Arath (Van Doren)

Chapter 1

ELGIN “ELLIE” BOLINGbrOOK

I’m drunk. Stepping out into the cool air, the world looks blurry. Lights streak by from cars, moving too fast, or maybe I’m responding too late. Delayed. That’s what happens when you’re drunk, right? The world doesn’t change, but my refleshes do. Wait… refleshes…

“Refleshes,” I murmur. That’s the right word, isn’t it?

Refleshes keeps repeating in my mind like a chant as I look around. Where was I going again?

The door behind me opens, and laughter follows me outside. The thump of the bass and too-loud music carry to me, and I cringe away. Oh, right. My head is pounding, so I’m heading back to the hotel. Drowning out my misery of not even making it to the playoffs was a fantastic idea.

I take a few steps forward and look around. Where am I again? Where am I in relation to the hotel? Or… the bus?

Squinting again, I try to read the signs around me. Oh, I’m looking for the hotel. Yeah, that sounds right.

Having made the decision, right or wrong, I move down the sidewalk. Moving as slowly as I can so I don’t trip over air and fall on my face. That’s not how I want to end up with a broken face. A puck, that’s fine. Not because I’m too drunk to walk.

I get to the end of the sidewalk and pause. No, this isn’t the right way. Nothing looks familiar at all. Turning on my heel, I have to pause as the world keeps spinning even though I’ve stopped. Giggles pass me, but I don’t see where they’re coming from.

The world just keeps spinning, so I take my chances and walk forward. At least there’s something semi-solid next to me I can skim my hand along. Until it ends and I’ve come face to face with another decision. Cross the street or take a right.

It’s dark to the right. Dimly lit, if there’s any light at all. But at the other end, I’m sure I see the lights of the hotel. To get there, I first have to get through this creepy-ass tunnel of darkness. I can make it. I can totally make it. There must be walls or… spirits to guide me.

At least in the dark, there won’t be these stabbing lights. I swear, the light is like needles being pressed into my eyes.

Oh, that was the wrong thought. My stomach gives a violent surge. I stop moving and wait for it to settle. My mouth tastes gross now. That taste you get right before you vomit. Too much saliva, and it all tastes sour.

The nausea settles as much as it’s going to, and I move into the dark tunnel. I move slowly because I can’t see what’s on the ground in front of me. It’s probably not that dark, but my visual refleshes aren’t working.

Man, I’m still not sure about that word. What the fuck is a reflesh? What am I even saying?!

Looking straight ahead, I move toward the light at the other end. The tunnel is long, and I’m fairly certain it’s getting longer, and the light is further away. Am I moving in the wrong direction? Has time stilled, and I’m stuck in a loop?

Fuck, I hope it doesn’t choose to stand still right after we had a sucky season. I’d like to erase these memories with something new. Like a good season. A Stanley Cup season. It’s okay. We were just off our game this season. We’ll come back strong.

That’s what Coach said. He’s a good, good coach. Good, good. I snort, and a fucking giggle leaves my mouth. Thank the fucking gods of the earth I’m all alone, so no one heard that sound!

Actually, I don’t hear anything at all. Picking my gaze up, I look ahead. The lit-up end is still there. Maybe it’s gotten a little closer. I turn back in time to see the other side of the tunnel nearly blocked by something. Narrowing my eyes, I try to make it out.

A bright flash of light makes me stumble backward, and I fall on my ass. The building next to me throws debris that picks at my face like little axes. What the fuck is this?

I look up to see long shadows coming toward me. How drunk am I, exactly?

Now my heart’s racing. I somehow get to my feet as the wall throws sharp things at me again. “Stop,” I slur. Yes, it’s possible to slur a single syllallalble word.

Okay, that word makes me giggle.

The shadows bear down on me, and my heart hammers as fear finally breaks through my wall of drunkenness. The world still spins, but I think my processing time has caught up. Though not my refleshes. Fuck, I’m sure that’s not a goddamn word!

Squeals echo down the tunnel, which I now recognize as a very long alleyway.

Brilliant of me, really. I register more flashes and pings, but this time, I know what they are.

