“Hello, there, handsome,” Blonde greets me.
Definitely a good start.
“Hey beautiful. May I sit with you two?” I ask politely.
“Yes,” she says, shifting her seat over. I grab a chair from the empty table next to them. My eyes drop to her rack. Nice tits.
I take a seat. The waitress comes over. “Drinks on my tab. Whatever they want,” I mutter. How did I get so shit-faced already? “Beer for me.”
The chicks order some drinks. Blonde leans over and runs her hand up my arm. “Love your tats. What does this one mean?”
“It’s a falcon,” I say. Fuck, isn’t it obvious?
“It’s so sexy. I love it.” Brunette smirks and her eyes gleam.
“Thanks,” I answer.
She scoots up and brings her chair from across the table to the other side of me. She runs her hands up my arm. Being sandwiched between two chicks is heaven. Having their hands on me causes my dick to stiffen. Our encounter is meaningless, but them touching me makes me feel wanted for the briefest of moments.
“I really want to kiss you,” I say, looking at Blonde.
“Yes, please,” she says, all breathy. I lean forward and capture her lips right here in the bar. I should take her somewhere private as our tongues mingle. I suck her bottom lip and she moans. Her hands drop to my lap where she begins to rub the bulge in my jeans. No . . . wait a minute. I open my eyes. That’s her friend’s hand.
“I want to kiss him, too,” she says. “I’m jelly.”
Fuck yeah. Jackpot.
“Should we go somewhere more private?” I ask.
Blonde nods. Did she tell me her name? I don’t remember it if she did. I turn to Matt who is watching the baseball game on TV. His gaze catches mine and he shakes his head, but he keeps quiet. I appreciate him not cock blocking me.
I walk toward the men’s bathroom and open the door. “Hello. Anyone in here?” I holler. I don’t wait for an answer. “All clear.”
They follow me into the handicap stall. Blonde steps forward first, pressing herself against me. A small groan escapes me. I dip my lips, kissing her slow at first. Taking her response as a green light, my hand comes up to caress her breast.
“I want him, too,” Brunette says, moving closer. She peppers soft kisses down my neck. With my eyes shut, I’m not sure which lady works my jeans down my legs but my cock springing free—swollen and ready—makes them both stop what they are doing.
My eyes open. Both women are staring at my dick. Blonde smirks devilishly and licks her lips.
“Fuck yesss,” Brunette hisses as she grips me in her hand, pumping my cock. My head falls back against the concrete wall. Blonde gets to work pushing Brunette’s jeans and panties in one fell swoop. She then dips her fingers between Brunette’s thighs causing her to moan all deep and throaty. My balls harden. Blonde then removes her jeans and panties. She plunges her pointer finger in her mouth sucking it like a lollipop then dipping it between her legs and rubbing herself.
“Fuck yessss,” I hiss, my hips grinding into Brunette’s fist.
“I’m ready,” Blonde says, grinning devilishly. In the bright light of the bathroom I see now that she looks older than me.
“Me, too,” Brunette says, with a wide smile that spreads from cheek to cheek. I glance at Brunette’s bare pussy. My dick aches, causing a growl to escape my lips.
The women move closer. “Spread your legs. Both of you,” I murmur, dipping a finger from each of my hands inside their pussies. Brunette curses under her breath. Blonde’s gaze drops to my fingers, watching me pump her. Her breath turns ragged; her lashes flutter closed, her mouth forming a perfect O. This is perfect.
Brunette fists my dick and blonde cups my balls. I suck in a harsh breath. Fuck, don’t blow your load now.
“Easy there.” I pull my finger out of Blonde and move their hands off my dick. I stop pumping inside Brunette, too. I need both hands to get a condom. No matter how sloshed I am, I stay responsible. Don’t need any little Karlssons running around.
They watch as I sheath my swollen cock.
“This is our lucky night,” Brunette says to Blonde.
