Play Hard

by V. K. Sykes

  He eyed Shane. “Make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

  Shane slapped his hand on the Whalers dressing room door. “Don’t worry about me, just check on Billie.”

  Logan whipped his helmet off and without asking permission, pushed her room door open. He tossed his helmet to the side and took a few steps in, suddenly feeling unsure as his eyes took in the scene before him.

  His brother Connor had run in after her, because hey, why call a doctor for stitches when a veterinarian was around.

  Billie stood with her back to Logan, in—sweet mother of God—boy shorts that did nothing but emphasize the fact that, Billie-Jo Barker, definitely was not a boy. Sure, they were athletic shorts, but when hugging an ass as shapely as hers, it was pretty hard to think of sports or hockey, or anything else for that matter.

  Victoria’s Secret, maybe.

  Slowly his eyes slid across toned thighs, and then down to her calves where—he scowled—several bruises were already forming from the cheap shots she’d taken.

  “Gramps, is that you?”

  Logan whipped his head up, only to meet his brother, Connor’s gaze as Connor arched a brow and bent over to finish up the last stitch on her side. Billie was clad in what looked like a sports bra—and again, most bikinis showed a hell of a lot more than this get-up, but holy hell, a man could only take so much.

  Logan wasn’t sure if he was all hot and bothered because he was pissed the Whalers had played so dirty, or the fact that Billie stood a few feet away wearing next to nothing, with his brother’s hands all over her.

  And why the hell did Connor feel the need to cup her hip while he worked on that last stitch?

  She twisted her head to the side, her long braid swinging back and forth like a pendulum…a pendulum that pointed downward.

  Do not look at her ass.

  “Gramps?”

  She turned just enough to catch his eye and Logan cleared his throat, suddenly stuck with no words and a host of extremely inappropriate thoughts running through his head. Images of her lips gliding across his skin made him swallow hard as he met her gaze.

  Was that a tattoo along her hip? Shit.

  “No, it’s me,” he managed, glad to hear he sounded like he had some kind of control, though judging by the smirk on his brother’s face, Connor wasn’t fooled.

  “Oh,” she said softly. “Gramps went to get some more antiseptic, and I thought...”

  She hissed as Connor ran a cotton swab over the wound before he straightened. “That should do it.”

  Logan crossed over, his brows furled in anger as he took in the raw gash that was now perfectly sown, with nice, precise…

  “Eight stitches?”

  Connor nodded, sweeping longish blond hair from his eyes. His brother was younger than Logan by two years, prettier than half the women in town, and newly single since he’d broken up with his girlfriend. Logan wished he’d move the hell away from Billie, but then, why would he?

  Why would anyone?

  In that moment, Logan realized a few things. Billie-Jo Barker intrigued the hell out of him. She was so different from her sisters. Bobbi was type A, anal as all hell, though when she wasn’t trying so hard to be someone else, she wasn’t all that bad.

  Betty, well, she was another story entirely.

  But Billie…she had him wanting to circle the room and piss in all the corners like a dog marking his territory. What the hell was up with that?

  “Yes, the wound was pretty deep. There’s two more inside as well.”

  Logan couldn’t believe she’d been jabbed with a stick so hard that the resulting injury required over eight stitches to fix.

  “Billie’s a real trooper though. I didn’t have anything to numb it, and I’m sure it hurt like hell, but you’d never know it.”

  Billie turned around, and Logan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The woman had a body made for athletics all right—long toned limbs—but damn, she’d win in the bedroom too. Her breasts were fully covered, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate their size and shape. A little more than a handful—just the way he liked them.

  Her abs were defined, but not too muscular—she was still full of curves and softness, with a waist that was begging for his hands and that ass…

  Logan inhaled and turned to the side. What the fuck? She’d just been speared, had taken eight stitches in the side and he was fantasizing about how hot she looked?