I’m being shot at. Or I was until the vehicle, now screaming toward us, draws the attention away from me. Thank fuck for small miracles.

The shadows—men with guns!—turn back toward the other end. I hear their footsteps as they run. As soon as the car is next to me, the door opens. Hands grip my shoulders and pull me inside. I land awkwardly on the floor, and the door snaps shut.

It’s a very spacious floor. I stay right where I am because with the way the vehicle moves, the gunshots right in my ear, and my fear, I seriously may become violently sick.

As I roll when the vehicle takes a corner, the slush that’s in my stomach burns up my esophagus.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, it’s coming up again.

I don’t know whether I’ve just been kidnapped or rescued. Maybe a little of both.

“Get them?” a voice asks.

“No. Pansies ran. Shocker.”

The second voice sends chills through me. Not because it’s dark or whatever, but because I can feel it in my bones. It’s a very strange feeling that I don’t at all understand. Like at all. Oh, I already said that. Thought it?

I need to stop being drunk now.

“What about this one?” the first voice asks.

I’m hauled up and set on the seat, but I immediately lean over so my head is between my knees. A hand moves to the back of my head, and I think he’s going to force my head up. I hope he doesn’t mind being covered in vomit.

But his hand is gentle, resting on my head and then on my neck. His skin is blessedly cool, and I groan.

“Are you shot?”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking to me.

I sit up right away at the question and regret it instantly.

I cover my mouth with my hand and lay my head back.

Oh, fuck, that was a mistake. But I’m sure if I lean forward again, I will throw up.

That’s far too much movement for my alcohol-infused blood right now.

“Am I?” I croak.

A low chuckle covers my body in gooseflesh. The cool touch lands on my chin and gently turns my face. I keep my eyes closed, far too afraid to open them. The world spinning will not be good for my ability to keep the contents of my stomach down.

“Looks like you have a few small lacerations,” the smooth voice says. It reaches through me and strokes my damn nuts. Well, that’s new. “But no. You’re not shot. I don’t see any penetrating wounds.”

Penetrating. Considering the context, I don’t know why the word feels very invasive. Sexual. My cock stirs, and I grimace. “Great,” I mutter. Apparently, being drunk and terrified makes me horny for men. Something I didn’t know about myself.

I feel his chuckle again as his hand leaves my face. When I shiver, it’s not because I lost his touch and my skin suddenly craves it. It’s because I’m cold… Or drunk.

I feel less drunk now. Nothing like a shot of adrenaline to clear some of the alcohol away.

It does nothing to make me stop feeling like I might puke my guts out all over the car.

We really need to stop moving. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re going to throw up and knowing there’s nothing you can do about it.

Even though the ride has turned smooth, the motion alone keeps the threat of vomiting right there at the surface.

The two men talk quietly, and I listen to their voices, though I haven’t dared open my eyes yet. I have no idea who I’m going to see, and I’m a little afraid to find out. I’m not paying enough attention to hear their words, but letting their calm soothe me while I concentrate on breathing.

I’m startled when the car stops, and I’m forced to open my eyes. One of the men is already out of the car. The second is climbing out now, too. He turns and offers his hand, but he’s standing close enough to the door that I can only see from the chest down.

This seems ill-advised. But what am I going to do—remain in the fucking car like a stubborn child? He saved my life. Probably. Is he planning to hold me for ransom?

Taking a breath, I reach out and give him my hand. I’ve apparently fallen into the false comfort of thinking I’m not as drunk as I had been. As soon as my feet hit the ground, the world spins, and I almost topple over. I only get a brief, blurry look at his face.

I should have stayed in the car.

He chuckles, and once again, I feel it in my balls. What the fuck is wrong with me right now? The next thing I know, the world truly does spin as he picks me up like I’m nothing but a damn child and not the nearly 200-pound center for the Philadelphia Hatters.

It occurs to me to protest, but I’m too busy trying to keep the contents of my stomach down—again.

Throwing up all over the car would have been awful, yes.

But covering this man in my vomit? Yeah, that’s not high on my priority list. I’m confident he has a gun on him.

