The Pilot and the Puck-Up Page 8

  With tomorrow being the exception, since we reserved it specifically for anyone from today who might want a demonstration.

  I was supposed to fly in tonight, with Luna—our tricked-out 727 that my crew and I take to zero-gravity a few times a week—and run a demo ride for a few lucky kids drawn by the Dyslexus Nexus foundation and any heavy hitters Peach charmed here this week.

  Peach isn’t here.

  I could be flying a half-empty jet with mostly kids and parents.

  Hell, I’d fly it for just one passenger, without complaint, because I love flying, but that won’t necessarily pay the bills.

  Gracie squeezes my hand when Jett leaves the table to hit the buffet line. “Your plane’s going to be full, and you know it,” she whispers. “You really know how to play men, and don’t pretend you don’t. Peach should send you places like this more often.”

  “Not if we all want to stay out of jail.”

  She laughs so hard she snorts, and for a brief moment, I give in to the urge to smile at my baby sister.

  We might not always get along, and we might rarely see eye to eye, but I’ve got her back.

  And she’s got mine.

  11

  Zeus

  The mead was a bad idea.

  Fucking mead. Manning’s honey wine shit went down like ice cream and stayed down like a whole carton of rotten eggs. And I’m not talking a dozen.

  I’m talking the mega-pack you get at the fucking big box store.

  Stuff had to be five hundred proof, and don’t tell me five hundred proof isn’t a thing.

  Because here on the golf course, with the noon sun beating down like a mofo looking to strike us all dead of heat stroke—who the fuck decided August in the South was a good time for a charity golf tournament?—my head’s being held together by the knots I put in my hair last night.

  Skipping this round of golf occurred to me.

  But I don’t blow off my commitments. Switch tee times with Chase, yes. Blow it off, no.

  I’m not here because any of the corporate blowhards for the Predators wanted me to get the good publicity, or because my agent suggested we go after a sponsorship for golf clubs or balls—heh, balls—or because any courts ordered me to community service on the links for that little incident with the stoplights and the dildos right before the play-offs last spring.

  No, I’m here for my brother.

  Wouldn’t know it to watch him on the ice, but Ares is the biggest-hearted mother pucker on the whole fucking planet. He could’ve done something a lot bigger with his life than playing hockey if anyone had taken the time to look past the shit we pulled when we were little to see if his problems in the classroom were something more than him being an overgrown, rambunctious Berger twin.

  Not that Ares doesn’t like his life.

  But not every kid gets to grow up and get paid millions to play hockey if they don’t get the education they need. And while I’ve got a few options for after I—you know, do the R-word thing in a few years—Ares is stuck on the ice until he’s forty, at least, because every single fucking asshole on the entire planet underestimates him still.

  I could get a coaching gig.

  He’s still sheltered from talking to the press because of dumbass execs who think he’ll sit there and pick his nose instead of answering questions in full sentences.

  So I’m here with Panther, a tatted-up, straggly-haired rock star who is here because of corporate blowhards—his record label made him come—and the royal mofo who set me up with that mead last night. Apparently getting drunk is the best way to stay warm in fucking Stölland.

  And because Panther doesn’t have enough ink on him, and also because he probably makes ten times what I do every year just for singing and gyrating on a stage, I catch him by surprise and sign his forehead with my favorite Sharpie while we wait on the fourth person in our group.

  He snaps a selfie of the two of us making monkey faces and fiddles with his phone. Probably posting it to social media with some kind of insult he thinks is unflattering. I’m too hung over to give two shits, and I didn’t get the usual rush from leaving my mark.

  Fucking mead again.

  “Who is this Joey person?” Manning says cheerfully with an evil glint in his eyes. Fucker apparently has the alcohol tolerance of a four-hundred-pound goat. Ares was hurting like a bitch this morning too, but Manning, in all his regal princely glory, isn’t even wearing sunglasses. “He has two minutes before we start without him. Got a schedule to keep.”

