Page 10 of Never Dance with the Devils (Never Say Never #6)

“If you came in here to tell me to go fuck myself again, you’re wasting your breath.

I already did this morning. Twice.” I hold up two fingers to drive the point home, then chug the rest of my smoothie.

It’s some spinach-banana protein thing the team’s strength coach recommended, and it’s disgusting.

Not because of the veggie-fruit combo, but because the chia seeds get stuck in my throat and the supplement blend gives it a dirt-like aftertaste.

I still drink it every damn day and don’t even pinch my nose like a kid, though I’d really like to.

“Sorry.”

The apology is gruff at best, but it’s a start, and given Riggs isn’t one for emotional monologues explaining what’s going on in that thick skull of his, I’ll take it as the near-outburst declaring his affection for me that it is.

Especially since this conversation is about to go from hard to kill-me-now.

I need to know if I’m right about what’s been bothering him.

“Sorry for what, exactly? Being an asshole today or in general? For nearly killing yourself or not saying thank you like a fucking human with some home training?”

He angles his head like he’s thinking through his options but finally sighs. “Yeah, that. Sorry.”

Two apologies in one day? Has hell frozen over? Fuck, if we’re being precise, it was two in one minute, and that must mean pigs are flying through a frozen hellscape filled with unicorns shitting out rainbows and dragons tossing out gold coins like the most expensive golden shower ever.

“Apology accepted.” I’m not gonna dwell on the unexpected gift of his words and instead, choose to move forward, knowing there will be some two-stepping to get a real answer from Riggs, my tight-lipped best friend.

“You’ve been pretty fucked up lately,” I state as though saying it’s raining outside.

Just a matter of fact, nothing to dispute here.

“Any guesses as to why? Or would you like to jump to the portion of the conversation in which I” —I spread my arms wide like the ringleader of mischief that I am and continue— “your handy, dandy, always available Riggs-whisperer, tell you what I think is going on?”

His frown says option two.

“You could be having some letdown pangs from the season being over, or disappointment that we didn’t win the Cup this year.

” He opens his mouth to argue, but I steamroll right over him.

“But you’re not.” He clacks his mouth closed and I flash a grin.

“You’re being a bitch because you need your dick drained. ”

Riggs grumbles like I’m annoying him, spinning away to bury his head in the fridge like he’s looking for something, but the bottles of his favorite post-workout chocolate milk are right up front where they always are .

I’m getting close to the truth. Or I’m praying I am.

“But not by just anyone . Nah, you need a good fucking by someone in particular. Amiright ?”

Riggs stands up, hand still on the fridge door and still not looking at me. “Like who?”

“A tall, pretty blonde with blue eyes that shoot fire and a mouth that says the most out of pocket shit. Goes by the name…” I pause dramatically, and seeing the clench of Riggs’s jaw, I finish with a pointed whisper, “Kay.”

He grabs a bottle of milk, turns back to drop it to the island, and plants his palms wide on the cold surface I think the realtor called something like ‘fantasy brown’.

Not that I gave a shit about countertops.

All I cared about was that Riggs and I were buying a house fancier than anything I’d ever dreamed of.

It was brick and stone proof that I’d made it as a professional hockey player.

Eyes narrowed and shrewd gaze locked on me, Riggs replies, “Why are you asking about… her ?”

Despite being very obviously unable to say Kay’s name, he tries to sound casual, like he has no idea why I’d be bringing up the woman we slept with months ago, but the mere fact that he doesn’t deny it off-hand speaks volumes about my quiet friend and his thoughts.

I swallow my pride, nearly getting it stuck in my throat, and admit, “Because you haven’t had anyone since then. And… I’ve been thinking about her too.”

It's the truth. I have been thinking about her, though probably not the same way Riggs has been.

Something changed that night for him, in the way I always hoped it would.

He found an unexpected connection during the hours in that hotel bed.

Yes, with the sex, but more so, while we were shooting the shit over paper boxes of fried rice, moo goo gai pan, and sesame pork.

He was comfortable and confident. He was happy, and I haven’t seen that type of emotion in him in years. Scratch that, maybe ever.

And I want that for him with my whole being. It’s been my goal all along—for Riggs to find the balls to risk his heart again because despite his full and complete shut-down, he’s a lover by nature. He wants someone by his side and wants to be that someone for his woman too.

As for me, I don’t chase women, I don’t beg for more, and I certainly don’t do commitments outside hockey, but I’ve replayed that night in my fantasies too, grunting Kay’s name when I jack off and waking up to fresh disappointment when I reach for her to find she was a figment of my sleep-induced imagination.

After a beat where he scours my face to see if I’m fucking with him, Riggs lets out a sigh of relief.

“You too, man?” He chuckles as all the tension drops off his shoulders.

Shaking his head, he asks, “Goddamn, what the hell happened to us that night? I swear I’ve been jonesing for another hit of her ever since.

She’s like crack, one taste and I’m hooked. ”

He makes it sound like he wants to fuck her again, and while that’s true, there’s more to it.

So much more. But Riggs isn’t someone who can handle the bare, honest truth of a direct center hit.

