Chapter 6

6

Colver

THE PAST PART

I'm in a fucking mood right now.

There's a laundry list of reasons, as always.

Watching Maria hang all over Lucas bothers me for some reason, even though it was just a couple weeks ago she told me I hit spots on her body that Lucas could never find.

Then again, what the hell do I care about that?

Believe me, I have zero feelings for Maria. Zero remorse when it comes to Lucas too.

They can go off and be happy.

I'm sure at some point Maria will be texting me for attention.

Which means I'll have to sneak her through Abrielle's bedroom.

I have to kick her ass out of that room soon too.

That's my room.

She can go sleep on the fucking third floor for all I care. With her fucking easel and her painting and her paint-stained hoodies and messy hair.

The less I see and think of her, the better off I am.

Then again…

Nothing like coming home from the gym to find your father in his home office, on the phone with someone. Using his calm, flirty voice. That makes me want to throw up. But that voice of his. So smooth and convincing. Asking a woman that isn't his wife to send him a topless picture. And whoever this woman was, she did it.

It makes me laugh in a way.

This farce of a marriage between my father and Abrielle's mother has gone on long enough.

Approaching the one month mark… and my old man is already getting titty pictures from someone else.

Still, that doesn't explain the complexity of this mood I'm in.

When Archer gets onto the ice, it's like someone turns my Pissed Off Meter from a seven to a thirty-five.

Archer is a fucking scumbag. Archer has a reputation. Not the kind that I have. I get what I want in a way that involves consent. Get what I'm saying? Archer skates that line and uses his father's influence to move the line where he wants it.

Now that's not any of my business.

In fact, his father has been dealing with my old man in the hopes of getting me set up somewhere for college hockey and the pros.

Still…

Archer is on the ice, gnawing at his mouthguard like it's a fat piece of bubblegum. He does his little circling warmup around the goalie's net.

A whistle blows and Coach Davis starts barking his orders and beating the shit out of his aged clipboard.

I'm facing off against Archer.

"Hey, dick breath," Archer says. "What's happening? How's your stepsister? Huh?" He wiggles his eyebrows at me. "You ever sneak a peek at her? It's got to be fucking wild living like that, man."

The puck is dropped and I go right for Archer.

He's on the move, already forgetting about what he said.

To be fair, what we talk about on the ice doesn't matter in real life. We're a bunch of testosterone filled guys talking about hockey and girls. It's the basis of our lives and our existence. Most of the guys are already locked in on their college choices, ready to play more hockey and meet a whole new group of girls. Or better yet - women.

A handful of us are good enough right now to go pro if we wanted to.

Archer? He thinks he's one of them.

He's not.

He's not even that good.

He's on the ice due to the goodwill of his father. That's it.

None of this should matter. At all.

Archer is an asshole. Everyone knows it.

At the same time, I'm an asshole too.

He ends up getting the puck passed to him.

I know I've got my defense behind me to help if I need it.

I won't need it.

I don't even care about the puck.

As I skate toward Archer…

There is a voice in my head that sometimes tells me right from wrong. It's very quiet. Very faint. I rarely listen to that voice.

I could easily hit Archer shoulder to shoulder. Move him off the puck.

Give him a chance to make a move to get around me.

As I said - I don't give a fuck about the puck.

And as far as my shoulder goes?

It connects with Archer's mouth with a beautiful yet sickening sound.

Archer's head snaps back. He drops his stick. The puck slides across the ice to Ollie's stick.

But the play is long since dead.

Coach Davis blows his whistle.

It's instant tension when Archer looks at me.

Blood pooling in his mouth.

"What the fuck is your issue?" Archer yells at me.

I throw my gloves to the ice and go for him.

He pushes back at me.

We're ready to go here.

Ollie jumps in and stops the oncoming fight.

Coach Davis sends me to the showers and sends Archer to the medical room.

Just like that, practice is over for me.

