by V. L. Locey
Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon
Colors of Love #4
V.L. Locey
Contents
Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon
Newsletter
Acknowledgments
Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon
To my readers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
What is next in the Colors of Love series?
A note from the author…
Meet V.L. Locey
Other books by V.L. Locey
Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon
Can the love they once shared be saved or has the pain of the past eclipsed it?
It’s been twenty years since Kye McLeod left the quaint little mountain town of Spruce Lake, Maine to play professional hockey. He’s had his share of ups and downs, but his choice to hit the big city and not look back has paid off handsomely. The future hall-of-famer is now ready to retire and come out of that dark closet he’s been sequestered in since his first secretive kiss in high school with Davy Aguirre. Now that he’s heading home to keep an eye on his feisty grandfather, there might be the chance to rekindle the flame between him and Davy.
Kye quickly learns that the boy he left behind isn’t the man he’s now knocking heads with. He always imagined grown-up Davy—who now insists on being called David—would be beyond the pain that Kye’s youthful blunder caused him, but now he’s not so sure. When the wildlife conservation officer squares off with the ex-hockey captain their connection is incendiary and there are more than just fireworks. However, winning back the man he walked away from may not be as easy as he thought…
MM Hockey Romance
Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon (Colors of Love #4)
Copyright © 2019 V.L. Locey
First E-book Publication: February 19, 2020
Cover design: Sloan J Designs
Edited by Kathy Krick
All cover art and logo copyright © 2019 Sloan’s Design Shop
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PUBLISHER: V.L. Locey
Newsletter
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Acknowledgments
Stick Taps
To my family who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.
To my alphas, betas, editors, and proofers who work incredibly hard to help me make my books the shiniest we can make them.
To Rachel who helps keep me on time, in line, and reasonably sane.
Slow Dances Under an Orange Moon
(Colors of Love #4)
To my readers
While this book covers aspects of hunting and wildlife management that may be encountered by a wildlife conservation officer, I’d like to reassure my readers that no abuse or killing of animals is detailed on page.
Chapter One
In a quarter mile make a left on Old Franklin Road.
“Thanks, Deidre.” I rolled along at the amazing speed of thirty miles per hour, enjoying the rural scenery. Trees, cows, a deer or two, more trees, more cows. More cows and more cows. Oh! A silo. “Deidre, I need you to check to make sure we have not driven into a time loop continuum wherein we have, inadvertently, driven through a gap in time and ended up back in the late forties, circa nineteen forty-seven.”
Please refine your search parameters or word choice and ask again.
I chuckled at my GPS lady voice. Good old Deidre. “You and your dry wit, Deidre.”
Make a left turn onto Old Franklin Road and continue for seven miles where you will find your destination.
“Anyone ever tell you that you have a really sexy way of speaking. I mean, if I were into robot voices, and you were a man, I’d be all over you…just saying.” I patted the dash-mounted navigator then settled back into the plush seat of my smoky gray Tesla to enjoy the rest of the ride home. It had been years since I’d come home. Twenty to be exact, going on twenty-one this August. Spruce Lake and Pittsburgh were only a few hours apart via air travel. Why had I not come home more often? Sure, the life of a pro hockey player was chaotic from September to June, but the summers were open. What had I done with twenty summers? Why had I not come back to the tiny town that had birthed me? There was no tangible reason really. The natives of Spruce Lake were proud of me. My grandfather was proud of me. I was proud of me. I’d done twenty years in the NHL, won four cups, and was going to have my number hoisted to the rafters come November.
Not bad for a big dumb farm kid who had strong ankles, the will to block pucks with any part of his body, and the size to knock opposing players asshole over appetite. The paved road ended suddenly. The jar of rolling onto a dirt road pulled me out of my mental stroll with a grunt.
“Whoa, easy now, darling,” I cooed, easing off the gas before the next pothole bent a rim. My phone rang as I crawled down Old Franklin Road. I hit the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel. “Speak at me.”
“Kye, just checking in to see if you made it home yet,” my agent asked as I swerved to miss a woodchuck along the edge of the road.
“About ten minutes out. Any word yet from Peterson Farms on that hard cider sparkling water shit they want me to push for them?”
“Okay, as your agent, I would like to point out that calling the product of what could be a multi-million dollar promotional deal for you ‘sparkling water shit’ might be frowned upon by the people who want to give you those five million dollars.”
“Minus your ten percent,” I teased and got a short snort from Arn.
