by Elle Kennedy
“I still don’t get why she has a grudge against Solange,” I admit as Allie hovers over the coffee table to top off our margaritas. The wide neckline of her shirt shifts to one side, providing me with a view of one bare shoulder and the swell of her left boob.
I’m about to comment on how the sexy view is much appreciated, then think better of it. I promised I wouldn’t hit on her tonight, and if I break that promise she might kick me out before I find out why Marie-Thérèse tried to kill Antoine.
Allie flops down beside me, and I give myself a mental high-five because she didn’t leave a foot of distance between us this time. We’re inches apart now, which tells me she’s starting to warm up to me.
“I’m not sure either. I haven’t figured out the whole backstory yet. I think it has something to do with Solange’s father loving his daughter more than his wife,” Allie muses. “There were some flashbacks in the earlier episodes that heavily implied he wanted to jiggle down with his daughter.”
“Kinky.”
She snickers.
We go quiet as the next episode picks up exactly where it left off. Antoine manages to subdue Marie-Thérèse, and the two proceed to argue for ten minutes. Don’t ask me about what, because it’s in French, but I do notice that the same word—héritier—keeps popping up over and over again during their fight.
“Okay, we need to look up that word,” I say in aggravation. “I think it’s important.”
Allie grabs her cell phone and swipes her finger on the screen. I peek over her shoulder as she pulls up a translation app. “How do you think you spell it?” she asks.
We get the spelling wrong three times before we finally land on a translation that makes sense: heir.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “They’re talking about the father’s will.”
“Shit, that’s totally it. She’s pissed off that Solange inherited all those shares of Beauté éternelle.”
We high five at having figured it out, and in the moment our palms meet, pure clarity slices into me and I’m able to grasp precisely what my life has become.
With a growl, I snatch the remote control and hit stop.
“Hey, it’s not over yet,” she objects.
“Allie.” I draw a steady breath. “We need to stop now. Before my balls disappear altogether and my man-card is revoked.”
One blond eyebrow flicks up. “Who has the power to revoke it?”
“I don’t know. The Man Council. The Stonemasons. Jason Statham. Take your pick.”
“So you’re too much of a manly man to watch a French soap opera?”
“Yes.” I chug the rest of my margarita, but the salty flavor is another reminder of how low I’ve sunk. “Jesus Christ. And I’m drinking margaritas. You’re bad for my rep, baby doll.” I shoot her a warning look. “Nobody can ever know about this.”
“Ha. I’m going to post it all over the Internet. Guess what, folks—Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis is over at my place right now watching soaps and drinking girly drinks.” She sticks her tongue out at me. “You’ll never get laid again.”
She’s right about that. “Can you at least add that the night ended with a blowjob?” I grumble. “Because then everyone will be like, oh, he suffered through all that so he could get his pole waxed.”
“Your pole waxed? That’s such a gross description.” But her eyes are bright and she’s laughing as she says it.
Christ, she’s so pretty. And sexy…so goddamn sexy. I wonder why I never noticed it before, but I guess it’s because every time I saw her prior to Friday night, she was glued to her boyfriend’s side.
The moment I think about Allie’s ex, her phone buzzes. Speak of the devil.
“What does he want now?” I have trouble hiding my irritation, but she’s too distracted by the text message to notice.
She tilts the screen toward me, and my annoyance grows. So can we meet up 4 coffee? it says. I really need 2 talk 2 u.
“Say no,” I advise.
Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. “It’s…hard.”
“You have no problem saying no to me.”
“I didn’t date you for three years,” she points out.
I gently take the phone from her hand and set it on the table. “Okay. You ready for some real talk?”
She nods shakily.
“Sean is going to keep texting you. He’s going to keep emailing and calling and doing everything in his power to win you back. You want to know why? Because you’re smart and funny and smoking hot, and he knows he’s a total idiot for letting you go.”
Surprise fills her eyes.
“He’s going to keep at it. Which means you need to learn to ignore it.” I study her face. “That is, if you’re serious about moving on.”
She nods again, resolute this time. “I am.”
“Then move the fuck on, babe. You can’t run to your friend’s boyfriend’s house or hide out in the dorm every night. Tell the guy you don’t want to talk to him, and then go out and find yourself some distractions. I can help you, if you want.”
“Let me guess,” she says dryly “You volunteer as sexual tribute?”
“Nope. For once, I’m not talking about sex.”
“What do you suggest then?”
I grin. “I think you need to live the Life of Dean.”
“Huh. Okay. So I should throw on some hockey pads, let a bunch of behemoths smash me into the boards every night, and reward myself with a never-ending string of casual sexual encounters. Got it.”
I lean in and tug a strand of her hair. “Don’t be an ass.”
“My apologies.” She smiles. “Please, tell me more about the Life of Dean.”
My hand travels across her smooth cheek to grasp her chin. “Look at me, Allie-Cat. Does it look like I have many problems? Are you ever going to find me moping in my room or stressing out about trivial bullshit?”
“No,” she says slowly.
“I’m an overall happy person, right?”
Her suspicious gaze locks with mine. “Yes. But how is that even possible? Nobody is happy all the time.”
