by Lia Riley
Dedication
To All You Nasty Women Who Are Persisting
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Announcement to Hellions Angels series Head Coach, Chapter One
About the Author
By Lia Riley
A Letter from the Editor
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Patch Donnelly ignored the stranger in the grey suit slouching behind the player bench. He had more important things to focus on, like the disc of frozen rubber racing toward his head. Inhaling the scent of freshly resurfaced ice, he blocked the backhand, and bent his lips into a faint grin.
Damn—it was good to be back.
The NHL season had been delayed for four months after breakdowns with collective bargaining negotiations. To celebrate the end of the lockout, Coach had agreed to make the first practice back a public event, and Hellions fans came flocking, bursting the stadium at the seams.
Patch dropped into a crouch, swaying from side to side. Out here on the line there was a palpable sense of being up against the world, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He knew he was a different breed. It took someone with a few screws loose to face down a puck travelling at a hundred miles an hour and love every second. But as he worked through the drills, his gaze returned to the bench. The suit’s dead-eyed stare prickled his sixth sense, and if there was one thing he trusted in this shitty world, it was his intuition.
When something didn’t feel right, it probably wasn’t.
That inbuilt radar had helped him survive childhood, and left him with more than his fair share of paranoia.
The guy could be another NHL exec making the rounds. But tell that to the vise grip in Patch’s gut.
At the end of practice, the suit made a beeline in his direction.
“Patrick Donnelly?” he said coolly as Patch stepped off the ice.
“Who’s asking?”
Time dropped into slow motion as the suit smacked a manila envelope against the front of his jersey.
“You’ve been served.” And with that he turned and stalked away.
The ever-vigilant media went nuts. Cameras flashed as journalists’ questions hit him with rapid-fire intensity.
“What’s up with getting served your first day back?”
“Is this going to affect the rest of your season?”
“Patch! Who’s suing you?”
He strode to the locker room, head down, jaw rigid. No point opening the summons. He knew who was after him. He’d been expecting it.
The bad guys always come for you in the end.
Chapter Two
Margot Kowalski hunched in the corner of The Cozy Clove Chai Shoppe frowning at her workbook. Her butt was numb. She’d been sitting here since midafternoon and How to Write a Kick-Ass Business Plan in Under Two Hours hadn’t delivered on its ambitious promise. Although, in fairness to the authors, Margot’s attention span mimicked a caffeinated squirrel inside a nut factory.
It didn’t help matters that the college-aged girls at the closest table had forgotten how to use their indoor voices. And had a talent for ignoring Margot’s pointed looks.
“Make sure to be honest.” The one with the blunt-cut bangs had a laugh that could put screech owls in heat. “It says here that failure to do so will render the results inaccurate.”
“Aye, aye, Sergeant!” Her friend in the Nordic knit poncho gave a mock salute, nearly upending her teacup.
Cue more screeching.
Margot gritted her teeth, eyes narrowing. She was a nice enough person—that is, until someone pressed her bitch button.
These two were inching toward the danger zone.
“Okay, okay. Question one.” Bangs smirked at her iPhone. “Have you ever gotten a hickey?”
Margot rolled her eyes so hard that they threatened to pop out of her head.
The hand-calligraphed sign by the register read: This is a Screen-Free Space: No Laptops, Cell Phones or iPads. Conversation, reading and daydreaming are encouraged.
She’d selected the Cozy Clove specifically for this “No Screen Time” policy—insurance that she wouldn’t waste the evening procrastinating on dating apps, sucked into an endless barrage of dudes flexing in sweaty postworkout bathroom selfies or posing with trout.
What was the psyche behind that particular phenomenon? Margot nibbled on the side of her pencil. A metaphor for being a “good catch”?
“Have you ever orgasmed more than once in a single session?”
For the past half hour, Margot had unwillingly eavesdropped on everything from Bangs’s and Poncho’s predictions for the next Game of Thrones season to the pros and cons of going Paleo. Now it appeared she’d been granted a front-row seat for an online sex quiz.
Whoop-de-doo.
She glared back at her workbook, and the sentence that she’d read at least four times: Research the market thoroughly.
The girls ignored her heavy sigh.
Margot didn’t take pleasure in being a killjoy. After all, it wasn’t like she didn’t have opinions about their topics of interest. If playing the Westeros version of Fuck, Marry, Kill, her choices would be Jon Snow, Tyrion and the Kingslayer in that order (she’d never forgive Jaime Lannister for shoving Bran out that tower window). As for going Paleo, she refused to entertain any diet that banned her beloved IPA, a beer that was bitter and bold. Not unlike herself.
But this tea shop time was too important to squander. She’d called in a favor at work to get it, begging her fellow yoga teacher, Dusk, to cover her Intermediate Vinyasa class at Nirvana Yoga Studio. Her big plan had been to sip fancy tea while fleshing out her meditation business idea, a “treat yo self” Valentine’s Day present.
This didn’t have to be National Single Awareness Day. She could flip the narrative and celebrate it as an empowering reminder to focus on herself after ending her last disastrous relationship three months ago. And hey, even better, tomorrow chocolate would be fifty percent off!
