Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
This?
This is who she lets fuck her?
I may know my way around the bangs anything with a pulse barn, but I’m better than this.
By miles and miles and bloody miles.
“Layvon,” the production assistant that brought me the beanbags politely calls to him, “we need you in makeup.”
“Naturalmente,” he cockily coos in tandem with spinning on his heels. “Which way?”
“You can just follow me,” states the woman whose name I can’t recall.
Layvon nods, begins to follow, yet stops a few feet away to halt Arden in her stroll back to me.
Twice.
That’s fucking twice he’s blocked me.
I’d crosscheck him in the fucking teeth if we weren’t about to shoot a goddamn commercial.
I wonder if it’s too late to change partners.
I’m not sure my acting skills are up to code.
The fact they’re too far away for me to hear them is infuriating; however, it’s not nearly as infuriating as the flirting I can’t seem to look away from.
Why is she smiling so bloody big?
Why is she toying with her hair?
And is she giggling?!
Why the fuck is she giggling?!
She can’t really be into that Italian Stallion never be, can she?
The production assistant insists they keep moving, prompting Arden to deliver a playful tap his to his arm prior to her finishing her trek over to me.
“That was the GM,” she announces upon her arrival. “She wants me to take a few extra photos of the whole thing in progress. Evidently, they know the owner of this bar.”
“You fucked Layvon?” I bluntly question in tandem with dropping the item I’m fairly certain I accidentally dug a hole into. “Why?”
“We weren’t just fucking,” Arden rushes to say. “We…were…sort…of…doing…non-sex stuff too.”
“You dated Layvon?!”
“I-”
“You dated a hockey player?”
“I-”
“All the shit you talk about not dating us pylons and STD skaters and bunny hoarders and you secretly-”
“Idontknow that I would call it a secret.”
“-dated one of the biggest in the league?!”
“Why are you yelling at me?!”
“Why did you date him?!”
“Maybe because he fucking asked.” Unexplored hurt hikes through her expression. “Maybe because he is the only one to lace up who ever had.”
“That cannot possibly be true.”
“Well, it fucking is. Just like everything I’ve ever thought or said about dating hockey players is true. Because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. And he couldn’t commit when he swore he could. And he did say whatever was fucking necessary to keep me coming back and calling and texting until I realized I was never going to be more than the ‘just when we’re within miles of each other’ fuck buddy he called his girlfriend to shut me up.”
Disbelief over her willingness to give him – of all roster riders – a shot and his blatant mistreatment of her has me aggressively shaking my head. “Unbelievable…”
“What’s unbelievable is the fact he just asked me to dinner like-”
“Are you gonna go?!”
“I-”
“You’re really gonna go out again with Enzo Lamearri?!”
“Not your best chirp.”
“Like you didn’t just tell me he broke your bloody heart?”
“I-”
“Like he isn’t just gonna use you as if you’re a pracky sweater he needs to borrow because he forgot his at home?”
“I-”
“Like you’re still the fucking call up when the regular bunnies are injured?”
An outraged squeak hits my ears. “Fu-”
“That’s fine,” I cockily brush off with a bitter grin, doing my best to save face. “You two should go out.” Dialing back my jealousy is harder than bench pressing two hundo post a two-hour pracky. “Catch up. See if there’s anything still there. Especially since I was actually going to cancel our plans to do a bit of headline making myself. I haven’t been big on soc’ for more than my stats lately.”
It’s impossible not to notice her disheartenment deepening. “Seriously?”
“Of course.” I step back to create a bit of space to breath. Regain my composure. “We were just talking about the amount of mitt in the room, remember?” Cooly sliding one hand in my pocket precedes me waving at a tiny tittied blonde at the closest table. “That’s where I was taking the conversation earlier. I was about to tell you I needed the night away to insure I keep things silky…” Rather than bother meeting eyes with the woman responsible for the new putrid taste burning the back of my throat, I lock gazes with the giddy female that will be ending my celibate streak and wink. “Have fun tonight. I know I will.”
Chapter 11
Arden
I don’t need this shit today.
It’s bad enough I got an email this morning requesting we move my surgery up rather than back because the surgeon and his fiancée finally solidified their South Haven Island wedding plans over the Thanksgiving break, followed by a group text scolding me for skipping out of the holiday family photo for the third year in a row.
And then things became even worse when I couldn’t get my aid to connect to my Bluetooth so I could enjoy some Shakira versus the pussy game plan some of the boys were very vocal about creating after posing with some unexpected puck sluts at the giftshop.