High Stick

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Jarrett could take you to Disney World, probably for free. Maybe even get you in the parade. Where had that come from? She’d just been telling herself why she couldn’t date him: no time, and he had roots and she didn’t.

  That sounded lame, even to her.

  Of course, there was the whole no-sex thing. That wasn’t lame. At almost twenty-five, she might be the oldest celibate woman in the state of Tennessee. She was, for sure, the oldest who’d ever posed for porn. She’d been a virgin until college and had had a brief, messy relationship that hadn’t left her feeling good about herself, so she’d decided no more. She wasn’t exactly saving herself for marriage, but she was saving herself for The One. Trouble was men didn’t like to give you the time to decide if they were The One, and Jarrett would be no different. They might call him The Saint, but she’d bet her bottom dollar—of which she had few—that sainthood did not apply to sex. So how did you find out who was The One?

  A fantasy image of her face against his neck slammed into her and turned her stomach into a tornado. She could taste it, smell it, feel the warmth . . . Not good.

  Her face caught fire and she began to cough.

  “Are you all right?” Carmen brought her back from Neck World, which might be better than Disney World.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” She looked at the printouts that Carmen had given her.

  “You don’t have a full house tonight,” Carmen said. “Only fourteen. No SRO of course.”

  That was a relief. Merry hated standing room only tickets. They were always in the way, standing around, sitting on the floor, wandering back into the kitchen area and getting between her and where she needed to be. She took a look at her guest list.

  “Jackson Beauford?” Merry said. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Carmen shook her head. “He’s singing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’”

  “Wow.” She glanced at the rest of the list. “Lots of Beaufords. Emory, Gabe, Neyland, Rafe, Abby, Beau, and Christian. I know Emory. At least I met her. I bartended at a wedding at Beauford Bend. I don’t know the rest of them.”

  “Gabe, Rafe, and Beau are his brothers. The rest of them are sisters-in-law. You’ve probably heard of Gabe. He plays for the Titans.”

  “No,” Merry said. “I don’t keep up with pro football.” She looked at the other names on the list. “Dirk and Gwen Thornton. Gwen is the Around the Bend catering manager, and I suppose Dirk is her husband. Do they think they are bringing their own food?” The Bridgestone did not allow outside food.

  Carmen consulted her computer. “They ordered hot food plus chips, pretzels, fruit, an appetizer tray, and cookies. I would think that would be enough, but if they bring more, just go with it.”

  “I will. How about these last four names? Sammy and Pam Anderson and Harris and Missy Bragg?”

  “Sammy Anderson is Jackson Beauford’s personal assistant and I assume Pam is Sammy’s wife,” Carmen said. “No idea about the Braggs. Just be sure to check IDs.”

  “I always do,” Merry said.

  She found her way to the Purple and Silver Suite. It wasn’t her job to clean the space, but she always did a walk-through to make sure it had been done. First, the comfortable viewing chairs that overlooked the ice. The area looked pretty good, but there was a bottle under a seat on the second row that someone had missed. The conversation area with the sofas and club chairs was orderly, but she put out coasters on the tables. The bathroom was tidy, with plenty of extra toilet paper.

  On to the kitchen area. There was enough ice and the bar was stocked with water, soft drinks, beer, wine, and bourbon—which, according to the notes, some of this party drank straight. Thank goodness she didn’t have to mix drinks. If they changed their minds, Merry would call down to catering for a delivery.

  Or maybe she’d just hang over the half wall and yell for Jarrett.

  “Hey, Jarrett. You told me at that wedding to call your name and you’d come running. I’m calling! We need a blue lagoon up here. Can you run in skates? Oh, what’s that? You’re playing a hockey game? Surely they can do without you for a little while. And while you’re up here, how about you let me sniff your neck. I won’t lick it. Probably.”

