Knot Your Pucking Sunshine (Knotty Puckers #11)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

ASH LYNN VOSS

Red had been the wrong fucking choice.

My stupid nails. I pick at the chip in the red polish on my pinky and then curl my fingers into fists.

I don’t want to remember that night. How the blood gelled in puddles and I was forced to clean it up.

How it felt tacky like that time we coated our hands with white glue to make fake skin for Halloween.

How I sat there, disgusted with myself for even thinking it would make a pretty nail color. How it caked under my nails for days.

It’s been eight years and I can still see the blood on my hand.

Why had I picked red tonight for my nails? They should be purple to match the dress and not blood red. I cringe and swallow hard. I should get a freaking medal for how good I am at pushing memories away.

The neighborhood blurs past me, a mix of battered cars and porches in desperate need of fresh paint.

The cool glass of the window presses against my forehead, but it does nothing to quiet the anger, fear, and anxiety twisting inside me.

I hunch in the seat and dig through my wallet again, checking every pocket for hidden bills.

Fifteen singles, two fives, three quarters.

This is all I have left from my tips. I flick my eyes to the meter.

The digits climb higher with each block.

I barely have enough for the ride, let alone a tip.

The date was a bad idea from the start.

On my very first day at the diner, this perfect woman swept in like a whirlwind of designer clothes and style I’ll never have.

She claimed a booth, papers scattered everywhere.

When I brought her pie, she was holding her phone a foot from her ear while someone screamed on the other end.

I had barely set the plate down when she blurted out, “Would you like to go on a date?”

I blinked at her like an idiot with my hand stuffed in my apron pocket, fishing around for creamers.

She pulled me into the booth and rested her fingers on my arm while she talked, and I lost every one of my senses because I wasn’t used to being touched like that.

Gently. For no reason except to reassure.

She, Marilyn, explained that she was a public relations person for the hockey team, that something had come up, and she needed just the right omega for a player’s last-minute dinner.

Fucking bonkers.

Like I’d ever be “just right” for anything.

But there was something about her, something that made me want to say yes, even though I knew better.

I hesitated and quietly panicked, looked down at my ripped jeans and faded T-shirt, and said I didn’t have anything to wear.

She offered to send me a designer dress from one of the best boutiques in Nashville.

Yes. I had said yes. Which is how I ended up here, broke, in a cab, in a dress I’ll never be able to afford, after being humiliated by a celebrity with blood-red nails that make me want to puke and also don’t match the stupid dress.

What the hell had I been thinking?

I’ve never been on a real date. I am barely allowed out of the house. And now, since moving here? I have a job. Fine, a part-time job. And an apartment. Okay, “apartment” is a stretch; it’s little more than a shack. And now I think I can have dates and designer dresses and fancy restaurants?

The date started fine. Timber, the hockey player, didn’t want to be there.

Not really. And I was okay with that. The waiter brought bread that must have been just baked.

Timber blurted out that he wasn’t into me.

Rude. But I gave it three seconds of thought and said fuck it, I’d stay for the bread.

It was actually kind of a relief. The alphas Papa brought home were always wanting something.

Timber only wanted to be somewhere else.

Then Ollie showed up. With another alpha.

She was beautiful. Blonde, red dress, effortless in the way that real omegas should be. She sat down, looked at me once, and discarded me. She wanted both alphas for herself, and I was furniture. Rude. But again, there was even more bread.

The other alpha, Kane, tried. Made conversation and asked questions.

And then everything became very not fine.

Timber tried to smooth things over in the way oblivious alphas do when they’ve made a mess and want someone else to clean it up. He nodded toward a nearby table and said, “That’s Beckett, a teammate. He’s a nice guy. I’ll give you to him.”

I’ll give you to him.

My skin crawled. Every unwanted hand I’d ever had to smile through rose up at once.

For the first time in a long while, I got angry.

I was done being passed around to alphas who didn’t care, who just wanted a party favor, a toy to play with.

There wasn’t enough bread in the world to make up for that.

I made the stupid mistake of looking where Timber pointed.

Beckett was tall. Handsome. Everything an alpha was supposed to be. For half a second, I let myself want him. Maybe not him specifically, just the idea of him.

Then I saw who was standing with him.

Then the past, that night, stole all the air in the room.

Pierce.

The memory was right there, I just had to reach for it with my blood-red fingers.

Reed, my brother, on the floor. Blood everywhere, more than a body should hold, pooling and spreading fast under my knees.

My hands were useless, slipping, pressing down like that would do anything.

Screaming for Pierce, his best friend, and getting nothing back — because Pierce was already running.

I heard the door. I turned my head. He was gone.

He left Reed on that floor. He left me with Reed on that floor.

Pierce looked exactly the same, but broader in the shoulders, with that crooked grin that used to make me feel like I might float.

The suit was new and different, looking like he didn’t come from Florida trash.

And next to him, like no time had passed at all, like nothing had ever happened, Liam stood.

I was twelve years old in an instant. Skinny and hopeless and chasing after Reed’s friends because it was the only way I got to feel like I was part of something.

Pierce slipping me candy on the days Papa forgot groceries again.

Liam with his books and his careful explanations, Reed calling him his better half with all the smarts.

They were just there, alive and pretty, with a pack my brother always dreamed of, like they hadn’t killed Reed and ruined everything.

