Page 14 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

I grit my teeth, already coming down from my zen morning.

I finally managed to have a decent night’s rest, and this tub of lard is ruining my peaceful morning.

He’s a burly motherfucker, resembling one of the mountain men around here, thick beard and plaid shirt to boot.

It reminds me of a lumberjack, which makes me think of axes.

Huh? Well, it’s an option.

“Dude. Seriously. Calm the fuck down,” I snap.

I don’t know who the words are more meant for, me or him, but I can already feel myself climbing out of my skin, shedding the temperate persona. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t moved a millimeter out of my personal space.

“Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it if I don’t?” he challenges.

I mean, the options are endless. There are so many ways to make one hurt.

But who is the adult here? I’d roll my eyes and laugh if his obvious animosity weren’t directed at me right now. Even more so if his hostility toward the girl weren’t so apparent.

“You really wanna know?” I challenge back.

“S-sirs,” she clears her throat. “I-I’m going to have to ask you both to leave if, you know, you can’t control yourselves.”

I stare daggers at the man standing an easy five inches from my face before resolving I really want that fucking Danish. Maybe the sugar will help ease the foul taste this guy is leaving in his wake.

“I’m sorry. You were saying?” I snap my fingers in remembrance, facing her once again. “Oh, yes, you were kindly letting me know something about the Danish? Something about the icing melting?”

I flash her a grin and she blushes, scooping her brown hair behind her equally red ears, and pushing her glasses up.

“I was just . . . well, I was just saying I think they’re better not warmed because the, um, cream filling can get, uh, runny if it’s too warm.

” She gets more and more red at her own choice of words.

She swats the air while I stare at her, blushing harder when I bite my lip.

“That’s all. But, you know, it’s totally your choice.

Whatever you want.” Her throat clears and she bats her doe eyes at me.

My personal annoyance eases when I see she’s less upset by the fucker still embedded in my asshole, he’s so fucking close. God, it’s setting my teeth on edge.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hear the guy grumble, practically whispering his bitter nothings into my ear.

The cashier girl doesn’t notice though. She’s smiling at me now, ready to offer me all the pastries I want if it means I keep standing here smiling at her.

Being attractive helps keep me and all my fucked-up baggage under wraps, but it’s only effective to the men and women attracted to me in return.

It makes things worse when you have assholes, like the gentleman behind me, who grow angrier when you’re the more attractive, better mannered, and just all-around better person getting what they secretly want.

Maybe he’s in a bad mood because he wants the pistachio cranberry muffins too.

“I’ll take your suggestion, uh . . . Mary,” I finally read her badge. She starts scrawling a name on the cup and I decide to keep flirting with Mary, if only to distract myself from the explosive temper I’m keeping at bay.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me for my name, beautiful?”

She’s tomato red now and her freckles pop even more against the color.

Her big brown eyes gleam behind her thick lashes hidden behind the glasses but beautiful, nonetheless.

She’s cute in an adorable chipmunk kind of way and it has been a while since I’ve gotten laid, but unfortunately for my dick, Mary will be calling out for God before we ever make it past second base.

One look at her and I can tell I’d break her in fucking half and snuff out whatever bright light still burns in her innocent eyes.

But . . . maybe just a taste.

“Oh, no need, everyone knows who you are, Morningstar.”

“So, you’re a fan?” I grin.

“Uh, yeah, I go to all the home games. You’re . . .”—she pauses her scrawling—“you’re pretty awesome.”

I like how red her blush is, I wonder what other colors she could turn. It varies from person to person. There are all sorts of shades I’ve yet to see.

“Oh my God. If you’re done sucking his dick, the rest of us would like a goddamn coffee order.”

My fists clench and my teeth bare, but I keep my head down, breathing through the discomfort, the pressure that builds until I have it, until I taste it: vengeance. I want it more than the fucking Danish at this point.

“Hey, Mary,” I add. “You know, speaking of, you mind throwing in a large coffee for me, black? Make sure it’s extra hot.”

“Oh, uh, sure it’ll be . . .”

I hand over my card, my head hanging low between my shoulders as I breathe in and out. In and out.

In and fucking out.

Yeah, fuck peaceful, give me carnage.