“I’m worth every penny and you know it.”
“True that. If it were left up to me, I’d just retire and go sit by the pond, beer in one hand, dick in the other, and fish all day long.” I reached for the stereo, switching from the radio which had faded out about ten minutes ago to a playlist.
“Better grow a third hand.”
“Uh?” My mind was split between a road that looked like the military had used it for artillery practice and looking for my Dave Matthews playlist. Life was just better with Dave and the band backing him up.
“To hold onto a hot woman.”
Oh. Right. Yeah. The world thought I was straight. Fuck. “Yeah, third hand. Totally need one of those.”
> “Are you still dating that actress?” Arn Toras was the nosiest man ever. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the highest paid sports rep on the east coast was living vicariously through me. That was not the case though as Arn went through women as quickly as he did ties.
“Which one?” I asked with just the right amount of het male swagger.
“Oh right, you have several fillies waiting in the McLeod stable,” he replied then put me on hold to take a call from someone who was, I guess, a bigger commodity than me.
Which was fine. I got it. Kye McLeod was one of the greats, a legend, and now officially out of the minds of the fans. Some in the Burgh would wear my sweaters still and cheer for me during alumni games, but hockey was a game for young men. Besides, I had other things to worry about. My testy old grandfather for one then making a formal announcement about my third hand wanting to hold balls and not pussy and finally tracking down Davy. I knew he still lived in Spruce Lake, had become a game warden, and was divorced. Yes, he was out but kept the flaunting down, to quote Grandpa Dunny. The hazy memory of that first kiss shared with a certain boy, the realization that my wiring was unlike 99.9 % of the other males in my high school class, and the soft pressure of Davy pressed up against me under the bleachers at that away game in—
“Right, back! The actress with the red hair like yours. No, wait, you dumped her. Asshole. So, I’m going to need you in Manhattan in two weeks. There an airport near you?” Arn jumped back into our conversation running on adrenaline and caffeine. You could hear the rush in his voice. Typical New York executive.
“Uh, yeah, small one in Chicory County.” I found Dave Matthews and eased into “#41,” a great tune in my humble opinion. “Send me the date and shit.”
“Will do. I’m sure after two weeks of Green Acres you’ll be ready to visit the city.”
“It’s not that bad. I did grow up out here in the boondocks,” I reminded him but could already feel the shift from old friend to agent. It was in the way he moved you along at his speed, talking at you instead of with you. Arn ran hot and steady in business mode during the day. At night you got a softer version of the man who had been known to take in young hockey players who were facing bad times at home. He was sharp as broken glass but under the edges, he had a good soul, which was why he’d been my go-to for twenty years. Me and plenty of others in the sport.
“And it’s been a real boon for your homespun, American image. Damn, that’s my other line again. Two weeks. I’ll be in touch. Don’t let all them randy farmer’s daughters wear you out. We need you looking refreshed and sporting that twinkle in your eye.”
Just like that, the call ended. I tapped the phone button and sighed. Farmer’s daughters. Yeah, I was not looking to score with them. I was more interested in the son of immigrants from Valencia, Spain. Lean, hard male with black wavy hair and eyes deep and brown who laughed softly and kissed passionately.
“Jesus,” I coughed and reached down to shove the heel of my hand into my erection, and then slowed to the required 25 mph downtown Spruce Lake demanded. I looked quickly at the row of stores on Main Street. And then we were out of downtown Spruce Lake. Didn’t take long to check out the diner, the hardware store, the police station, and the corner bar. If you sneezed while driving from one corner to the other you missed the mecca of business and socialization that was Spruce Lake, population around a thousand give or take. Seasonal camp inhabitants did not count, but they did add to the coffers of the diner, bar, and hardware store.
My old house, where Mom and Dad had lived until they’d retired and moved into the house I’d bought them in Boca Raton, had been knocked down. In its place sat a nice brick building that housed the game commission offices for the four surrounding counties. I was tempted to whip in and see if Davy was around, but the raging boner in my jeans kept me on the road out of Spruce Lake proper and heading to my grandfather’s place. I passed a church, Methodist, and a church, Protestant, and a church, Episcopalian. Ah, diversity! Acceptance!
“Yeah right,” I grunted, shoved at my dick again, and took a soft left onto Heely Road. Grandpa’s place was about five hundred feet from the turn-off on a dead-end that butted up against a farm pond. The Aguirre’s lived on the other side of the pond, along with two other families. All were involved in the only employer of any substance in this rural community, a small electronics factory that produced cell phone chargers that plugged into car cigarette lighters.
