Page 46 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

hands off the sestry

Tyler

Stupid team events. Stupid monkey suit. I hate it.

I hate getting all dressed up and acting like a church boy just for the stupid press.

Fuckin’ annoying. It’s not like they haven’t heard eight ways to Sunday what we think of the lineup and how happy we are with the season and blah, blah, blah. It makes my head hurt.

Thank God, at least there’s a bar at this thing. I head over and get a beer, wishing for something stronger, then beeline for my man Viktor, who stands a head taller than all the other bodies in the room.

“Good to see you, jerkface.” I lean in for a bro-hug. “Can’t hang with your best friend these days? Too good for your old pal Tyler?”

“Do not be a baby,” Viktor growls. “I already have one baby to care for.”

“Do not be a Russian robot.” I mock his accent—badly. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya. How’s dad life?”

He gives a big yawn, which I pretty much figure is his answer. But then he surprises me.

“I very much enjoy being a father. He is smart already. I can tell he is thinking.”

“Babies aren’t that smart. Hate to tell you that.”

“No, that is not true.” He pouts. “Our son is old soul.”

“Yeah? An old soul who shits in his pants?”

“He does do that,” Viktor agrees. “Very often.”

I scratch my chin, wondering if I’m breaking out in hives as the baby talk just goes on and on.

And on. Seriously? I think Viktor might be fucking with me, just to make me comatose or something.

I have to hear about the time the baby pissed on him during a diaper change, and about the sticky poop he had the other day. It’s a goddamn nightmare.

“You know, just fucking shoot me if I ever spend this much time worrying about someone else’s shit.”

“Is part of being a parent,” he says.

“Is making you more boring than usual, which is saying a lot.” I mock his accent again just to be a dick.

“You will find someone some day and you will want to be a father,” he says. “Mark my words.” Oh fuck no. Not a chance.

“Eat your words, is more like.” I shake my head at him.

“You talkin’ about poop and puke and whatever other bodily secretions babies make is not a ringing endorsement for the virtues of parenthood, friend.

In fact, it’s so fuckin’ boring that I literally want to go jump in front of the Zamboni just to escape this torture. ”

“You cannot be a manwhore forever,” Viktor argues.

“I sure as shit can. I’m gonna take Viagra and be a baller till the day I die. It’s gonna be great in a Hugh Hefner kinda way.”

“I hope it works out for you,” Viktor says with a smirk. I do too. That means I’ll have several blondes with enormous tits hanging off me at once without needing to know their names.

Doesn’t get better than—holy fuck. Who the hell is Kolochev and his wife talking to?

They’ve got to be sisters, with perfect, supermodel faces.

High cheekbones, pouty lips, long, brown hair.

Tall. Legs for days. Holy public erection, Batman!

One looks like she’d probably bite my nut sack off.

She’s in a Pussy Riot tee, ripped jeans, and combat boots.

Her eyeliner is totally goth and she’s got the tips of her long hair dyed bright pink.

The don’t-fuck-with-me glare is totally working for her.

Total turn-on. She probably has hairy pits and a terrible attitude, but she sure is workin’ it. Yum. Come to papa.

The other smokeshow looks younger. And a lot more demure. Her brown eyes are wide, and her lips are full and luscious. Ugh. I have to adjust myself because they really are turning me on.

I rib my friend. “Who are those two?”

Viktor laughs at me. Laughs, can you believe it? “They are hands-off.”

“Why?” I ask, totally confused. “Why hands-off?”

“They are Kolochev’s sestry.”

“Kolochev’s what? I don’t speak Russian, bro.”

“Sisters,” he spits out. “His sisters.”

“And what? They’re off limits, why?”

“Are you kidding?” Viktor stares me down. “Georg would never let you touch them. He is being protective as their father is protective.”

I make a snorting noise of disapproval. “Well, I’m gonna get right past that chastity belt, come hell or high water. Those two are invited on my welcome wagon any time.”

Yep, come hell or high water, I’m getting one—or preferably both—of those smokeshows into the sack.

I think I just found my life’s mission.