by RJ Scott
“Ben?” I looked up from my shaking, bloody hands to see Max leaving his seat, his face a mask of concern. “Do I need to call the doctor back in?”
“No, I just…” I swiped at my wet cheeks with my right hand, just now aware of the tears. “He wanted to kill me. I mean…what did I ever do to that man aside from loving his brother? Dear God.”
“I got you.”
And he did. He gathered me in his arms and held me as I coughed and cried and tried to make sense of such a vicious hate crime. Rolf had held a gun on his son. His son! He’d set fire to my shelter, threatened to kill us all, and for what? A small chunk of property? Sure, that land had some value, but not as much as he thought, I was sure of that. I mean, what the ever-loving hell? Was it hate or greed that had spurred the man to such violence?
“I got you,” Max whispered over and over, his big hand moving in soothing circles on my back. “I’ll never leave you again.”
I buried my face in his neck and clung to him until I couldn’t cry any more. I was so shaky and rattled I didn’t even feel ashamed about crying. Then Max went into this whole bodyguard-mode thing, talking to the ER doctor for me, promising to stop to pick up the prescription for antibiotics and pain killers, whispering to me where I had to sign to be released, then walking by my side to a waiting cab. My Jeep was still at the shelter. DK had been picked up by his mother and would probably never be allowed to visit me again. And Rolf was in the county lock-up, awaiting bail and assuredly talking to some smarmy lawyer to hasten his release.
The ride home was a hazy blur in the back of a cab. Max went into Mike’s Drugstore to pick up my prescriptions, Max paid the driver, Max steered my frantic aunts into the kitchen then came back and helped me up the stairs, Bucky at our heels, thrilled to be out of his crate.
“I’m kind of into this whole Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner thing we have going on,” I teased as he eased me out of my bloody shirt, the wound starting to throb in time with my heart.
“I hope you can sing better than you can dance. Lie down and sleep. I’m going to catch your aunts up, put the dog out, then crash right beside you.”
“Okay.” There was no energy to say more than that. He pressed a kiss to my cheek, then pulled down the covers on my bed. My man waited by the bed, watching, until I was under the sheets and as comfortable as I could be considering I’d been shot.
“Ben, I’ll be right here. You’ll be safe. Sleep.” He ran his fingers along my jaw. Bucky licked my face. Max turned off the light and pulled the drapes shut. I vaguely heard him calling to the dog. That was all I remembered.
I think Max woke me up to swallow some pills. Then there was heat on both sides of me: man on the left and dog on the right. Nothing wiggled in after that. When I woke up, I was facing my dog. Bucky’s tail thumped on the covers as soon as my eyes opened. That made me smile. How could it not?
“Hey, Winter Soldier.” I reached out to pet him, and grimaced. Ouch. Man, flesh wounds hurt big time. Bucky leaped down from the bed and ran in circles while barking, then jumped back up while I was slowly working on sitting up. I heard someone heavy coming up the stairs. Max flew into the room like Satan was nipping at his heels, beautiful eyes wide.
“Why is he barking?” Max asked. Bucky yipped a greeting to my lover, then flopped down next to me.
“He’s happy I woke up, I guess.”
Max’s entire body exhaled in relief. “Scared me. I thought… Well, I thought something had happened or someone—” He shook that off. “Not important. You look better.”
“Yeah, I feel better, I guess.” I glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was five after five. No wonder I felt rested.
“You want something to eat?”
“In a bit. Now I want a shower and a toothbrush.” I pushed to my feet, and Max was right there. “I’m good. Really. It’s just a flesh wound,” I said in my best Monty Python manner.
He wrapped me in a hug that I stayed in for a long, long time. Bucky snuffled at our legs, doing his best to wiggle in between us.
“Silly pooch.” Max smiled, reaching down to scratch Bucky behind an ear. “Go shower. Dinner’s covered. We’ll eat and then we’ll talk.”
“I love you.” I just wanted to say it because it needed to be said. Often. Every day. Hell, every hour if possible.
“I love you too.” He kissed my brow, then padded off, Bucky opting to stay with me as I showered and pulled on some clean briefs, shorts, and a soft tank top. Lowering and raising my arm hurt. I was not action hero material, I guessed.
