Page 21 of Never Dance with the Devils
But still, I dig through the layers of paper to find it.
Buying yourself flowers is one thing. Touching yourself is another. If you insist on not letting us help, at least make it an event worthy of how beautiful you look when you come.—R and M
It’s hand-written in a fancy script that reminds me of my grandmother’s recipes, which means neither Riggs nor Maddox wrote it. They said those words to someone at La Perla—including the ‘us’ and two initials—who then transcribed it down, putting the card in with the extravagant lingerie, and sent it to me. And Angeline likely read the card too and knows that meeting had nothing to do with a foundation donation.
I want to scream. I want to curse. I want to put this lingerie on and walk around like a goddess.
I didn’t respond to Maddox’s message back after I told him that I could buy my own flowers. And yes, I know without a doubt that it was Maddox who typed those words the same way I know it was Riggs who told the La Perla employee what to write on this card. I can hear their voices in the different messages already.
But while I might not have typed anything back, I read those words while I touched myself, with the scent of their bouquet surrounding me because I placed it on my nightstand as soon as I arrived home, wanting it close. I already know I’ll do the same this evening, wearing the lingerie.
They’re persistent. I’ll give them that.
I can buy myself lingerie too. But thank you. It’s exquisite.
I send the text to Maddox again, grinning to myself. I’m having fun with this… with them. And I don’t think I’ve had fun in a long time.
“Kayla?” Angeline’s voice comes through the speaker on my phone.
“Yes?”
“Greg wants to know what you think of clause six-point-two on page fourteen. He asked if you can prioritize that first?”
I gaze longingly at the lingerie for one more second, then drag my eyes to the phone, pushing the button to respond again. “Will do. Tell him I’ll have it back to Legal tomorrow with any changes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’m almost expectinganother delivery from them. So on Friday, when Angeline knocks on my door, appearingwith a brown box and an excited grin, I hurry her in, telling her to close the door in case it’s more lingerie. Or worse—better?—the sex toys I thought the previous delivery consisted of.
Because I’ve already built it up in my mind so much, when I see the Devils-themed tissue paper, I’m almost disappointed. Hockey? I know they play, but I’m not a fan of the sport, which is obvious given I didn’t recognize them at all, so why would they think I’d want hockey merchandise?
Still, I pick up the logo-emblazoned envelope on top and an extra folded piece of paper. Deciding quickly, I give Angeline the envelope and open the note myself.
You can buy yourself anything, so we wanted to give you something from our hearts. And our hearts bleed Devils red and black. Please use this care package for the auction at the Harrington Foundation gala. We hope it will bring donations that can be put to good use, however you see fit.—R and M
It’s sweet. Probably a last-ditch effort using the team stuff they had lying around the house, but generous at least, and it will likely do some good for the foundation, which is appreciated. I dig deeper into the box, pulling items out without hesitation, figuring even if there are Devils-themed panties in here, Angeline has seen worse. Like Wednesday’s La Perla delivery.
But I don’t pull out any lingerie. There’s a puck, a stuffed Devils mascot, a small towel, signed pictures of both men, and a team calendar. At the bottom of the box, I find a jersey withBrooksemblazoned on the back and then a second one withPatrick. Frowning, I hold them up, one in each hand.
“Oh my God, Kayla!” Angeline gasps, pointing at me.
“What?” I ask, my brow furrowed as I look at thejerseys in confusion. They’re cool and all, and I know people buy them to wear to games, but why does she look like I’m holding gold bars?
“They’re signed!” she hisses, yanking the Patrick one clean out of my hand to stare at it in awe. “Riggs Patrick doesn’t sign stuff. Like as a rule, he will refuse fans who approach him requesting signatures.”
“That’s rude,” I say. Angeline is tracing the marker lines of Riggs’s name on the jersey and a wave of possessiveness washes through me, making me want to snatch it back from her for myself.
She shakes her head. “There’s a backstory there. He used to sign stuff in the early days, but somewhere along the way, someone started forging his signature and selling stuff for big bucks online.” Her brow furrows like she’s thinking. “It was whispered that his ex-wife was the one doing it, trading on his name and pocketing the money for herself, but nobody knows for sure.”
The Wikipedia on Riggs mentioned his marriage and divorce dates, so I know there’s an ex, but it did not mention an autograph scandal. Hoping I didn’t hear her right, I repeat, “His ex-wife was selling him out for profit?” The irony that I accused him of extortion doesn’t escape my notice and regret sits hollowly in my gut.
“Pretty awful, right?” she agrees, nodding earnestly. I look at the jersey again, seeing it in a new light. “Kayla,” Angeline whispers, and when I glance back up, her eyes are wide and her mouth is dropped open. She’s staring into the envelope like there might be a winning lottery ticket inside.
“What is it?”
“Season tickets for the Devils.Box seat, season tickets. These are impossible to get and ridiculously expensive.What did they say?” She boldly reaches for the note in my hand, and if it were anyone else, I’d give them a withering look that’d have them instantly cowering and rethinking their life choices.
But I let Angeline take the note and read it. She’s trustworthy, or else she wouldn’t work for me, and she’s obviously more well-versed in Riggs and Maddox’s world, so I value her insight, both hockey-wise and personally.
