Page 106 of Married to Number 22
“Nah.” I yank off my socks, my shin guards, then make short work of the rest of my gear.
“Lame,” he grumbles. But he’s smiling, and I know he’s not upset when he says, “Think your mom is due for another round of karaoke yet?”
God, no.
I shudder.
“Nope.”
“No?”
“She pulled a muscle in that dance-off with you at the party, remember?”
“I told her she needed to go easy on the splits.”
My mother and Smitty together are a dangerous proposition.
I shake my head and add, knowing I need to give him shit…because this is a hockey locker room and things don’t feel right without dishing up shit—even with my mind prickling, worry snaking through my stomach. “And also no more karaoke because my ears can’t handle another round.” I strip off my jock, my long-sleeved Grizzlies-emblazoned undershirt, toss the latter into the dirty pile, hang the former with the rest of my equipment so it can be cleaned (well, everything except for my lucky socks, that is).
“Rude,” Smitty mutters, glaring at me as I snag a towel and head into the showers.
But I make it quick because the conversation with Smitty is semi-humorous as always, but it doesn’t change the niggling in the back of my mind and I don’t want to delay further.
Luna didn’t text back.
From the moment she leveled with me about everything, she’s always texted back, always been available.
It’s been easy, in fact—falling back into the old routine, becoming partners in crime again.
Turns out when you’re hopping into a fake marriage with both parties aware of exactly what’s at stake, the bullshit falls away.
And we can just beus.
It also helps that we set the sheets on fire.
Orgasms. Right.
Smitty buys computer parts…I’ll win over my woman with orgasms.
And jewelry. And pastries. And ice cream. And books.
I rush through drying off and getting dressed, knowing that since it’s after eleven, I know exactly which one of those I can utilize tonight if I reallydidpiss off Luns tonight.
That would be…orgasms.
Win-win.
And yeah, maybe Smittyison to something.
I snag my stuff, hurry to my car, and head home, glad we’re playing in San Jose and not on the road, so it doesn’t take long to make the drive. The lights are blazing when I pull into the driveway, something that intensifies the niggling in my mind, especially when I spot an unfamiliar car parked in front of the house.
The board meeting was today.
Luns got her victory.
And her brother and father?—
“Shit,” I hiss as I pull to a halt, slamming the transmission into park. I throw open the door and don’t think, just haul ass inside.