When I stepped into my tiny kitchen, a big man was putting plates on the table. Just two plates, but, my gosh, there had to be twenty casserole dishes scattered over the counters. I threw Max a befuddled look. He shrugged.
“The Rose of Beulah congregation has been busy.”
“Well, I guess so,” I murmured as I studied the pans of lasagna, chicken casserole, tuna casserole, red beans and rice, and macaroni and cheese. Pies and cakes were stacked up by the coffee pot which, praise be to Jesus, was full of fresh coffee.
Max carried a tuna casserole to the table, filled our coffee mugs, and sat down across from me. Bucky slid under the table in case a crumb might roll to the floor.
“Where are the old gals?” I asked after a few mouthfuls.
“Home. I asked them to give us some time to get back on our feet. They said something about planning a bake sale for the shelter.”
“That’s nice. We’re going to need all the money we can get to fix that fire damage. My insurance is… What? You look funny. Did something happen?”
“Nothing bad. The insurance inspector will be out tomorrow.”
Relief swept over me. “Then what? Is it DK?”
“Nope, he’s fine. He called from his mom’s house and is going to live with her until he goes to college up in Williamsport in the fall. He’ll be by to visit, though. I think maybe his mom is a bit worried.”
“Can’t say as I blame her. I didn’t keep him safe at all.” My food suddenly tasted off. I shoved the plate to the side. “I didn’t keep anyone safe. My animals, my nephew, the shelter Liam and I loved, you.”
“Hey, listen, you don’t get to carry that guilt burden, you hear me?” He reached over the casserole dish to grab my hand. I glanced from my food to him. He was so stern-looking, but in his gaze there was pain. “If anyone is responsible for what happened, it’s me. I should have paid for better security. I should have made sure the gate was locked when we kissed our way through it. Totally on me, not you. You’re a victim.”
“Paid for better security?” Bucky whined under the table, and I placed my dinner on the floor for him, my sight locked on Max. “What do you mean?”
He looked down at his plate. “Oh, well. Yeah. I sort of might have been the mysterious benefactor.” When he looked back up all the fire had left his eyes. Now he just looked sheepish. It was an appealing look on such a gruff hockey player.
I gave him a wobbly smile and threaded my fingers through his. Bucky was loudly snarfing up my dinner, and a warm wind slipped through the screen on the back door.
“I do not think I could love you more than I do right now.” His gaze met mine, and there was too much emotion snapping and arcing between us to even begin to put into words. “Let’s go back to bed. I need you to love me. Gently wipe the mess outside away for a little while.”
“I can do gentle loving.”
That was no lie. The man did gentle loving so damn well. He eased me into bed, slid me out of my clothes with infinite care of my bandaged bicep, and kissed me all over. Soft little kisses, ticklish and light, to my chest and hips, the soles of my feet and the hollow of my neck. I was languid and loose, whispering soft nothings as he licked at my cock, sucking me deep into his mouth, his fingers traveling up and down my inner thighs. When I reached for him, he softly brushed my hands away.
“This is all for you,” he said, his love enveloping us, blocking out the hate that had swept into our live
s, as my orgasm slowly built.
When I was on that cusp, he took me in hand, stroking me as he lapped up and down. My eyes closed, fingers digging into the sheets. He sucked skillfully on the head, working the length with a gentle fisting motion.
“Ah, mercy,” I gasped as the tremors rolled on and on. Max slithered up over me—as well as a man his size can slither—and kissed a tender path along my jaw to my lips. I pulled his head down, sealing his lips to mine, and worked myself around until we were lying on our sides, gazes touching, Max’s thick cock in my hand. “Your turn.”
“This was supposed to be just for you,” he said, his voice raspy with passion.
“We share everything from now on,” I replied, easing my wounded arm up under the pillow as I stroked him base to head. “Orgasms and nosy aunts.”
He chuckled, golden eyes glowing. “I’m all up for the orgasms, but the nosy aunts?”
“You get one hundred percent of Ben Worthington and his messed-up life now. That’s part of the being in love stuff.”