  She laughed a little to herself and checked the time. The food would be here in about thirty minutes. Time to set up the chafing dishes and put out the serving bowls for the chips, pretzels, and such. She consulted the list of hot food scheduled to be delivered: chili, jambalaya, three kinds of sliders, and hot wings, which meant they’d need bowls and plates.

  She was arranging the napkins and flatware when a voice behind her said, “And you are?” A tall, bald man strolled in like he owned the place.

  She walked toward him, intending to back him out the door. “A better question is who are you? And you can’t be in here.”

  “I can, in fact, be in here. I’m Jackson Beauford’s security detail. I’ve come ahead to make sure everything is in order.”

  “It remains to be seen whether you can be in here. Name, please? And ID.”

  He gave her a long, hard stare. Then he smiled the barest bit of a smile—a lot like Jarrett’s smile. Gone before you got a chance to enjoy it. Not that she would enjoy this guy’s smile. It was ordinary without that intriguing left cheek dimple that was so tiny you had to watch for it.

  This man never blinked or broke eye contact, but reached into his pocket and brought out a worn leather case and flipped it open.

  “Dirk Thornton,” she read aloud. “Beauford Bend Security. Chief Security Officer.” And the picture matched his face. “You’re on the list.”

  “That I am. Now return the favor.” He pointed to the lanyard around her neck. “You need to turn your ID around. I don’t touch people I don’t know.”

  “Sorry.” She held up the ID so he could read it.

  “Merry Sweet. All right.” He relaxed the barest bit. “Did you work an Around the Bend party right before Christmas?”

  “I did.”

  He nodded. “A word of advice. Always make sure your ID is facing out. It’s a red flag.”

  Unholy hell. And she’d thought Gwen was wound tight. She had nothing on her husband. “A red flag for what?”

  “A red flag that you stole someone’s ID and put it on backward so people will assume it’s an accident and won’t question you.”

  “Because ice suite attendants are known for that.” She removed her lanyard and put it on the right way.

  “No. You wouldn’t be the ice suite attendant if you’d done that. You’d be someone who wanted access to someone in an ice suite and had taken your ID.”

  “And I’d be where? Tied up or dead?” She laughed.

  Dirk, Chief Security Officer, shrugged—but he did not laugh. “Possibly both. Don’t rule it out.” He looked around and put his palms together. “Okay. This is what’s going to happen. Except for Jackson, the other Beaufords will be here in about forty minutes, along with my wife, Pam Anderson, and Jackson’s cousin, Missy, and her husband, Harris. When they get here, I’ll go to where Jackson, with his personal assistant, is waiting to go on the ice. I won’t be back until after the national anthem. While I’m gone, nobody comes in.”

  “I wouldn’t allow that anyway.”

  “Do you carry a gun?” he asked.

  “A gun?” She hadn’t meant to sound shrill. “Are you crazy? Of course I don’t carry a gun. I am not qualified to carry a gun. I am qualified to pass pigs in a blanket and empty the trash. ”

  He nodded. “That’s what I was afraid of. I knew I should have brought a member of my staff,” he seemed to mutter to himself. “Jackson wouldn’t have it.”

  This was beginning to sound a little scary. “Are these people in danger?” And if so, what were they doing in public? And would she—Merry—live to see tomorrow? Would she die without ever breathing in the scent of Jarrett MacPherson’s neck? Yes. Actually she would, even if she didn’t die tonight.

  He nodded. “Everyone is in danger every day.”
r />   Oh. He was one of those. She felt better. “I can lock the door while you’re gone.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m going to check things out. And about emptying the trash—I take it with me when I leave.”

  “You’re in the garbage business, are you?”

  Again, he did not laugh. “I know the Bridgestone trash protocol.” He probably knew the Bridgestone protocol about everything. “At the end of the evening, you bag it and leave it outside the door for the janitorial staff to pick up. That won’t do. Jackson doesn’t like to see napkins he is supposed to have used or beer bottles that he is supposed to have drunk from on eBay.”

  That might even be valid. “Makes sense.”

