PART I

THE PACT

1

LOGAN

“She’s totally checking me out.”
“Suuuuuure, bro.”
“She keeps looking over here! She wants me.”
“There’s no way a hot young thing like her is checking out an old
man like you.”
“I’m only twenty-eight!”
“Seriously? That’s even more ancient than I thought.”
I
smother a laugh. I’ve been eavesdropping on this trio of
stockbrokers for the past twenty minutes. Well, I don’t know if
they’re actually stockbrokers, but they’re wearing tailored suits and
drinking expensive liquor in the city’s financial district, so chances
are they work in finance.
Me, I’m the lumbering jock in ripped jeans and an Under Armour
sweater, nursing a bottle of beer at the end of the bar. I was lucky to
find an empty seat; the place is packed tonight. With the holiday
season in full swing, Boston bars are overflowing with patrons taking
time off from work or school.
The three dudes I’m spying on barely glanced my way when I
slid onto the neighboring stool, which makes it easier to listen in on
their douchey conversation.
“So what’s the final score for Baker?” one of the men asks.
He and his blond friend study their dark-haired friend—the
ancient one. “Eight percent,” the first guy says.
The blond is more generous. “Ten percent.”
“Let’s split the difference and give him a nine. That’s nine-to-one
odds.”
Although, maybe they’re not finance guys. I’ve been trying to
figure out their calculation process, but it seems completely arbitrary
and not based in any real mathematics.
“Fuck you both. I’ve got a way better chance than that,” Baker
protests. “Have you seen this watch?” He flicks up his left wrist to
show off a shiny Rolex.
“Nine to one,” the first guy maintains. “Take it or leave it.”
Mr. Rolex grumbles in irritation as he slaps some money on the
counter. The other two follow suit.
From what I’ve gleaned, their game goes something like this:
Step 1: One of them picks out a woman in the bar.
Step 2: The other two calculate (I use that word loosely) the
odds of the first guy getting her number.
Step 3: They drop oodles of cash on the counter.
Step 4: The guy approaches the girl and inevitably gets rejected.
He loses the money he bet, only to get it back in the next round
when the next guy also gets rejected.
This entire game is both pointless and stupid.
I sip my beer, watching in amusement as Mr. Rolex saunters over
to a stunning woman in a skintight designer dress.
Her nose wrinkles at his approach, which tells me that his
buddies are about to win some cash. These guys might be wearing
expensive suits, but they’re still nowhere close to the same league
as the women in this bar. And classy women tend to have no
tolerance for immature jackasses, because they know they can do
better.
Mr. Rolex’s jaw is tight when he returns to the group. Empty
handed. His friends hoot and rake in their winnings.
Just as the blond guy is about to pick a new target, I set my pint
glass on the sleek counter and drawl, “Can I play?”
Three heads swivel my way. Mr. Rolex takes in my casual clothes,
then smirks. “Yeah, sorry, pal. You can’t afford this game.”
Rolling my eyes, I slide my wallet out of my pocket and riffle
through it—giving them a clear view of all the cash inside. “Try me,”
I say graciously.
“You’ve just been sitting there this whole time listening to us?”
the blond one demands.
“It’s not like you were being quiet about it. And anyway, I like to
gamble. Doesn’t matter what we’re gambling over—I’m there. With
that said, what are my chances with…” My gaze conducts a slow
sweep of the crowded room. “Her,” I finish.
Rather than follow my gaze, three sets of eyes remain glued to
me.
They appraise me for several long beats, as if trying to decide if
I’m fucking with them. So I hop off the stool and ease closer to the
trio. “Look at her. She’s fire. Do you think a bum like me could get
her number?”
Mr. Rolex is the first to relax his guard. “Her?” he says, nodding
not so discreetly at the pretty girl who’s ordering a drink with the
bartender. “You mean Little Miss Innocent?”
He’s not wrong. There’s definitely an air of innocence to her. A
delicate profile reveals a smattering of freckles on her nose, and her
light-brown hair is loose around her shoulders rather than up in a
complicated style like some of the other chicks in this place. Despite
her tight black sweater and short skirt, she’s more girl-next-door
than sex kitten.
The dark-haired friend snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
I flick up my eyebrows. “What, you think I don’t have a shot?”
“Dude, look at you. You’re, like, a jock, right?”
“Either that or he’s on ’roids,” the blond guy cracks.
“I’m an athlete,” I confirm, but I don’t offer more details. Clearly
these guys aren’t rabid hockey fans, otherwise they’d recognize me
as Boston’s latest rookie.
Or maybe they wouldn’t. It’s not like I’ve been seeing a crazy
amount of ice time since I was called up from the farm team to the
pros. I’m still trying to prove myself to my coach and teammates.
Though I did get an assist last game, which was cool.
But a goal would’ve been cooler.
“Yeah, a sweet thing like that would be too intimidated,” Mr.
Rolex informs me. “Odds of you getting her number are…twenty to
