Bad Reputation is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by SL Independent Publishing, LLC
Excerpt from Bad Business by Nicole Edwards copyright © 2017 by SL Independent Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Bad Business by Nicole Edwards. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9781524796570
Cover design: Makeready Designs
Cover photograph: kiuikson/Shutterstock
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Nicole Edwards
About the Author
Excerpt from Bad Business
Chapter 1
I had the pleasure of sitting down with hockey’s most notable bad boy and let me tell you, he lives up to his name. Then again, have you seen him? Six-five, two-twenty, the guy’s a beast. The fans adore him, the other team fears him, and the ladies…well, they want to climb him like a jungle gym. Ask anyone who follows hockey and they will tell you that Chase Barrett can be as bad as he wants, whenever and wherever.
—Excerpt from Sports Unlimited’s Bad Boys of Sports edition
Chase
“We love you, Sin!” someone yells as I skate to the box.
A familiar tune plays through the arena—“Get Free” by the Vines—and the crowd boos the refs. I fight a smile as I step into the penalty box, then drop my ass on the bench and grab a water bottle.
“Next time, kick his ass, Barrett!”
The fact that my cheering section sits directly behind the penalty box doesn’t surprise me in the least. Maybe they got the memo that this is the best way to get close to me since I’ve become rather acquainted with this particular seat.
I offer a fist in the air as acknowledgment, but don’t bother looking back. I’m more focused on the replay on the jumbotron, curious as to what that play looked like from a different angle. I’m well aware of what it looked like from down here on the ice.
Not pretty.
For the other guy.
The memory of the asshole’s face when I cross-checked him makes me smile. No, I didn’t use enough force to injure him, just enough to get his attention. My temper got the best of me. It happens.
Not my fault the pretty boy thought it was okay that he got away with high-sticking me earlier. If the ref isn’t going to call it, I’m more than willing to deliver my own punishment. And I did. Didn’t matter to me that I’d earn a two-minute minor that put me right in the box. That’s what I do.
Truthfully, I probably deserved a double minor for that little stunt I pulled, but I’m good with two. Certainly not going to ask for more.
I have a theory about this. With my recent four-year, $25 million contract, I figure I should give my team their money’s worth. No, my coach won’t be thrilled with my actions tonight, and I’ll probably get a good tongue-lashing, but it boils down to this: My actions throw my opponents off their game. Sometimes that’s necessary.
See, the fans call me Sin, the coach calls me a troublemaker, the other team calls me a nuisance, and the media calls me the bad boy of hockey. Oh, and my best friend Cassie…well, she calls me a world-class asshole. All are probably fitting, considering.
I took on the nickname Sin long before I got my break in the NHL six years ago, at the ripe young age of twenty-one. I think it first happened when I was around sixteen, maybe seventeen, back during a time when winning and losing didn’t mean quite the same thing as it does in the big leagues. If you’re into ice hockey, you’re probably familiar with the penalty box, also referred to as the sin bin. Yep, that’s where I spend a lot of my time, hence the nickname.
I’ve earned it.
I’m proud of it.
As for why they call me the bad boy of hockey…I’m fairly certain that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with my “player” status with the ladies. I don’t hear anyone complaining though. I’d have to assume that it’s also the reason I made the cover of Sports Unlimited. Two years in a row. Sure, one of those might have been the “Bad Boys of Sports” issue, but so be it. I’m not above being in the limelight. It keeps my name circulating, which ultimately keeps me playing.
Truth is, I really don’t give a shit what anyone calls me as long as they keep sending my ass out on the ice. It might look like I don’t enjoy what I do, considering all the time I spend in the penalty box, but don’t let that fool you. I love every fucking minute of it. In fact, I love every aspect of my life.
As the seconds tick down, I keep my attention divided between the timer and my teammates who are forced on the penalty kill because of me. Some probably think I should feel bad, but I don’t.
Not even a little bit.
Chapter 2
Chase
As I pull my Dodge Charger Hellcat into my best friend’s driveway the following night, I briefly scan the car parked directly behind Cassie’s BMW. I’m thinking Cass might have company. A good friend would probably put the car in reverse and head home.
I’m not that friend.
Grinning, I unfold myself from the car, hit the key fob to lock it, and stroll up to the front door, choosing to ignore the things I don’t care about. Namely, the tricked-out Lexus in the driveway.
I don’t even pause as I insert my key into the lock, twist, and then let myself into the house.
And, okay, fine. The car behind Cassie’s isn’t a Lexus and it’s not tricked out. More like a Jaguar. Base model. Small dent, front fender—probably shitty driver.