  For a moment he thought of the other day. Of the smell and taste of her. The way she’d moaned when he’d slid his tongue inside her mouth. Of how good she’d felt pressed up against his body and it was all he could do not to groan and whimper like a fucking teenager begging for it.

  For her.

  He ran his hands through hair that was all sweaty and wet, buying a little time while he tried to calm himself the hell down.

  He thanked all that was holy he still had his hockey pants on because he was sporting one hell of a tent in there, and if it didn’t go away he’d have to clean up at home. There was no way he was walking out of Billie’s dressing room sporting a raging hard-on and then heading into the showers.

  He’d never live it down.

  “Okay, I’m done,” Connor said as Logan got hold of himself and swung his gaze back. His brother was smiling down at Billie and Logan recognized the look in his eyes. A hungry look. A look filled with anticipation. An interested look.

  Connor took a step closer and lowered his voice, but it wasn’t so low that Logan couldn’t hear every single word. “I’m sure glad you’re back, Billie, and really happy I ran into you.”

  She smiled. A polite smile? Or a keep talking kind of smile? Logan wasn’t sure so he inched forward, not liking the way this whole thing was playing out. Billie tilted her head, exposing more of that creamy skin between her neck and collarbone and damn if Connor didn’t hone in on that right away. He pretended that he wasn’t interested in that prime expanse of womanly skin, smart bastard, but Logan knew.

  Connor put his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. “I’m still concerned about your head injury. Remember what I said, all right?”

  What the hell was he now? Doctor Phil? The guy was a veterinarian for Christ sake.

  Logan watched Billie closely as she nodded. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes huge and that damn mouth was shiny, like she’d just slipped her tongue out and…

  “Thanks, Connor, it was good to see you too.”

  In Logan’s opinion, Connor’s hand lingered a little too long on her shoulder and then he had the gall to let his fingers slide down her forearm. Logan frowned and stepped forward. Call it a Tarzan thing-and Lord knows Billie didn’t belong to him-but still, his younger brother didn’t have to stand so close to her now, did he? Billie wasn’t his type.

  At all.

  “So, I’ll call you tomorrow? You know, if you’re interested?”

  Billie’s eyes flickered to Logan briefly and then she glanced away. “Sure,” she murmured. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Tomorrow?” Logan asked. “What’s up—”

  Herschel burst into the dressing room, his hands full of anti-septic wipes. “I had to drive to the goddamn pharmacy to get these. No one could locate a medical kit.” He tossed the wipes on the bench. “Damn, fancy facility like this and not enough medical supplies. What the hell are our taxes for anyway?”

  The three of them stared at the old man, his white cap askew, his face flushed and eyes glittering.

  “It’s okay, Herschel. I had just enough,” Connor said as he packed up his kit before he glanced at Logan. “See you tomorrow?”

  “I guess.” Logan turned to his brother as Billie moved to grab something off the bench behind her.

  That was a damn tattoo on the side of her left hip.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I won’t tell Mom that you forgot about tomorrow.”

  That got Logan’s attention.

  “Tomorrow,” he repeated.

  Con
nor’s smile widened. “The fundraiser?”

  Ah, shit.

  “We’re all supposed to be there. Even Travis is coming from California. I’m picking him up at the airport in a couple hours.” Connor paused. “She’s expecting you and Sabrina.”

  Double shit.

  His mother was one hell of a woman, but her need and desire to get in the middle of her sons lives was legendary. He loved her, Christ did he love her, but she’d been a monkey on his back for the last two years. As her oldest son, she wanted him to ‘settle down’ to ‘start a family and carry on the genes’. She’d flat out told him last Christmas that if he didn’t produce a grandchild by the time he was thirty-five, she’d take him out of the will.

  Deidre Forest wasn’t sold on Sabrina, but it sure as hell had made her feel good to know he’d at least settled on one woman for longer than a few weeks or even a few months. Hell, just three weeks ago she’d texted him to ask if she could throw them a six month anniversary dinner.