“It’s absolutely possible.” I rub my thumb over her lower lip. Her lips are so fucking soft. I’m dying to kiss them again. “You want to know my secret?”
“Mmmm?” She sounds distracted. I stroke her lips again, and I’m gratified when her breath hitches.
“I do what I want, when I want it. And I don’t give a shit what other people think about me.”
That gets her attention. “Sounds nice, being able to do what you want all the time. Sadly, that’s not how life works.”
“You make life work for you, babe.” My fingers travel down her slender throat, skimming over her pulse point. “What do you want, Allie? Tell me one thing you’ve been dying to do but haven’t gotten around to doing.”
Her forehead furrows as she thinks it over. “Well. I’ve been wanting to start a new cleanse, but I keep putting it off.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“I go on these juice cleanses a couple times a year,” she explains. “It sucks, because you’re stuck on a liquid diet for two whole weeks, but you feel so much better afterward.”
“You’re a fucking weirdo. Pick something else. Something normal.”
She pauses, deep in thought again, and then her expression brightens. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to salsa dance.”
Fuck. That’s such a chick thing to say. “Then do it,” I tell her.
She chews on her lip again. “I don’t know… I mentioned it to Sean once but he didn’t want to take lessons with me, and I was too embarrassed to go alone. I looked into it and found out that if you show up alone, they pair you up with a random partner.”
“So what? It’s an opportunity to make some new friends.” I shrug. “I think you should sign up.”
“Are you offering to take salsa dancing lessons with me?” Her expression is hopeful.
I snort. “No way. I only do what I want, remember?
And I do not want to salsa dance. But I think you should.”
“Maybe I will,” she says thoughtfully.
“That’s the spirit.” I give her chin a teasing pinch. “Stick with me, kid, and your entire life will change for the better. That’s the Di Laurentis guarantee.”
Allie heaves out a sigh.
“What?” I demand.
“I can’t decide if you’re being sincere or if you’re trying to get in my pants again.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Who says it can’t be both?” When that gets me another sigh, my voice becomes gruff. “I’m being sincere.”
“Wow. I think you actually mean that.”
For some reason, her careful scrutiny has me shifting uneasily. And I’m suddenly wholly aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt. She is too, because those big blue eyes drift lower, focusing on my abs before she wrenches her gaze away. The air between us seems to crackle. Allie’s pupils are dilated, and there’s no mistaking the rapid flutter of her pulse in the center of her throat.
I know arousal when I see it. Little Dean knows it too, and he promptly thickens behind my zipper.
“Allie…” My voice comes out hoarse.
She’s off the couch before I can blink. “Annnnd it’s time for you to go.”
She sounds overly cheerful, and I can tell she’s struggling to control the same waves of desire that are practically swallowing me whole.
When I remain seated, she frowns deeply. “Shirt up and go home, Dean.”
“Allie.” Slowly, I rise to my feet. My mouth is full of gravel as I say, “I want—”
She whips up her hand. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I mean it, it’s time to go.”
I want to ask her how long she’s going to keep fighting this, but since I know it’ll only piss her off further, I keep my mouth shut and do what the lady asked—I leave.
On the drive home, I resign myself to another night of getting up close and personal with my right hand.
10
Dean
The next day, I have the misfortune of leaving the International Relations lecture hall at the same time as Sabrina. I tense up, waiting for the inevitable bitchy barb.
“You looked a little lost in there, Richie. Was Professor Burke not speaking slowly enough for you?”
Yep, there it is.
I roll my eyes. “Right, because I’m dumb. Good one.” I don’t bother asking her not to call me Richie. I can’t stop her from doing it any more than I can stop Summer from ditching my old childhood nickname. Sabrina decided I was a stupid, spoiled Richie-Rich type from the moment we met.
Of course, that didn’t stop her from banging me, now did it?
“So which poor freshman will be writing your paper for you?” she asks sweetly. “You have a whole slew of them on speed dial, right? I assume one of them wrote the LSATS for you, too.”
I halt at the top step of the front entrance. I tolerate her taunts because they’re not worth defending myself against, but every now and then I have to draw the line. “It just kills you that I scored two points higher than you, huh?” When her nostrils flare, I know I’ve hit my mark.
She recovers quickly. “Again, probably because you paid someone else to take the test for you.”
“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night, right?”
Sabrina tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder. “I sleep just fine, thank you. Knowing I’ve actually earned my grades leads to a very restful existence. You should try it sometime.”
This time she hits her mark. A frown tightens my mouth, but I don’t take the bait because that’s exactly what she wants me to do. She’s been holding this bullshit over my head since sophomore year, and I’m damn tired of it.
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Sabrina.” With a shrug of indifference, I make my way down the steps and wonder if she plans on keeping this feud going when we’re at law school next year. I fucking hope not. The hostility she dishes out is getting old, not to mention annoying.
Speaking of annoying, I’m supposed to be at Hastings Elementary in twenty minutes for my first practice with the rugrat team. Go Hurricanes.
As I make the ten-minute drive into town, I curse O’Shea for forcing this volunteer gig on me and ponder the authenticity of voodoo dolls. Eventually I decide it doesn’t matter if they’re real or not. It’d still be fun to poke needles into a teeny doll version of Frank O’Shea. Once it starts falling apart from all the holes, I can use the head as a stress ball.
