Page 16 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 16

ROBBIE

S omeone send help. It appears I’ve fallen down the Fran Keller Instagram feed rabbit hole, and now I’m eighteen months deep, looking at a photo of her and some smug, frat-looking douche-bag tagged as RadTadd93 , the two of them huddled together in Central Park in the middle of winter. I don’t know how I got here, but it officially sucks, and I want out.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the nightstand.

Suddenly, the bathroom door flies open and Dallas steps out, followed by a swirl of steam and slightly too much cologne. Freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a button down, trademark cowboy hat perched on his head, he stops so fast in his tracks he almost topples over, staring at me where I lie on my bed, hands propped behind my head.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” His eyes are wide like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

I quirk a brow.

“You’re not coming?”

“No…” I shake my head. “I never said I was. ”

He scoffs. “You’re seriously not coming.”

I shake my head again, slowly this time, because he seems to have a hard time following.

“Dude.” Dallas tilts his head to the side. “Draper gave you his personal blessing to come out and get shitfaced with us, and you’re in bed—” his gaze dips to the room service menu lying on my stomach, “—about to order cold pizza and questionable chicken tendies?”

I blink at him.

“We’re three for three.”

I blink again.

His eyes move to my phone on the bed next to me, eyebrows raising. “Oh, I get it. You’re gonna stay in and have hot, kinky phone sex with your girl, huh?” He smirks knowingly. “You dirty dog.”

I ignore him, focusing instead on the highlights of the Detroit-Boston game playing on the muted television.

“You’re so fucking lame,” he teases. “There’s an unopened box of Kleenex in the bathroom cabinet.”

A few seconds later, the door slams shut and he’s gone, and I release a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling because the truth is, I’m not really watching the game on TV at all. My mind is too fucking racked over a certain fake girlfriend who’s taken up permanent rent-free residency in my brain. Man, I’m so fucked.

It’s been four days, and I thought the distance would help me get over the moment we shared in my hotel room, but instead, the distance has only gone and made everything worse. Because not only have I not been able to stop thinking about our almost kiss, but my dick has had a mind of its own, and on more than a few occasions I’ve been forced to jerk off as visions of Fran fucking Keller play in my mind.

I’m blaming the fact that it’s been a while since the big guy’s had any action, but I guess that doesn’t explain the downright perverted scenarios of her that play through my mind at the most i nconvenient times. I’m desperate; that’s all I can put it down to. Desperate, and Fran Keller’s my only option at this point in time.

Sure, technically, I could go out with the guys tonight and pick up some bunny, bring her back here and fuck her senseless, but I can’t, because I’m in a stupid fake fucking relationship with the woman I’m trying not to think about while I jerk off in the shower like a fucking loser.

I keep replaying that moment in my mind over and over again. The almost kiss.

Fran had been a smart ass and put The Mighty Ducks on the TV. We watched for a while, and I pointed out the inaccuracies which made her throw a pillow at me. As we quickly lost interest in the film, it continued to play in the background while we started talking.

But the more wine Fran consumed, the sassier she became. And the sassier she became, the more her confidence grew. And it was something else. Who knew Fran Keller, the girl who used to walk around Belmont Prep like she had a stick permanently wedged up her ass, the girl who used to look down on everyone, the girl who tried to start a neighborhood watch program in the dorms that unsurprisingly never took off… who knew that girl could be so damn freaky?

“Favorite color?”

I rolled my eyes. Yes, we were really playing twenty questions.

When Fran asked if I wanted to play, I specifically said no. But it’s like she has this creepy ability to make you do things you don’t want to do because, suddenly, without even realizing, I was already up to question fucking five.

“You know, if I’m going to be forced against my will to play this stupid ass game, can we at least make it interesting?” I arched a brow.

“What do you propose?” Fran asked, taking a sip from her wine .

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Something a little more thrilling than favorite colors. ”

She seemed to ponder that for a moment, tapping her nails against the glass in her hand, and then she took me by complete surprise. “Okay then. Favorite sexual position?”

Stunned. That was the only way to describe what I felt in the wake of her question. Fucking stunned. My mouth opening and closing like a goddamn fish. Did she actually just ask me that?

