Page 59 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“I’m afraid for her,” she talks into my shirt and I let her go. She sniffs and wipes her tears. I grab a box of tissue off the bedside table and hand it to her as she laughs. Then she sobers again. “I’ve never seen her like this, Ry, so depressed. I’m begging you. Please help me. Help her. Levi’s too mad at her for helping to trash your reputation. He saw the video that someone posted of you and her at Cru on Instagram.” That last part turns her face almost into a scowl and a pinch of worry hits me.
“I’ll take care of Levi. Don’t worry. She didn’t do anything to me. I’ll make sure he knows that. Whatever my reputation is I did to myself.” And I won’t be doing myself any favors by making a scene at the casino to get her fired, but right now, that’s the least of my concerns. I could give a flying fuck about my rep compared to what Chelsea is going through.
If Maggs is worried about Chelsea, then I’m panicked because Maggs never worries. She didn’t get the worry gene. Maybe I did.
Chelsea doesn’t answer my calls so I show up at the Casino even though I want to avoid this kind of publicity.
Maggs told me where to find her, so the minute I step onto the casino floor I zone in on her. And I get an eyeful, stopping me in my tracks. But only for a second because she’s the obvious object of attention for all the men within fifty feet of her. The manager comes over and shakes my hand, promises to make my visit pleasurable, to do everything except turn over his first born, but I know if I push I could probably get his kid too. That’s what it feels like as I put up with the star treatment. I hate it. The gratuitous flattery, the over-the-top efforts to impress me, to prove their worthiness of my…I don’t know what. My attention? My undying gratitude? My money most likely, at least in this place.
Taking my hand back, straining to keep my public smile plastered, because I don’t need any more backlash than I’m already getting, than I’m already going to get before I leave here, I move on, heading straight for Chelsea.
She’s carrying a tray of fresh drinks in a crowd and I sneak up behind her. If I surprise her maybe she’ll drop the tray and that will be all it takes. But she’s a natural athlete with a superb sense of balance and quick reflexes, so when she turns to see me, she recovers from her surprise without a waiver of her tray. It’s me who’s thrown off balance when I finally get a good look at her.
The blatant sluttyness of her outfit slams me. Her top dips so low her nipples are barely covered, the mounds of her breasts pushed up high enough to choke her—or choke me as I stare--and I swear they’re oiled because they glisten so brightly. Her skirt shows every inch of her legs which are covered in black fishnet stockings and she’s almost as tall as I am in her hooker heels.
“Ryan. What are you doing here?” Her smile is automatic, then withdraws hastily, as if she realizes what she looks like, what I’m seeing. She’s probably reacting to the look on my face.
Because in spite of my shock, I’m a red-blooded heterosexual male and the haze of lust takes over. Every nerve-ending in my body—some I didn’t know I had—lights up. All my blood and good sense rushes to my cock which is at full alert and jumping up and down for joy.Fuck.
Eyes are on us—no, they’re on her. Too many men within touching distance have their eyes on her in surreptitious glances and bold stares and I want to do damage to every last one of the motherfuckers.Jealousy?No, dammit. Protectiveness. I’m her protector, aren’t I ? Assigned officially to take the place of her deceased big brother.Remember that, or you’re the biggest motherfucker of them all.So I do what I came here to do.
“Chelsea.” I nod. “Did you forget the rest of your clothes somewhere?”
She smiles, but it’s not a friendly or even a flirty smile. It’s one of thoseaha, I have you by the ballssmiles because she recognizes a man who wants to fuck her when she sees him. Recognizes the power she has over me.Fuck. I need to get this over with before I embarrass myself because we are now the center of attention of half the floor. And while it suits the purpose of my task here, it’s fucking killing me because I know she hates to be the center of attention. Checking with a quick glance, I see the floor manager’s eyes are still on me. Predictable.
“Funny,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Let me deliver these drinks and we can—”
“I’ll take a beer,” I say and I reach over her tray to grab one, knowing I can knock it off balance, making it seem like an accident.
“These aren’t for you.” She swings the tray from me, just out of reach, without a spill and I admire her skill, but fuck. Moving quick, I reach again and this time I nudge the tray with my elbow in a less subtle move.
This time, the tray topples to the floor, spilling out the contents of two drinks and a bottle and sending napkins flying.
Darting me a dark look, she shuts her mouth, then bends to pick up the drinks. She mutters something under her breath that sounds like fucking asshole. Fisting my hands to stop myself from yanking her up from the floor, from dragging her out of this place, I take a deep breath.
“Did you just call me a fucking asshole?:
She stands, looks at me like I’m an zoo animal, puzzled, fascinated and horrified. She’s angry now, but once I call the manager over, she’s going to hate me.
But I don’t need to call him because hee appears at my shoulder in the next second and we both tower over him.
“What’s going on here?” he says. “I’m so sorry Mr. O’Rourke.”
“What’s going on is your server refused to give me a beer,” I say. “Then she called me a fucking asshole.”
Her eyes go wide, like they’re screamingare you kidding me?though she remains silent as the manager asks for an explanation. She has none because she’s staring at me as if her eyes can actually stab me, like she wants to cause me pain.
She doesn’t know it, but it’s working. Because I feel the stab of guilt and feel like the lowest form of human excrement as the manager tries to placate me and I remain unplacated. He promises to do everything except the one thing I need him to do, fire Chelsea. And now that means I have to do the one fucking thing I really, really do not want to have to do. I have to demand that he fire her. So I do.
“What the fuck?” Chelsea shouts.
As her manager stumbles around and finally gets the job done, she stares at me. Everyone around us stares, murmurs their displeasure—with me of course—before security clears the mob that’s gathered. But I’m riveted on her, the look on her face, because it’s gone past livid anger now. She looks hurt. She tries to cover it up, to stay brave, but I can see the hurt look, the accusation of betrayal in her eyes.
Fuck me. I don’t remember the last time I felt so bad about myself. Oh wait—yes, I do. It was the last time I hurt Chelsea. Am I the worst kind of fucking asshole to do this to her, or am I really saving her from herself? I don’t know, but the regret I feel right now weighs me down so I feel like I could sink straight to hell. I’m so sorry about doing this to her and I can’t tell her. We have to play it out all the way. To get to the part where she’s better off.
I need to get her out of this place, to get her a better job where she won’t have to sell her soul, or allow undeserving men to ogle her or touch her. I’m not sure if this is for her sake or mine at this point, but if Maggs is on my side, I can’t be wrong. Right?
In the end, as we walk through the garage because she can’t run fast enough to get away from me and she’s given up trying, I’m fucking sick that it was so easy to get her fired. It was easy because people tend to bend over backwards for me—even when I’m persona non grata with a sexual assault law suit filed against me. Of course, she’s angry enough to punch me, tries to push me away, but I take her home. A long ass ride because neither of us says a word.
