6. Stone
STONE
I leave the kitchen before I can see Wren’s reaction. As soon as I heard the guys welcoming her home, I hurried to scrape every last remainder of food into a different container, which is now buried at the back of the fridge.
The slightest tinge of guilt presses down on me, but I shrug it off.
If not for her, I’d have a better relationship with my father.
I wouldn’t have had to all but beg him to let me continue my journey with the NHL.
I wouldn’t have had to apologize to the head coach of the New York Guardians on the night before I signed with them, making up some acceptable excuse.
Most embarrassing moment of my life , and I thought I was going to watch it all go down the drain. Every late night practicing my slap shots, every sprint, every drill. For nothing.
I don’t trust her not to stab me in the back again.
I close myself in my room, leaning against the door for a moment while I formulate a plan.
Wren Davis is fucking dangerous to be around. Those big hazel eyes seem to look right through me, and sometimes—well, most of the time—she doesn’t like what she sees. It’s obvious from the hate in her expression.
Just as well. I can’t stand her guts.
And every moment in this house puts me and my teammates in jeopardy.
What’s stopping her from bringing more drugs into this house? Who knows what she’s gotten into since I last saw her. Drug dealing would be the least surprising thing about her, especially knowing her family history.
The sooner she leaves, the better.
There’s just one problem, and his name is Evan fucking Mitchell. My best friend loves her like a sister. A treacherous snake of a sister, but a sister nonetheless. Which means I can’t just kick her out like I want to. For all intents and purposes, I need to play nice.
Nice- ish .
I push off from the door. Her stuff is everywhere. It’s really, actually awful. In the closet, I spot a plastic bin. It has a line of tape and some other last name written on it, so it’s clearly a relic of a past housemate.
Easy enough to reuse.
I swipe all her makeup and clothes into the bin. It’s a little depressing how everything fits. The stuff hanging in the closet, in the drawers. My bags are still stacked along the wall, waiting for…
Who the fuck knows.
Me to man up, I guess.
I snap the bin’s lid closed and kick it under my bed. Then I promptly strip her blankets and sheets to replace them with ones I brought from home, and something hot pink falls out. My eyes widen.
I snatch it up with two fingers, glaring at it.
It’s a sex toy.
The idea of her getting herself off on that bed is oddly erotic. And now I’m picturing my arch-nemesis naked, her legs spread, the toy—
Fuck off, Foster .
I remake the bed and stuff the sex toy under my pillow for future humiliation. Then I unpack. I take up every single drawer and hanger.
Inhaling deeply, I look around and smirk to myself.
There’s no trace of Wren, except under my bed and under the pillow.
I only hope she cleaned that thing after using it.
I flop on the bed with a book in one hand, earbuds firmly in my ears, and my other arm stretched over my head. And then I wait.
Finally, the door cracks open, and Wren slips in. It takes her a minute to close the door and turn back around, her shoulders rising like she’s working up her defense. My gaze flicks from the book to her, then back again.
Her mouth drops. “What the hell, Stone?”
I ignore her.
I can hear her—my music isn’t even playing—but she doesn’t know that. Maybe I should actually switch on the music and drown her out. But part of me is curious. I’ve never had anyone to needle like this. No one who grinds my gears enough to try to destroy.
It’s kind of gratifying.
“Where are my things?”
She comes over and whacks my leg.
I look up at her, taking in her furious expression. The poor foster kid doesn’t like her stuff messed with, evidently.
“Are you intentionally being a bag of dicks, or does it come naturally?”
I barely suppress my snort. I yank out one of the earbuds and drop it on my chest. “Excuse me, what was that?”
Her face is turning red. In a moment, steam might pour out of her ears. God, I hope so . It would have a featured place in my mental gallery of her.
“My. Things.”
I sit up and dog-ear my book, dropping it onto the bed beside me. “Sorry, not sure what you’re talking about. You have things?”
Her expression tightens. “I swear, I will go get Evan—”
“Okay, okay. Calm down, Sticks. I was just preparing your space. Making it nice and cozy for you.” I lean down and drag the bin out, cracking it open. “Hey, there’s even room for you in here.”
She stops moving. Her gaze is glued on her things all shoved rather haphazardly in the bin. To be fair, it’s a decent size. She wasn’t lacking in that much stuff.
