Chapter 2 #3
“In a field dominated by a ballet of violence, Beck proves often the quiet ones are those who should be feared. Patience is their true weapon, providing an elegantly controlled method of shattering dreams like three-millimeter blades slicing through ice.”
Hmm… Not bad. A little poetic. However, the true art within a story was providing the perfect combination of grit and sleaze. My motto.
Amused, I took a sip of my drink, forced to lick the last few drops for any satisfaction.
Very briefly I closed my eyes. What I’d yet to determine how to add to my report regarded the fact that the brothers were not only intense, intelligent hockey players, but also shifters.
There were those who considered me a hard-edged bitch capable of crushing a man’s career much like I’d wanted to do with the manhood of a couple of jerks I’d allowed into my life. I didn’t shy away from speaking the truth.
The use of drugs or steroids. The overindulgence of booze.
Any abusive behavior. All fair game in my articles and even my on-camera interviews.
And I’d call on the carpet any player no matter their celebrity status, level of contract, or place in the industry for manipulation or infidelity.
Period. No ifs, ands, or butts with two t’s.
I’d had players try to bribe, cajole, sweettalk, and threaten me when learning they were the subject of my work. I’d even had a marriage proposal. I might have given the handsome man’s question a serious thought if he hadn’t been married with four kids.
A fifth on the way.
Maybe I’d become too jaded, searching for the worst in people, namely men.
However, the fact the two men were shifters on a lucrative sports team was an entirely different topic and one I’d been lucky enough not to face.
Until now.
Maybe I should talk about his playboy persona. I’d seen more than a few careers flame out in the first year because a man couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
A moment of inspiration.
“Fans all across the country, especially Beck’s female fans are curious about his moniker: the Devil. Does that include beneath the sheets?”
As soon as I read back the last line, I choked. Delete. Delete. Deeeeelllleeeettte. How many dirty martinis had I consumed? Maybe the better question was why a rolling imaginary video of the man’s cock and balls was playing out in vivid imagery in the frontal lobe of my brain.
The words weren’t flowing on that subject matter. Maybe I needed to stop for the night.
A couple of delicious drinks.
A midnight plunge in the very private pool without a swimsuit.
A nightcap in front of the chimney while soaking in the desert atmosphere and twinkling stars.
And a long night’s sleep devoid of texts and phone calls.
Maybe the trip really was worth the trouble.
The dirty martini had gone down way too easily.
However, at least I hadn’t selected shots of tequila instead, which had definitely been on the list after the hour spent with Mr. Know-It-All.
Beck had been right. Damn it. He hadn’t been uncomfortable for a brief second.
Not one. Legs splayed open. Cock partially aroused. Balls swollen and hanging low.
Every second of the long interview, my eyes had longed to fall to the wide-open space between his legs.
I’d persevered, managing to keep my eye on the ball.
As I nodded to the bartender while sliding the empty glass toward him, I quickly glanced at my laptop screen, marveling at the outcome of the stimulating interview.
Thought tongue in cheek.
Although I had to admit, once the man had stopped pretending as if he was filling an arrogant asshole criterion, I’d found him thoughtful, intelligent, and full of passion for the sport.
And in truth, I suspected other aspects of his life as well.
He’d provided me with more material than necessary, which made writing the article a blessing and a curse.
I didn’t want to leave anything out, excited from the three thousand words I’d already typed. The piece would need to be shortened as well as edited unless made into a two-part series. His knowledge of the industry was phenomenal.
Was it possible I liked the guy more than I thought?
Not a chance, but his charm made the story flow like butter, as my mother used to say.
I hadn’t needed any time with the star center, Ford Kendrick cornered by someone from USA Today.
Beck had been quite forthcoming about his brother, providing some juicy tidbits to spice up the article.
At least now, I had a chance to relax while finishing the piece.
The bar had a sweeping view of the mountains and desert, the gas fireplace providing warmth from the cool evening air coming in through the massive open sliding glass doors, the setting almost romantic with a rugged background.
The incredible surround sound system allowed guests to catch every nuance of the Spanish guitar music, creating a perfect backdrop of relaxation.
With only a few people in the bar, some couples and several businessmen who so far were keeping to themselves, I could breathe a little easier.
While any other reporter would feel blessed to have such a supportive, giving boss, I knew the man was up to something. No good deed was ever left without a sharp-edged backside.
“Here you go,” the bartender said in his rich, soothing voice while placing a new cocktail napkin in front of me. “Still hard at work, I see.”
“Perfection is an art.”
He chuckled and removed my empty glass. “Are you here for long?”
“Just a couple days, but I intend on enjoying every inch of the resort.”
“We aim to please.”
Maybe I was fooling myself or possibly experiencing loneliness all of a sudden, which wasn’t like me, but I had a feeling if I’d smiled in just the right way, he’d be happy to prove his statement.
“You’re doing just fine.” The words had no sooner left my mouth when it was as if chaos had entered the building. I was startled when I heard loud, very deep voices. “Let me guess,” I said with obvious disdain. “A wedding reception?”
The bartender laughed. “Worse. A hockey team.”
Instantly my hackles raised. “Please tell me the Portland Hellions aren’t staying here.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you, but I won’t need to since a bunch of players are heading into the bar. I guess they can share the news with you themselves.”
No. No and oh, hell, no. There was no chance my luck was this bad.
After taking a deep breath, I swiveled on the barstool, hopeful I didn’t see anyone I recognized.
As the rowdy group of men barged in on the serene space, I slowly closed the laptop lid just as a player pushed his way through the others and came to within a few feet of where I was sitting.
Just then his eyes locked onto mine.
My luck had just run out.
And for all the wrong reasons, a wave of heat tore through my system.