Chapter 8 Scotty
Scotty
My dad was waiting for me when I walked back inside, standing with his shoulders squared and a look on his face that made my stomach drop, like he’d overheard every word exchanged outside.
Panic shot through me like an electrical current.
Did he see the way Hunter stood too close?
The way Ryder’s hand lingered on my back?
The way I looked at them, like I’d already made several poor life choices and was considering a few more?
Alarm bells went off in my head, but then he spoke, and I realized this interrogation was about something far less scandalous.
“Rebecca, why did they need a driver to pick them up?”
The question blindsided me. “What?”
His forehead creased with suspicion. “Why weren’t they driving their own car?”
Ah. That. The actual accident. Not the emotional one currently unfolding inside my ribcage.
“We told you,” I said automatically, which was laughable because we absolutely had not told him anything coherent. We skimmed. We deflected. We conveniently skipped over several details.
He just looked at me, and I sighed.
I was exhausted in a way that went beyond sleep deprivation. My bones felt hollowed out. “It was a really long day. Could we talk about it in the morning?”
His mouth tightened, but he knew me well enough not to push. He exhaled through his nose and nodded. “Sure, honey.” Moving forward, he kissed my forehead, and I hugged him automatically. “Your things are in your room.”
Morgan appeared in the kitchen doorway, and I wiggled my fingers at her because that was the absolute extent of affection I could offer. She smiled warmly, which almost made me feel guilty for being emotionally feral.
“Good night,” I said, and retreated before anyone could ask me something I wasn’t ready to answer.
My room hadn’t changed since high school. Same bed. Same curtains. It was comforting but also a reminder that I was starting my life over with no solid plans in place.
I opened the built-in cupboards and smiled when I saw my little nest tucked away exactly how I’d left it.
Dad had offered to build me a proper one when I designated, but I’d always loved that cramped space inside the wardrobe.
It felt safe and perfect for a young Omega who didn’t fully understand why she sometimes needed soft things, small spaces, and quiet.
It wasn’t like I needed it for heats back then. It had just been… mine.
I mindlessly put away my things, then perched on my mattress and powered up my phone with all the enthusiasm of someone opening a letter from the IRS.
Thirteen missed calls. All from Ken.
Of fucking course.
The phone immediately started ringing again, because apparently, he believed relentless persistence was romantic instead of deeply irritating.
He didn’t apologize that morning. Not really.
He’d pleaded while I packed. Then argued.
Then, when that didn’t work, he threatened me.
I’d told him if he laid a hand on me, he’d never play another hockey game again.
Thankfully, he left me alone after that.
Ken’s never been physically abusive. Not once.
But now, with the rose colored glasses shattered into a million pieces, I could admit there had been emotional bruises.
He had isolated me from my friends and family until Blackridge felt like his world, and I was just orbiting it.
The NHL wives and girlfriends weren’t really my friends.
They were proximity acquaintances. It had always been about Ken.
What he needed. What he wanted. What would look good for him.
And stupidly, I just went along with it.
Never again.
I ignored his call and checked my messages.
Millie and Ella had blown up my phone with lunch demands for tomorrow.
My ride-or-dies since we shared crayons in Ms. Peterson’s class had warned me about Ken for years, but I’d dug my heels in like the world’s most loyal idiot.
I texted back immediately because I needed them and a basket of fries the size of my emotional damage, preferably not served with a side of I told you so.
I hovered my thumb over the message thread with Ken, knowing I should leave it alone. But like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurts, I tapped on his name and scrolled through his unread texts.
Ken: Baby, come home. It wasn’t what it looked like.
Ken: Where the fuck are you, Rebecca? Stop being so childish.
Ken: This isn’t fucking funny. Amber was a mistake. Coach was being a dick during practice, and I needed some relief. It’s not my fault you weren’t home.
Ken: You are such a fucking bitch. I told everyone what a lying whore you are.
And then, a couple of hours after the last one.
Ken: Baby, I’m so sorry. Come home. I love you.
What had I even seen in him?
I was young. He was handsome. And charming.
Sweet when he wanted to be. He swept me off my feet and painted a picture of a perfect future so vividly that I’d stepped right into it.
But if I was honest, a small, stubborn part of me had known for a long time that something wasn’t right.
I just hadn’t wanted to admit we weren’t perfect. That I had failed.
No.
I wasn’t the one who failed.
He did.
I stood under the shower spray until the hot water turned my skin rosy and my mind foggy, then collapsed into bed. The sheets were fresh, and I had a brief, a small gesture from Dad that somehow made this whole disaster feel a little less overwhelming.
Sleep refused to cooperate.
The night’s events kept cycling through my mind like a broken record I couldn’t shut off. Ken. Amber. The crash. Dinner. Morgan’s hand on my dad’s.
Hunter.
Ryder.
They’d transformed from distant figures I’d admired on TV into flesh and blood men who’d touched me, who knew my name.
My body didn’t seem to care that they were off-limits—if anything, the taboo made my skin prickle with heat. My soon-to-be stepbrother and his gorgeous mate were apparently the only thing my body wanted right now.
I closed my eyes and imagined them there, somehow fitting on my childhood double bed despite physics.
My hand slid into my panties before I could overthink it.
I replayed the limo. Their scent. The vibration of Ryder’s voice.
Hunter’s hands. The way they made me come undone like it was their soul mission in life.
I was so close to my fourth orgasm of the day, I could practically taste it, but nothing I did tipped me over the edge.
I groaned into my pillow in frustration, accepting the humbling truth that my fingers were poor stand-ins for Hunter’s commanding grip and the way Ryder’s voice seemed to vibrate through my entire body when he called me a good girl.
I tossed and turned for another half an hour, my brain waging a civil war against itself while my body remained stubbornly unsatisfied.
It was late.
They were asleep.
They would think I was easy.
They would think I was desperate.
Don’t be desperate, Scotty.
Finally, I grabbed my phone and braced myself. Relief flooded me when I saw Ken hadn’t called or texted again.
I scrolled through my contacts, searching for Hunter’s name. Then Ryder’s. Nothing. My stomach dropped. Had they been toying with me? Maybe they’d already moved on to someone new who didn’t come with family complications.
And then I found it.
He saved his number under Crash Daddy. I barely knew Hunter, but it was already painfully obvious he had a chaotic streak.
In the darkness, I bit my lower lip and tapped out the message, my heart racing faster than my thumbs could move.
Scotty: Hi, Crash Daddy. You guys awake?