  Sabrina had given his mother hope.

  Logan ran fingers along his brow and exhaled. She wasn’t going to be happy that he’d broken it off with the blonde.

  Connor slung his bag over his shoulder and glanced over to Billie. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Logan’s mood darkened as he watched Billie smile at his brother.

  With a nod to Herschel, Connor slapped Logan on the back as he passed and murmured, “Tomorrow night will go easier if you make nice with Sabrina and bring her along, just sayin’.”

  “Sure, I’ll get right on that.”

  Like that was going to happen. He’d run into Sabrina at the bank a few days earlier and she’d practically drilled a hole through his hide with the ice in her eyes as she’s stared daggers at him. And now that he thought about it, what the hell was up with that? He’d been nice to Sabrina. He’d let her down easy. There’d been no cheating or horn-dogging. It just wasn’t right.

  And still, he was the bad guy. She’d butted in line and stood inches from his back, he’d had to listen to her mutter about his ‘inability to commit’ for nearly ten minutes until he was able to get in to see the branch manager.

  Logan sighed. He sure as hell liked women, but for the most part, he didn’t understand them. Or, at the very least, he didn’t want to understand them.

  Once his brother was gone he turned back to Billie, who had covered up, which was a good thing. He had enough on his mind without her walking around half naked.

  Herschel gave his granddaughter a hug and said he’d see her back at the house. He tossed Logan a polite smile before following his brother’s steps out the door.

  “I guess I should go,” he said.

  Her eyes glistened, the dark lashes fringing them like spiky bits of black feathers. He watched the way she licked her lips and then swallowed. The way her now unbraided hair fell around her shoulders in loose, silken waves.

  A soft shudder rolled over him and his groin tightened even more as the smell of her shampoo drifted in the air. Damn, but he’d like to sink his hands into that thick mess and hold her head, just so, and—wait—when the hell had she unleashed the power of her hair on him?

  “Yeah, I’m pretty tired,” Billie answered while grabbing her hockey stick, though she groaned as she bent forward.

  “Hey, let me get that.” Logan moved before she could answer and grabbed her bag and both of her sticks before indicating he’d follow her out.

  Billie was silent for a few seconds as her right hand tugged the edge of her jacket nervously. “You were right,” she finally said.

  “Of course I was.”

  She looked surprised at his quick response. “Are you always this arrogant?”

  “Not always.”

  The smile stayed, and hugged the corner of her mouth. “Only on special occasions?”

  Logan nodded. “Only with special people.”

  “Special can mean a whole lot of things.”

  She was flirting with him. Goddamn, but Billie-Jo was flirting with him.

  He kinda liked it.

  “Sure can.”

  “So,” she took a step toward him and he sucked in air that was electrified. Air that fed his body in a way that made him tighter, harder, and he thanked every god he could think of that at least an inch thick of padding stood between his aching cock and Billie-Jo Barker.

  Her lips were wet where she’d slowly run her tongue along them. They glistened in the dim lighting, and for a second he couldn’t focus on anything but them. He shifted. Beads of sweat appeared along his brow. He was so screwed. There was no way he was going to be able to hit the showers.

  “So,” she continued again, “what kind of special am I?”

  Her tongue peeked out from between her lips. Holy hell but it was hot.

  The two of them stared at each other for several long moments and when Logan was finally able to form a coherent thought—one that didn’t involve throwing Billie to the ground and licking every inch of her. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t have a chance to say anything.

  Shane Gallagher strode into the room, way too full of energy and testosterone and what sounded like…glee. His friend crossed his arms in front of his chest, cocked his head to the side and his grin widened.

  “Jesus H Christ, Billie, I thought we had an understanding? …Connor Forest?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday nights in New Waterford were, for the most part, pretty quiet. There wasn’t much to choose from—entertainment wise—and if a body was looking for excitement, a body would have to drive to the city, which was nearly twenty minutes away.

