Page 67 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

don’t you dare say her name

Tyler

It’s pregame at home, my first game since coming back from Boston.

I’m excited to be back, but more excited that the kids finally get to see me play.

I wave to them from the ice during warmup, the nanny in between them with an armload of snacks.

They wave back and the camera catches them, putting their images on the jumbotron for a moment.

Nanny Patricia—who’s pushing sixty and in zero danger of ever being hit on by me—points it out and their grins grow huge on their little faces as they see themselves larger-than-life on the screen.

Oddly, that moment of happiness carries me, and we have a damn good game, holding two first-period goals all the way through for a shutout.

So here’s the rub. Having the kids with me means a very different post-game celebration than before.

Like, I’d like to go to a club, get a little dirty dancin’ on, and then have some meaningless sex with someone who looks absolutely nothing like Zoya Kolochev.

Seriously, can’t get her or the feel of her lips, or the heat of her body off my goddamn mind.

All we did was kiss. I copped a feel over the top of her bra.

Even high schoolers would say that’s nothing.

But it was hot, and I felt connected to her in ways I’ve never felt with anyone else.

And then she called me her friend again and walked out. And I’ve been a wreck ever since.

And because of that, I need a fast and dirty fuck.

I’ve jacked off countless times to thoughts of her.

Blasting the cannon doesn’t help, unfortunately.

I think I need to get laid to get her out of my head.

But I can’t do it tonight, because I’m having dinner in a family-friendly establishment.

With my four- and six-year-old siblings.

Pam, Georg, Viktor, Scarlet, and Irina all join us at some seizure-inducing place with strobe lights and blinking games and loud noises. And chicken fingers. The kids wanted chicken fingers so now we have a table full of them.

Well, there’s more than chicken fingers. There’s milkshakes and other various items that our nutritionist would cringe over.

Georg and Logan are off playing a video game together, while Pam colors a picture with Haley. Scarlett has baby Alex strapped to her in some odd-looking wrap that looks complicated, though she seems totally relaxed as she talks to Irina about the #MeToo movement.

“I mean, I worked in the casinos,” Scarlett is saying. “Getting my ass grabbed or having some jerk saying something obnoxious to me was pretty much a daily occurrence.”

Irina has her stool pulled up close to mine, her hand on my leg.

There’s nothing sexual about it, but there is somewhat of an assumption of comfort level that I’m not sure I have with her.

Not like I have with Zoya. I don’t move away, though.

Honestly, Zoya put me in the zone. I’m horny, free game, and Irina doesn’t come with strings, so. ..

Georg brings Logan back and tells him he has to eat two chicken fingers before they can play another game. I watch, mouth hanging open, as the little guy actually shoves a chicken finger in his mouth. No whining. No negotiating. He just does it. Like magic.

“Maybe it’s time for you and Pam to talk about kiddos,” I say to Georg, nodding at Logan. “You got that pretty well under control right there.”

“Well, I thought Pam and I made a pact when we got together that we weren’t interested in having kids.” He glances at Pam, who is now making silly faces at baby Alex. “But she seems to have baby lust lately.”

“Having your own baby is different, though,” Vik chimes in.

“It’s not the kids I dislike,” Georg says. “It’s just that I probably wouldn’t be any good at being a father.”

“Well, my opinion? Any dad who loves his kids is better than no dad at all,” I say, raising a toast and mouthing, “Fuck their deadbeat dad wherever he is.”

“I do have the emotional range of a four-year-old,” Georg says, presumably to cut the serious talk, “so I should get along with kids just fine. Right, Logan? We get along just fine.”

Logan grins up at him and hands him a crayon. They color together while Logan eats his second chicken finger. Once he’s finished, he jumps from the high stool and practically drags Georg off his, leading them both back to the games.

“I’m like chopped liver when that guy’s around,” I comment.

“Not to me,” Irina says quietly, just to me, before going back to her conversation with Scarlett.

She pays no attention to the kids at all, so I guess her statement is true.

In fact, that’s just it. She’s paid no attention to the kids, and it’s made me think of Zoya even more.

If she was here, she’d be next to Haley, asking her about books and unicorns and the fun things they do with the nanny.

She’d be giving Logan hugs whenever he reached his arms up to her, because he’s a hugger, then giving him a toy dinosaur, just because he loves them.

She’d be next to me, asking me how I’m coping, like she does in her text messages.

But I’d get to look in her eyes as she asked me.

But she’s not here.

And so far, I’ve avoided asking about Zoya, but I keep checking my phone, thinking about texting her to come join us. Irina turns back to me as I pull up Zoya’s contact in my phone.

“She hates hockey,” she says, by way of explanation. “You know that.”

“Well, people gotta eat.”

“She has a midterm to study for. I think she ordered dinner and stayed in.”

“Cool.”

I say the word…but I’m anything but feeling cool about it.

Irina offered to help me get the kids back to my place after dinner.

It’s way past their bedtime, so as soon as teeth are brushed and pajamas are on, they lie right down and crash the minute their heads hit the pillows.

I shut the door to their room and find Irina on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.

“You want a beer?” I ask.

“That would be great, thanks.”

I pad over to the fridge, opening it up and pulling out two cold ones. When I turn around though, Irina is there. Right there. Very close. I start to open my mouth to make a joke, but she kisses me before anything comes out of my mouth.

I start to pull away, to get some space, but she’s forceful, her hand moving to rub against my cock over my jeans.

“I just want sex, Tyler,” she says against my mouth. “Nothing more. No strings. I’ve wanted this for months.”

I can’t really back away any farther, otherwise I’d be inside my refrigerator. Zoya—no!—it’s Irina nipping at my lips, growling, and rubbing her hand over my cock. My mind can only think of Zoya. Her sister. Oh God, no. This is wrong. It can’t happen.

I push past her and take a few steps, putting the two beers on the counter. “Irina—”

“Don’t you dare say my sister’s name,” she hisses.

“I didn’t,” I say, hands up in surrender. “I’m not.”

She steps forward, rubbing her hand over my cock again. “I want to get you hard. Will you get hard for me?”

This is what I wanted, right? I wanted random, meaningless sex. I wanted to get Zoya out of my head. And here is a beautiful, smart, no-nonsense woman who wants exactly that. So why am I only getting semi-hard? Why am I about eighty-percent disinterested in this whole thing?

I blow out a long sigh and move Irina’s hand away from my junk. “I’m sorry, Irina—I can’t. You’re sexy as fuck but—”

“I’m not Zoya. Got it.”

She heads to the door, grabbing her bag, and saying, “I won’t bother you again.”

The door slams behind her and the room becomes eerily quiet.

Fuck. What trouble am I about to be in?