“Next question,” Bangs chirped. “Do you prefer to be the chased or do the chasing?”
“Chased, without a doubt.”
Margot cast a beseeching glance toward the red-haired, dreadlocked barista nodding off on a stool behind the counter. Looked like no rescue was forthcoming from that quarter. She still took the time to check him out, an old habit. Hmmmm. Normally dreadlocks elevated sexy to a whole new level, but not in this case. He wasn’t bad-looking, but she had a long-standing aversion to gingers.
She flicked back to the chapter on market need, stuffing her fingers in her ears to drown out the girls’ chatter.
Her idea was to create a gym, but instead of working out your body, Sanctuary would be a place to work out the mind—with calm, thoughtfully designed spaces designated for group meditation classes, individual practice, art therapy, sand play and even flower arranging. She’d sell monthly memberships and daily drop-in passes. Given the hectic—often worrying—state of the world, people craved places to recenter and recharge, especially in her target market of Boulder—
“These questions are frigging naughty!”
Looked like her fingers couldn’t cancel out Poncho’s ability to state the obvious.
On and on they went:
No to sexting.
Yes to owning a thong.
No to oral—both giving and receiving.
Margot choked on her Matcha green tea. Wait a second. Poncho was sexually active and yet didn’t get oral? What kind of national tragedy did she endure between the sheets? Good Lord, even Stefan, Margot’s douche-mcgouche ex, hadn’t been that bad. And he was a two-pump chump.
“How many vibrators do you own?” Bangs purred in a husky stage whisper.
“Ew! None!”
“You paddle your own canoe?”
A sound escaped Margot’s lips, not unlike a whale singing its death song. Paddle. Your. Own. Canoe? Get outta here. Masturbation. Clit. Vagina. These were not difficult words to master.
“Keep your voice down, bitch.” Poncho cracked up. “Derek keeps me satisfied.”
Margot doodled a stick figure impersonating Edvard Munch’s The Scream in the margins. It took every last shred of her willpower not to grab Poncho by the shoulders and order her to ovary-up, and take responsibility for her own sexual pleasure. Of course Derek needed to work at being a good lover. But at the end of the day, all women needed the ability to give themselves toe-curling, stutter-inducing, off-the-Richter scale, orgasmic ecstasy.
“This is going off-script, but out of curiosity . . . what’s your number?” Bangs queried.
Poncho’s thin lips flattened further. “Number?”
“You know . . . how many people you’ve gotten with.”
“Like made out at a frat party?”
“That’s cute.” Her friend shook her head, every strand of hair falling perfectly back into place. “Fine, I’ll go first. Six.”
“Six?” Poncho Girl’s eyes widened as a startled laugh burst from her lips. “You’ve slept with six guys?”
Bangs shrugged.
“Wow.”
It was a skill to slip so much passive-aggressiveness into such a small word.
“Take several seats, Miss Purity,” Bangs snapped. “It’s not like I’m a sausage jockey.”
“Well, my number is two. And it’s staying that way.”
“For real?” Bangs cocked her head. “You don’t want to play the field before committing to Derek’s dick for the rest of your life?”
Poncho sniffed. “And be some slut?”
Slut. The ugly word slugged Margot like a fist to the jaw. “Excuse me.” Her lips were moving before her brain could register the fact.
The girls jerked, glancing over with identical “And what the hell do you want” expressions.
“So . . . I’ve got a question. Did you know the correct term for a woman who’s slept with six guys?” Margot slipped off her reading glasses and polished the lenses with the bottom of her tunic. “Or what the hell, let’s round up and make it sixty guys.”
The bottom dropped out of Poncho and Bangs’s mouths.
“The correct word is woman.” Margot stood stuffing her notes and workbook into her canvas Nevertheless, She Persisted tote. “Not a slut. Not a hooker. Not a skank. Not a whore. Wo-man. Say it with me.”
“I’ve got a better question,” Bangs retorted. “Why don’t you keep your big nose out of other people’s business?”
“If it doesn’t involve you, then it doesn’t concern you,” Poncho piped in.
“All I’m saying is that if you have to slut-shame to make yourself feel better, then you’re doing life wrong.” Margot shoved her pink-knit pussycat beanie over her long, wavy hair and shot them a peace sign before beelining toward the exit.
Outside the tea shop, Denver’s infamous winter wind stung her cheeks. The streetlight lit dull flakes of snow settling on the sidewalk. She cursed under her breath as she picked up her pace. Great. Thanks to her big ears—and even bigger mouth—she wasn’t any closer to having her business plan done. All she had to show for jumping on the slut soapbox was a night of missed pay.
She hugged her arms to her chest in a failing attempt to retain body heat. Once upon a time, seventeen-year-old Margot had remained quiet in the face of that ugly-ass word. It had been a hard-learned lesson that getting attention for the wrong things can be worse than being ignored.
Seventeen was also the year that her bonehead professor father had cheated on her stepmom, Annie, who in response had fled not only Portland, but the entire state of Oregon. She’d packed up Margot’s half-brother, Atticus, and returned to her hometown, the little mountain haven of Brightwater, set high in California’s Eastern Sierra Nevadas.