  “Everything I do makes sense, even though they don’t believe it half the time. I always remind them they’re still alive and no Beauford babies have been kidnapped. I would appreciate your cooperation.”

  Merry nodded. Easier just to go with it. “If I have to change to trash bags during the game, I’ll stash the full ones in the closet.”

  He nodded with satisfaction. “I appreciate that.”

  She went on, “Catering will be here in a few minutes with the food. I know all of them.” After all, who knew when someone was waiting around to poison Jackson Beauford’s jambalaya?

  He nodded. “All right. I’m going to check out the space now.”

  Thank God she’d found that empty stray bottle—the one that might have been a bomb.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Merry said.

  Time to get the Sterno going in the chafing dishes.

  • • •

  Nothing like a locker room full of naked hockey players, and the first ones Jarrett saw when he entered were the inseparable wild pair, Jake “Sparks” Champagne and Robbie “Scottie” McTavish.

  “Guess what? Thor is having a New Year’s Eve party,” Sparks said.

  The big, blond, brooding Sound enforcer? Not likely.

  “He is not.”

  “He is,” Robbie said, “and it was our idea.”

  Jarrett took off his jacket and began to loosen his tie. “I’ll just bet it was. And Thor has agreed to this?”

  “Not yet, but he’s thinking about it,” Sparks said. “He’ll see that it makes sense. He’s been trying to sell that house he bought when he was engaged to that Italian model.” House wasn’t really the correct description. It was a mansion on steroids, located on the outskirts of Sound Town. It didn’t seem like Thor’s style, but Jonteau had wanted so he’d bought it. And as for Jonteau, she hadn’t been a model so much as a has-been who had spent all her money. Regarding the Italian part, who knew? Jonteau sounded more French, but there probably weren’t any Italian laws against having French names. In the end, she’d run off with an Italian soccer player and taken that huge diamond ring with her. At least she hadn’t waited until after they’d gotten married and taken the house. “Sharon says a good way to sell a house is to have a big party.”

  Sharon was a real estate agent and their teammate Mikhail Orlov’s wife. Jarrett doubted if she meant the kind of party Sparks and Scottie were advocating—hockey players, puck bunnies, and beer—lots and lots of beer. While it was true that many of the Sound players could have afforded to buy the house, they’d already seen it. If they’d wanted it, they would have already said so.

  “If you two want to have a party,” Jarrett asked, “why don’t you just have one and leave Thor out of it?”

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  “Right,” Sparks said as they crossed to room to their stalls.

  “I’ll tell you why.”

  Jarrett jumped. “Packi. You scared me.”

  Packi put a Gatorade and two sandwiches in Jarrett’s hand.

  Jarrett inspected the sandwiches and held them out to Packi. “I can’t have this. I’m allergic to peanuts.”

  Pack pushed them back toward him. “That’s why they aren’t peanut butter sandwiches. They’re almond butter and jelly.”

  “Really? You knew that?” He unwrapped one and bit into it, expecting grape jelly or strawberry jam. But it was raspberry, his favorite.

  “You’d be surprised at what I know.”

  “Not that surprised. You know my favorite jam, too. Maybe you are magic, like some of the guys say.”

  Packi looked amused. “The magic of eating breakfast with you on the road and seeing what you will go through to get raspberry jam.”

  “I appreciate it. What were you about to say regarding why Sparks and Scottie don’t have a party themselves instead of trying to browbeat Thor into it?”

  “They’re lazy,” Packi said. “Everywhere but on the ice. What they don’t know is it will take more energy to talk Thor into it than it would to gather up a few kegs and call a caterer.”

  “Thor won’t do it.”

  “He might,” Packi said. “Those two have a way of wearing a man down.”

  “I’ve never known Thor not to stand his ground.”

  “Funny thing about standing your ground. You have to find it first.”

  “I don’t understand.” Jarrett got the feeling they weren’t talking about Thor anymore.

