by Pippa Grant
And I’m gonna go find the biggest fucking spider on the planet and stare that mofo down until even those creepy eight-legged butt-yarn mutants know who’s the king of this fucking jungle.
Dammit, now I’m sweating again.
I bang out of the bathroom naked, because hotel towels are for pansy-assed normal size dudes, and it ain’t like Ares has never seen my junk before.
“God, Zeus, can’t you pretend to have some modesty?” Ambrosia digs her fingers into her eyeballs like she’s trying to claw them out. She’s in the corner in a chair while Ares sprawls over my bed, watching some cooking show on Food Network.
“Nobody invited you,” I tell her.
“I’m on spider patrol.”
Ares snickers and chomps on one of those little chocolate mint things. Dude’s addicted. Has the best breath in the NHL.
“Quit being a dick,” I tell my sister while I root around in my bag for clean clothes.
“You like Joey Diamonte.”
“Didn’t I just tell you to quit being a dick?”
The thing about Ambrosia—Bro, See-uh, whatever the fuck she wants to be called these days—is that she ain’t scared of shit. Not spiders. Not jail. Not tattoo needles. Not the Easter bunny—don’t think I won’t fucking cut you if you repeat that—and not me or Ares.
Which means it’s damn hard to get her to shut up when she’s got something on her mind. “You need lessons in courting a woman,” she informs me.
“I know how to fucking court a woman.”
“Not this woman. She’s got bigger balls than you do. And she totally tried to cover for you. She told us you were dodging a baby bunny.”
I turn and give my baby sister a full frontal, because it’s really all I’ve got.
Also, what the fuck does it mean that Joey tried to save face for me? That she likes me? That she really did see a baby bunny?
That I’m a pansy-ass moron for wondering if she likes me?
Whatever. Point is, chicks don’t cover for me. Most of ‘em never find out I’m afraid of fucking spiders.
They never care enough.
“Chase’s dick is bigger,” Ambrosia says.
“The fuck it is.”
“Fine. But it’s still better.”
Ares turns the TV volume up until all we can hear is Martha Stewart trying to out-Dogg the Snoop.
My brother’s always got my back. I dig out the third bag of chocolate mints I’ve got hidden under my underwear and toss it to him. He catches it single-handed, grunts, and nods.
“Take them out of the wrappers this time,” I say over the TV.
He flips me off.
When your fingers are the size of bratwurst, it’s fucking impossible to wrangle the little shit sometimes.
Or so we like to let people think. Unreal what kind of stupid crap they’ll do for you when they think you can’t do it yourself.
Case in point? Ambrosia flops onto the edge of the bed—only part there’s any room—and tackles the chocolate wrappers for Ares.
“You going on her plane?” she asks me.
I grunt.
Because there’s no fucking room. All booked up until almost Halloween, the reservations agent told me. Well past the start of hockey season.
I reserved the whole fucking jet for an off day in early November.
By then, I’ll be back in Nashville with the Preds, through training camp, traveling for away games, hitting practice like a beast, doing a few puck bunnies every week, and Joey Fireball Diamonte will be a distant memory.
A blip in the Zeus Berger memory bank.
“I’m just fucking with her,” I tell my sister.
Ares pounds a finger on the remote, sending the TV into blackness. He growls at me. “Lie.”
“Even you aren’t too big for biology,” Ambrosia says with that smirky grin she’s had ever since she started sleeping with my best friend a few months ago. “Face it, you big lug. We’re all wired to want a mate. And you want her.”
“So? She’s hot.”
Both my siblings roll their eyes.
Probably because they remember that time I thought the neighbor’s dog was hot, but until you’re a ten-year-old kid in a man’s body, shut the fuck up and don’t judge.
“You like her,” Ares says.
“I like you too. Doesn’t mean I have to sleep with you.”
“Fine,” Ambrosia says. “You think she’s nothing more than pretty boobs and a big brain. Guess you don’t really want one of those seats Chase got for her flight tomorrow.”
Motherfucker.
When I’m done playing hockey, I’m gonna be a damn billionaire too. Chase gets all the fun.
Ambrosia’s smirking again. I missed her smirking ass too much the last few years to get mad about it though. If she has to be annoying, at least she’s happy. “When’s your flight booked?” she asks.
“November,” I grunt.
Ares gives me a high-five brow wiggle. Ambrosia pumps a fist in the air with a squeal of joy. “I knew it!”
“Shave,” Ares tells me. “Dress nice. Smell good. Hold doors.”
“Somebody been trying to teach you manners while I wasn’t looking?” I demand.
His cheeks go pink. He grunts, tosses three wrapped candies in his mouth, and flips the TV back on.
Huh.
“Don’t even try to change the subject.” Ambrosia waggles a finger at me. “He’s right. Get dressed. Something nice. And we’re taking you for a haircut, and you damn well better have a fresh stick of deodorant somewhere, because you’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“I don’t want a fucking girlfriend.”
She just smiles.
Nothing good ever comes when my sister smiles.
But if she’s helping me work my way to proving to Joey that I can do her like she’s never been done before, then fine.
Ambrosia can stay and help.
