A tree limb had split away from the main trunk of a giant fifty-year old oak. The limb has to be twenty-five feet long and a foot in diameter, sporting several branches. And the fucking thing must weigh a ton. Literally. “Fuck,” I say again.
The fallen limb lays across the now demolished hood of the Land Rover.
Pink clutches my arm, eyes still wide, showing off the sparkling hazel depths. Only she could distract me from disaster right now, but she remains focused.
“Do you think you can get the branch off the car? We need to get to the ferry. My phone’s not working—I just tried it—so we can’t call for an Uber or a taxi or whatever. If they’re even operating.” Wind whips her hair as her hands fly around and her voice rises in panic. Pink panic. A reasonable response for anyone else. I reach out and push the hair from her face. One thing I have to thank the storm for, because I like doing it, touching the silky strands of her hair and the porcelain perfection of her skin.
“Never fear, Pink. You have a civil engineer on the job.”
She grins, sticks her tongue firmly in her cheek and says, “I don’t know, I think this might be a job for a big brawny hockey player.”
“Let’s get to it.” I make my way through the smaller leafy branches to where the main mass of the limb hit the car. It looks bad, but I keep my suspicion to myself. There’s likely more than body damage done from the looks of the dent in the hood.
Based on the size of it, it appears the limb will be too heavy to move, but you never know about hollow spots. So I test it, giving the wood a shove. Then with two hands gripping it securely and a foot wedged on the bumper for leverage, I tug at it with everything in me. Before I burst some blood vessels, I give up, panting with the exertion. Kind of reminds me of when I started weight lifting as a kid. Feeling weak and disappointed, I’m bent over catching my breath.
“You all right, champ?” The irreverence doesn’t cover up her concern entirely. If she were one of the guys, I’d give her the finger. But Pink makes me laugh.
“Time to rig up a rope and pulley system,” I say. “We can fling a line over that branch up there.” I point. “If you’re up for climbing the tree to help me out?” I’ll need her cooperation, but I’m not worried about her rising to the challenge and she doesn’t disappoint me.
“Sure. It’s been a while, but I’ve been known to climb a tree or two.”
“Yeah? That in the ballerina playbook?”
She swats my arm and my dick lights up. Shit. She has me trained to enjoy her little slaps. Before the notion takes hold and robs me of the ability to think, I head for the garage and wave her to follow me.
“Shouldn’t take long to set up. As long as we can find the materials we need.” After digging around, I assemble the materials and Pink changes her shoes before climbing up with a boost from me—my favorite part of the operation.
We get the rope and pulley set up and leveraged against the tree’s main trunk, I pull, using all my muscle power and my weight. I manage to heft the limb off the car just enough, then shove it with my booted foot to the side until it crashes to the ground.
“Obstacle number one down, now to deal with obstacle number two,” I say. A clock ticking in my head because we need to get off this island by tonight. Somehow. The team meeting in the morning is starting to loom larger in my mind.
“Obstacle number two?” She says as she moves closer to the car, climbing over the leafy branches and letting out a breath. “Shit. Let me guess. Opening the hood could be a problem. Also,” she says turning to me, “I bet you my next client’s net worth that the engine is damaged under here.” She bangs on the already battered hood.
“You definitely have a propensity for violence, you know that?”
She rolls her eyes. “How do we open the hood?”
“We need a either a blow torch or a metal cutter,” I say as I walk back to the garage.
It was a long shot, so I’m not surprised when we find neither a blow torch or metal cutter, anywhere on O’Rourke’s property. He has a lot of stuff, but the list falls shy of metal shop equipment. Note to self—when I buy my house it will have a big-ass outbuilding with a fully equipped shop.
“What now?” Pink says as I help her from the tree after she goes back up to disassemble the pulley system. She lands on the ground, close to my arms. I want to wrap her up, but she quickly steps away like I have a disease. Maybe I do. It’s called incurable horniness and it shows up whenever I’m in her vicinity. Sometimes when she’s on my mind. Lately in my dreams. Fuck.