“Kiss each other,” I demand. Blonde licks her lips as she leans toward Brunette. Their lips lock and Brunette’s fingers come up and mess with Blonde’s hair. They have the sexiest open-mouthed kiss I have ever seen. My cock bobs as I rub myself. That tingly feeling emerges in my spine as my balls tighten. Fuck. Deep breath. I move Brunette away from Blonde and turn her to face the wall. She places her palms flat against it. My hand slowly caresses the globes of her ass; it’s firm, and perfect. I enter her from behind, pumping inside her.
A flash of a camera blinds me. Alarm bells ring in my head.
“What are you doing? No pics,” I murmur, swatting my hands at Blonde’s phone.
“Come on. Do you know how long we’ve waited for this? Our shot with you?” she asks, and it sinks in. They know who I am. With my cock inside Brunette, I just want to get off. I confiscate Blonde’s phone, crushing it inside my closed palm. I grip Brunette’s hip firmly in my free hand and use it as leverage to thrust deeper. She moans, and my dick jerks inside her. It’s hard to hold her hip and the phone. It falls from my hand, crashing to the floor and bouncing into the next stall.
“Fuck,” she mutters. I come, grunting my release.
The bathroom door swings open, smacking a wall. “Hey. Sandy. You better not be in there.” Some dude pounds on the stall door. The lock doesn’t look strong enough to hold.
I look between the two chicks. “Are either of you Sandy?” I ask, hoping I’m smart enough to whisper.
Blonde raises her hand. Phew. At least I didn’t fuck her.
“Who is that?” I ask her.
“Her boyfriend,” Brunette answers.
“Sandy, I can fucking hear you, slut,” the man growls.
Fuck. Lifting my jeans up my ass, I don’t even have time to get the condom off when the dude smashes the door open. He pulls me out by the collar of my T-shirt. He’s a big fucking guy but I’m big, too. I’m just intoxicated. Still, I’ve been getting into bar fights since I was a teenager back in Hogsby.
I rip his hands off me and back him out of the stall.
“Motherfucker,” he curses. He’s wearing a leather biker jacket and he has a red bandana on his head. A camera flashes.
“Would you stop taking pictures?” I snap at Blonde.
The dude punches me in the face. It’s my fucking fault for taking my eyes off him.
Piercing pain shoots through my eye and down my cheek.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say. He swings again. I duck, closing the space between us. My anger rains on him as I punch him over and over. Adrenaline spikes my veins, as darkness clouds my vision, blocking out the rest of the world. This is what I crave. The fight. Feeling this high. I can’t explain it. I’m just wired this way.
“Nils, stop. Nils you’re going to fucking kill him.” Matt’s voice resonates somewhere in my mind, but I am too far gone, consumed by and drowning in my anger. It flows through my veins, igniting a fire that feels so good.
Someone is pulling me off the guy. He’s curled in a ball on the floor, his arms up protecting his face. My breath is heavy as the darkness clears and I see Matt, the bartender, and another big guy, holding me back.
“I hope they don’t call the cops,” Matt mutters, but it’s too fucking late.
When I look up, the cops are standing there, ready to read me my rights as I get arrested along with Blonde’s boyfriend.
My first time in the back of a cop car. I can’t breathe. After getting fingerprinted and placed in a holding cell, I’m given the opportunity to make one phone call. My best friend Myles is at the top of my list. His wife, Flynn, is a lawyer, and will know who to call to get me out of this mess.
Back in the holding cell, my head pounds as the reality of my poor decisions weighs heavily on my shoulders. If I get charged with a criminal offense, I c
ould be suspended from the NHL. What would I do with myself then? Those girls set me up, but I didn’t need to fall for their stupid advances. When something is too good to be true, it usually is. Sitting and waiting on my fate makes me crazy. I pace the cell. I dig my nails into my scalp. All I need is a second chance.
Two
Sierra
Running down the street with my backpack on my back and a coffee mug in hand isn’t the way I pictured my morning going. My cell rings. I reach into my jeans pocket to see the mechanic’s name on my screen.
“Hello,” I say, panting as the unusually humid September air has me sweating.
“Sierra, this is Holt from the garage,” a man says. My friend Ami from the station recommended him and said he was honest and reasonably priced.
“Hi, Holt. Please tell me you have good news?” I ask, holding my breath. My little red Toyota is an older car, but it gets me from A to B.
