
“I don’t need someone like you looking out for me. Not on the ice or off of it either.”
Her temper boiled over as everything from the night before hit her. The damage to her car. The Neanderthal attitudes. Ed’s smirk from less than an hour ago.
She leaned forward, so close she could count the long lashes that fringed his eyes. Her heart sped up and the butterflies in her stomach kicked into overdrive.
“And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a damn, kid!”
“You said that.”
Chest heaving, Billie’s eyes dropped to the pulse that beat at the base of Logan’s neck, and then her gaze drifted upward until she settled on his mouth.
His incredible, sexy, wanton mouth. An image of his lips sliding across her body brought a new batch of heat to her skin, but it was a heavy heat, one that settled between her legs in a slow, torturous throb.
Was she insane? Probably. What other reason was there for what she did next?
Billie took another step forward and Logan took one back, but the truck didn’t allow him to move further. She stood on her toes, and sank her hands into the thick hair at his neck. His subtle, clean scent filled her nostrils and it was the sexiest thing ever. She leaned into him, her eyes never leaving his.
And then she kissed him.
Not a soft butterfly kiss. Not a tentative, getting-to-know-you kind of kiss either. But an aggressive, no-holds-barred kind of kiss. Her mouth was open and she moved against him like she was starving. As if he was the only thing in the world that could feed her.
His mouth was warm and he did nothing to stop her as her tongue plunged inside. Her lips skated over his—she massaged his skull and held him in place. God, he tasted like heaven—sweeter, hotter, and better than she remembered.
