Page 24 of Break the Ice

Marisse doesn’t. She falls into another stunned silence. Confirmation everything I’ve said is spot on.

Little Miss Sugar Tits wants to feel my big dick buried deep in that uptight cunt of hers.

I do the hard work for her—I release my hold on her and give her the where and when.

“Friday night,” I say, pushing past her. “Seven o’ clock. The Onyx Hotel. Ask for Golding at the front desk. The concierge will bring you up.”

She doesn’t move a single muscle for the duration of my walk out. She remains where I’ve left her, steeped in shock, gaping after me.

Friday morning rolls around with my alarm blaring loud. Almost obnoxious enough for me to smash my phone against the farthest wall. I roll out of bed and halfway forget about the other body lying beside me. Some easy chick I picked up at Axis last night and brought home after I’d caught myself thinking too damn much about Marisse and whether or not she’ll accept my offer. The easy chick asked little to no questions once she realized I was Rafe Golding.

Pretty standard for most groupies in the club.

Banging her didn’t help get Marisse off my mind like I’d hoped, but I still got a decent nut in.

Usually by the time the sun comes up, I’ve already gotten rid of the groupie. I nudge this one—Stacy or Becca or something forgettable like that—and let her know she’s got to go.

I’m running late for practice as is. No real surprise or difference from any other off-season day, but enough of an excuse to rush her the hell out of here.

Preseason starts next week, which means Oates and his team of flunky coaches are going to be riding our ass extra hard these next few days.

As Ashley—or Kylie or whoever the hell I fucked last night—rushes out the door, Mitch steps through. He’s tight-lipped and solemn, but what else is new?

Mitch wouldn’t know how to smile if you paid him.

I’m shirtless in the middle of my kitchen scarfing down what I always do for breakfast: a bowl of plain oatmeal, two hard-boiled eggs and a banana. I barely acknowledge him as I funnel another spoonful of oatmeal to my mouth.

“It’s been done,” he grunts. “He’s been chopped and dumped. Somewhere nobody’ll ever find him.”

“Did you do the exam first?”

“The results’ll be in soon. We’ll know what it was that did him in.”

I set aside the now empty bowl of oatmeal and reach for the first boiled egg. “She says she didn’t do it.”

“And you believe her.”

“The chick’s sharp. She’s a damn pain in my ass. But she’s not a killer.”

“Still doesn’t mean we needed to be involved,” he says. His features remain unreadable and creased like used leather.

Mitch wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s ex special forces, with plenty of experience doing things for the government that were confidential and shady as hell.

He eventually pivoted into working security for my father before I hired him for myself.

The kind of tasks I assign him are right up his alley. Things that bail me out of whatever controversy I’ve found myself in. However illegal and dangerous.

For the right price.

But I don’t pay Mitch for his opinions—at least not in this instance. I needed him to dispose of a body and nothing more. I have no problem reminding him.

“It doesn’t matter if I needed to get involved,” I say. “That was my decision to make. Not yours. Your job’s doing as I say and making sure it gets done.”

He nods dutifully like the soldier he is at heart. “I’ll keep you posted on the results.”

I finish the rest of my breakfast, then head out to practice not long after.

By the time I show up to the locker room, most of the other guys are gearing up. Right away, the division’s clear. Kai, Oliver, Trent, and a few others sit on one side. Dickheads like Phil Morasca, Rhett Gilliam, Jeremiah Stowers, and the rest of their followers on the opposite end.