LUCIEN

The jerk from earlier takes forever to leave the cafe.

I’m even more annoyed now because my coffee has cooled a few degrees more than I’d like, but damn if Mary wasn’t right.

The pastry was fucking good. I’m licking the last of the crumbs from my fingers before I follow the rude motherfucker to his car.

Who the fuck drives here? He made the conscious choice to come to a college campus to get coffee and be upset that it took longer than anticipated? Shame. Walking might have saved him.

It’s unsurprising that he doesn’t hear me walk up behind him. The moment he steps in the car, I open the other side, not giving him time to react.

Grabbing him by the beard, I throw my weight over the center console and straddle his lap. He flails, spilling his fresh coffee down his chest.

“Ah! Fu-shit, what are you doing?”

“You want your fucking coffee so bad?” I ask. “Here. Drink up.”

I release his beard, pinching the hollows of his cheeks to force his jaws open, then shove his head back into the headrest. Taking what’s left of my coffee, I pour the piping hot liquid down his throat.

He tries to shake me off, wriggling side to side, grabbing at my face and pushing at my shoulders, but I work out every fucking day.

I will not be overpowered by some weak man who needs to bully pretty cashiers and ruin my perfectly good morning.

The more he squirms and cries, the better I feel.

The more he screams and pushes, the harder I hold him down.

He pushes back, barely gaining an inch, but it’s enough.

My back presses the steering wheel, tapping the horn.

I force him back, quickly scanning the parking lot to make sure no one heard.

I only see people off in the distance walking to their classes or other breakfast spots.

Despite the physical strain, my tension releases. His tears fuel me up, the smell of dark roast and despair bringing my cortisol levels back to optimal. And even though the red haze reappears, blinding me with rage, and bleeding out all my hatred—I’ve never felt better.

The man sputters and gags, not only from the burns, but because now he’s drowning, unable to swallow faster than the rate I’m pouring.

“St—” he garbles.

I think he’s trying to say something. If only I cared what that was.

He’s so busy coughing up his lungs, he’s too weak to hold me off anymore. Though he wasn’t doing a good job beforehand either. Getting the drop on him was too easy.

I crack my first real smile of the day. “You wanted to know what I was going to do about it, remember?”

“Ple-ase,” he rasps.

“You should be more careful of what you wish for.”

Coffee gone; I resort to punching him in the face.

With his head pinned, the impact is immediate, his cheek already swelling and the skin splitting.

It’s quick, effective, and, oh, so satisfying.

Once, twice, thrice, until I’m uncontrollably roaring in his face.

I hadn’t realized how loose of a thread I was hanging by today.

“Please . . . stop,” he whimpers, blood streaming from his face and his mouth swollen from second-degree burns.

I don’t want to stop. My bloodlust isn’t satiated. He’s not bleeding nearly enough for me to feel good about stopping, but I suppose the punishment should fit the crime. Maybe he’s learned his lesson, and I should stop.

“Y-you won’t get away with this,” he slurs.

I blow out a long breath. “And just when I was considering letting you go.”

“I . . . know . . . who you are,” he pants.

I lean in closer.

“You have no idea who I am,” I growl.

I wait for the moment it clicks for him, watching his eyes when he realizes. I am not the person on his TV screen, or the boy on those sports posters sold around town. The person he thinks he knows, is not who faces him now.

I wrap my hands around his throat, and he struggles to suck in air again. His eyes start to bug, though not from lack of air—well not entirely from lack of air—more likely from the firm erection that’s pressing into his stomach.

I laugh. “Oops.”

He stares down in horror even as he gasps for air.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I would never sully my dick by fucking the likes of you. But your miserable screams do get me hard.” I grin. “Scream for me again. Go on, do it.”

He couldn’t scream if he wanted to, I haven’t let go of his throat, but he tries anyway. I let go, deciding I want nothing more than to hear his agonized screams. Instead, he hacks and coughs. I hold his jaw away so he doesn’t get his filthy germs on me.

“So disappointing,” I muse.

I’m about to punch his teeth in so he can choke on those too when I hear my phone ding. He’s too weak to fight me back, especially in the close quarters of his Honda Civic, so, I opt to take a breather and check it.

@BladeSpinner

Someone’s coming.