  “Is that right?”

  “You talk like a fortune cookie,” Jarrett said.

  For a bare moment, Packi looked surprised—amazed. And then he laughed a big belly laugh. Jarrett didn’t realize he’d made a joke so much as an observation. He filed it away. If it had worked on Packi, it might work on Merry—if he ever got the chance to talk to her again. He literally felt the scowl creep onto his face.

  “So was the ticket all right? Was the young lady pleased?”

  And the scowl got scowlier. “No, but not because of the ticket. She couldn’t sit there, because she was going to be here anyway, working as an ice suite attendant.”

  Packi nodded. “Is that right? What’s her name?”

  “Merry Sweet. Have you ever heard of a better name?”

  Packi nodded. “An excellent name, indeed. So you asked her for a date without knowing where she works?”

  “Yes and no. She’s in law school at Vandy and she has two jobs. I knew about the other job. In fact, that was where I tracked her down—and where I made her mad.”

  “Made her mad, did you? What are you going to do to rectify that?”

  “I’m not sure there is anything.”

  “I might believe that if you’d known her longer. She can’t care enough about you yet to be very mad.”

  Fortune cookie talk again. “That makes no sense,” Jarrett said.

  “No? Ponder it a bit and then figure out a way to try again.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Sure. I have a great one. Put your skates on and get ready to play hockey.”

  Chapter Six

  The Beaufords, Gwen, a tall blond couple, and another woman were headed Merry’s way. When she counted heads, she did a double take. No one had told her that two of Jackson’s brothers were twins. It was like seeing double, even if they weren’t dressed alike.

  Emory was leading the pack. She probably wouldn’t recognize Merry. Uniforms made people invisible—at least the uniforms of service staff. Probably not the case with pro hockey uniforms. Merry stepped up to the door.

  “Merry!” Emory said. Okay, so not invisible tonight. “I didn’t know you worked here. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you, too.” Merry consulted her phone for the time and recited the scripted greeting. “Hello, everyone. My name is Merry and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Puck drop is in fifteen minutes. I apologize, but I must check the IDs that you were issued downstairs. This step may seem redundant, but it’s for your safety and privacy. If you will hold those up for me as you come in, I’ll take your coats and get started fixing you up with some drinks and food before the game starts.”

  Emory fished the lanyard from under her coat and held up the VIP ID badge.

  “Sounds like you’ve been talking to my husband,” Gwen said as she filed i
n.

  “I have,” Merry said, “but this is a Bridgestone rule.”

  One by one, Beaufords filed in, all with badges in hand, all with smiles.

  Pam Anderson held up her badge. “My husband is with Jackson. He’ll be up soon.” Must be a newlywed. She lit up like neon when she said the word husband.

  Finally, the last couple approached the door. “Hi. I’m Missy Bragg,” the woman said as she held up her laminated ID card. “I know we aren’t supposed to bring food in, but I am hoping you’ll make an exception.” She pulled a plastic container from her oversized bag.

  The man with her groaned. “Missy, I told you not to bring that.”

  “Hush, Harris. These are Jackson’s favorites.” She smiled at Merry. “Pecan tassies. We didn’t see my cousins on Christmas, and I’ve brought these all the way from Alabama.”

  “Don’t give in to her,” the man said. “She always expects to get her way.”

  Merry laughed and took the container. “How can I say no to Alabama pecan tassies?” She’d eaten her share of the miniature pecan pies at church potlucks. “I’m from Alabama, myself.”

  “Really?” Missy said. “Where?”

  “Beaver Crossing. It’s south of Montgomery.”

  “We’re from Merritt,” Missy said. “About three hours south of here.”

  “Welcome,” Merry said, glancing at Harris’s ID. “I’ll put these on a tray.” She held up the container.

  By the time she had locked the door, Emory and one of those Beauford twins had already hung everyone’s coat and the one who wasn’t a twin was passing out drinks.