Текст книги "Delayed Penalty"
Автор книги: Sophia Henry
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Delayed Penalty is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Flirt eBook Original
Copyright © 2015 by Sophia Henry
Excerpt from Power Play by Sophia Henry copyright © 2015 by Wendy Bennett
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Flirt, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
FLIRT is a registered trademark and the FLIRT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Power Play by Sophia Henry. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9781101887196
Cover design: Diane Luger
Cover photograph: Valua Vitality/Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Sophia Henry
About the Author
Excerpt from Power Play
Chapter 1
When you’re twenty years old, there’s nothing music and a drink can’t cure.
At least that was my best friend’s response when I told her I’d been cut from Central State’s women’s soccer team that morning.
The overzealous stylings of two drunk chicks bellowing “It’s Raining Men” wafted through the air, and I’d just received my vodka club from the bartender, so why did it still feel like someone scratched my heart out with a serrated shovel?
Maybe “It’s Raining Men” wasn’t the right song?
Or maybe my friend’s remedy lacked one vital piece. Like, five minutes locked in a bathroom stall with the crazy-haired hottie approaching me. His head was buzzed short on the sides, leaving a thick patch of dark locks, gelled into a neat pompadour in front. Sort of like 1920s gangster, except less slicked, more height.
Every muscle in Crazy Hair’s body rippled under his clothing as he walked. He had to be over six feet tall, with a broad chest and massive arms stretching the seams of his long-sleeved black Henley. His skin was smooth and pale, a contrast to the thick dark eyebrows resting above his jump-in-and-drown-in-me blue eyes. From the scar on his left cheek to the smug smirk of his lips, he was exactly my type: dangerous, confident, and totally lickable.
I flipped my long blond hair behind my shoulder and glanced to my left, pretending Crazy Hair’s advance had no effect on me. In reality, I’d checked to make sure that he wouldn’t pass me up on the way to some beautiful bombshell I hadn’t noticed standing in the vicinity.
Like when you see someone wave, so you wave back. Then you realize they weren’t waving at you but the person behind you. So you try to play off your lame wave like you were batting away mosquitoes, which aren’t there because it’s December in Canada. Just trying to avoid an awkward situation like that.
Crazy Hair continued to close in, before stopping just inches away.
I’d opened my mouth to ream him out for stepping too far into my personal space, but the sweet scent of clove cigarettes flooded warmth through me like a sip of hot chocolate on a January morning in the Upper Peninsula.
“You work at post office?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent.
“Um, no.” I took a swig of my drink. Though I was unsure where he was going with that line, he was hot enough for me to stick around.
The left corner of his mouth curved into that sexy little smirk. “Because I see you check out my package.”
Carbonation stung my nose as I snorted and choked trying to hold in my laugh. Without time to turn my head, I sprayed vodka club and saliva across the front of Crazy Hair’s shirt.
Awesome.
“Weak!” I heard from somewhere behind me.
I turned to see who had yelled, still coughing as I noticed a group of guys and girls at the high-top table behind me. Shaggy blond hair bounced against one guy’s forehead as he snickered. The dude next to him held his fist in front of his mouth in a horrible attempt to hide his laughter. A brunette in a tight red sweater didn’t look amused. At all.
Crazy Hair threw the guys not one but both of his middle fingers.
“That girl’s a fucking smoke show. Why’d he use a shitty line like that?” the blond one said.
Smoke show? I bit down hard on my lip to fight back a smile. The last time I’d heard that phrase was in high school from my hockey-playing best friend, who’d informed me that “smoke show” was player lingo for “hot girl.”
Unsure of how to recover any semblance of cool after spitting my drink across Crazy Hair’s muscular chest, I spun around and shuffled back to the table my friends occupied in front of the karaoke stage.
It felt weird to drink in public, though we’d been to Canada on multiple occasions. As lifelong residents of Detroit, Michigan, we thought of Windsor—the Canadian city connected to Detroit by a bridge and a tunnel—as the next town over, rather than a foreign country. Nineteen was the legal drinking age in Windsor, so it made sense for underage Americans like us to cross the border for some legit cocktails.
My butt had barely brushed my seat when I heard my name, and my name alone, called over the speakers. I lifted my eyes to the outdated popcorn ceiling, as if the voice resonated from the heavens beyond, rather than the karaoke host.
“Why is he calling my name?” I asked Kristen.
“I picked you a song,” she responded, taking a swig of her beer.
“You picked us a song, you mean?” Emphasis on the us, because I’d never sung alone in my life—not counting the shower and car, of course.
“Nope. Just you.” Kristen placed both hands on my back and pushed me toward the stage. “You need to sing it out. Keeping shit bottled up never works.”
I had no problem singing it out if I was singing with other people, but not when it was just me. Hadn’t I been embarrassed enough today?
My short-lived “smoke show” happiness vanished, and the embarrassment of making a fool of myself in front of Crazy Hair returned. I tried to reverse, but Kristen’s trampoline-like hands propelled me back toward the stage.
Climbing onto the stage, I snatched the microphone out of the host’s hand. I almost felt bad about taking my anger out on him until I saw the lyrics to “Proud Mary” light up in white against the teleprompter’s blue screen. Fuck.
What the hell? I exhaled and lifted my eyes to Kristen.
“Girl power!” She saluted me with her glass.
Was “Proud Mary” a girl-power song? I thought it was about a boat.
“Do you have ‘Good Feeling’?” I asked the karaoke host. He was around my age, with big brown eyes matching his neat, trimmed beard and his shoulder-length hair.
