Page 34 of Off-Ice Misconduct
All I could think about was him, Mom, and, for some reason, Dad’s assistant. What would Mom think knowing his hot younger assistant buys him brand-new ties in the wrong color?
And when I say hot, I mean smoking hot. I think he was a runway model before he started at Dad’s architectural firm. There’s only one reason a guy like that infiltrates a boring architectural firm.
Money.
Fucking gold-digging runway models, preying on lonely widows like Dad.
I take another swig of tequila, nose wrinkling as it burns its way down, leaving a putrid aftertaste. Some people actually like the taste of this shit. I’m drinking it to be drunk. To feel less.
As for being drunk, mission accomplished. But feeling less? No. Everything’s heightened. Tears stream down my face without my permission.
Isn’t there supposed to be a worm in this bottle? I squint, peer down the neck, tip it?—
Splosh!
“Shit.” Tequila all over my face and my letter jacket. Huh, but is it even my jacket anymore? Stupid VanCourt stole it. Somehow. Even though it’s on my body. I could have worn anything else—a hoodie, a sweater, whatever. But I had to have the jacket.
It means Luke to me now.Luke.He’s Luke. What would he do if I called him Luke to his face?
Probably kill me.
What a way to go, though. He’d probably put his bear-paw hands around my throat. It’d be so hot.
Wish he were here, but he’s not. All I’ve got is this jacket, which doesn’t even smell like him. Shouldn’t it smell like him? All the guys and gals I’d ever lent my jacket to said they liked it because it smelled like me.
I wanna smell like Luke.
I pull it tighter around me anyway, using it as a shield and a reminder that I belong to someone. Someone who, when he finds me, is going to rip me a new one.Ugh.Even my hazy drunken mind knows I’m gonna love that.
But will he even come for me?
He will.
No, he won’t.
Yes, he will.
I look around for a daisy, don’t they decide shit like this? But there are no daisies, and he doesn’t come. It’s just me in a stupid jacket with delusions, old ghosts, and a half-empty bottle of tequila.
8
Luke
What a sight I must have been, a seething ball of rage, towering over the two bleary-eyed hockey players I recognized from class who squinted at me like vampires caught in the daylight. They reeked of cheap beer, regret, and the unmistakable hangover of undergrads who thought they were immortal.
“Where is he? Where’s McKinnon?” I demanded.
He hadn’t answered me last night. And while logic suggested he’d simply gotten drunk—against explicit orders—and passed out in his bed, logic didn’t help me sleep. I tossed. I turned. I gave up somewhere around four am and decided burning his frat house down was a better use of my time.
The little idiots didn’t know where McKinnon was either.
“Pretty sure he’ll be at the rink,” a third one who looked a little like a lost Ken doll said from behind, scratching his ass.
Ken doll was right. McKinnon’s curled up like a thief in a plastic chair at the back of the arena, clutching his half-filledbottle of tequila like a lover. I loom over him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.
He’s safe. Thank fuck. He’ssafe.
And now I’m going to kill him.
