Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
My dad abandoned me as a baby.
My mom just kicked me out.
Oh, and I can’t stand hockey.
It’s shocking how many drunken secrets Dane Sinclair fleeces from me the night we meet.
It’s supposed to be a one-night stand.
No numbers.
No strings attached.
A release we both desperately need.
Neither of us expect to come face-to-face again on my first day working for the Redville Saints.
Dane thinks I targeted him.
That I seduced him, knowing he’s their star enforcer.
Despite his suspicions, he can’t stay away from me.
I’m his dirty little secret.
His coach’s off-limits daughter.
The whole world thinks he’s a Saint.
It’s about to find out behind the squeaky clean exterior is just another sinner.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
DANE, 18
This is not the best party of the year.
This isn’t even the best party of the month.
Despite the blatant false advertisement, Nick followed through on the endless booze. It leaches from every inch of the living room, wafting up from the couch I’m sulking on.
Coach will kick Nick off the team the minute he finds out about the party—he always does—and he will be out.
It doesn’t help that the “small” gathering spiraled out of control fast. I don’t know half these people.
In front of me, some chick I’ve never seen catches her boyfriend cheating. She winds back her arm, a red Solo cup clutched tight, and launches the stale beer at him.
Of course, she misses.
Of course, it lands on me.
And that’s my cue to leave.
I make my way up the stairs to wash it off. Technically, Nick announced earlier that his room is off-limits. But technically, I don’t give a fuck. I protect him on the ice. If he wants that to continue, he’ll shut the fuck up.
It’s quieter up here and much more tolerable. The hall mutes the music downstairs enough to make out words coming from somewhere nearby.
Nick will lose his shit when he discovers that someone other than me came up here.
I’m about to dip into his room when I hear it.
“Get off me.”
I freeze, wondering if I heard it wrong.
Then, she says it again, and I’m taking off in the direction of the voice. I prowl down the hall, unable to make out who or where she is.
“Get off me!”
The cracked voice sounds too much like fear to ignore.
The thumping bass quakes the floor beneath me. The assholes downstairs are all too drunk to notice anything.
I strain to listen again, but it’s just far enough away that I’m not sure if I’ll be able to.
Eyes narrowed, I peer around the space, but the hazy smoke blurs my vision.
Can’t hear. Can’t see. Just fucking great.
Best guess—it’s coming from a bedroom nearby. The problem is, Nick’s parents are filthy rich, which means there are half a dozen on this floor alone.
My instincts lead me toward the north wing. The closer I get, the more I’m certain the plea wasn’t my imagination. With each step, the telltale signs of a struggle rise. Muffled shrieks. Soft thuds. Heavy grunts.
The second I identify it, I toss open the door.
It takes half a second for the scene to sink in and another half for me to react. I fly across the room faster than I would on skates and land a punch right at the asshole’s elbow.
He releases the fist that’s wrapped around the hair of a girl I don’t recognize. His free hand, working its way beneath her underwear, falls with his shock. She slumps down the wall, free from his hold, and scrambles across the carpet in the opposite direction.
“What the fuck?” the asshole barks, but I don’t answer.
I have him by the throat. He isn’t going anywhere. Now that she’s safe and out of the way, I unleash my anger. All of it. Years and years of pent-up frustration. From being forced to do things I don’t want to do. To being fucked over. To being raised by a shitty father.
I’d never met a piece of shit more worthy of my wrath. A grin dances across my cheeks as I form a fist. With a dark chuckle, I do something I know I shouldn’t.
I throw the first punch.
My hand makes contact with a sickening crack. It isn’t his victim I see. It’s Molly. My little sister. The mere thought is enough to send another surge of protective instinct through me.
I hate bullies. I hate people who pick on others and make them feel small.
And I especially—more than anything—hate any scumbag that would lay a hand on a woman without permission.
It doesn’t matter that this girl isn’t Molly.
I continue to punch, over and over, until he drops to the floor like an anchor. He writhes in place, begging me to stop. I barely register his words, following up my fists with a kick of my feet.
Everything is hazy. I don’t even notice the screams around me. I don’t notice anything. Not the hands pulling me off him. Not the kids yelling that the cops are coming.
All I can do is feel. The chaotic thumps of my heart as adrenaline surges through my veins. The delicious satisfaction each punch and kick brings me. The sight of this handsy fucker on the floor—and the knowledge that I’ll scare him so badly that he’ll never do it again.
“Thank you.”
It’s barely more than a whisper, but it thrusts me back into reality. I turn to the girl this fucker took advantage of, spinning my head away when I notice she’s in the middle of straightening the skirt bunched around her waist.
The situation comes to me piece by piece like a flip book, each flashing at me one after another. The sirens blaring. The footsteps pounding up the steps. And the feel of two cold hands as they jerk my arms around my back and drag me away.