Page 52 of Never Dance with the Devils
We’re talking about making our schedules work when the season starts, and that’s months away. We’re doing this, whatever this is.
The idea of splitting my focus should be freaking me out. What will I be if hockey isn’t my whole, entire life the way it always has been? Will my game suffer if Idon’t give my entire mind and soul to it? I don’t know. But it sounds fun to figure out.
But first, I have plans for the fluffy rug in the living room. “What do you say we move this party to the floor in front of the fireplace? That rug looks mighty inviting and you look stunning by firelight.”
“It’s too warm to have the fireplace going inside,” Kayla argues.
“Woman, I will turn the air conditioner down to igloo-cold if it means seeing you come for us by firelight.”
Kayla holds a finger up. “Don’t call me woman like that.” She adds another finger, narrowing her eyes to pin me with a look before grinning. “Let’s go.”
“Hell yeah,” I say, gathering my beer and her wine glass as quickly as I can. Riggs can carry his own shit.
She stands, laughing as she turns toward the cabin, and I reach out to swat her ass. “Good girl.”
Her brow is sharply arched, her glare glacial when she looks over her shoulder at me. “You’re going to pay for that.”
“Fuck, I hope so. Again… let’s go. We have to be out by noon tomorrow and I don’t think there’s enough time to fuck you in all the places I want to…” I pause and her eyes flare, considering where I might be implying. “In the cabin, I mean.” I wink dramatically, letting her decide whether that’s really what I meant.
Riggs groans, cupping his clearly already swelling dick. “The floor. Then the dining room. That table is begging for you to spread out on it.”
I point a finger at him, this time not in accusation but in full and total agreement. “Yes.”
Kayla must be on board with that plan because she’s hurrying toward the cabin as fast as we are.
Check-out time will come too soon. There’s no arguing that, but I intend to make the most of this weekend away so that when Kayla goes back to her family on Monday, her body will remember why she’s fighting them so hard and why she’s changing up all her precisely-laid plans for undeserving fuckers like us.
KAYLA
“Took you long enough,” I say as my office door opens. I don’t bother glancing over to see who’s entered without an announcement from Angeline. Only Cameron has the balls to try it. Even the FBI probably wouldn’t dare.
“We need to talk.”
“Have a seat,” I tell him, purposefully keeping my attention locked on my computer screen. “I’m almost finished here.” I click around a little more as Cameron sits, not in one of the chairs in front of my desk, but on the couch off to the side of the room.
Well played, Cameron.
He’s as calculating as I am, and the reason I refused to give him my immediate attention is the same reason he’s chosen to sit somewhere that requires me to come to him—power. Even with his expectant gaze locked on me, I make him wait one more minute before conceding. When I finally sit down across from him, he frowns.
“We missed you at dinner,” he says evenly.
“Doubtful.” The declaration is delivered stone-faced, setting our adversarial positions.
Sighing as if I’m the one being an obstinate asshole, he asks, “Could we not do the whole back and forth dramatics?”
“Of course. You know where the door is.” I make a move to get up, assuming the conversation over.
“Kayla.” Obviously, I knew he wasn’t going to let this go that easily, but I bristle at the parental tone as he says my name. Still, I settle back in my seat, looking at him without revealing my discomfort. He clenches his jaw but eventually says, “I owe you an apology.”
That is perhaps the most shocking thing he could’ve said, but it’s likely he’s trying to game me. So instead, I look at him warily, searching for his angle. “Was that it? If so, you’re not very good at apologies.”
“You’re right, I’m not.” He shifts stiffly in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “But I am sorry. We shouldn’t have come at youen masse. I apologize for that. We thought we were protecting you in a way—not that you need it,” he rushes to add when I open my mouth to correct him. “But what you said stuck with me. I kept thinking it over and talking it through with Riley and thinking some more.”
I’m not sure if he wants an award for putting some mental effort into analyzing that shitshow or absolution for his role in it, but I’m not offering either. Nor am I waiting on pins and needles for him to share his thoughts on the matter when he had no interest in listening to mine. “You apologized,” I say, holding up one finger to indicate his goals for this meeting. Adding another, I say, “Is this the section of the agenda where you impart some deep, big brotherly wisdom thatchanges the trajectory of my life? Cue sappy instrumental music overlay.”
His eyes tighten at my cutting remarks, but as a student of the same lessons Dad gave me, Cameron quickly schools his face back to bland neutrality. His voice holds steady, eerily calm, as he says, “I never told you thank you after Michelle died, but I know you were there for me. More importantly, I know you were there for Grace, and I appreciate that more than you could ever know. You’ve been there for all of us. You brushed it off when I said thank you for that, but I meant it, Kayla. You’ve always been this presence in my life. Whether I was fucking up or succeeding, you were there for me. Thank you.” His eyes are clear, his gratitude genuine, and I’m honestly in shock at the growth he’s undergone.
“You’re welcome.” I don’t need ticker tape parades and blubbering gratitude on bended knee, but the acknowledgement is appreciated. And long overdue.