Page 51 of Lucky Laces
We’ll be just a blip in the news cycle soon enough, some politician doing something outright fucking crazy or corrupt or a celebrity getting married to take the focus.
Still, the videos and pictures I see as I scroll through social media are intense.
The shaking, the fires, the cracks in the roads and the hillsides sliding down, glass cracking in high rises, street signs falling down, tree limbs landing on cars, power lines down—fucking intense and I’m aware of exactly how lucky we are that the fatalities were so low.
And that Diana and I were okay aside from the bumps, bruises, and cuts.
I wonder if she’s sleeping right now or if the nightmares are going to wake her up again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing that aside and jabbing at the remote.
And turning on the damned show she introduced me to.
I know I’m going to watch the whole fucking thing, know I’m going to devour that small piece of her then clutch it close.
And I do exactly that as I finally fall asleep.
And as I dream of her all fucking night.
The next afternoon,I’ve gotten my parents to the Uber and out of my hair (and actually all the way back to their house, considering the flight is so short), and I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to do with myself.
There’s no hockey.
I worked out my upper body.
I texted the guys, checking in and making sure everyone was good.
I tried to study the fucking drills to no avail.
And now I’m hobbling around my house, feeling unsettled.
“Christ,” I mutter, limping toward the fridge, thinking that getting drunk sounds like a fucking plan.
Only I don’t get that far.
Because there’s a knock at the door, and when I hobble my ass down the hall to answer it, my heart leaps.
Because through the side pane of glass, I see it’s Diana.
Hope, full and rampant, tears through me.
She came.
She fuckingcame.
I whip the door open, lips parting…
But my words immediately stopper up.
Because Diana’s there, but she’s not alone.
Standing behind her is…Jean-Michel.
Owner of the Oakland Eagles.
As in, the boss of all the bosses in the organization.
I think of slick heat and soft moans, plump lips and lush breasts.I think of quiet words and sad revelations and?—