  Panther grabs one of the balloons tied to the post at the first tee, bites into it, sucks on it, and smiles at the two of us. “Got a schedule to keep,” he mimics in a British accent made eight octaves higher by the helium.

  The four caddies for the day—all kids helped by the Dyslexus Nexus foundation, all between nine and twelve—snicker.

  My head threatens to crack.

  “They say sucking helium shrinks your bollocks,” Manning says, again with that god-awful cheer.

  “Watch your fucking language,” I growl. “Kids present.”

  “You shouldn’t say fuck,” my caddy informs me. She’s eleven, with some girly name like Sunshine or Rainbow or Meadowlark. “Cussing also makes your bollocks shrink.”

  I eyeball the blond terror as a warm chuckle drifts from the hill leading to the tee. A chill slinks down my spine, followed by sheer dread coupled with undeniable fucking glee.

  Last night was supposed to be the end of this.

  “You are wise beyond your years, my young friend,” Fireball herself tells my caddy. She sticks her hand out. “I’m Joey. And you’re…?”

  “Stuck with this lughead today,” she says with an eye roll and a head jerk in my direction. “You can call me Bailey.”

  “Ah, Ms. Joey,” Manning says. “Of course.” The fucker’s glacial eyes light up the way mine usually do when I’m picturing a chick naked, except there’s something more there.

  Something like maybe he’s in on the joke.

  Of fucking course he is. Spent all night with her sister last night, didn’t he? I glower at him.

  His fucking evil grin widens.

  “You’re Joey?” Panther says in his helium voice while he takes stock of her skirt, her rack, and her sunglasses.

  Not in that order.

  Joey looks at Bailey. Which isn’t like Sunshine or Rainbow or Meadowlark. Maybe that was one of the boy caddies. “We’re in for a long day, aren’t we?” she says to the girl.

  “I was really hoping to get Levi Wilson.”

  “Weren’t we all?” Fireball—Joey—pulls her phone out. “I’ll see if he can meet you after the ninth hole. Sound good?”

  “Like holy shit good,” Bailey says.

  “But only if you watch your language. These men are so impressionable.”

  The kid’s got some fuckin’ A in her nod.

  I don’t want to like her—either one of them—but I can’t help myself.

  Especially where Joey Fireball is concerned.

  Joey Fireball.

  She’s even got a girl mobster name. That’s so fucking hot.

  She introduces herself to the caddies, we do a round of boring-ass pictures, and then she turns to me, Manning, and Panther. She’s in aviator sunglasses that make her a total badass despite the white golf shoes and ankle socks, the white golf skirt, v-neck T-shirt with the Weightless logo, and her sun visor.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?”

  Panther trips over himself offering ladies first and pointing her to the front tee.

  Manning smirks at Panther, who apparently hasn’t had the pleasure of truly meeting Joey.

  Me? I’m struggling to keep the jackass in my pants from trying a repeat of last night’s debut performance. Her legs have more tone than a whole fucking orchestra, her ass should be declared a national treasure, and that hint of cleavage in the vee of her shirt is making me want to jump off the cliff of her boobs and see how far down I can go.

  I twitch my hand
at Bailey. “You got that bag I gave you?” I ask.

  Because there’s only one thing that can take my mind off a woman.

  “Yes, your bullyness,” she says.

  I cut a look at her. I’m big. I’m loud. But I don’t push people around to get my rocks off.

  Not off the ice, anyway.

  Can’t exactly holler that I’m not a bully to prove it though. Even I’m not that dumb.

  “You play sports?” I ask her.

  “No, because I’m a girl. They don’t have good sports for girls where I’m from. And even if they did, my grades aren’t high enough for me to get off academic probation.”

  Little spunkmuffin reminds me of my sister when she was little, except Ambrosia never had trouble with her grades. And now I’m getting pissed for both of them.

  I grab the grocery sack myself and pull out a lemon while Joey’s busy arguing with Manning and Panther about the order of play, which tee she’ll use, and handicaps.

  Doesn’t want privileges for being a woman. Says she’ll beat the pants off us fair and square.