“At least she didn’t change the locks like she threatened to do,” I mumble when I walk into the foyer, not even bothering to knock. If the woman wanted me to exhibit manners, she wouldn’t have given me a key. I mean, Cassie Desrosiers knows me better than anyone else. We’ve been friends for a whopping nine years. If she knows nothing else, she’s at least aware that I’m not big on social niceties and all that shit.
Closing the door, I give a one-sided knuckle bump to the weird-ass iron sculpture sitting on a marble table in the foyer. Cassie has some sort of fascination with abstract art. And by abstract, I mean awful. Shaking my head because I still haven’t figured out
what the damn thing is, I hang my keys on what very well could be a metal penis before pausing in the living room.
Hmm. All is quiet.
Time to announce my presence.
“Honey, I’m home!” I glance right, then left, then make a beeline for the refrigerator. I need a beer.
Still no Cassie.
Where the hell is she?
I know she’s got my Leinenkugel’s in the fridge because she’s good like that, and I intend to make myself acquainted with one while I wait. I twist off the top, then turn when I hear footsteps on the hardwood in the hallway.
“Chase. I…uh…What are you doing here?” Cassie steps into the living room, her blue-gray eyes wide with what I can only assume is surprise. I’m not sure why she’s shocked to see me, I stop by all the damn time just to chill, watch TV, play pool, talk. We’ve been hanging out pretty much since the day I met her, so you’d think she would be used to me dropping in for the hell of it.
“You invited me?”
Cassie’s dark eyebrows dart downward. “I did not.”
“Well, you should have.” I’m curious as to what she’s doing, why she’s acting so damn weird.
“Chase.”
She’s cute when she chastises me.
“What? I needed a beer. I’m out.” I hold up the bottle to show her that I’ve retrieved one on my own. I’ve noticed her hostess skills are lacking.
“Chase! You can’t just barge in without calling me first.”
Ever hear someone shout when whispering? Well, Cassie has clearly perfected the art. Her voice is so low, it’s a wonder any sound comes out at all, her eyes darting down the hall.
Ah.
I’m smart. I know what’s going on here, even if I choose to pretend otherwise. Based on my deductions, the shitty driver of the crappy Jaguar is down the hall.
I don’t speak, choosing to take a long pull on my beer and watch while Cassie has a minor freak-out moment.
I mean, seriously. She looks to be in a panic. Mind you, I’m probably a good twenty feet away, across the spacious open-concept living room that acts as the center of the house, so it very well could be a trick of the lighting.
I squint to be sure.
Nah. I doubt the recessed lights are putting that glimmer of alarm in her eyes.
While I sip my beer, I move closer, bypassing the marble-covered island and the bizarre barstools she found at a flea market. Then over to the sectional sofa that separates the living room from the hallway that leads to her bedroom.
I lift my head slightly so I can see over the back of the black leather cushions.
That’s when I notice she’s not wearing any pants.
Interesting development.
I give her a good once-over, starting with her bare feet on the Travertine tile and working my way up. Past her sexy fucking calves, then higher. I quickly become aware of the fact that the woman is wearing a man’s button-down shirt, the tails hovering right at her cute little dimpled knees.
Oh, shit.
I laugh, can’t help it.
“Did I interrupt a booty call?” My eyes immediately dart to the hallway.
That explains the Jaguar out front. And her weirdness.
And it also proves that my timing is impeccable. I’m good like that.
“Shut up,” she hisses. “Now go away before he sees you.”
“Aww, come on, Cass. You can’t throw me out. Where will I go?”
She frowns. “You have your own house, if I do recall.”
I shrug, then tilt the beer to my lips. “Worried he’ll be freaked out and think your husband’s home?”
Suddenly a man appears at her side, his eyes wide as he glances over at me. His attire is opposite of Cassie’s. I mean, obviously, since Cassie’s wearing his shirt, but thankfully the douchebag has on pants.
That could have been awkward.
“Husband?” The guy’s eyes enlarge, practically bulging out of their sockets.
Dude is rocking some seriously fucked-up hair. Now that I think about it, he looks like one of those troll doll things.
“He’s not,” Cassie insists, her cheeks a rosy red.
I assume she’s referring to me not being her husband and not responding to my inner monologue about doucheboy being a troll doll.
“I swear to God, he’s not.” She looks seriously horrified. “I’m not married.”
This guy clearly doesn’t know Cassie all that well even if he has loaned her his clothing. Cassie Desrosiers wouldn’t get married if her fucking life depended on it. I know because we’ve been best friends since college. At twenty-eight, Cassie’s still sweetly naïve when it comes to dating, but long-term certainly isn’t in her five-year plan.
