Chapter 8
Particularly Chatty Friends
Cohen
Dad: Answer this goddamn phone. I have plans for you.
My life is a loop of terrible decisions and even worse consequences.
And the only thought bouncing around in my head since this morning is her.
Sloane Heart.
My coach’s daughter.
Fantastic. Just what I needed: an obsession with a forbidden last name.
At least now she has a name and a last name.
For the past few days, she’s been haunting my mind in the form of an Angel.
“I’m telling you again,” Nate follows me out of the car with that saintly martyr look that always manages to push my buttons, “Julian Heart is not the enemy.”
“No, sure.” I slam the car door too hard. The sound echoes against the quiet street like a gunshot.
Elm Hollow. Small, quiet, fucking full of autumn decorations and people who mind your business with a cinnamon-cookie smile. I pull my hood over my head. The last thing I need is small-town hysteria.
“He’s trying to help you, damn it!”
I stop, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“Oh yeah? Is that why he saddled me with an ‘image rehabilitation program’ run by his daughter?”
“Because she’s good, Cohen. You need this.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He's tired, and I get it. He's been dealing with my crises, my outbursts, and my headlines for months.
“I need an exorcist, not a love consultant.”
“He just wants to help you, Cohen. He treats you like a son—”
“Don’t start, Nate.”
I stop in front of the driveway and stare at him.
Nate huffs and shakes his head, resigned. “I don’t get why you always have to be defensive. Heart cares about you, even if he doesn’t show it.”
“He cares about the team, not me.”
“Don’t be an ass. He defended you to the management, to the press… even after you decked that photographer.”
“That photographer deserved it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“In any case, I have absolutely no intention of staying at his house. That’s out of the question, fuck.”
“We can’t move into the car or stay in a hotel the whole time,” Nate continues, pragmatic.
Yeah, Nate, and you know what? I can’t be under the same roof as Coach Heart. And especially not under the same roof as his daughter. Those fucking lashes and those fucking eyes that I can’t get out of my head.
Not to mention her tits… but I better keep that to myself.
I sigh and gesture toward the house in front of us.
Dominic Voss’s mansion. Huge, modern, warm lights, and film noir silence.
Perfect. The ideal place to ruin my reputation yet again.
“Tell me you’re joking,” he says, pointing at the door.
“I’m not kidding. We need a place to stay, and Dominic has space.”
“He doesn’t host anyone.”
“He’ll make an exception. He owes me a favor.”
Nate gives me a dirty look, realizing I was at the bachelorette party with him. “He shouldn’t have dragged you into that, damn it!”
I roll my eyes and walk up the steps. He follows, reluctant.
I knock once. Then twice.
The door opens with a slow creak.
Dominic appears on the threshold, barefoot, a black t-shirt, wet hair slicked back. Steel-gray eyes and an expression that screams don’t bother me.
His eyes shift from Nate to me.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“We need a place to stay,” Nate says with his politician’s diplomacy.
Dominic leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his profile sharp in the gloom.
“I don’t run a bed and breakfast.”
“Very funny, Voss. Are you working on your sense of humor?” I counter.
He sizes me up as if deciding whether it’s worth slamming the door in my face or not.
“No.”
“Come on, Dom—”
“I said no.”
“You have a six-bedroom house and live alone.”
“And I like it that way.”
I lean against the doorframe, tired. “Can we at least come in before it starts raining?”
He glares at me. “I’d rather watch you rot on the driveway.”
“Natural empathy,” I retort.
Dominic sighs like someone already filled with regret. He moves slightly away from the door. “Come in. But only because I don’t want the neighbors starting rumors.”
I knew he wouldn’t leave me hanging. He’s a weird guy… but you can always count on him.
Inside, it’s all steel, wood, and maniacal order.
Every object looks expensive. Everything in its place.
The exact opposite of my life.
I can't help but think that someone like Dominic stands out in Elm Hollow just as much as I would in a Valentine's Day reality show.
“Don’t touch anything, don’t bring anyone, don’t make a mess.” He says it with his usual zero-total pathos.
“Define mess,” I ask.
He gives me a look that chills my blood.
“Got it.”
While Nate explains the details of our “temporary exile,” I remain silent.
My mind is elsewhere.
At Sloane's desk, her scent, that neutral tone that manages to piss me off and turn me on in the same second.
How hot it would be to slam her right down on that desk…
I slump onto the sofa, exhausted. I glance around: no music, not a single photo. No trace of humanity.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out reluctantly.
Another text from my father.
Dad: Next week. Plaza Hotel.
Damn it, I need to get out of this mess. And fast. I can't afford any more scandals.
I reply quickly, avoiding Nate’s or Dominic’s attention.
Me: I’m not going.
Dad: Yes, you are.
Me: No. I’m practically off the team. I’m done with this story.
Dad: This time it’s for your little whore, not mine.
I feel bile rising in my throat. I grip the phone until my knuckles turn white.
I feel the urge to reply that she is none of that. But I know my father… he would just laugh and call me an idiot.
I try to respond with the only thing that might buy me time.
Me: I won't be any use to you if I completely ruin my reputation.
Dad: Then fix things fast. Grace is cute and photogenic… she wouldn’t look bad in your place.
My breathing gets heavy. I try to tell myself he doesn’t really mean it as a threat. I’m more useful to him. But I know that if I definitively pull out… he’ll involve her anyway.
Me: Leave Grace out of this shit. Don’t you dare involve her… you wouldn’t like a statement from me to the press.
I put the cell phone away and try to return to the present. That will probably hold him off for a while. I don't know what my friends just said, but thankfully, they didn't notice anything.
Dominic stares at us for a moment, then walks away down the hallway, leaving behind only the scent of bourbon and silence.
Nate thanks him; I close my eyes.
The house is cold, but my head is on fire.
The thought of my father slowly drifts away and is replaced by the only scandal I chose willingly.
Sloane Heart.
The one person I shouldn’t even be thinking about, and yet the only one I can’t stop imagining.
Fantastic, Becker.
What a fucking genius.