  And after watching her last night, I’m thinking I shouldn’t underestimate her.

  Wouldn’t mind one more chance for us both to get off though.

  Hey, what fate giveth, Zeus Berger doth not take for grantedeth.

  Which means the only way to not lose to this woman—again—is to change the rules. I’m no slouch on a golf course—club, ball, stick, puck, what’s the difference?—but I also know some of these other sportsing dudes, actor wankers, and millionaire douchebags take all this under-par shit seriously. None of us in this foursome are winning squat today.

  Which means we need a new game.

  “Fu—duck-a-duck the game,” I say. “A hundred bucks says I can hit this further than any of you sissies.”

  “Don’t say fuduck-a-duck,” Bailey says. “We all know what you mean, and it’s not polite for a golf course. That dickhead manager said so.”

  The other three caddies eyeball her like they know who’s in charge and probably won’t even mutter a darn today either.

  “Change of terms?” Manning says to Joey, again with the fucking cheer, while he plucks the fruit from my fingers. What the cluck is that all about? “Two hundred towards my ride on your jet says I can smash this lemon against that pine tree.”

  “That little pine tree four feet away?” Joey deadpans. “Or the pine tree that means you’re taking out half the audience?”

  “I like her,” Panther declares in his helium voice while we all glance toward the roped-off audience watching in rapt silence.

  People who watch golf are weird.

  “It’s against the rules to hit anything but balls at anything but the hole,” one of the boys caddying for us mutters.

  “You want to play golf, or you want to have fun?” I ask him. And I don’t snicker at balls or holes, even though I want to.

  The kids all share glances. They’re in yellow vests and official crew name badges, and they all smell like sunscreen.

  “Let’s have fun,” the smallest of the group says.

  I hold out a fist, he bumps it with his puny little knuckles.

  Bailey puts her hands on her baby hips. “What else do you have in that bag?”

  “Firecrackers, paintballs, giant spitwads that me and Ares made last night, and four bottles of champagne we’re going to pop the right way.”

  She eyes the grocery sack, obviously not big enough for half that shit. “My mother says honesty is the true mark of a person.”

  “If you can’t be a good example, be a warning.”

  “Put your club where your mouth is, Berger,” Joey says.

  She doesn’t add if you think you can score, but she doesn’t have to.

  It’s hanging there for both of us to hear.

  Along with some and fuck you and the horse you rode in on too.

  Like she’s pissed at me.

  Like it was my fucking fault the alarms went off last night.

  Like she’s not the one who had a key to my fucking room that she didn’t use.

  Those eyes. So dark. So pissed. So fucking sexy.

  Maybe she did go to my room. Maybe she heard all of us in there and didn’t want an audience.

  Manning twitches a brow at me. Panther sucks down another half-balloon. And Bailey lifts her chin. “It’s your turn, Mr. Berger.”

  “Call me Zeus, kid.”

  “Fine, Zeus Kid,” she says.

  Despite the tension hanging between me and Joey, I’m grinning when I put my lemon on the tee.

  Do I want to be stuck all afternoon with the reminder of everything I fucked up last night, and the reminder of just how much I’m still interested in this woman?

  Fuck, no.

  But you’re damn right I’m going to make the best of it. And my caddy doesn’t know it yet, but I’m the best damn thing to ever happen to her too.

  12

  Joey

  By the eighth hole, the guilt is seeping in.

  And I fucking hate guilt almost as much as I hate feelings.

  It’s possible I should go easier on Zeus. He smells like he pickled his liver last night, he’s pretending like his knee doesn’t hurt after he took his own club to it when all three of the nimwits I’m playing with tried to prove they could toss a club better than I can toss a rifle—swear to dog, I had no idea an old ROTC classmate would be leading a drill demonstration off the fourth tee and challenge me to prove I still had some moves—and his caddy is giving him a beat-down like she’s Mark Twain playing the role of Genghis Khan.

  Bailey’s going to own him by the end of this round. I’ve never met an eleven-year-old so able to eloquently put a brute in his place.