“I’ll go first,” Fran said after a moment, since I was clearly too shocked to speak. She took another sip of her wine before blurting it out like nobody’s business. “I like it from behind. Like, the whole works. Pull my hair, spank me, wrap your hand around my throat and fucking choke me…” She trailed off, eyes closed, the hint of a wistful smile playing on her lips.

Again, I just stared at her, mouth hanging open because… who the fuck was this woman sitting in front of me and what the hell did she do with Fran Keller?

I swallowed hard, shifting awkwardly when I felt my dick twitch. “Um, is that what you, um, did with, um, Tadd?”

She laughed out loud, actually snorted. “God, no. Tadd’s… conservative. I don’t even think he likes sex. He’s a missionary kind of guy at best. I remember one time, I begged him to call me his dirty little slut because it gets me off,” she said, shrugging like it was no big deal, “and he looked at me like I was certifiable.”

I silently threatened my dick if it wouldn’t stop reacting, but goddamn.

“What about you?” Fran asked all casual like, as if she wasn’t sitting right there, telling me she liked to be fucking choked.

I cleared my suddenly dry throat, searching for my voice. “I, um ? —”

“I bet you’re a selfish asshole in bed,” she interrupted me, narrowing one of her eyes. “The quintessential hockey star who doesn’t have to work for it because the puck bunnies throw themselves at your feet. A wham, bam, fuck you ma’am, kinda guy.”

For the record, she couldn’t be more wrong, but again, I was at a loss for words. In fact, I couldn’t even find my voice to respond. I was litera lly rendered frozen, barely even breathing. The only sign that I hadn’t dropped dead from the shock of it all was that my dick was rising to attention. Fuck me.

“Or maybe girl on top,” Fran mused, tapping her chin with her finger.

Now we were getting somewhere, and I couldn’t help but grin. Girl on top, riding my cock, tits bouncing in my face. Yes fucking please.

“Oh my God!” Fran’s face suddenly went stark, eyes bulging as she slapped a hand over her gaping mouth. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she muttered into her own palm.

I chuckled, my throat still thick and dry. “Well.” I shrugged. “It sure is a lot more interesting than colors.”

With a sheepish grin she giggled, and I was momentarily stilted by the sound. Fran Keller giggling was definitely not on my BINGO card for things that might turn me on. But her giggle, mixed with the fact that I now knew she had a fucking degradation kink, was enough to make me shake my head in the hope it might snap me out of whatever this whole Keller-induced intoxication thing was that was happening to me. She was drunk. I was stone-cold sober. A disaster waiting to happen.

She looked at her empty glass then, still smiling to herself, when her big blue eyes lifted to meet mine. And as my gaze dipped down to her full lips, I realized her mouth was literally right there, inches from mine, and something unexpected came over me.

I found myself leaning in, as if my body was moving of its own accord. I leaned in so close I could feel her soft breath fan against my skin. So close I could smell the sweetness of the wine that lingered on her lips. So close I was almost certain I could hear the erratic thud of her pulse in her throat. Or maybe it was mine.

I’m not sure if it was just me, but it felt like everything in that one moment changed, as if the world around us came to a sudden standstill, and it was just me and Fran, the air between us fizzing with electricity.

But then just as I lifted a hand, ready to cup her cheek and make possibly the most unexpected move of my life, the invisible hold she had on me snapped like a worn rubber band, and before I could do anything, she ju mped up so quickly, I almost fell head-first into the couch cushion.

“You’re not going to judge me if I finish the last of the wine, are you?” She paused on her way to the fridge, offering me a hopeful smile. Casual, like whatever the hell that was that had just happened didn’t actually happen at all and was all in my mind.

“Um, yeah—I mean no.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, sure. Go ahead.” Cool. Apparently, I’d lost the ability to form a sentence. I managed a tight smile as the skin at the back of my neck burned.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I’m pretty sure I almost kissed Fran Keller. My lips were definitely within kissing range. And now I can’t even function like a normal human. I’d never been like this before. I was normally so calm and collected, aloof and indifferent. But I was suddenly bumbling all over myself like a goddamn dumbass.

While Fran busied herself, filling her glass, I jumped up and made a beeline for the bathroom, disappearing inside and closing the door behind me, resting back against it for a moment to try and steel myself as best as I could under the circumstances.