His big body quivered. “I like the sound of that. Even the nosy aunts and the worried dog at the door.”
Bucky whined piteously in the hallway, his snuffles at the bottom of the bedroom door making us both laugh.
“You okay with the head stuff?” he asked. I rubbed my palm over the top of his prick. “Yeah, not that head. The head I generally don’t think with as much as I should.”
“I’m coming to terms with it. I hate fearing it, but other than that, I’m good with everything you bring into my life.”
No truer words had ever fallen out of my mouth.
This game, Max sat out. He wasn’t happy with that, but given the harrowing situation we’d just gone through, it made sense. Despite how he said he was fine—and me too for that matter—he had to be dealing with some heavy issues. Lord knows I was. Every loud noise made me jump. Someone had dropped a trash can lid at the shelter, and I had nearly dropped to the floor with my hands over my head. Not my proudest moment, but the report of that gunshot would probably haunt me—and Max and DK—for months.
Since I was so edgy, Max hauled me into the press box after getting some clearance from the team. The press box is a special area of the arena set up for the media to report on the game. There’s plenty of food for the sportscasters and guests. Tiers of what looked like shelves serving as desks looked down on the ice far below. Laptops and sports journalists filled the seats behind the desks.
Max was in a dark blue suit. I had pulled on a baggy green sweater over a tank top, and a pair of comfortable black jeans. Once we left the arena, I could peel the sweater off.
I’d hoped to be able to just blend into the woodwork, but the press gathered around Max and me, asking far too many questions about the Rolf incident for my liking.
“We’re not allowed to talk about it yet,” Max said, brushing past the reporters while nudging me along to our seats. A young man, maybe twenty, with thick waves of brown hair, greeted us with a warm smile and a handshake.
“Dad said you’d be in the press box tonight,” the handsome kid said as he shook my hand then Max’s.
“Dad?” Max asked as he continued holding the young man’s hand.
“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I’m Ryker Madsen.”
“Well, no shit. Coach talks about you all the time. Says you got great hockey skills.”
Looking at Ryker closely, I could see some of Jared Madsen in the young man.
Ryker blushed a bit. “Yeah, he brags a little. I’m okay. Nothing like Ten.”
“Few are,” Max stated, and no one thought to argue. “This is my boyfriend, Ben.”
“Pleasure,” I said as Ryker and I shook.
We took our seats and watched the teams warming up on the ice. Poor Max. You could see it was killing him to be up here. I felt a thousand shades of guilty for mucking up yet another thing for him. All this crazy stuff with Rolf was my fault. And he’d just been—
“Hey, no going there,” Max whispered beside my ear. “So, Ryker, how goes college life?”
The lanky kid shrugged a shoulder. “Meh. It was okay. I’m transferring to a new campus in Minnesota for next year. My old school wasn’t as inclusive as I’d like. The team and campus at Owatonna U. is top-notch for hockey and for the open-minded dean. They’ve got special dorms for LGBT students, and the team is led by a coach who is adamant about inclusivity.”
“Minnesota is hockey heaven. You’ll play some great teams,” Max said, and the talk went into collegiate hockey.
Ryker went off to grab us some food and drinks and returned with enough grub to feed a hockey team. Jared’s son handed off some, then dove into a massive platter of cold cuts, buns, and salads.
“Growing boy,” Max whispered to the side.
I nodded in silence. I recalled just how much DK had put away when he’d been with me. I missed him. Damn Rolf to hell for all the chaos and hurt he’d inflicted on so many. I glanced at Max, found him looking at me with concern, and shoved Rolf and his asshattery to a far corner of my mind. I refused to let him ruin another moment of my life.
Talk flowed freely with Ryker. He was an affable young man—clever, funny, and quite charming.
The game looked different from up here, the players smaller and harder to distinguish. Thankfully, the Jumbotron was right there, and so I got to watch the huge face of a famous singer belt out the national anthem as I nibbled on some wheat crackers and strong cheese.