  The way he tolerates her with that smug grin of his growing warmer with every insult is adding to both my irritation and my guilt. And it pisses me off more every time I feel guilty.

  He walked away last night after he carried me out of that hotel. He’s acting like he didn’t beg to get his mouth on my pussy. Like he didn’t hit on me half the night. Like I’m nobody.

  Don’t get me wrong—I hardly think I’m the shit.

  But I’m not nobody.

  Nor did I ask to be in this foursome today.

  But it’s entirely possible he doesn’t want to be around me because…well…I’m me.

  He’s teeing up with a hockey stick and a can of baloney. “Five hundred yards,” he grunts to Prince Manning.

  “Maybe if you’re Fireball,” Manning replies jovially.

  “I give you fifty,” Panther squeaks out. I don’t know what that black scribble is on the rock god’s forehead, but it goes well with the ink on his arms and almost distracts from the rags-and-holes-inspired clothing that suggests either he has horrible managers who’ve stolen all his money, or he’s planning on some kind of mud wrestling orgy when we finish up here and doesn’t want to be bothered to change before the fun starts.

  “You keep sucking helium, you might actually be able to sing,” Bailey tells the rock god, which cracks the men up.

  I’m physically incapable of giggling, but I get a good chuckle in.

  Kid’s hilarious. I like her.

  “And another point for the caddy with the mouth,” Manning says. When he’s not hitting on my sister, he’s reasonably bearable. He hasn’t so much as mentioned her, in fact. Which either means he’s planning to compromise her and thinks I won’t suspect if he avoids the subject, or he’s a playboy ass who’s already forgotten I have a sister.

  Yes, I know. I’m putting all of them in impossible situations where I’ll refuse to like any of them. Gracie tells me often enough this is why I’ll end up alone in my old age, but I have plans. Master plans.

  One day, when I pick a man good enough for her, she’ll give me nieces and nephews, I’ll spoil them rotten, and they’ll gather round to hear stories of the time I took myself to the moon.

  “What would helium do to me at zero-gravity?” Panther asks me.

/>   “It would make your lungs expand until they burst,” I tell him, channeling some of Manning’s cheer. Not because sucking helium in my plane would actually make anyone’s lungs burst—even if it would in actual space—but because his royal highness apparently appreciates both bloodthirstiness and merriment, and I’d like him to know I do too.

  In case he has secret plans he doesn’t want me to know about.

  Zeus cuts a look at me. “Not if your cabin’s pressurized with real air.”

  Hello. Where did those brains come from? “Hockey player and physics expert?”

  “Need to know basis. You don’t need to know.” His lips curve in a wolfish smile teeming with a wicked promise he couldn’t fulfill last night, and despite my best efforts to wrangle my hormones into submission, I get a longing pull deep in my core and some heat channeling between my legs.

  He lowers his head over his shot, grips his stick like he’s on the ice, pulls it back, and lets it fly.

  The can of baloney takes off like a shot, but it’s not flying down the fairway.

  Nope, it’s slowly meandering on its side over the grass like a drunken clown car tire. It flops to a halt barely twenty yards down the way.

  “Fu—cluck,” he mutters.

  “You’re up, Ms. Joey,” Manning says. He treats me to a royal smile behind his beard—the copper in his hair is glinting in the sunlight, and even if I hadn’t seen him with my sister the last twenty-four hours, I would still suspect his brand of charm gets him as many women as Zeus Berger’s overt manliness.

  I wonder if Manning has issues performing in private as well.

  Okay, fine. I hope Manning has issues performing in private as well. Because even if he’s proving to be entertaining with his continued insistence that he’s going to win a ride on my plane—which he’s not, because his golf game sucks—he flirted with my sister.

  And even if he might actually be a nice guy—he’s been remarkably decent to the caddies, and he did help Panther when the rocker tried to tee up backwards two holes back, and he also keeps waving his guard back every time I get my hands on a golf club—I refuse to let my sister live in the bubble that comes with dating royalty.