Page 1 of Blue Lines and Lullabies

My back slams unceremoniously against the wall right inside my hotel room door, but I don’t even register any pain. Why? Because the man who pushed me into the wall just dropped to his knees in front of me, ready to devour my pussy.

I should back up a few hours, I think.

It’s my first night in Denver, Colorado, where I moved to be closer to one of my older brothers. Grant plays for the NHL team here, the Wolves, and he’s been pretty miserable since he was traded two seasons ago from our hometown of Portland, Oregon. Grant and I have always been close, and it was an easy decision to follow him to Colorado. I excitedly packed up all my belongings and started the two-day drive across the Rockies.

Grant volunteered his bare-bones apartment for my first night, but I graciously declined. His mattress is on the floor for crying out loud, and he survives on takeout food and energy drinks. He has barstools, a couch, and the biggest television I’ve ever seen. If this is where he brings women home, I’d imagine this is also why I haven’t heard a thing about any relationships. I bet he doesn’t even keep cookable food in the place to make them breakfast after a night of debauchery. I’ll probably stay with him after my hotel splurge, but just for tonight, I’m going to live a little.

I’ve read so many stories about athletes and their strict diets, how health-conscious they are, and how they never put processed foods into their bodies. Grant is the exception to that rule, since his diet rivals that of a fifteen-year-old boy going through puberty and eating a family-size bag of pizza rolls every afternoon. It’s appalling, and I want no part of that. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother. We have a fantastic sibling relationship, which seems to improve as we age. I can tell Grant anything. But the fact that we barely survived the teenage years living in the same home tells me we shouldn’t live together as adults. Plus, most boys are just gross.

I decided to treat myself to a nice hotel on the outskirts of town for the night, until I could find an apartment that meets my needs and budget. Is this realistic? No, not really. I’m thankful I have my brother here to fall back on if needed. But I knew I needed to get out of Portland. I just felt so stuck. Stifled. Thirty years old, and I’m starting over in a new state. While I have some savings to ease the pain of no current income, I knew the hotel and meal out would be my last hurrah for a while. And it’s just my luck that the most attractive man I’ve ever seen sat next to me at the restaurant bar next door to my hotel. Devilishly handsome. Dark brown hair with a natural wave that kept falling across his forehead. The deepest brown eyes I’d ever seen. He’s quite a bit taller than me, well over six feet, and I quickly had inappropriate visions of what it would be like to be with him.

He told me his name was Gabe, and we got to talking about Colorado. He’s also not from here, but he gave me tons of advice on Colorado survival.

“It’s crazy windy here. Way windier than you’d think,” he said.

I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “It’s windy everywhere.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But we routinely get hurricane-force winds here.”

I’m sorry, what now?

“Oh, and don’t rent an apartment, or house, where the parking is on the north side of the building.”

“Why?”

“Because the snow won’t melt. Ever.”

I laughed, thinking he was joking, but his expression never changes. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Tons of memes about it. A tale of two Colorados. South facing buildings have the sun to melt all the snow, so you won’t even need to shovel it. Well, most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” I remember asking.

He scratched his head in thought. “If it’s a blizzard, or we get two or three feet of snow, that changes things.”

Holy shit. Feet of snow.Feet. Snow in Portland was rare, and hardly ever amounted to more than a couple inches.

“Are you a sports fan?” Gabe asked suddenly, jarring me from my hyper focus on snow.

“Why?” I asked warily. I’m always hesitant to tell anyone about my brother. Grant had already told me the sports fans in Denver were nuts.

“Fans here are pretty rabid for their teams. If you’re a fan of another team, I’d suggest keeping quiet about it.” I don’t say a word about Grant, hockey, or my overall interest in sports. I’m thankful I didn’t wear Grant’s number twelve Wolves jersey, or any of the other hockey related paraphernalia I’ve accumulated over the years. I did always think it was cool to wear a jersey with our last name, McNally, on it. Back home, people even call me by Grant’s hockey nickname, Nally. But, for all I know, Gabe could be a huge hockey fan, and then he’ll try to get me to introduce him. No thank you.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time a man used me to get to Grant, or his teammates.

I’m the youngest in my family, with all three of my brothers playing professional sports. Honestly, it’s a wonder my parents survived all of our childhoods. You’d think we must have some amazing genetics at play, right? Not even close. My father owns an HVAC company, and my mom is a nurse. And I’m quite possibly the least coordinated woman in the world. I can trip on air. Don’t put a set of skates on me and expect it to be successful. Granted, I did play hockey growing up. Since the rest of my siblings were obsessed with sports, I figured I could try one. Hockey was the only sport that excited me. And if I’m stationary, I have excellent aim with the puck. Just don’t ask me to move while controlling the stickandthe puck. And if you want me to throw or kick a ball, don’t be mad when it somehow hits you in the face when you weren’t even on the field.

I’m digressing.

The more Gabe and I talked as we ate, the more I could feel the sexual chemistry building between us. Our conversations got a little more intimate. We turned toward each other. I touched his hand. He pushed a piece of hair behind my ear. I dragged my fingertip down a line of script on the inside of his arm, and then he put his hand on my thigh.

He’s lucky I didn’t mount him right there.

When our bills came, and he grabbed mine, I thanked him by asking if he’d like a nightcap in my hotel room. His response of, “I’d fucking love one,” will forever be embedded in my memory for how husky and seductive he sounded.

Gabe’s lips are on mine before the elevator doors close, and my hands are carving a path along the spectacular back muscles under his shirt soon thereafter. When the doors ding, signaling the arrival at my floor, he unceremoniously throws me over his shoulder before taking off down the hallway.

“Room nine-fourteen,” I giggle.

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