Chapter 7 #2
Unknown: Hey, Kylie. It’s Holland from the rink. Hope it’s okay I got your number from Ted, but after you got that flat last night, it felt imperative that you have my number just in case you find yourself in a bind again.
Ted is the general manager of the rink, and as much as I’d love to believe he thought the action was harmless, it was a big error of judgment to give out my phone number to someone without asking.
Holland’s always been nice to me, but Rook, for all his eccentricities, seems to hate him far more than he hates everyone else.
Oh well. It’s not like Holland having my number is the key to my safe-deposit box or a straight line to my Social Security number. If things get dicey, I can always change the number—thanks to my grandmother, I’m quite familiar with the process.
Me: Please don’t jinx me with another flat tire.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Holland: Ha. Promise I’m not trying to do that. How’s the tire holding up, by the way? That dude Rook get it handled?
Rook’s deep, mysterious brown eyes fill my mind, and a weird urge to push Holland’s buttons as a test overwhelms me. Is the distrust mutual? Or is Rook just being…well, Rook?
Me: Holding up well. Rook got it fixed in no time at all. He was great, actually.
Holland: Glad to hear it. Listen, about that thing on Friday I mentioned. I don’t want to pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I do think it’s a great opportunity. There are a lot of talent scouts looking for beautiful, talented women like you for modeling shoots, commercials, etc.
Before I can overthink it, another message comes through.
Holland: All I’m saying is to keep an open mind about it, okay?
This whole private event thing on Friday night is his favorite topic of conversation, to say the least. I mean, I still don’t even know what it entails, but it’s clear he wants me to go. He didn’t react to the Rook comment, but maybe the desperation to come to his thing is a reaction?
I exhale, longing for a time when the men were just staring at me, and send the most appropriate response.
Me: Okay.
It’s a pathetically bland reply, but right now, at the end of a marathon run of swirling emotions, inconveniences, and piles and piles of work on broken, bleeding feet, it’s all I have to give.
I toss my phone into the cupholder and head toward my favorite takeout place—Murray’s Pub—to drown my exhaustion in grease. Fried chicken, a burger, potato skins—it all sounds good. I think I’ll order it all and welcome the indigestion as the antidote to overthinking.
The lot is half full when I pull in, most of the spaces filled by expensive black cars and SUVs.
It’s not commonplace per se, but the greater Boston area is far wealthier than most people realize.
I have an inside track because of my everyday work digging through their financials, but I’m still a little surprised to find them here, slumming it with the commonfolk.
Bleeping my locks, I smile to myself about the suited crowd I’m bound to find inside, and ready myself for several encounters with the same personality.
Miss, where’s my order? I said on the side, not on the top! I’ve been waiting for ten minutes, for God’s sake!
The bell chimes over my head as I step inside the neon-sign-adorned lobby area, dusting the gravel off my boots on the black rubber mat.
I push my hair out of my face and unbutton my coat, weaving through a crowd of people waiting for a table and heading straight for the counter to put in my to-go order.
The clientele is exactly as I expected—though pretty overtly male in an angering sort of way—and I shake my head at the feminist voice inside my head. Maybe it’s not that women aren’t wealthy too—they’re just eating somewhere that doesn’t clog their arteries quite as quickly.
I focus on Gemma, my favorite do-it-all gal behind the counter, willing her to come to me with her little pad and pencil and leave all these other people to fend for themselves.
“Well, hey there,” a familiar voice says from my side. “Small world.”
Holland’s smile is both edgy and surprised, and my heart gallops violently in my chest. We were literally just texting five freaking minutes ago, and now, he’s here. At one of my favorite places.
He looks just as surprised to see me as I am him, but still, an uneasiness that doesn’t even feel like my own washes over me until I’m shivering.
“Apparently,” I reply, forcing a smile.
“Listen, since we’re both—”
A rush of cold outside air hits me in the back so hard it’s as though the front door is right behind me.
Holland is still talking as I turn around, but I don’t even hear him as my eyes land on Rook Slater without any effort at all.
A dozen bodies fill the space by the entrance, and yet, his face stands out instantly.
It’s intense and unforgiving in ways I can’t fully comprehend as he stares at the man to my left.
Behind Rook, his brother Kane eases the mood with a friendly smile, grasping Rook’s shoulder and shaking it as if to loosen him.
Rook’s laser focus finally breaks, and without hesitation, his eyes jump to me.
His body moves, Kane seemingly prancing behind him in comparison to his stern steps, and I find myself bracing for impact.