She wipes tree bark debris from her pants. Or leggings or whatever the hell you call the formfitting material that tells no lies about her shape.
“Now,” I say on a huff, refusing defeat, “We walk.”
“What about our stuff? What about the dogs?” She pushes her hair from her face, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek and looking fucking adorable. Kissable. Like always.
“Good idea. We can pack the stuff up and load it on the puppies. They can carry it like alpacas or donkeys.”
I’m being a wise-ass partly to get a rise from her and partly because I’m frustrated as hell. About getting off this fucking island and away from this fucking nightmare aftermath of the storm, but mostly I’m frustrated that Pink is shutting me down as plain as if she were carrying a neon-lit stop sign and flashing it every time I get within a foot of her. Or if I look at her a certain way—like I want to kiss her and make wild fucking love with her. Which is probably the way I look every time I lay my eyes on her.
“Don’t be a jerk.” She doesn’t have to say the words aloud. The look on her face tells me loud and clear what she thinks.
“I’ll walk to town and see if I can get us out of here. The tide is going back out now, so the worst of the storm surge is over. You can wait here with the puppies.”
She nods. I stand there watching her, hoping she’ll ask me to stay with her, but she doesn’t. She clearly can’t wait to get rid of me. I rub the back of my neck and survey the mess that Mother Nature made of Ryan and Chelsea’s beach haven on Nantucket. At least the waves didn’t reach the house. The patio wall took some hits, but it looks repairable.
“Maybe you should get going,” she says. “It’s going to take a half hour to walk to town at least.” She licks her lips, her eyes wary.
“Or I could stay and wait for the police to come by and patrol the neighborhood again.” Because I’m sure they will. Problem is I’m not one to sit around and wait for something to happen. So I move, heading into the house to find dry clothes and afraid it’ll be a matter of the least wet clothes that I’ll need to wear. She follows me inside and walks into the room while I’m putting on my last pair of dry socks. The day’s light dims. Already mid-afternoon. Shit.
“I really appreciate your doing this,” she says, shrugging. “I could go instead if you want. You look tired.”
A smile breaks out. “Not half as tired as you look, babe. I got this.”
“Fine.” She bristles at the use of babe. It’s the reason I say it.
“I’ll clean up as much as I can.” She waves a hand around. Of course she will. She’s the most industrious person I know. Oddly.
I nod and pull on the old boots I’d found in Ryan’s closet. They’re a little big, but that’s better than small. Too bad none of the rest of the clothes he left behind fit me. Not surprising. I’m the biggest dude on the team. The enforcer. The MVP enforcer according to Pink.
I’ll take it. I’ll take anything with MVP in it from her. Except MVP player in the pejorative sense. Too bad that’s the way she uses it with me. But that was before she got to know me.
Brushing past her through the bedroom door, I hold my breath. She follows me to the front entrance and I stop with my hand on the handle, about to push it open.
“I feel like I’m going off to war.” I smirk.
She smiles back. “I know what you mean. It’s been a hell of a weekend.” The pups scurry over to us, ready to venture out.
/>
“How about a kiss goodbye?” I say before I lose the moment and my nerve. Which is crazy for me since one thing I’ve had in plentiful supply all my life has been nerve.
She freezes, her eyes dart away, and she licks her lips like she’s dying to say yes, but afraid. So I let my boldness free and take her face in my hands, move in close, and lower my lips to hers nice and slow so she has plenty of chance to back out. But she doesn’t.
My dick celebrates the win with a stand-up cheer and I plunder her mouth with abandon. It’s one of those kisses I feel down to my soul, the soft give of her lips as they part, the wet velvet interior of her mouth as my tongue explores, the raw need, my hungry emotions leaving nothing unspent. It’s the kind of kiss a guy gives a girl he’s not going to see for a long time, a gritty reluctant farewell to a beloved, a tormented wanting of what I’m about to leave behind.