“We can switch off with the bed,” she finally says, jerking the bin farther away from me. She drops to her knees and rummages through it.
“No, we can’t.”
Her hazel eyes are greener today. Or maybe it’s just the room…or her t-shirt.
“You should shower,” I add. “You smell like sweat and overcooked food.”
“Fuck you,” she seethes. She grabs handfuls of clothes and her toiletries and darts for the door.
I wiggle my fingers at her and put my earbud back in.
She returns an hour later, her long, dark hair caught up in a towel on top of her head. She’s in a threadbare t-shirt that does nothing to hide her nipples and shorts that barely cover her ass.
“You walked around out there like that?”
Her sigh is her only reply.
I toss my book on the nightstand and point to the pile of blankets. “There’s your shit. Surely you can make a nest like a good little rat.”
Her eyes narrow, and she takes her time working the towel out of her hair. She throws the wet thing in my direction. It hits my chest, and the scent of her shampoo assaults my nose. I make a choking noise and drop down on the bed.
“Is that fucking lavender?” I cough out.
“What’s your problem?”
“I’m allergic. My throat is going to swell—”
“Oh my God.” She rushes me. Her fingers dig into my wrist, trying to pry my hand away from my throat. “Jesus, Stone, I had no idea—” The panic written across her features is what breaks me.
I burst out laughing.
She falls away from me.
“The expression on your face,” I wheeze. “I actually thought you cared for a second. Damn, Sticks, you could’ve fooled me.”
“That’s not funny.” She pats down her shirt and pivots away sharply.
Not funny. Was she trying to be funny when she put the drugs under my truck?
“Some pranks just don’t hit right, do they?” My voice is cold. “We have an early morning.”
I reach for the light and click it off before she can react, leaving her standing in the dark. I put my earbuds back in and crank my music. Because fuck her. I can’t let my guard down again.
* * *
I wake before my alarm, and I’m immediately conscious of the second body in the room.
Her breathing is deep, and when I carefully roll over, I spot her form in the low, early morning light.
She’s created a makeshift bed with the blankets and sheets, and she’s so deeply burrowed in it all I can make out is the upper half of her face and her fan of dark hair.
She didn’t prank me in the middle of the night. I sort of expected to wake up with whipped cream on my palm and a feather on my nose, or my palms glued together, or my hand left in warm water.
Nothing.
Instead, I swing my legs over and immediately knock something over.
Cold water soaks my feet.
I swear under my breath, jerking at the sensation, and hit something else. More water.
“What the fuck?”
I switch on my phone’s flashlight and shine it at the floor.
She’s surrounded my bed in half-filled plastic cups, like a petty, prepubescent child with a stick up her ass. I smother my laugh at that. Sticks with a stick up her ass . I gather as many cups in my hands as I can, moving them to create a barrier between our sides of the room.
There’s nothing I can do about the water that’s already spilled, soaking into the rug. But I can repay her. Or at least make it difficult for her to get out of her pile of blankets. Once the army of cups has her surrounded, my side of the room is free and clear to walk around.
I sop up the water with the towel she used on her head last night, and her breathing doesn’t even change.
After I’m showered and dressed, I pull her sex toy from where I kept it under my pillow. Was that what she was scrounging for last night?
Well, I’ll return it to her. Happily .
I head downstairs. The other guys must not be early risers, and that’s fine by me. My step-monster is the sort to sleep in too. Over the summer, mornings became the only time I could hang out in the house and still have a sort of refuge from her.
I write a note for Wren, taping it to the toy, and drop it on the kitchen table. It stares at me as I make my coffee and cereal. I wolf both down, now a hundred percent sure I need to get out of the house before this explodes in my face. Although, I would love to see her reaction…
No, fuck it.
I switch the toy on. It buzzes to life with surprising vigor, and my jaw goes slack for a moment. She puts this thing inside her? Fucking hell, no guy is ever going to please her if she’s used to a cock that vibrates. It’s got a little extra arm on it that I assume is for her clit.
Stop fucking thinking about her .
My shoes are on, and my bag is by the door. Everything is organized. Prim and proper.
The toy goes back on the table, and the buzzing is a thousand times louder against the wood. The thing jumps and jiggles. It’s going to wake someone up, for sure. Or die trying.
I head out for my run and hope like hell someone will fill me in on the reactions later.