Those shots still echoing in my head were very loud once I was in the car.

I count the steps but lose track after eleven. That’s how far my drunk-rattled brain can manage right now. I’m only aware of a change in venue when I’m suddenly sitting on my ass. A shiver races through my body at the cool stone under me. Am I even wearing pants?

Gathering my strength, I squint my eyes open. Yes, I’m wearing pants. I’m sitting on a stone countertop in a bathroom. Daring to look up, I find the man who presumably had carried me has his back to me as he rifles through a closet.

He’s big with broad shoulders. Tall. It looks like he’s wearing a suit.

Like the fucking mafia! His hair is dark, trim, and arranged neatly on his head.

When he turns, I try hard not to catch my breath.

I’ve never seen eyes quite like his. I’m hypnotized as he moves closer, and I can see them more clearly. They’re charcoal. Dark and deadly.

His fingers on my chin make me jump and dislodge my locked gaze. I swallow at his touch, trying to ignore all the things it does to me. “I need to clean these,” he says.

It takes me a minute to remember that he said I had some lacerations. “They’re fine,” I say. My voice sounds croaky. Awesome. “I’ve had worse.”

“You get into shootouts frequently?” he asks, amused.

God, the way his voice touches me! Like a caress.

On my dick!

I shake my head. “No. Ever had a hockey stick to the face?”

He tilts his head. “I haven’t. You’re a hockey player?”

“Always nice to meet a fan,” I deadpan.

The smile that flashes across his face makes me feel like I’m looking into the sun. Have I ever seen something so… brilliant?

“Who are you?”

My name leaves my mouth before I can think better of it. “Elgin Bolingbrook. I play for Philly.”

He nods. Letting my face go, he reaches into a drawer and holds up a small bottle so I can read it.

I pretend to read it, but that’s far too much focus for my drunk eyes to manage.

I watch closely as he opens the bottle and rattles two green liquid gel tabs into the palm of his hand and offers them to me.

I’m going to take my chances. Anything to try to combat the inevitable hangover I’m going to have tomorrow. Bringing them to my mouth, I accept the bottle of water he offers me and down the entire thing. Jesus, I’m thirsty.

“More water once I clean these, hockey player,” he says.

I hold perfectly still as his fingers move over my flesh. All the while, I’m staring at his face. Trying to pinpoint what it is about him that’s making my body react in a way it never has before. Not to a guy, anyway.

There’s not even a way I can misidentify him. He’s all man. Hard, chiseled jawline. Five o’clock shadow. He’s got the stature of a football player. Or maybe two of them combined. He’s just… big.

“There you go, Ellie,” he says.

I narrow my eyes at him when I see his teasing smile as he turns to dump the bandage wrappers into the trash.

“Wash your hands and strip. I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

I mean to tell him I’m a damn adult and can do whatever I want to, but…

fuck, I want to do just that. Now that he’s mentioned it, I feel grimy and gross.

Sliding down from the counter is a little precarious, but thankfully, I manage without landing on my face.

When I turn and flick on the water, my reflection catches my attention.

There are two butterfly strips high on my right cheek and one over my right eye. Was I shot? Grazed by a bullet? How did this even happen? Why the hell was I being shot at?!

The man returns as I’m staring at myself. I’m entirely too distracted by the mysteries of my injury and his presence that I completely miss the fact that he’s moving toward me until he’s settled right behind me. His body pressed flush against mine.

Oh fuck. I close my eyes and ignore the way my cock responds. Not cool, dick. Seriously, not cool. Stay in your damn lane.

He’s all business as he washes my hands for me, just like one might a child’s.

I don’t even have the strength in me to protest. And I completely fucking ignore the way he touches me after, pulling my shirt off and replacing it with another.

My shoes, socks, and pants follow, then he helps me into a pair of soft bed pants.

Before I know it, he’s helping me climb into bed. And he tucks me in!

“Get some sleep, Ellie. There’s water on the table beside you. We’ll talk when you wake up.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him my name isn’t Ellie, but I’m asleep before the words can form.