My hands slide down her neck and I nibble the corners of her mouth, leaving parting touches on the soft skin of her face. I lift my head, take a step back.
Way too much for a guy taking a walk to town. Not too much for a guy wishing he could have more. But I get the feeling I’m not on Allie Pinkerton’s future dance card.
“I’ll be back,” I say. Then, feeling stupid and melodramatic, I add a menacing look to mimic Arnold in Terminator. She smiles at my levity, thank God.
I walk the mile and a half to town in less than a half hour, even hampered by the obstacles—mostly tree branches—in the streets. The storm damage is impressive. As I skirt close to the water, one of the streets and some of the property is awash with seawater, sand, and rocks.
Half expecting to find Jaws lying in the middle of the road flopping around, I keep going, not stopping to talk to people, which is hard for me. Instead, mindful of time running out and Pink with the pups back at the ranch counting on me, I head directly to the police office—right after I ask Nellie at the grocery store where it is. I can’t believe she’s still working there or that it’s open and I almost ask her if she slept there, but I’m on a mission, so I move on.
The police officer requests my name right off the bat—part of their protocol—and he’s a Brawlers fan, so he does a double take and I confirm for him that, yes, I’m the guy—defenseman for the team.
“I need to get back to Boston for preseason by tomorrow morning. Any way off the island, like right now?”
“Shit—I mean, sorry, sir. But there’s no public transportation off the island yet. The ferry is shut down and so is the airport. I’m not sure when they’ll open up. Maybe later tonight.” Apology and concern crease his brow.
“I get it,” I say, refraining from swearing a blue streak. “Maybe you can help me with another problem. My car—or rather my friend’s car—got zeroed by a tree limb and I could use the name of a garage. It’ll need a tow.”
“That I can help you with. Come on, I’ll give you a ride over there.” He lets his captain know he’s performing a civic duty and gives me a ride to a garage less than a half mile away. He sticks with me a few minutes while I wait my turn. Maybe I should offer him tickets to a game, but the last thing I need is to be accused of bribing a police officer, so I stick to telling him thank you when he finally leaves.
I hire a tow truck for the Land Rover and have no problem bribing the guy wearing a name patch that says ARNIE to do it in a hurry. The only reason he pushes me to the top of his list over the other dozen people in line is because I play for the Brawlers. He recognizes my name when I hand him my credit card.
Normally I hate using my pro athlete status to get favors, but I’m desperate. The guilt forces me to offer him tickets to the season opener in a few weeks.
“Hey doesn’t preseason start this week?” he says.
I nod, not feeling happy. “Tomorrow.” It’s becoming a familiar theme and the constant reminder strains my optimism.
“Shit. You’re in a ton of trouble. No way you’re gonna make it back to Boston in time.”
“Never say never. I’m a determined guy.”
“Only boats moving are Coast Guard and emergency cargo. Airport might open tomorrow.” He shakes his head. “Not looking good.”
“How about private boats?” I say. Worth a shot. He gives me a look, then breaks out into a grin.
“I never thought of that. But it might be possible.”
“You know someone with a yacht who I can hitch a ride with?”
He nods his head like a bobblehead puppy.
Turns out some rich dude named Dane Blaise and his wife are on the island with their yacht and it’s the kind that could definitely hold up in rough seas. Apparently he’s a PI, an adventurous type and might consider giving me a ride to Boston.
“He’s famous here and at the Vineyard. A war hero and into crazy espionage shit.”
“Great. Hope he likes dogs,” I say and hop into the tow truck to swing by Dane and Shana Blaise’s place to negotiate some arrangements. If I can pull this off, it might go a long way toward thawing Pink’s attitude.
That’s wishful thinking talking, I know. But I’m getting desperate.
Which is not the same as giving up.
The house we drive up to, not far from the main harbor and ferry, is a modest home with a deck spreading from the sides on two levels and an expanse of ocean wild with white water and roaring crashes meeting the beach. Arnie pulls the tow truck into the long crushed-shell drive.
“You know this guy well?”
