Page 10 of Blindside Sinner

I lean down to whisper in her ear, letting myself wrap a single curl of her hair around my finger and tug enough to draw a wince. “Don’t get comfortable. You won’t be here long.”

Then I shoulder past her and into the bathroom. I need answers and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.

5

BECK

By the time I exit the bathroom ready for the day, both women are gone and the house is silent. I give myself a moment to hope it’s a permanent thing, but my luck isn’t that good. Since my playroom is near the main entrance, I can hear the faint sounds of voices and the echo of the front door slamming.

In the time it took me to wash the stench of booze and sex off, my confusion has transformed to straight-up anger. Someone needs to be held accountable for this bullshit.

I call Vivian. It goes straight to voicemail.Fuck that,I think, and I send her a text right away.

What the fuck, Viv?

Of course, she answers immediately.I take it you’ve met Sloan.

“Sloan,” I murmur aloud to my full-length mirror. The name suits her. Sexy, demure, sophisticated in a strange sort of way. But I’m even more annoyed that I had to learn it from Viv.

I turn my attention back to my phone.Why is an assistant I didn’t hire waking me up?

VIVIAN:She’s a non-returnable gift from Hank.

No fucking way. Why is Hank Floyd, the owner of the Seattle Wave hockey team and the guy who holds my career in the palm of his pampered little hand, sending me an unrequested and very much undesired assistant?

I mean, I know why. A few too many headlines in the wrong tabloids. A guy can’t even take a few topless women for a drunken spin in the Mustang without everybody getting their panties in a twist about it these days. But, c’mon—it can’t bethatbig a deal.

My phone pings with another text from Vivian.Don’t believe me? Ask Coach.

I debate dialing her again, but decide against it. Vivian is a pawn in a much bigger game. If I want answers, I have to go directly to the source.

Plan in place, I stomp my way downstairs and find Sloan in the kitchen eating an apple, her arms leaning against the counter I’m pretty sure I fucked Tonya on last night.

A smirk crosses my lips. Let’s see just how much of a prude Sloan really is.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten breakfast on that counter,” I say casually. “It’s the perfect height for eating dessert, though.”

The fruit pauses halfway to her mouth as Sloan looks between me and the counter. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying…? Ugh.” She shakes her head, not in dismay but indisappointment that I thought that would get a rise out of her. “I’m surprised you’re a fan of eating at all. Big, bad hockey boy like you probably receives more than he gives.”

“Too bad you’ll never know, sweetness.”

She snorts, takes one last bite, and chucks the half-finished apple into the sink. “Ready to go?”

“Been ready. The sooner I talk to Coach, the sooner I get rid of you.”

She says nothing else as I lead her out of the house and into the driveway where my car is normally parked.

But instead of my usual sleek Range Rover, there’s a rusted sedan that looks like it should have been reduced to scrap metal years ago. It’s dripping oil on my pavement like it’s pissing itself.

I stop short. “What the fuck isthis?”

Sloan wrinkles her nose. “It’s my car. What does it look like?”

“God made light. God made animals. God made this car. God rested. Did you get the name of the caveman you bought it from? Does Fred Flintstone know you stole his ride?”

This piece of shit looks can’t be held together with anything more than duct tape and a prayer. There’s no way I’m riding in that thing and it pisses me off that she’s been driving something that’s two seconds from falling apart. How did it even pass inspection?

“It’s not even that old. More like a… a classic.” Sloan’s arms cross in front of her as she defends her jalopy like it can hear us talking shit about it.

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