At a red light, I shoot a quick text to my teammate Fitzy—Hey, do u know how 2 make a voodoo doll?
His response doesn’t come until I reach the small arena across the street from the school.
Him: I’d think u were fcking with me, but the question is stupid enuff to feel legit. No idea how to make v-doll. Can prolly use any old doll? Challenge will be finding a voodoo witch to link it to your target.
Me: That makes sense.
Him: Does it??
Me: Voodoo implies magic, hexes, etc. I don’t think any doll would work. Otherwise every doll is a v-doll, right?
Him: Right.
Me: Anyway. Thx. Thought u might know.
Him: Why the fuck would *I* know?
Me: Ur into all those fantasy role-play games. U know magic.
Him: I’m not Harry Potter, ffs.
Me: HP is a nerd. Ur a nerd. Ergo, ur a boy wizard.
He sends a middle-finger emoji, then says, Bday beers at Malone’s 2nite. U still down?
Me: Yup.
Him: C U ltr.
I tuck my phone in my jacket pocket and hop out of the car. At least I have something to look forward to after this. Celebratory beers for Fitzy’s twenty-first birthday will be my reward for spending the afternoon coaching children against my will.
The rink is empty when I stride through the double doors. The cold air greets me like an old friend and I breathe it in, shifting my duffel to my other shoulder and making my way to the home team bench, where a tall man in a red sweater and scuffed black hockey skates is peering at a clipboard. The whistle around his neck tells me he’s the coach of the Hurricanes.
“Di Laurentis?” When I nod, he extends a hand. “Doug Ellis. Nice to meet you, kid. I watched your Frozen Four game on TV in April. You played well.”
“Thanks.” I gesture to the deserted ice. I’m ten minutes early, just like O’Shea ordered me to be. “Where’re the kids?”
“Locker room. They should be out soon.” He sets the clipboard on the ledge that spans the bench. “Chad fill you in on what’s expected of you?”
“Nope.” Despite what O’Shea told me, I don’t think Coach Jensen has any idea I’ve been recruited to work with the Hurricanes.
“Well, it’s not all that complicated. We start each practice with thirty minutes of drills, then do a thirty-minute scrimmage split up into three ten-minute periods. The boys work their asses off. Good kids, the lot of them. Talented, smart, eager to sharpen their skills and get better.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“They loved Kayla—” At my blank expression, he says, “Your predecessor.” Right, the chick who’d come down with mono. “Anyway, she worked mostly with the offense. Did a terrific job, but I’ll be honest, I’m glad to have a D-man on board. A few of the boys have trouble manning the defensive zone. I’d like for you to work closely with them.”
We chat for a few minutes about my duties, and then he delivers a few warnings about not dropping F-bombs around the kids and not manhandling them in any way.
“Got it—keep it PG and don’t touch ’em. Anything else?” I ask.
“Naah. You’ll figure out the rest as you go along.”
All in all, Ellis seems like a decent man, and when the kids thunder out of the locker room and greet him like he’s Jesus Christ brought back to life, my opinion of him climbs higher. He told me he’s the school gym teacher but that even if he lost his job, he’d never walk away from th
is team. Or the eighth grade girls’ volleyball team, which he apparently also coaches.
I drop onto the bench and quickly kick off my Timberlands, replacing them with the Bauers I stowed in my duffel. Then I hop the ledge and skate toward Ellis and the kids. Half of them are wearing red practice jerseys, the other half are in black. Ellis introduces me to the team, who oooh and aaah when he informs them of my multiple Frozen Four wins. By the time we set up the first skating drill, every kid on the ice is begging for one-on-one attention from me.
I’m not gonna lie—I have a blast from the word go. The boys’ passion for the game reminds me of when I was a kid, how excited I was to put on a pair of skates and tear down the ice. Their enthusiasm is downright contagious.
When Ellis blows his whistle to signal it’s time for the scrimmage, I find I’m genuinely disappointed that the drills are over. I’d been giving tips to a seventh-grader named Robbie during the last shooting drill, and the wrist shot he’d floated past the goalie had been a beauty. I want to see him do it again, but now it’s time for the boys to take the skills they just learned and apply them to the scrimmage.
Ellis and I serve as both refs and coaches, calling out penalties and offering advice when needed. The thirty-minute game ends way too fast for my liking. I could stay out there forever, but Ellis signals the end of the scrimmage and gestures for everyone to skate forward.
There’s a strange clench in my chest as he addresses each boy, one at a time, to tell them one thing they did right at practice today. Face after face lights up at his compliments, and by the time Ellis is done I think I might be in love with him.
Damn, he’s a great coach.
After that, we follow the kids to the locker room and help them put away their equipment in the proper cubbies. They’re a loud, boisterous group, laughing and joking and chirping each other as they change into their street clothes. The hallway outside the door is littered with vending machines and parents waiting for their sons. Robbie, however, stays behind. He’s changed out of his practice uniform, but I’m troubled to see him lacing up his skates again and tucking the bottoms of his jeans into them.