“Well enough. He’s renting a house on the island. Visits here and there. Lost at cards to him last night.”
I nod, knowing the feeling. Not that I’m a card player and I guess that’s the point. I wish my phone was charged right now because I’d flick a pick and send it to Pink with an update. And a shot of the house—a beach shack, really—set on a beauty of a sheltered bay.
“Come on in,” Arnie says. This may take longer than either Pink or I expected. I’m anxious to get back to her, but since we need to get off the island and this guy Blaise has a boat and the guts to go out in this weather, I follow Arnie to the back door where he stops short and takes out his phone. Rather than knock or ring the bell, he calls this dude to let him know we’re at the door. Strange. I’m about to ask Arnie what the story is, when the door opens.
The guy standing there isn’t tall or built like a wrestler or movie star handsome, but he strikes me all the same as someone powerful. Whatever aura or energy he has, it gives me the confidence that, yeah, we’re gonna get back in time.
“Hockey player, right?” he says and flicks a look at Arnie as he shakes my hand.
“And you’re a PI.?”
He laughs then and steps aside, waving me in. “So you need to get back to Boston in a hurry?”
“Pre-season starts first thing in the morning and Coach insists I be there for the meeting, storm be damned.”
He snorts. “I had a boss like that once.”
The place looks a little rundown in a quaint way, like it hasn’t been updated since my grandma’s time, maybe the sixties. But it’s clean and I like it. We walk through the kitchen into a great room and a knockout blonde with a dangerous smile stands to greet us.
“Arnie, you brought us a passenger. I hope he knows what he’s getting into.”
“He should be okay, Shana. He’s a hockey player.”
I hope I can live up to the tough guy billing, but I need to make it clear I’m not traveling alone. “I’m bringing my . . . girl, Allie Pinkerton, with me. And three puppies. Mutts. Is that going to be a problem?”
“I love dogs,” she says and gives Blaise a meaningful look, though only he knows the meaning.
He turns to me. “As long as they don’t mind some rough water. The trip might take longer than the usual, but we’ll get there tonight. We have room for everyone.”
“What do I owe you?” I say, taking out my wallet. He laughs.
“I’m not running a ferry service, man.”
Shana jumps in, a glint in her eye. “But, maybe
you could get us some tickets to a few games. Rinkside.”
I nod and sort of smile, maybe grimace. Seems game tickets are my new currency. Too bad I have more dollars than tickets.
“Done.” I make the promise I have no business making.
Blaise says, “Be ready to leave in one hour. We’ll pick you up.”
With that Arnie and I leave the same way we came—in his tow truck. I plug my phone into his charger so I can send a text to O’Rourke. It’s about time he knew the sad situation. The phone rings in the middle of the text. It’s him. I look at Arnie, but he’s paying attention to the road, so I answer.
“You and Pink okay? Moe, Larry, and Curly all right?” It’s not surprising that these are the first words out of O’Rourke’s mouth. I’m all worried about damage to his home and car and he’s all worried about us—and his dogs, of course.
“We’re all fine. The property is a mess though. Nothing too major. The stone wall out back, some decking, a window, and… your Land Rover.”
“The car?”
“Tree fell on it.”
“Shit. Glad you weren’t in it. How are you getting back? You have to make it here for tomorrow, man.”
“I got a ride on a boat. We’re taking the dogs with us and we’ll keep them at my place tonight since I have no idea what time we’ll get back.”
“Call me when you get in. I’ll pick the pups up before the team meeting in the morning.”
“In the meantime, your car will be at Arnie’s auto shop. They’re fixing it up. Not sure how long it’ll take, but I figure you have a spare or two.”
“Hey, I’m impressed. You didn’t have to take care of that.”
“I got it. No worries.”
“I owe you, man.”
“Glad you said that. I may need a few extra game tickets. Long story.” He laughs.
“You sure you can keep the puppies tonight?”
“The pups will be fine at my place for one night.”
He Has MVP: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Boston Brawlers Hockey Romance) Page 8