Last night’s flat tire commune was intense; this looks primed to be worse. Keys dangle from Kane’s fingers, and when our eyes meet, he grins at me, which, thankfully, settles some of my nerves.
“Hey, Kylie,” he says easily, nudging Rook to the side so they can stand shoulder to shoulder, by and large ignoring the hockey adversary at my side. “Just the woman we were looking for.”
“Uh…hi.” I pause, glancing between Kane and Rook, as they confirm that their being here, as opposed to Holland, isn’t a coincidence at all. “Wait…what do you mean looking for?”
Rook’s gaze flicks to the keys in my hand before moving to my eyes and holding. I feel trapped there, and I’m surprisingly comfortable in the confinement. He should scare me much more than he does—logically, I know that—but intrinsically, I always feel…safe when he’s nearby.
“Your spare’s temporary,” he says. “Not quite full size. We need to switch it out with a standard wheel.”
“But my car is working fine. I drove it to work this morning without any issues.”
“I know,” he says. “But it’s temporary.”
“I can’t even tell the difference,” I say, glancing at Kane.
Kane laughs. “I like you, Kylie. It’s always nice for us men when we meet a woman where size truly doesn’t matter.”
I snort despite myself, and Rook hits him with a glare so lethal I’m surprised the whole establishment doesn’t quake.
“I know it’s not the most convenient when you just want to get your food and go home,” Kane adds. “But my tow’s out front. Will only take five minutes, tops.”
“Your tow?” I question. I know Kane is like the local Repo Man of Concordia, but I don’t understand why my car needs a tow when it’s running just fine.
“Just to be safe,” Kane reassures. “Wouldn’t want that tire falling off before we get it switched out.”
“My tire falling off?” I question, my eyes going wide in shock. “That’s a thing that can happen?’
“No,” Holland chimes in on a scoff at the same time Kane says, “Yes.”
“No one asked you for your opinion,” Rook snaps, but his eyes never leave my face. “Just let me get it switched out for you, Kylie. Otherwise, it’s going to drive me crazy, thinking something bad could happen.”
I look to Holland warily. His smile is tight, but his eyes are sharply focused on Rook, his posture locked in place. I can’t stop myself from glancing back at Rook, but I startle when I find his eyes are still on me.
I’ve seen the violent way these guys slam each other on the ice whenever they get a chance—the sin bin has yet to be empty during their games—but this beef between them feels meatier than some hockey grudge. In fact, it feels uncomfortably tied to me, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.
“Uh…” I pause, my eyes still bouncing around the three guys like a ping-pong ball. I’m tired. And hungry. And my nerves are so fucking shot it’s not funny.
I don’t know what to do here to make the feelings go away. And I really, really need the feelings to go away.
“How about I just have one of my guys look at it for you, Kylie?” Holland offers. “You can get your food, and I can give you a lift home.”
Rook tenses, but Kane cuts in with a laugh. “Holland, bud, I think we can all agree that your guys don’t know their asshole from a screwdriver. Comparatively, Cal’s the best mechanic in Concordia. I say we let my brother handle it, yeah?”
“Best mechanic?” Holland scoffs. “I thought he was the scrub who did demo work.”
“Demolition shit is his side hustle,” Kane corrects.
“His side hustle?” Holland’s eyebrows pinch together, and Kane just laughs.
“Oh, my bad. I forgot not all of us have been sucking off the golden teat since birth,” Kane says through another laugh that’s far more sarcastic than anything else. “Side hustle is like a second job.”
“I know what a side hustle is,” Holland comments with a roll of his eyes. “I just didn’t realize Calloway was a mechanic.”
“Mechanic by day.” Kane winks. “Demolition man by night.”
Holland is silent after that, but his tight jaw says enough. He’s fucking pissed at the golden teat jab, and the stakes I thought were high before have only been elevated.
“Dinner’s on us, Kylie,” Kane cuts in, and before I know it, he’s wrapping a friendly arm around my shoulders. “Put your order in, and we’ll have your tire changed out and you back here before your food’s ready.”
“It’s really going to be that quick?”
“Five minutes, tops,” Rook answers. “You don’t even have to get out of Kane’s tow truck.”
“Why don’t I just wait here, then?”
“Sorry, Kylie.” Kane pretends to wince. “Need you to sign on both ends of the tow. But I promise it’ll be quick, and I’ll even let you choose our music selection.” Kane punctuates the promise with a waggle of his brows.