16
Joey
I distract Gracie from her inquisition about Zeus Berger on the ride back to the hotel with stories about Bailey the caddy, and I’m in the shower when Peach calls Gracie’s line to let us know Meemaw made it out of surgery with flying colors despite the delay.
She also wants an update on my conversations with Chase Jett, which Gracie apparently texted her about in the midst of smack-talking about how many steps she got on her fitness tracker while hiking today.
That’s the good news.
The bad news is, no relief for that unfortunate throbbing in my clit still taking up half my mental space. I’m wrapped in a robe with my hair drying in a towel while I answer more of Peach’s questions. Gracie’s walking in place, since she knows I’m talking to Peach, who’s probably also walking in place on her end of the phone.
“Hot damn, Fireball,” Peach says as I finish giving her the run-down of my golf game. In which I do not mention Prince Manning, because Gracie’s listening, and I don’t want her to know he’s flying with me tomorrow too. On his dime. “You do business shit even better than I do.”
“I insulted three potential customers and all but told an investor to fuck off.”
“You’re weeding out the wusses. Good job.”
“Tell her to quit walking,” Gracie hisses.
“Aw, is your baby sister getting all het up over losin’ to a girl?” Peach says. “Bless her heart.”
Peach loves Gracie more than I do, if that’s possible. When Gracie launched Facookies—the online storefront for her bakery back home where people can order sugar cookies with anyone’s face printed on them—Peach all but begged to play Gracie in a series of social media ads. Because there’s nothing like a sweet Southern woman saying, “I’m gonna eat all y’all’s faces off,” to inspire buttloads of cookie sales.
It was also Peach’s idea for Gracie to branch out into Dickookies and Pussookies too.
Yes, it is exactly what you’re thinking.
I pretend I don’t know my baby sister is making a shit ton of money off
putting people’s genitals on cookies. She pretends her profits are up because of high demand for Facookies alone.
And we all go to bed happy, most nights with me considering myself the sanest of the lot of us.
Though with Zeus still floating in my brain, I’m not sure I qualify as sane today. Horny? Yes. Conflicted? Undoubtedly. In need of a vacation? Most likely.
I fucking hate it when I need a vacation.
I don’t vacation well.
“Anything else we need to cover?” I ask Peach, because I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I need to make sure my crew’s ready for tomorrow before I hit the sack.
“Just that I got a little update that Zeus Berger himself reserved a private flight in early November. You plannin’ on mentioning that he drove you into a lake today? You know that’s the kind of thing normal people talk about with their girlfriends.”
I blink at the notes on my tablet in front of me.
Because November?
That’s definitely not related to his bet.
Is it?
November makes it seem like…like he’ll be thinking about me for the next few months.
Or like he made the reservation just for show, and he’ll cancel it tomorrow. Or he won’t cancel, and he just won’t show up.
There’s no way Zeus Berger plans his booty calls three months out.
And why is booty call the first thing that popped in my head? Maybe the last twenty-four hours have really been about him getting into my jet.
Shit.
If he just wanted to get in my jet, he wouldn’t be betting me a date. I can’t hide behind that one.
“Is she talking about Zeus?” Gracie demands. “Put her on speaker.”
“Yeah, put me on speaker,” Peach echoes.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I tell them both.
Gracie snatches my phone and pounds the button to put it on speaker. “I had to separate them,” she tells Peach.
No point in fighting it. They love to gossip. Instead, I cross the room to look for a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt in the drawer I claimed.
“Like they were fighting, or like they were tongue-wrestling?” Peach asks.
Dog. Attila the Tongue.
Yeah, he was totally doing it for me before those fucking alarms went off last night.
Interest flares to life once more in my pussy—as if it’s actually died down at all—and I suppress a shiver.
“Like he’s trying to talk his way into her pants,” Gracie says.
“Joey Diamonte, you are a stud,” Peach crows.
“Are you serious?” Gracie fires back. “She’s so much better than some overgrown puckhead.”
“Lighten up, Gracie-girl. She ain’t fixin’ to marry him. She’s lookin’ for a ride on the Brute train.”
“She is not going to sleep with him any more than I’m going to sleep with a prince.” She gives me the little-sister stink eye.
“You ain’t thinking she’s some kind of virgin, are you, Gracie-pie?”
I am most definitely some kind of virgin. Not that it matters. Sex doesn’t inspire me.
Not that there’s anything wrong with sex. It’s just not my primary motivational factor, and when it threatens to become such, I take care of it.
Maybe my problem is that I can’t jack off with my sister in the room.
“I’m thinking she has better taste than to sleep with Zeus Berger,” Gracie replies.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
Like an idiot. Because now Gracie’s staring at me as though an alien has possessed my body, and I’ve known Peach since my second week of flight training, and I know she’ll hear the interest. She has the ears of a bat and the nosiness of her Meemaw.
“You like him?” Gracie squeaks.
I don’t know that I like him—he still fucking walked away last night—but I feel like I should at least defend him. “He was here to play in a tournament to raise money for kids starting life at a disadvantage. Even I can respect that.”
And—spider and his alternate methods of playing golf aside—he’s oddly endearing in his own way.