Tires screech. A car honks and I’m thrown forward in the cab, blinking as if I don’t know where I am. I rock forward as the car stops short. I almost cover my ears to save them from the driver’s blistering curses.

Right.

I am on my way home after that shitty date with Timber, not back in that blood splashed-living room with my dead brother.

“You like hockey?” he asks as if nothing happened.

“What did you say?”

He holds up one finger and changes the station on the radio.

“…blood on the ice. The Puck Panthers got exactly what they deserved.”

“Ha!” A barking laugh from the cab driver makes me focus on the radio.

The sports anchor’s voice is bright with barely contained glee as it rumbles through the car’s speakers. “The Scented Scorpions took on the Panthers last night, and things got ugly fast in the second period after their winger crashed straight into Scorpions’ goalie, Milton Grady.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the window again.

“Grady hit the ice hard, trainers rushing in, and that’s when defenseman Beckett Hansen decided he’d seen enough. Gloves off, helmet off, straight to business. Timber Holtz joined in a heartbeat later, and suddenly we had two Scorpions on one Panther player, a full-blown scrum at center ice.”

“Scrum? That was some MMA shit,” the driver mutters.

The anchor laughs like he is in on the joke too.

“Refs were useless for a solid twenty seconds,” the anchor continues. “Hansen was throwing punches like rent was due, Holtz had the guy pinned, and the crowd was on its feet. A very clear message was sent.”

There’s a brief pause, then:

“And yes, Hansen spent some quality time in the box. He’s always been a brawler, but he’s entering his vicious era this season.”

The cab rolls through a yellow light, hitting a bump and almost toppling my bag to the floor.

“Scented Scorpions hockey, folks. You touch our goalie, you’ll answer for it. Final score aside, that’s the clip everyone’s replaying today.”

“Damn straight. Hansen did his job,” adds the cabbie.

The radio fades as the driver switches stations, but the name sticks in my head anyway.

Beckett Hansen.

The taxi jerks to a stop, and I just sit there until I catch the death stare from the driver in the rearview. I shove my bills and coins at him, and he rolls his eyes at the stack of ones and loose change. I know the sting of a bad tip and having to smile through it all too well.

I creep down the driveway. The house is all dark, but that doesn’t mean Papa isn’t awake and prowling.

I clamp my purse between my teeth and use both hands to lift the latch on the gate.

It still squeaks, but not too loudly. I wince and tiptoe down the cracked pavement to the garage, holding my breath.

The whole neighborhood seems to be holding its breath to see if I fuck this up and get caught.

I grip the railing and distribute my weight the way Reed taught me when Papa was passed out with his belt still curled in his fist. The stairs up to my apartment are ancient, built before I was born.

Every step groans. My bag slides off my shoulder and almost takes me with it, but I clamp my arm around the strap and right myself.

I picture the headlines: “Local Omega Dies in Freak Stair Accident, No One Surprised.”

Please, please, please, please. I don’t dare to breathe.

I left my door unlocked so I wouldn’t have to fight with the key. It’s not like I have anything to steal anyway. I slowly turn the knob and push with my shoulder. Just as it gives, the kitchen light flickers on in Papa’s house.

Stepping in, I close the door as softly as possible. I put my back against it and count to one hundred. Long enough for my breathing to slow. Long enough to know he’s not coming.

I turn the deadbolt and shrug off my coat, hanging it and my bag on the hook. The bag slips with a thud and hits the ground.

“Fuck.”

He can’t possibly have heard that from the house, right?

As I snag the bag up, a lipstick, my wallet, and random papers slide out.

I dig into the zippered pocket and pull out Reed’s pocket knife, stashing it between the leaves of the snake plant by the door.

Papa sometimes searches my bag, but even he isn’t paranoid enough to frisk a houseplant.

The little knife is the only thing I have left of Reed’s, and that’s only because Papa doesn’t know I have it.

The purple dress is suddenly a rash on my skin. I tug at it, yank the zipper down, and wiggle out. The lining snags on my hips, and I nearly trip, legs tangled in the fabric. I drop it, naked and shivering in the kitchen, and let it lie crumpled on the floor like it’s dirty. My chest heaves.

It’s just fabric. It’s just a stupid dress. Bought to make an alpha happy.

I should ask Marilyn for a refund. Or a bonus. Or something. There has to be some kind of policy for this. Date insurance, maybe. You get handed off to another alpha mid-meal, you get your money back. That seems reasonable.

I snort softly to myself as I gather up the dress, smoothing the fabric even though I’ve already decided I hate it. It isn’t the dress’ fault. It did its job. It made me look like something I’m not. A real omega.

Timber said he’d give me to Beckett, his teammate. The words replay themselves whether I want them to or not. I know, rationally, that he didn’t mean it like that. He was awkward, careless, trying to fix a situation he’d already ruined. I pause, letting the dress unravel in my hands.

Beckett is his teammate.

Beckett is his teammate, and he doesn’t have an omega.

I take the five steps across my apartment.

My foot makes contact with the lipstick I forgot to pick up, and it skitters across the bare wood floor.

I wrench my bag open and dig into the corners, then dump all the contents.

The two envelopes with my paychecks flutter free, along with torn-out pages of my receipt book and other trash I haven’t dealt with.

A flash of hot pink catches my eye, and I fumble for it, snatching it up from the floor.

Marilyn’s card with her contact information.

Marilyn owes me a date.