“Your exhaust pipe is punctured. It can potentially leak carbon monoxide, gas and AC freon. You must have hit a damn high curb because it’s punctured badly in a number of spots. It’s going to cost you a grand for the pipe, and another couple hundred to refill the freon that leaked,” he explains.
“I guess that means I can’t still drive the car without fixing it?” I ask, hope leaking from my every word.
He laughs sympathetically. “You could drive the car as is but if you are leaking gas and freon it will cause you a fortune to refill every time and there is the carbon monoxide threat,” he reminds me dashing my hope. “Wish I had better news for ya.”
Gah! No AC in the car. I freaking hate the humid Chicago summers. I much preferred the weather back home in Minnesota. Too much heat makes me want to crawl out of my own skin and the bigger, more pressing, problem is the lack of funds in my bank account. Now that I got fired I need to use the little money I have on groceries. It wasn’t much to begin with. I had planned on eating ramen noodles at least once a day until I found a new job.
“Sierra, you there?” Holt asks, breaking through my thoughts as to how I will pay him.
“I’m here. I lost my job last night. Not sure how I can pay you right now. I need to find something new,” I explain, trying to think of a solution. I don’t have one. I need to go job hunting ASAP.
“Ah! Gotcha. Well, you’re more than welcome to pick your car up or you can leave it with me. I’ve got space on the lot. If you think you’ll have the money soon?”
“Please keep the car there this weekend and let me see what I can do,” I say, hoping to buy some time. One of the reasons I got the car to begin with was that I hated the hot weather and needed my AC blasting all the time.
“You have a nice day,” Holt says.
“You, too,” I answer and end the call. At least he’s keeping the car with him. Getting stuck in a hot car with city traffic in this humidity would be a nightmare.
My forehead is dripping sweat as I near campus and rush to make it to my class on time. It’s good I only have one class on Thursdays.
My mind keeps going back to the station where I was an assistant on set for the evening and late-night news. I was basically everyone’s gopher. I didn’t mind the job so much when Sloane worked there, but since she’s been gone it has completely sucked. Still, I needed the job to pay my rent, car, bills, and food.
After getting fired, I was driving home when an asshole cut me off and I ran up a curb. They say bad things happen in threes; I’m just waiting for the shoe to drop on number three.
After class, I head back outside and my cell rings. Sloane’s name lights up my screen.
“Hello.”
“Sierra, good, hope I caught you after class,” she says, speaking quickly.
“You did. What’s up?” I stop walking back to my apartment and wait to hear what she has to say. I don’t like walking on the street and talking on my phone. It’s a distraction. Bad things can happen when distracted. Poor Sloane got mugged last year, and a girl from school was hit by a bus last week while she was texting at her stop.
“Nothing, it’s just I’m having these crazy nightmares. Last night I dreamt that all the bridesmaids and groomsmen forgot to come to the rehearsal dinner. Only my mom and dad showed, and well . . . you know they’re divorced, and things were very awkward. I woke startled in a cold sweat,” she says, sounding a little frantic.
“You know I would never forget to come,” I assure her.
“Did you ask the station for the weekend off?” she asks.
“Kind of.” I wince.
“What does that mean?” she says, her voice shooting up several octaves.
“Hon, relax, take a breath. Sheesh, I’ve never heard you this worked up before,” I say.
“I’ve never gotten married before,” she counters.
“Everything will be perfect. I have all the time in the world to help you with whatever you need. Stay calm. You only get married once,” I say, even though I am not sure I believe in marriage myself. Mom left Dad for a younger man. Dad remarried Maria, Nils’s mom, and they split, too. True everlasting love just doesn’t exist.
“You’re right. I know you’re right but after everything that happened with my parents, and my mom, well, you know she’s a sex guru now. It’s all a lot to digest,” she says.
I answer in the only way a good friend should. “You aren’t your mom, and Oli isn’t your dad. Look at everything you’ve been through together. How many years you spent loving him and he you. You two were meant to be,” I say, proud of my little speech.