Two hundred people worked there or had when I’d been employed there, soldering wires and making doe eyes at Davy, during the summer of my junior year in high school. Most worked during the day and did farm chores in the evening. God forbid if the place ever closed. This town would be a ghost town in a month. Hell, it was one good BOO! from being that now.
I parked and exited my Tesla, my spine popping like champagne corks.
“Shit, Dunny.” I sighed as I worked out the kinks while taking in the house.
The farmhouse that I recalled from my time here, swimming in the summer and playing hockey in the winter, was a damn shadow of itself. Mom and Dad had been right. Dunny had really let the place go after Grandma Rose had passed. The wood siding hadn’t seen paint since Clinton was in office, the shutters were hanging loose. The gutters had actual saplings growing out of them, and the once grand front porch was propped up with several two-by-fours and fucking bubblegum.
The grass was up to the first floor windows and Grandma Rose’s prized rhododendrons were deader than fuck. Which was incredibly dead.
I took several pictures and sent them to my folks or tried to send them to the folks. Right. No cell service out here. Perfect. Pocketing my phone, I climbed the rickety steps and hammered on the front door. When no one answered, I walked in. No one in Spruce Lake locked doors.
“Dunny!” I shouted. The rank smell of fried foods and old man swept over me. “Jesus Christ, open a damn window would you?” I barked, storming to one of the big windows that looked over the porch and front yard—aka hayfield—and tried to open it. They were old frames, wooden and swollen and also nailed shut. “Are you fucking kidding me? Dunny!”
“Stop yelling, I was in the kitchen working on something.” I stopped jerking on the window and turned to face my paternal grandfather. Dunlop William McLeod was ninety years old, bald, bent, and a bugger of a man now that he was really elderly. “Told your father not to send you here. Don’t need some smartass kid coming around and telling me what to do.”
“Dunny, I’m close to forty. Not really kid material, and yeah, you do need someone here. The aging agency is extremely worried about you.”
“Fuck them.” With that the skinny old man spun around—with as much speed as a nonagenarian with a cane could spin—and waddled back into the kitchen.
“Nice, really nice, Dunny,” I mumbled, following along behind him, the kitchen opening up to greet us. Fuck me, but this room had not seen the sun in ages. Or a good scrubbing. And this coming from a man who has been known to sniff clothes on the floor to see if he could eke another day out of them. Granted, that was in my rookie year, but I still was not what one would call tidy. But this? Holy fucking hell. Dishes piled in the sink, brown grease and smoke film on every appliance, the walls were just as bad, and the curtains that hung over the window above the double sink were ratty. “Dunny, holy shit balls, this place needs to be quarantined.”
“Fuck you too. Go back to Pittsburgh. Not like you ever cared once you got that fat contract. Tell your father to come visit. Oh, that’s right, he don’t come around neither.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. “Dunny, one reason Dad isn’t here and I am is because the last time he visited you threw a cup of plant food at him and called him a rotten weed. Another reason is that he had major back surgery two weeks ago. Remember?”
My grandfather looked up at me, eyes just as blue as mine but not nearly as sharp. “No, he did not. That was Uncle Ben.”
“Dunny, your brother had back surgery in the late se
venties. He’s been dead for twelve years now,” I explained. Then I looked at the drone sitting on the kitchen table. Whatever else I was going to say kind of withered on my tongue. “Uhm…” Dunny sat down, picked up a screwdriver, and began fiddling with the drone. “Where did you get a drone?”
“Online, dipshit.”
Ah sure. Makes total sense. “Any reason you have a drone?” I sat down across from him in the same chair I sat in when I was fourteen. The cloud of nostalgia was choking me. Maybe I should have made more of an effort to come home more often. “I mean, what are we doing with it?”
“I’m sending them back to her,” he informed me. My brain was aching already.
“Sending what back to who?”
His gaze whipped up from the little parachute he was screwing onto the bottom of the drone. “Those fucking potato bugs!”
My brain slammed to a complete stop. “Uhm…”
“You know she had to bring them over. No way they swam across the pond. Well, she’s getting them right back but covert like. I fly this over, deploy the parachute over her garden, and bombs away!” He threw a skinny arm into the air. His dentures almost fell out he’d shouted so loudly.
“Are you talking about Mrs. Macklemore who lives on the left of the Aguirre’s?”
