Page 26 of Icing the Enemy

I stretch my legs and torso, then I see him coming. He stops in front of me, and I give him a left-handed jab straight to the nose.

“What the fuck are you doing, Shearer?” he asks as blood pours out of his nose.

“I always knew you were a piece of shit. I kept your secret with Gloria, but if you hit her again, I’ll report you to management.” There’s a strict rule about dating staff that you interact with on an ongoing basis, so I’m sure they’ll be interested.

He pulls his running tank out of his waistband and wipes the blood from his face and the spattering across his bare chest. As I watch him clean up, I don’t see his right hand coming, and he connects with my jaw. And the fight continues. I’ve never liked him, but he cemented my hatred for him, knowing he’s beating Gloria.

After we both connect a few blows, and our chests are heaving, we notice we’ve attracted a small crowd, and I spit blood on the ground in front of him. “Don’t touch her again.”

“Fuck you, Shearer. You’re no saint.”

“No, I’m a sinner like everyone else.”

In mere minutes, I get a phone call from Delia. “Michael wants you in here first thing tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER TEN

oakley

Forget about Corbin Shearer.It’s obvious he hates me, even if I did feel a warm current circulating through my bloodstream every time he moved closer to me last night. It’s Friday, exactly one week since he rescued Dixie and me at Buc-ee’s truck stop.

I’m not experienced in wooing men or boys for that matter, and for now, I have settled that Corbin and I will never be. There are bigger fish to fry—my father.

After scouring the internet in search of my father’s real name and occupation, I finally learn who he is and where to find him. I meticulously search for images of Mr. Gould and the Notes until I find several photos of the guy who walked out of Mr. Gould’s office. The articles portray him as a family man, handsome and how he bought a portion of the Nashville Notes when the team needed it most.

When I’m through with him, he’s going to wish he held me as a baby and took me to the father-daughter dance in elementary school. I read through his profile once more, committing it to memory.

As I’m in the shower and let the water run hot over my shoulders, the tension releases, forcing a moan from my lips. My father owns part of the Nashville Notes and is a full-time record label executive. But why was he at Bryce’s wedding who plays for the Georgia Jets? In my mind, there’s a large parchment paper with my dad as the red dot in the center, and I try to tie him to all the people I’ve met.

How does he know Bryce? He knows the lawyer who called me to his office and Corbin from the Notes. Of course, everything comes back to Corbin. I can’t get the asshole out of my mind. Let me rephrase, caring, generous, hotter than a hockey stick asshole.

The water runs cold, so I grab a towel for my body and one of my turby towels for my hair. I’ll never forget my mom giving them to me at Christmas before she died. She shopped online because she was so sick, she couldn’t get out. I ran all the errands, went to school, and started beauty school so I could work as an apprentice.

“Thank you. They’re so cute,” I said as I admired the set of three turby towels. They have elastic so it stays put while you brush your teeth and put on your makeup. I hugged her so tight and when her hair fell out from cancer, I would put them on her head. The red one was her favorite. She said it made her feelin style.

I feel a lump forming in my throat as I think about my mom, but I straighten my back and look in the mirror, encouraging myself. “You can do this,” I say into the mirror, as I finish applying my makeup and drying my hair.

Soon, I’m on the morning bus, taking it downtown to my father’s record label. It takes forty minutes because I had to change buses three times. My car is still sitting in Buc-ee’s parking lot as far as I know. I need to find a way to pay for a tow, but I don’t have enough to do it right now. I’m booked solid thisafternoon at the salon so if every client shows, I may be able to afford it.

When I get to my father’s office, Spinnin Records, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, but I quickly hit reverse and get into pissed-off daughter mode. The receptionist says, “Mr. Beech isn’t in right now. You’ll need to make an appointment.”

“When do you expect him?” Because I’m going to wait outside and pounce as soon as I see him.

“Mr. Beech is a very busy man, and I can’t give his whereabouts to just anyone,” she says as she taps her pen against her bright red, obviously surgically enhanced lips. I don’t have money to pay for my car, and his receptionist has enough money to get her lips plumped.

Since he’s not here, and I don’t want her to tip him off, I respond, “I’m sure he’s busy, and I don’t want to be a famous singer. I met him at a wedding last weekend, and he left something behind.”

I swear, a flash of jealousy clouds her eyes. Oh, she thinks we… ew! “I’ll just send him a text. Thank you, Miss Brumfield.”

Exiting the office, I decide to walk to the hockey arena. It’s not far, and I need to save every dollar I have.

The Nashville Notes Arena parking lot is mostly empty with cars parked in one corner, close to the parking garage. I read the signs with directions and find the one with Executive Offices listed.

I take the elevator to the third floor and cross a small skywalk. The doors open, and it requires a key card. Just my luck. The Notes logo is painted on the concrete wall. They’re purple, black, and gold, reminding me of a jazz logo. I wave my hand back and forth, but nothing happens. A large man sneaks up behind me and swipes his card.

“You need in?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you.”

---