Good for Annie.
Shitty for Margot.
Seventeen had been day after day of torture. Isolated. Confused. Lonely. Finally she’d graduated, moved out to Colorado and started on a journey to figure out who she was and what she wanted out of life.
And here she was, seven years later, still a work in progress.
She ducked her chin and marched toward her place, swinging her arms to keep them from freezing.
At least she wasn’t a scared, insecure teenager anymore. Thank God for small mercies. She’d learned that if she kept her face turned toward the light, the shadows would fall behind her. Better to try and have a sunny disposition than float through life like a pessimistic rain cloud.
Her phone rang, and she rummaged for it inside her tote. Her bestie’s number flashed on the screen.
“What’s up?” Margot batted back a lock of hair whipping her face.
“Are you in a wind tunnel?” Breezy yelled back.
“Just walking home from that new chai shop. It’s blowing a gale.”
“Ugh, I know. Wake me when it’s summer. Anyway, do you have plans? I’m at The Watering Hole.” Their favorite dive bar.
“On Valentine’s Day?” Margot frowned. “Why? Don’t tell me that Jed fell asleep on the job?”
Breezy’s fiancé was Jed West, former captain of the Denver Hellions hockey team and all-around sex symbol. And happily, her best friend hadn’t just scored a guy who was nothing but dreamboat eyes, cut abs and delicious scruff, he also happened to be just as gorgeous on the inside. Jed treated Breezy like a queen, which is why it was so out of character that she’d be at The Watering Hole tonight of all nights.
“He has an away game in Washington State.” These days he coached hockey for Denver University.
“Ah, got it. That sucks.” It wasn’t as if Breezy could jump on a plane and travel on a whim. She’d opened a children’s bookshop, Itsy Bitsy Books, which was enjoying a fabulous grand opening, and keeping her as busy as a hamster on a wheel.
“He sent me Godiva truffles, but we’re going to do our celebrating later.” Breezy unleashed an evil giggle.
“Atta girl.” Despite Margot’s mood, and the lousy weather, a genuine grin took root. It was a beautiful thing, seeing her best friend so happy.
“But I had an epiphany in the shower today. It’s half crazy, and half genius. And it happens to involve you.”
“O-kay.” Margot giggled. “Color me scared, but curious.”
“I need to explain in person, otherwise you might say no.”
“Gotta say, for a successful small business owner, you aren’t making the world’s greatest sales pitch.”
“Just hustle over here. Byeeeeee. Okay, awesome! She’s coming—” Breezy sounded like she was talking to someone else as she hung up.
“Wait. Breeze?” Margot knit her brows. “Who else is there?”
But the line was already dead.
Two more texts followed with quick succession. First, a message from Annie: Atticus made you a valentine!
Her ex-stepmom attached a picture of Margot’s kid half-brother holding an origami heart pasted to construction paper that read: Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, my sister should visit and take me to San Diego Zoo (hint, hint).
Margot’s chuckle faded as she clicked on next message. E
w, her ex. What did the douche-mcgouche want?
Hey, Hot Pants:) My place or yours?
“Neither,” she muttered, hitting Delete.
She’d dated Stefan until right after Halloween. He was a tatted-up owner of an MMA gym across the street from her yoga studio. His lickable biceps had made her stupid. Because what had started off as sexy alpha attitude had turned controlling and unpredictable. She didn’t have time for a jealous lover who hated the fact that she’d happened to have a sexual history that predated him. Then he started dirty talking about wanting to plant a baby in her. More than once. Kind of a lot.
Just say no to possessive womb-coating fantasies.
After she broke off the relationship, she hadn’t mustered a single regret except for the fact that she’d wasted all of autumn on such a jerk. Then a few weeks ago, she’d had to get stern after catching him lurking near her car after an evening gentle flow class. It had been maximum creepy and she’d ordered him to leave her alone in no uncertain terms. After the ensuing radio silence she’d thought—at long last—that he’d gotten the memo.
Apparently not.
A chill zinged down her spine as she increased her stride. She normally felt confident walking alone after dark, and hated that he’d stolen that from her.
But at least the neighborhood was busy. Every restaurant she passed was brightly lit and bustling. The cozy bistro tables were filled with couples, leaning in close as they laughed at private jokes between shared bites of dessert.
Whatever. She was fine being single. The wind increased in tempo, whipping thin purple clouds across the cold moon. Better than fine. Yep. She was happy on her own, and it would have to take someone pretty unbelievable to change that. Bad boys had been her weakness; but it seemed impossible to find one who’d be good for her.
She shook her head, dropping her chin to her chest and hurrying on. Guys like that didn’t exist; they were the male equivalent of unicorns.
Chapter Three
Margot stumbled into The Watering Hole moments before freezing into a human popsicle.
“Over here!” Breezy waved from the back booth that served as their unofficial meeting spot. She wasn’t alone. Her big sister, Neve, and Neve’s boyfriend, Tor Gunnar, head coach for the Hellions hockey team, were there as well.