Plus, I can’t tell you the last time a man asked me on a date. Even if he had to bet his way to getting there.
Peach is right—I’m not going to marry the man—but he’s definitely more than meets the eye.
Which shouldn’t matter, because I’m not going on a date with him. Even if he is mildly intriguing.
You don’t get where Peach and I are—running a successful flight adventure company at our ages—by having a life.
But we’re almost there. Weightless is profitable. We pay our staff well, benefits included. Another year or four of hard work, maybe some investment money to expand, and we’ll be able to relax knowing we’re all set for a very comfortable future.
That our families are set for a comfortable future too.
My dad was my fucking hero. After my mother walked out, he single-handedly raised me and Gracie on a handyman salary in a place where everyone already knew how to fix their own shit, which meant he was often out of work. But he still made sure we had what we needed.
Doesn’t mean I ever want Gracie’s kids to lie awake at night worrying about where they’ll go if she can’t make a mortgage payment.
“You like Zeus Berger,” Gracie says. Not asking this time. Accusing.
“Always had a thing for guys in pink wigs and minidresses.”
“Did we all just take a trip to an alternate dimension, or did she just say hockey’s biggest badass was wearing a dress?” Peach asks Gracie, who’s now running in place, even after hiking all day. “No, wait, don’t answer that. She’s playing those mind tricks to distract me again. Joey, I will never forgive you if you don’t tap that while you got the chance.”
Gracie shudders as she lifts her knees higher. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
“Moot point,” I tell them both. “I’m never seeing the man again”
“He asked her on a date, Peach,” Gracie says. “When’s the last time a man asked her on a date?”
“We counting that time Bullwinkle Jones bet her she couldn’t shoot that can of Bud Light during the Okra Festival a couple years back?”
“Nope.”
“Huh. Don’t have a clue then. Meemaw’s gonna be so excited to hear Joey’s got herself a boyfriend, even if he does dress up better than she does.”
Gracie sucks in a smile.
Peach cackles like she knows it.
“Hanging up now,” I tell Peach. “It’s dinner time.”
“You take those kids and those moneybags on the ride of their lives tomorrow, honey-pie. Then bring the money home to mama.”
I hang up. Gracie looks on the edge of keeling over, but she’s still jogging in place. “She’s cheating,” she says. “I know she’s cheating. She was in a hospital all day. And she’s so not right. How is it possible to hate and love someone so much all at the same time?”
Probably the same way it’s possible to be completely disappointed and yet still so completely interested in an egotistical ape on skates. “It’s nature’s way of making sure we’re too stupid to truly take over the universe.”
Gracie laughs and collapses on the nearest bed. “Thirty thousand steps,” she says to me. “Thirty thousand. And she’s still beating me.”
“She’s just seeing how far you can go.”
“Freaking forever,” Gracie declares. “Quitters never win. And I’m going to freaking win if it kills me.”
Yeah, that’s my sister.
“Thai, Indian, or sushi?” I ask, just to see her nose crinkle.
“Hamburgers. With extra pickle.”
She’s so very predictable. With excellent taste.
And I love her for it.
17
Joey
Early the next morning, after no more hockey player, billionaire, or prince sightings over dinner and a trip to buy me a new phone, I drop Gracie at the airport so she can get back
to her regularly scheduled life.
She has cookies to bake, and monstrosities to frost and ship. Dickookies.
I have a plane to fly.
I head to the other side of the airport complex to hit the secondary flight line studded with hangars for private jets, freight operations, and other non-commercial air travel. My crew brought in Luna, our 727, late yesterday after she had one of her sensors replaced. I park and make my way out to her with my first officer and flight engineer right behind me.
“Morning, ma’am,” Boomer calls to me.
I nod to Boomer and return Monkey Butt’s salute. Yes, I could tell you Monkey Butt’s real name, but he’s been Monkey Butt for thirty years, and even though he’s almost old enough to be my father, I will never be able to call him anything else.
I do wish he’d quit saluting me, but I know a losing battle when I see one.
Usually. Which is why I’m aggravated with myself for letting Zeus Berger still be taking up some of my headspace.
He’s gone. He was good for a little fun, a little disappointment, and now I need to move on.
And get my brain back in my airplane.
Which is way more dependable than some half-cocked offer of a date from a guy whose ego was bruised.
Boomer, Monkey Butt, and I climb aboard Luna for our normal pre-flight checks. Today’s run is relatively early. For crew rest reasons, we won’t be able to head home until tomorrow. Late this morning and all afternoon are open for answering questions from anyone on the flight today, with my crew on standby if anyone on the flight with a couple hundred million lying around who can stand the idea of letting me outrank him in this company wants to talk to them. Not standard operating procedure, but then, this isn’t a standard flight.
It’s an incentive flight for the kids, a promo op for Weightless and the celebrities, and a chance to show off to everyone else.
But first, I get to do my favorite thing in the entire world.
I get to fly.
“Going for that perfect parabola today?” Boomer asks with a grin.
“We’re certainly not going for half-assed,” I reply. It’s our pre-flight routine, Boomer and Monkey Butt playing the funnymen to my straight-laced hard-ass.