Page 8 of Sin Bin

King Sin Bin—that’s me. Meanest bastard on the ice. Man with aheartofice.

I fucking wish thatwastrue.

As the second line hits the ice, I think of Zoe from earlier today—her dark eyes flashing with sardonic humor when I connected the dots that she’s my new publicist. My jaw clenches. While the position might be hers, I refuse to ever cross those blurred lines with heragain.

I like my life. It’ssimple.Easy.

Zoe makes me think, makesmefeel.

And that justwon’tdo.

I grind my teeth. Once upon a time, I considered Zoe my closest friend. Before I allowed lust to get in the way, before I was so desperate for her that I ignored all the signs that Zoe wanted more than I could give her, emotionally. Better to keep her at arm’s length now than to potentially get back intoodeep.

I stare at the rink through the Plexiglas and swallow past the growing lump in my throat. This is the right move, for both of us . . . And if I happen to have saved some of the final texts she ever sent me, that’ll just staywithme.

KingSinBin.

Man with a heartofice.

My fingers dig into mythighs.

Yeah, we’re all better offthisway.

If only I could forget the vision of her shocked face the moment she saw me today. Damn it, but it felt good to be in the same roomasher.

ChapterFour

ZOE

Ispendthe rest of my day half fearful that Andre Beaumont will track me down and throw me into Boston’s Charles River. It’s March, and still frighteningly cold outside, and the black, murky depths of the city’s popular strip of waterfront does not look enticing, thank youverymuch.

But the look Andre gave me just before I left Walter Collins’s office this afternoon? Oh yeah. He’s planning something. Thewhat, however, has eluded methusfar.

In fact, I’m so wound up after the entire experience that even my dad, who is perhapsthemost unaware person I’ve ever met, notices that something is up duringdinner.

“Zoe?” he says, as he dumps a lump of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “You okaytoday?”

Fred Mackenzie isn’t the sort to talk about those pesky things calledfeelings, and so I spare a quick glance at Shelby, my stepmother, who only shrugs and mouths,humor him. Right. My dad and Shelby married when I was in my teens, but since I’ve always lived with my mom . . . Well, time spent with my dad has always been on the fly. Random weekend trips here. A full week’s school vacation there. The last six months in Boston have proven to be an eye-opening experience, that’sforsure.

I’m already planning my escape the moment my first paycheck lands in my bankaccount.

I gird myself for his interrogation by shoving another slice of meat into my mouth, and use the time spent chewing (Shelby overcooked the pork chops) to prepare what I’m going to say. Finally, after I’ve managed to swallow the pork and not choke to death, I announce, “Well, I gotthejob.”

My half-sister, Tia, squeals and fist pumps the air. “Ohmigod, Iknewyou would!”’I love Tia. With her brown hair and dark eyes, she’s the spitting image of me. Just a younger me—with heaps more enthusiasm and a zest for life that adulthood hasn’t yet kicked tothecurb.

“Thanks for letting me practice my interview on you, T,” I murmur, and a wide smile pulls at hermouth.

“What’s the catch?” Dad says, pointing his fork at me. “You look like someone ran over your dog, then did itagain.”

“Fred!” Shelby shoots a pointed glance at their twelve-year-old daughter. “Let’s lay off the graphic images.Please.”

Dad’s gray brows pull down, like he can’t quite grasp the concept that maybe his youngest child shouldn’t be thinking about dying dogs—hell,Idon’t want to think aboutdyingdogs.

“Well, she does look like it,” is all he grumbles. I assume he’s referring to the dog comparison, which, you know, isn’t the worst non-compliment I’ve ever received from FredMackenzie.

There was that time he “accidentally” said I looked pregnant during one of my visits. I was fourteen, and he followed up that comment with bringing me to the drugstore and handing me a pregnancy test. Mind you, I was still avirgin.

There was also that time that he (drunkenly) told me that he wasn’t sure that I was his kid when I wassixteen.

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