“You are so right,” she says, taking several deep breaths. “Okay, now tell me why you have all this time on your hands. What happened? Don’t think because I am getting married you can put one past me.”
I laugh. “I got fired.” I should be crying, not laughing, but why cry over something I can’t control?
“Shit, Sierra,” she huffs.
“Cutbacks at the station. I was clearly dispensable. And I got into a little fender bender, so my car is in the shop. When it rains, it pours. But I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”
“You’re never a burden. Let me think of something.”
“Okay,” I reply .
“Do you need a ride to the rehearsal dinner? I can ask . . .” She pauses.
I think I know who she was going to say. Nils Karlsson.
“I’m just going to Uber.” I may be tight on cash right now, but I’d rather Uber than be stuck in a car with Nils.
“Okay, sweets. I better go,” Sloane says.
“Yup. See you tonight. Everything will be perfect,” I say.
“Yesss.” She sighs.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I press the End button.
Sloane promised me I wouldn’t have to walk down the aisle with Nils. I won’t even have to sit with him. I told her the story about what happened between us back in Minnesota. She’s convinced he isn’t the same guy. She thinks I should try to be friends with him because he’s best friends with her future husband, Oli, and it would help if we all got along, but I see the social media feeds. Nils is still the same guy: a player among women, a hot-headed fighter on the ice. Something runs hot in that man’s blood and it always leads to trouble. He side-railed my life seven years ago. I don’t feel like getting back on that tightrope and walking a line that I know will lead me to fall. Yes, that boy is hotter than hell, but he’s a big asshole, too. I’ve learned first-hand what Nils Karlsson is all about, and I am not having anything to do with him.
I take the bus to Aunt Becca’s. She’s the reason I moved to this city to begin with. When Mom left, Dad shut down; then he met Nils’s mom, Maria, and felt it would be better if they had privacy. He didn’t want to deal with an awkward teenage girl who was abandoned by her mother. Aunt Becca took me in, and I went to high school here in the city. It was a far cry from my quiet suburban life back in Minneapolis, but Aunt Becca was cool and supportive.
By the time I reach her apartment, I’m tire
d and sticky from all this humid weather.
“What’s wrong, Sierra? I know that look,” she says, as I sit at her kitchen table trying to hide my glum mood. She places a glass of sweet tea in front of me and eyes me closely.
“Sloane’s getting married this weekend,” I begin. I don’t have it in me to tell her I got fired from my job just yet. She’ll want to offer me money and she doesn’t have much, so I need to figure things out on my own.
“Aren’t you happy for her?” she asks quizzically. She knows Sloane is one of my bestest friends.
“I’m very happy for her but her fiancé, Oli, is very good friends with Nils. He’s a groomsman at the wedding and I’m going to be seeing him tonight. I don’t know why he still makes me so nervous,” I explain. Aunt Becca knows why I needed to come back to Chicago. Seven years ago, when I showed up on her doorstep with tear-filled eyes, she embraced me like a daughter.
“Didn’t you tell me Oli is a really good guy?”
“Yes,” I confirm, unsure where she is going with that question. “So what? Nils isn’t.”
“A person’s friends say a lot about who they are. If you think Oli is a good guy then maybe he is friends with Nils because of certain positive traits Nils possesses,” she explains.
Uh-uh. No way. I’m not buying that argument.
I pull my cell out of my jeans and scroll to a video that came up on my social media feed this morning. “I would believe that … but look at this. What does this say?”
She reaches for her glasses on the counter and takes my phone out of my hand. I watch her press the replay button and my blood runs cold. With her glasses on, her hazel eyes look big and round.
“Hashtag big stick,” she says, reading the caption above the video. Her cheeks flush. “Holy smokes, Sierra. That boy can move.”
My jaw drops. “Is that all you have to say? This video is totally gross. He’s a compulsive megalomaniac,” I sputter.
“Why are you getting so upset?”
I throw my hands up in the air. “When I walked away from Minnesota seven years ago, I never expected to see him again. He ruined my life,” I say, knowing I sound overly dramatic but not caring either way.
Dirty Swedish Player: A Big Stick Novel Page 2