I shower, dress, and leave.

As I walk toward my car, you'll never guess who I see.

Archer.

Across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of his fancy ass, custom car.

He's showing off his wounds… to Abrielle.

I grit my teeth and growl.

"Fucking curious kitten," I whisper to myself.

You know what curiosity does to a cat… right?

She's in an old hoodie with her hair on top of her head in a really messy bun.

Specks of paint on her face.

Her eyes intensely looking at her current work.

She's got some weird ass music playing too. Like some kind of mediation crap going or whatever.

I turn and walk away.

I go into the kitchen, sneak a can of beer out of the fridge, and go to the pool for a swim.

If my old man catches me with a beer, he'll just take it and tell me to knock it off.

I'm not in the pool for five minutes before Abrielle's mother comes out and strips herself from an expensive shawl, showing off a way too small bikini.

And, hey, props to Abrielle's mother.

She's put together very nicely for her age.

"Hope you don't mind," she says with a smile that's borderline flirty.

She sits down, lays back on a chair, and she's sleeping in seconds.

She's wearing out her welcome by staying home all day, drinking wine until she passes out.

I can almost promise you that right now my father has that new woman in his office. She's probably under his desk, doing disgusting things to him while he's on business calls.

And just like that, I'm sure in a few more weeks I'll have a new stepmom running around the house.

I get out of the pool, drink the now semi-warm can of beer, and walk back down the hallway to Abrielle's room.

This time I kick the door open.

The room is empty.

Abrielle is…

She's in the fucking shower.

I hear the water running.

The door isn't fully shut either.

A sliver showing from the private bathroom. Enough to let out the smell of honey and coconut.

I can't help myself as I picture just walking into the bathroom and seeing what she does.

An eyeful of Abrielle… naked… water hitting her skin…

I look at her painting.

The left side is half the mansion. The other half is an apartment building.

Abrielle has some serious talent here.

She's good enough at painting that I stare for more than three seconds and in those three seconds I'm not thinking about her naked in the shower.

My senses come back to normalcy and I have to get out of the fucking bedroom.

I can't live like this with her around.

It's much better to just torture her and make her cry.

"Come here, baby," I whisper to Bella as I pull her close.

Our lips touch.

Fruity lip gloss stains my tongue as I kiss her a little harder.

I reach behind me and open the glass door.

"Are you sure this is okay?" Bella asks.

"It's my fucking house. Of course it's okay."

We kiss again.

Bella has been gently spreading the rumor that I'm on her hit list before graduation.

Hit list meaning guys she would love to hook up with.

I guess you can consider this me doing something for someone else.

But my true intentions are much more sinister…

I pull Bella by her waist and walk backward toward the bed.

When Bella notices a sleeping Abrielle, she pulls away and gasps.

"Someone is in here!" she tries to whisper.

"It's fine," I whisper back. "Don't worry about her. She's just a visitor. This is the only room we have. Unless you want to go into the pool."

Bella bites her bottom lip.

We kiss again.

I move around the bed and then flop down as hard as I can, bringing Bella with me.

That gets Abrielle's attention.

She jumps up and gasps.

She reaches over and I swear she grabs Bella's ass.

Bella groans.

I turn my head and let Bella kiss my neck.

I'm staring at Abrielle. Her eyes are wide with shock.

"Get the fuck out of this room," I say to her. "Or better yet, stay for the fucking show, kitten."

Abrielle scrambles to get out of the bed.

She's wearing a hoodie again.

But not pants or shorts.

I stare at her legs as she rushes toward the glass door.

Her hoodie dances up a few times, showing off tight panties that cup her ass perfectly.

I smile.

I hope Abrielle has no idea where to go to get some sleep. I hope she thinks about Bella and I messing around in her bed.

No offense to Abrielle but she doesn't belong here.

Not in this bed. Not in this bedroom. Not in this house.

And she sure as fuck does not belong in my life.