He needs a gentler touch to get to the nitty gritty or he’ll clamp down tighter than a virgin’s ass.

Hell, he’s probably not even aware that the last time he smiled was when Kay was tracing his tattoos with her fingernails, lifting gooseflesh over his arms and chest like the room was cold .

Measuring my verbal steps toward my target, I tell him, “I’ve been Googling her like the world’s shittiest private investigator. Haven’t found a damn thing.” The confession is mild compared to the reality of hours I’ve spent poring through my memories, looking for some clue about how to find her.

“Me too.”

We look at each other in silence for a long moment. I’m weighing what I’ve already said versus what more I could say. I think he’s doing the same.

“We have to find her.” I don’t know if I say it or he does, but the declaration echoes through us both, resonating deeply.

“Are you sure?” I ask him, hesitant to blow up our lives if he’s not. And even more reluctant to blow hers up with a Riggs-sized grenade.

“Surer than I should be after a one-night stand.”

“You think that’s all it was?” I’m testing him, no doubt about it.

A repeat performance of our one-nighter is probably all Riggs will admit to at this point.

That’s his comfort zone. But if I can get him to take a chance, this has the potential of being something greater.

Whether that’s all three of us, or more likely, me playing matchmaker and then bowing out gracefully, I don’t know, but I’m willing to play along and find out.

More orgasms for all and Riggs not trying to squash himself like a bug beneath too-heavy weights?

Sign me up for that all day and twice on Sunday!

Instead of answering directly, Riggs asks a question of his own, the words slow with meaning. “What was it to you?”

I don’t do sweet words. I use dirty, filthy ones, and while I want to say all those things to Kay again, I enjoyed those hours in bed afterward too.

The ones where we talked and laughed, and I fed her noodles, sharing them like those dogs eating spaghetti in that movie I watched when I was a kid.

I want that feeling again—of lightness, of rightness, of completeness.

I want to see my friend smiling and laughing rustily, like he hadn’t done it in so long that his vocal cords forgot how to make the sound.

I want to see Kay, the sad and sassy woman who approached us at that bar, become wild and radiant, owning not only her own pleasure, but also Riggs and me, dick and soul.

I don’t know how to say all that, so I answer plainly, “Everything.”

Riggs nods his head once, agreeing, and then goes so far as to say, “Me too.” Again, two little words, but they tell me all I need to know.

In minutes, Riggs and I have turned our media room into a war room, with both of us posted up in front of our laptops, clickity-clacking away as we try to find someone named Kay, who’s an angel investor, likes scotch, has a ticklish spot on her left hip, takes no shit from anyone, and ghosted us after an amazing night.

Admittedly, it’s not the best list for a Google search, but we’re trying.

We have a map of the city we were in thrown up on the projector screen, measuring out the hotels in the area.

Since it’s more in my wheelhouse, I do the charming work of calling the concierge of each one to ask about bar recommendations to see who sends guests to that specific night club.

Meanwhile, Riggs makes grunting demands of the club owner, who it turns out is a Devils fan, to see if Kay used a credit card to buy her first round of scotch, but even in his ‘wish I could help’ way, the owner isn’t able to provide any intel.

Then, after matching memories of our conversations and figuring one degree of Kevin Bacon might be easier, we focus on finding some business owner named McCormick, hoping he’ll lead us to Kay.

He's ultimately an easier find. With minimal narrowing of the list of local business owners on file with that name, we settle on Ian McCormick of Dayquest Analytics, which is apparently some sort of business optimization firm. He’s searching for investors to grow his company to the next level, or, according to reports, save his sinking ship because he doesn’t understand what his company does any better than I do, which is to say… not at all.

“That’s got to be him,” I declare, and Riggs nods in agreement. “One Kevin Bacon away.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that we work better together, and after weeks of no success alone, in only a few hours of bouncing ideas off one another and scouring the internet like we’re B-movie hackers, we’ve found her.

Not Kay. Kayla.

Not just some random woman who had a bad day at work, but the Vice President of Acquisitions at Blue Lake Assets, the company her father, Charles Harrington, owns.

Not merely the sole girl in a family of boys, but the lone daughter of a tycoon on par with Buffets, Rockefellers, and Vanderbilts.

Not an actual princess, but in effect, American royalty. As in, if her family wanted, they could buy the Devils outright.

Holy fuck. If I wasn’t impressed and a little intimidated by her before, I am now.

I glance over at Riggs, who’s staring at a picture we found of Kayla at some fancy-schmancy gala.

She’s wearing a red dress with a plunging neckline, her lips painted to match perfectly, and her hand daintily resting on the elbow of some prissy-looking dude in a tuxedo.

Riggs looks like he wants to climb through the computer screen, rip the guy’s head off, and spit down his neck.

No matter who Kay… I mean, Kayla… is, there’s no going back now. He’s in too deep, which means so am I.

“Pretty sure that’s her brother,” I caution, hoping to save the guy’s life.

“Don’t care. Hate her touching him and not me.”

“ Oh-kay there, big guy,” I drawl out, patting his shoulder. “Maybe dial down the serial killer vibes before we track her down and confront her for running out on us. Or else you might end up a Netflix true crime special. How are we gonna play this?”