Page 1 of Never You

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Istill remember the first time I walked into this club.

An eighteen-year-old with a know-it-all attitude, cursing my uncle Johnny and determined to make him regret that he ever had the balls to drag me to Los Angeles.

She was a piece of work.

I liked her.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn’t feel the same.

“Destined to fail,”Johnny once said.

He was bluffing, pushing the right buttons to put my ass in gear. And being as competitive as I am, I accepted the challenge he laid out for me.

I’ll prove them all wrong, I said to myself.

And I did.

Working as a PR Specialist for the LA Knights was both a pain and a joy, but I thrived in it for the last couple years.

The strobe light blurs my vision as I enter the balmy venue, and I blink a few times to adjust my eyes until it settles back to an alternation of bright colors. My body vibrates with the loudmusic as the sweet fog of the smoke machine drifts into my nose before I finally find my uncle Johnny at the far end of the bar.

A hand reaches up, and a smile forms on his face when I meet his gaze. He has the same sandy blond hair as I do with a smirk that melts most women to the floor as soon as he gives them even a spark of attention. His back is leaning against the bar top, with Robert Davis, my future ex-boss, right beside him.

Together, they look like the epitome of success, filled with authority with their expensive suits and Ivy League haircuts. Both men hold a clear resemblance, easily passing as brothers if you didn’t know who they were.

Adjusting my satin top, I make my way over to the bar, my hips moving with every step I take in my black heels.

“Gentlemen.” A smile slides in place as I give both of them a nod in greeting, eyeing the empty shot glasses in front of them.“Is this the example you want to be setting for your staff, Mr. Davis?” I wink.

There’s a hint of a sharp spirit lingering around, and my nose wrinkles at the biting attack.

An amused salt-and-pepper frown knits his brows together on his fifty something forehead. “We won the Stanley Cup; we’re allowed to celebrate. Besides, I own this club,butyou’re right,” he agrees, then a fake scowl washes over his face. “Johnny, behave yourself.”

Johnny’s blue eyes snap to me with a glare.

“Thanks for throwing me under the bus, kid.” He hides a tiny smile as he takes a sip of his whiskey, before I tug it out of his hands and finish it.

The sigh that follows is deep, yet filled with amusement, as recognition of my cheeky mood flashes in his features.

“No problem. So, where’s mine?” I ask, moving my head back and forth between the two men while I set the glass back on the bar.

“You drink?” Mr. Davis poses the question with a glint of excitement in his coffee-brown eyes as he raises his hand in the air, holding three fingers up to the bartender. “For the last five years, you wouldn’t even touch a glass of wine in my presence. On your last night, you're asking forshots?”

I shrug. “Sorry, sir. I take my job seriously. Besides, we both know hockey players come with drama. I had to be sharp twenty-four seven.”

“Not gonna argue there.” He grabs the freshly poured shots from the bar and hands me one as Johnny gives me a proud look that hits me straight in the chest, forming a lump in the back of my throat.

I’m going to fucking miss him.

Ignoring the sudden emotion, I raise the shot in the air. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They respond in unison, before we all throw our heads back when the glasses touch our lips.

Ugh.Tequila.

I hate Tequila.

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