one.”
His buddies agree. “That’s a twenty-five percent chance,” one
says. Because again, their math is nonsensical.
“What if I want more than her number?” I challenge.
The blond snickers. “You want to know your odds of going home
with her? A hundred to one.”
I gaze at the brunette again. She’s wearing black suede ankle
boots with chunky heels, one leg crossed over the other as she
daintily sips her drink. She’s cute as hell.
“Two hundred bucks says I get her to stick her tongue down my
throat in less than five minutes,” I boast with an arrogant smirk.
My new friends bust out in incredulous laughter.
“Uh, sure, bro.” Mr. Rolex chuckles. “In case you haven’t noticed,
the women in this joint are pure class. Not a single one would hook
up with you in public.”
I’m already dropping two hundreds on the counter. “Scared of my
sexual prowess, huh?” I mock.
“Ha! Fine then. I’ll bite,” the blond guy says, placing two bills on
top of mine. “Go ahead and get your ass rejected, Loverboy.”
I
pick up my glass and drain the rest of my beer. “Liquid
courage,” I tell the trio, and Mr. Rolex rolls his eyes. “Now watch and
learn.”
Winking, I amble off.
Instantly, her attention fixes on me. A hint of a smile, albeit soft
with shyness, tugs at her mouth. Fuck, she’s got nice lips. Full and
pink and glossy.
When our gazes lock, it’s as if everyone else in the bar
disappears. Her brown eyes are pretty and expressive, and right now
they’re expressing a sweet hunger that quickens my pulse. I’m
trapped in her orbit, my legs speeding up of their own volition.
A second later I’m beside her, greeting her with a rough, “Hey.”
“Hi,” she replies.
She has to tilt her head to look at me, because she’s seated and
I’m towering over her. I was always a big guy, but I’ve bulked up
even more since I started playing hockey at a higher level. Skating in
the pros is physically demanding.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I offer.
She lifts her full glass. “No, thank you. I’ve already got one.”
“Then I’ll buy your next one.”
“There won’t be a next one. I don’t trust myself.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m a lightweight. One drink makes me tipsy.” Her lips curve
slightly. “Two drinks make me do bad things.”
Damned if my dick doesn’t twitch at that. “How bad?” I drawl.
Although she blushes, she doesn’t shy away from the question.
“Very bad.”
I grin at her, then flag the bartender with a fast, exaggerated
gesture. “Another drink for the lady,” I call.
She laughs, and the melodic sound sends prickles of sensation
through me. I’m insanely attracted to her.
Rather than take the empty stool beside her, I remain standing.
But I do edge closer, and her knee lightly brushes my hip. I swear I
hear her breath hitch at the slight contact.
I glance over and spot my new friends watching us with deep
interest. Mr. Rolex taps his watch dramatically as if to remind me the
clock is ticking.
“So, listen…” I bring my lips close to her ear so she can hear me.
This time I see her breath hitch. Her perky breasts rise as she sucks
in air. “My buddies gave me a twenty-five percent chance of getting
your number.”
Her eyes dance devilishly. “Wow. They don’t have much faith in
you, huh? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve beaten greater odds than that. But…lemme
tell you a secret…” My mouth brushes her earlobe as I whisper, “I
don’t want your number.”
She jolts in surprise, her gaze snapping to mine. “You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“Then what do you want?” She picks up her drink and takes a
hasty sip.
I think it over for a moment. “I want to kiss you.”
A startled laugh now. “Uh-huh. You’re just saying that because
you hope I’ll do it, and then you can prove to your friends you’re not
a loser.”
I look over my shoulder again. Mr. Rolex wears a self-satisfied
smirk. He taps his watch again. Tick-tock.
My five minutes are almost up. My own watch tells me I’ve only
got two left.
“No,” I tell her. “That’s not why I want to kiss you.”
“Oh really?”
“Really.” I lick my bottom lip. “I want to kiss you because you’re
the hottest woman in this bar.” I shrug. “And anyway, it’s obvious
you want the same thing.”
“Says who?” she challenges.
“Says the fact that you haven’t stopped staring at my mouth
since I walked over here.”
She narrows her eyes.
“See, here’s the thing.” I lightly drag my fingertips along her
slender arm. I’m not touching bare skin, yet she visibly shivers. “My
buddies think you’re Little Miss Innocent. They warned me you’d be
intimidated by someone like me. Someone rough and crude. But you
know what I think?”
“What?” Her voice is breathy.
“I think you like rough and crude.” Once again, I lean in closer.
She’s wearing a tiny diamond stud, and I can’t help but flick the tip
of my tongue over the little earring.
There’s another sharp intake of breath, and I feel a tug of
satisfaction.
“I don’t think you’re innocent at all,” I continue. “I don’t think
you’re a good girl. I think that right now you want nothing more
than to shove your tongue in my mouth and rake your nails down
my back and let me fuck you right here in front of everyone.”
She moans out loud