The arena was alive with excitement. All the fans were loud and cheering until the Raptors scored quickly in the first two minutes of the game. Things grew quiet, a bit, but the chants of “Let’s go Railers” rolled steadily around the packed rink. Then the team from Arizona put on their nasty faces and went after Tennant Rowe like hyenas after a wounded gazelle. I’d seen this happen to our star player in Washington, as well as on the Pittsburgh team. Any highly skilled forward was targeted. Take the goal-scorers out and you stand a better chance of winning the game. Makes total sense, even if it is barbaric.
Ten couldn’t catch a pass or set one up without a defender on him, mauling him, shoving and battering him. No matter how many penalties for hooking, holding, or high-sticking the refs called, the Raptors, particularly a huge Finn, Aarni Lankinen, continued to abuse Rowe. Which infuriated everyone on the ice and the man seated on my left.
“Those fuckers,” Max snarled when we were deep into the third period, down 3–0, and Tennant had just had his nose bloodied by yet another high stick. “I was supposed to be down there protecting Ten. Coach asked me to keep him safe.”
Yet another miserable thing I was going to heap onto the refuse pile Rolf had created. The game ended with an empty-net goal by the Raptors, a shut-out for the Arizona goalie, and probably several stitches in the bridge of Tennant Rowe’s nose. There was no consoling Max.
“I’m going to grind those pretty boys into motherfucking paste next game,” he snarled as we sat in an empty press box, staring at the Zamboni grooming the ice.
“Pound them good,” Ryker mumbled in agreement.
Chapter Sixteen
Max
Payback started as soon as I hit the ice in warmups before the next game. I’d already given notice in my off-day interview with the press that I was there to protect Ten and there was no chance of our opponents treating him as they had in the last game. Every team took their chances this late in the Cup, but if this was going to be bloody, then it would be me calling the shots.
“Do you have a message for them?” one of the press interviewers asked. I don’t know who it was, but I was ready for the question.
I faced the camera. I knew what the press wanted, what the team needed, and I was ready to give it to them.
“I’m coming for you.”
And now, skating in lazy figure eights on the ice, stick handling a puck as the arena shook to the bass of Shakira, I was getting very close to the center line, catching opponents’ eyes, letting them know I was watching them. Whether this ps
ychology worked or not, I didn’t care—they were on a warning. I flicked the puck onto my stick and bounced it there, standing right at center and staring at the Raptors. A couple of their D-Men skated close and tried to front, but let’s face it, I was the one with something to prove, and I wasn’t letting any kind of intimidation push me off-track.
Coach was way more animated tonight; he was either pissed at our loss in the last game or someone had slipped him a drink. He called out the starting lineup. I was up first in defense, and Ten was there on the first line. I knew my job.
I lasted three seconds. We lost the first faceoff, but that didn’t matter. I shoved my way into Aarni Lankinen’s face and dropped gloves, and that was it; with the roar of the crowd in my ears, I wanted retribution and to teach Lankinen a lesson.
He knew it was coming, his stick on the floor, his gloves off, and he was a big guy. Maybe an inch shorter than me, he was solid with muscle and fast on his skates. And there was the light of anticipation in his eyes. He wanted this as much as I did. A win for him would be the period to the shit he’d dealt out to Ten. A win for me was justice.
We didn’t dance. I was in there, a solid one-two to his cheekbone, and he countered with his own throw which caught my chin and sent my head back sharply. A lesser man would have given up, maybe dragged Lankinen to the ice and sat on him, but I was angry.
Desperate because they’d targeted Ten, guilty I hadn’t been there to stop it, furious at Rolf and what he’d done to the shelter and more importantly to Ben, it all boiled up inside me, a rush of anger and pain and lethal accuracy. One punch, just in the right spot, and Lankinen was on the ground, gripping my shirt and taking me with him. Sprawled like that, I had the scarlet of anger still bright in me, and I tried for more punches, only stopping after two officials and my own team pulled me off. There was blood on my hands, blood on his face, and that was me done.
Message sent.
I skated away from Lankinen spread-eagled on the ice, and as I skated to the box for the inevitable penalty, I passed Ten and fist bumped him. The kid had the widest grin but was clearly trying to hide it. Jared said nothing to me—he didn’t even look my way—but he tapped my shoulder when I was out of the penalty box, and that was enough.