Page 35 of Sin Bin

Just like that day fifteen years ago.

The bittersweet memory brought a smile to his lips. He remembered Jupiter in her frilly pink dress, waving to him from the backseat of her adoptive parents’ car. He remembered feeling sad as he’d watched the car drive out of sight, taking her away. He remembered trudging slowly inside the house and going to the room he’d shared with three other boys. He remembered the shock he’d felt when he found the clay pendant on his pillow. The shock was followed by an intense feeling of joy that had stayed with him for the rest of the day.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of bachata music blaring from his phone. He’d chosen the song for his alarm because he preferred waking up to music over annoying beeps or weird nature sounds.

He let the catchy song play for a few seconds before he grabbed his phone from the nightstand and turned off the alarm.

Unable to help himself, he pulled up the picture he’d taken of Jupiter. She’d been in the middle of talking, so her lips were parted. He wondered if they were as soft as they looked. He bet they were. Soft. Sweet. Juicy as a ripe peach.

He wanted to trace his thumb over them, feel her warm breath escape against his skin. He wanted to kiss her. Taste her. And he didn’t want to stop there.

He stared at the phone screen, his finger hovering over the call button. He was jonesing for the sound of her voice. The scratchy rasp he remembered was now a husky purr, the perfect voice for phone sex.

He wanted to hear it again, but calling her might make him seem too eager. Hell, just getting her number had been like pulling teeth, and then she’d outright lied about having a boyfriend. Clearly he made her skittish. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off. He also didn’t want to give her the impression that he was looking for a relationship. Because he wasn’t. He needed a relationship like he needed a bullet between the eyes.

Grimacing, he put his phone back on the nightstand, then threw the covers off and hit the bathroom to take a shower. He had practice at ten thirty and he couldn’t afford to be late. Coach Bohler had already reamed his ass for nearly missing morning skate yesterday. After he got ejected from the game last night, Hunter had pulled him aside and ripped him a new one. Dude could be a scary motherfucker when he wanted to be. It was best to stay on his good side.

Logan finished showering and dressed in black sweats and Timbs. Then he grabbed his phone and headed to the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast before practice.

Golden Colorado sunlight poured through the tall windows of his penthouse. He loved living downtown. He had one of the best views in the city, and he was surrounded by bars and breweries and the hottest nightclubs. He loved the hustle and bustle of downtown, the constant noise and energy. It made him feel less alone in the world.

Since he lived just a few blocks from Viggo, they usually rode to practice together. Or at least they used to before Viggo started dating Scarlett. Nowadays he preferred to drive his own car to practice so he could rush home afterward to be with Scarlett. Poor bastard was totally pussy-whipped.

The thought made Logan grin as he entered the kitchen. He decided to call Viggo on the off chance that he might want to carpool that morning.

The Swede answered on the fourth ring sounding out of breath. “Hey, bro, you okay? You’re not lying in a ditch somewhere, are you?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Logan retorted with a smirk. “For your information, I got home earlier than usual last night.”

“Yeah? What happened with—” Viggo broke off with a sort of choked groan.

“Hold up.” Logan narrowed his eyes. “Are you and Scarlett—”

A woman’s low moan sounded in the background, confirming his suspicion.

“Holy shit.” He grinned. “Do you two ever come up for air?”

“Not if we can help it,” Viggo panted wickedly.

“Hang up the phone, baby,” Scarlett’s breathless command could be heard in the background.

“Gotta go, man. See you at practice.” The line went dead.

Chuckling, Logan tossed his phone on the granite counter, grabbed the remote and turned on the mounted flatscreen TV.

His penthouse had a TV in every room, and one was always on. Even if he wasn’t watching it, the background noise helped drown out the voices in his head.

Dark, destructive voices that grew louder this time of year.

The television was tuned to the NHL Network. Unfortunately, the anchors were discussing his team’s loss to Boston. His gut clenched when the camera cut to a clip of him yelling at the referee.

“And what was up with Logan Brassard last night?” Talking Head Number One was saying.

The others laughed.

“Why are you surprised that the boy from Sin City can’t keep himself out of the sin bin?” quipped Talking Head Number Two.

“He didn’t even make it to the sin bin. He had a total meltdown and got himself booted out of the game, which proved costly for his team.”

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