She has one of those, by the way. It involves a financial planner, IRAs, 401(k)s, promotions, advancement, and a whole list of other BS. The girl has it all laid out nice and neat, wrapped in dollar bills and gold watches. My five-year plan involves getting injured as little as possible and having a kickass thirtieth birthday party when that day comes. I’ve got some time.
What neither of our plans include is marriage, babies, settling down. Maybe Cassie’s ten-year plan includes the whole family thing. I’m not sure. I’d have to check with her. I tend to tune that shit out.
On the other hand, it does look as though I’ve finally gotten her to come around to my way of thinking when it comes to casual sex. Hence the shirtless douchebag standing next to her.
Granted, when I’ve talked to her about this sort of thing, I’ve been secretly hoping she’d want to be casual with someone less douchelike. You know, like me. Not that I’ve laid it all out there or anything. Nor do I intend to. I’ve harbored a secret fascination with Cassie all this time and I’ve never let the cat out of the bag. No reason to start now. And since douchetroll is the first guy I’ve seen her with in years, I’m not too worried about it. Sure, she’s told me stories about guys she’s dated, but I’ve never actually seen one.
Apparently, they do exist.
“Tell him you’re not,” Cassie orders me, her head swiveling back to the guy. “He’s not.”
I cock an eyebrow and tilt my beer to my lips. I know I’m making the situation worse, but seriously. What does she see in this guy? First of all, he’s not at all her type. I know this because she has droned on and on about her type and not once has she mentioned a blond-haired, blue-eyed douchebag.
“I should go,” the half-dressed man says, glancing back and forth between me and Cassie.
“You should go,” I echo sympathetically, gently nodding as though that’s the only thing that makes sense.
Cassie glares at me.
“Give him his shirt, honey.”
Yeah. That doesn’t go over too well with her either. Still, I can’t keep the grin from locking up my face. This is fucking fun. It sure beats the ass reaming the team took last night on the ice.
“Chase! Go away!”
“Me?” I try to sound appalled. “Why should I go?”
“I’ll go,” Mr. Jaguar says.
“No, Andrew, you really don’t have to.”
“Oh, I really think I do.” His eyes dart to me, then lower to the floor.
Listen to him, Cass, he really does.
I perch on the arm of the sofa, watching the two lovebirds while I drink my beer. Cassie shoots me one more ball-shriveling glare before she stomps down the hall with Mr. Jaguar in tow. Several minutes later, they both return. This time the dude is fully dressed and Cassie’s wearing a pair of those frumpy pajama pants and an oversize T-shirt that she loves so damn much.
The girl has a rocking body—I mean, totally rocking—so it pains me to see her always trying to cover it up. When Cassie puts on something formfitting that doesn’t include a blazer…guys come out of the fucking woodwork just to try to talk to her. Probably doesn’t hurt that she’s wicked smart, has a killer smile, and mile-long legs. Plus, she’s raking in the dollars with her corporate gig.
“Later,
Andy!” I call after him. “Be sure to rub the metal penis for good luck. It might help for next time.”
He doesn’t respond, of course.
Rude douchebag is what he is.
“I’m so sorry about this,” Cassie says softly, standing at the door as Mr. Jaguar steps out into the night.
“It’s…okay.”
It’s not okay, we all know that. Not sure why the prick can’t simply say as much. If he was a real man, he would’ve demanded I leave so he could stay. Come on, did he not see how fucking hot she was with that shirt on and her dark hair all tangled around her face? The kind of hot that should have been accompanied by porno music. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.
Only a pansy-ass would’ve let me stick around.
Since Mr. Jaguar’s balls are clearly in his mommy’s purse, it’s safe to say he’s not good enough for Cassie.
I flinch when the front door slams shut hard, but I smile against the lip of my beer bottle, trying to compose myself before Cassie appears.
“Chase Barrett, you are a world-class asshole,” Cassie grumbles when she passes through the room.
See, I told you that’s what she calls me.
Oddly enough, there isn’t an ounce of heat in her tone.
That’s certainly a change of pace. I tend to irritate her to the point of insanity, so it’s nice when she doesn’t appear to want to throttle me.
“I won’t deny that.” I grab the remote off the coffee table and click the power button.
She walks into the kitchen, her voice carrying as she opens the refrigerator. “Why did you do that? He could’ve been the love of my life and you ran him off like a puppy who peed on the floor.”
“If he was the one, you would’ve hung his tie on the front door,” I tell her. “That’s what we agreed on.”
Bad Reputation Page 1