Scrubbing my face with my hands, I tore my fingers through my hair, taking a few deep breaths. I blamed the fact that she was wearing my jersey. And her scent. And the perfect shape of her lips, the way they curled up into a smile, causing that adorable dimple to burrow into the apple of her cheek.

“Aw, man I’m so fucked,” I muttered under my breath.

I took longer than I should have in the bathroom—Fran probably thought I was taking a shit—but I needed to tamper the raging erection that’d been tenting the front of my sweats and give myself a mental pep talk. But by the time I walked back out into the suite, The Mighty Ducks had finished and Fran was curled up on the sofa, her fourth and final glass of wine barely touched and balancing precariously in her hand while she snored like a damn lumberjack.

I paused, rubbing at the tension in the back of my neck, staring at the girl who, not so long ago, I despised with everything I had. Suddenly, over the course of one night, things had changed to the point where I almost kissed Fran fucking Keller. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The most fucked up thing about tonight wasn’t that I’d almost kissed her, it was that I’d absolutely try to kiss her again if I knew she’d kiss me back.

My phone vibrates, pulling me from the thoughts that have plagued me for the last four excruciating days. I grab the device and glance at the screen, half expecting it to be Dallas or one of the guys, telling me to get my ass down to the bar to celebrate our winning streak.

But it isn’t Dallas or any of my teammates. Fuuuuuuuck .

I consider not answering, allowing it to go to my messages, but I know I can’t do that. I need to stop being a pussy. She’s my girlfriend, for all intents and purposes.

“Hey…” I answer.

“Hey,” Fran’s voice is tight and tentative, and an annoying sliver of worry shoots through me like I give a shit about her.

“You okay?” I ask before I can stop myself. My God, did I mention I’m fucked? I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, so, I’ve been going over this for the last few days,” she says quickly, as if the words are a Band-Aid she’s ripping off a freshly healed wound.

My stomach drops into the pit of my ass at the prospect of talking about kiss-gate. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Please don’t. Please don’t.

“I’ve been debating over whether I should call because I really really don’t want to talk about it.”

Then don’t. Don’t talk about it. Shut your stupid adorable mouth, and never speak of it again, Keller.

“But I know we need to,” she continues.

I fling my arm over my eyes. Fuck me .

“Can we please just go back to how things were when we hated each other?— ”

“I never hated?—”

She interjects, “—before I made a drunken fool of myself and tried to kiss you?”

Wait. What? I sit bolt upright.

“I didn’t realize I was that drunk. And I have no idea what I was even thinking.” She huffs dramatically. “I’m so embarrassed, Robbie.”

She thinks she tried to kiss me ? She doesn’t remember. I’m the fool who tried to kiss her. A stupid decision I regret more than anything because, well, firstly, she was drunk, and I’ve never been the kind of guy to take advantage of any woman under the influence. But also, because she’s Fran fucking Keller, the girl from high school who made me shit myself. The woman who now likes having her ass spanked and her hair pulled. Chrissake .

“Robbie?” Fran’s voice breaks through my thoughts, more than a little panicked. “Are you still there?”

“Uh, yeah.” I look around the hotel room for what, I have no idea. “Um, yeah. Whatever.”

“Whatever?” Fran scoffs through the phone. “That’s it?”

I scratch at a persistent itch at the back of my neck, but no matter what, it won’t subside. A phantom itch. Probably guilt. “Um, I mean, what, what do you want me to say?” I offer a forced laugh. “I’m Robbie Mason. You think you’re the first drunk chick to try and kiss me?” Another forced laugh.

For the record, I’m going to hell.

“Well, okay then,” Fran finally says. “I just wanted to make sure things wouldn’t be awkward between us, but it’s clear to see you’re back to your d-bag self, so good.” Before I can say anything, she continues, “Bye.”

And with that, she’s gone.

My shoulders sag under the weight of resignation… or regret, I’m not quite sure. And as I stare at the screen, tongue pressed against the inside of my cheek, I can’t help but wonder what the hell just happened.

Fran thinks she tried to kiss me. She thinks I turned her down. This is a good thing.

Heaving a sigh, I fall back against my pillows still staring at my phone.

Who the fuck am I trying to kid? If this is a good thing, then why do I feel so shitty?