  There was of course The Grill which had the best wings in town as well as the coldest beer. There was Marino’s, which had the tastiest pizza in the county. There was also the Iron Key, a fancy restaurant located in a renovated century home down on the water. It was the kind of place most folks couldn’t afford, and those that did only went a few times a year. Many wondered how the Iron Key stayed in business and the rest didn’t care. Who wanted to eat in a restaurant that served food you couldn’t even pronounce, and the servings barely fed a small child?

  Call it fine dining if you wanted to, but for most of the residents of New Waterford, it was a bloody crime. Luckily, its cuisine was renowned, and a steady clientele from the city took the time to drive to New Waterford and kept the place busy.

  Other than the odd wedding, anniversary, or the annual Hockey dance held to celebrate the local house league teams, there wasn’t much to do.

  So, three years earlier, when Deidre Forest decided to organize a fundraiser for the community support center—one that catered to seniors, teens and adults in crisis—she took it upon herself to make it the event of the year. Deidre wasn’t used to doing anything halfway, and it was no surprise that the New Orleans inspired Mardi Gras theme that first year was a huge success. The following year she’d organized a country hoedown, complete with a mini rodeo, square-dancing, and some hot imported cowboys to boot.

  This year, she’d delayed the event—usually it was held in the spring—deciding Halloween would be great fun. There were events all day for the kids as well as a mid-way full of rides. But the main event—the masquerade dance—was adults only. It would boast both a silent auction, as well as a live auction. There would be dinner, music, and dancing. Anyone who was anybody—and could afford the 150 dollar ticket—would be there.

  Logan had heard about the damn thing for weeks but he’d put it out of his head, not really in the mood. Not that he begrudged the event or the monies it would pull in for the support center, he just preferred to give a donation and be done with it. And after last night, he wanted nothing more than to sit at home, watch the game, and not think about Billie and his brother.

  After Shane had burst into the dressing room, the energy between him and Billie had fizzled, if it was even there to begin with. Maybe it was one sided or maybe he was just dreaming. The Barker triplets were complicated. Everyone knew it, so why the hel
l was he all of a sudden willing to put himself in the sights of a Barker bullet?

  “There you are, Logan. Where have you been? I thought you’d be here over an hour ago.”

  Logan turned to his mother as she swept toward him, arms outstretched, eyes moving behind him, obviously looking for—

  “Oh, no,” she sighed, her large expressive eyes, narrowing slightly. “Where is Sabrina?”

  Decked out in a witches costume—one he was willing to bet she’d spent a small fortune on in rentals—she reached up and kissed his cheek, though her hands stayed on either side of his face. As always, warmth filled him when he gazed down at her. His mother was the kind of lady who drank eight glasses of water a day, never went to bed without smearing a ton of cream on her face and neck, and went to the gym faithfully four times a week. Heck, he’d even caught her sneaking out of the house a few years back, when he’d still lived at home, early on a Sunday. He’d been coming in from a night of drinking with the boys and she’d been headed out to her own form of salvation.

  She’d given him shit and then she’d shushed him. Told him that even the good Lord believed in a healthy heart and clear arteries and warned him that too much drinking wasn’t healthy for the libido.

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her that in fact, he’d found it to be the opposite. Hell, if you weren’t really sure about a woman, add a couple of stiff vodkas to the mix and things became much clearer. Of course, clarity didn’t always carry over to the next morning but that was another matter entirely.

  His mom took great care of her body and mind and he knew that his dad was one hell of a lucky guy. Maybe she was the reason he’d never been interested in settling down. How was he ever going to find someone as perfect as his own mother?

  Okay, now I sound like Dr. Phil.

  Slowly she pushed away, brows arched, scarlet lips pursed in a frown. “Sabrina?” she asked pointedly.

  Hell, he was sure the local grapevine would have taken care of this before she got to him. He shifted. Looked away.

  “Look, mom, she’s a nice girl and all, but—”