“Flo Rida?” he asked, as disapproving wrinkles formed on his smooth forehead.
“Oh, no,” I said. “The Violent Femmes.”
A smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. “Give me a second.”
While waiting for my song, I took in the scenery at Mickey O’Callaghan’s Irish Pub. The space itself was cozy; small and narrow with red and beige brick walls and mahogany overkill. The dark wood was everywhere: the long bar, the wainscoting, the narrow beams on the ceiling, even the tables and chairs. Evidently Mickey’s was the place to be for Friday-night karaoke, because bodies occupied every seat, and the bar was two people deep all the way across.
Instead of looking toward the table that Crazy Hair had thrown double birds to, I watched the karaoke host fiddle with his machine. After a minute, the screen glowed with the lyrics to my request.
My face burned when my voice cracked delivering the first note. My eyes stayed glued to the teleprompter, even though I knew the words by heart. After the first few lines, I got my vocals on track, and I heard some clapping, which surprised me. Halfway through the song, I raised my eyes to see people on their feet, people other than the friends I had come with, although my friends were on their feet as well. By the time I finished the song, the crowd was hooting and whistling. Someone yelled for me to sing again, but I just smiled as I refastened the microphone to the stand.
“You were amazing, Aud!” Kristen squeezed me when I got back to the table.
“I didn’t know you could sing like that.” Lacy raised her hand for a high five.
“I didn’t either,” I admitted, skimming my palm against hers, sure I’d zap her with the electricity tingling through my limbs. Being on stage felt like overtime at a soccer match: exhilarating and exciting.
“Hey,” someone said, tapping my shoulder. I spun around to see the karaoke host.
“Greg.” He thrust his hand at me.
“Auden,” I said, taking his outstretched palm. “Thanks for switching songs.”
“Tina Turner didn’t seem like your thing.” Greg might’ve had a cute face hiding under his beard. Still not my type, though. Too monotone. Even the plaid flannel hanging off his lean frame was brown. His style screamed Eddie Vedder, nineties grunge rather than today’s hipster cool.
“Oh, I can rock some Tina. Just wasn’t feeling ‘Proud Mary’ without my backup dancers.” I pointed to Kristen and Lacy.
Greg laughed. “Need a drink?”
“I already have—” I searched the table for my drink, spotting it in Lacy’s boyfriend’s hand. “Actually, I do.”
Ignoring Kristen’s megawatt smile, I followed Greg to the bar. She better not have set him on me to boost my spirits. She knew he wasn’t my type. Douche bags like Crazy Hair and the guys he’d flipped off got my motor running. Douche bags and I were on the same wavelength. Neither of us wanted more than the other could offer.
Greg moved to the side so I could order. “Club soda with three limes, please.”
“And a Steam Whistle.” Greg pointed to a beer I didn’t recognize in the stand-up cooler behind the bar. The bartender nodded and extracted a bottle.
“You’ve got a killer voice,” Greg said.
“Well, there’re no Tina Turner–type vocals in that song.” I blew off his compliment.
“No, but it’s hard to sing that soft and keep your key.” His mouth curved into a wide, kind smile. “You from around here?”
“Detroit,” I said, nodding. “But I go to Central State.”
“Are you kidding?”
I shook my head and picked up the drink the bartender had placed in front of me.
“So do I. That’s crazy.” Greg held up a few bills, waiting until the bartender saw the money before setting it on the bar. “My roommates and I have a band and we’re looking for a singer right now.”
“You’re in a band? That’s awesome,” I said, focused on mashing the limes in my drink. I raised my glass to him. “Thank you, by the way.”
“No problem.” He picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Any interest?”
“In what?” I asked, looking at Greg over the top of my cup.
“Singing for our band.” He didn’t even blink.
“You’re joking, right?” I laughed. Asking me to sing in his band after hearing one karaoke song was hilarious. I’d never taken voice lessons, and as far as I knew, I didn’t have any significant talent.
“Why would I joke?” He didn’t seem to understand my laughter at all.
“I just sang in public for the first time and you’re asking me if I want to be in a band?” Being the center of attention for five minutes in a karaoke bar was one thing; standing on stage in front of people expecting a show was a different beast.
“So that explains your lack of stage presence,” Greg said as he ran his fingers over his beard, looking more English professor than rocker.
“Quite the charmer, aren’t you, G-man?” I took a drink. I knew I didn’t have stage presence. Hell, I didn’t make eye contact.
“Stage presence can be learned,” he said. “You have a great voice and a hot look.”
Once I realized he wasn’t kidding, I was speechless.
Greg continued peeling the label off his beer bottle as he waited for me to speak. “It’s nothing crazy. We just play bars in Bridgeland, well, mostly at Wreckage.” He chuckled.
“Yeah, I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.” I forced a half smile.
“Come on,” he pleaded. “Just try out. If you like it, great.”
“I don’t think I could even learn to be comfortable on stage.”
“I can get you over your stage fright.” Greg’s voice was molasses, thick and smooth; a contrast to his grunge-hipster vibe. The lights flickering above gave his previously plain eyes a sensuous sparkle as he waited for my answer.
Why did I have to be a sucker for sparkles? “Okay, sure.” My head bobbed in reluctant consent. “The worst that could happen is I fail miserably, right?”
“You might surprise me.” Greg winked. He searched the bar before grabbing a pen lying on an abandoned credit card receipt. Then he flipped over a coaster advertising some brewing company’s winter ale and began scribbling. “Here’s my number. Call me next week for an audition.”
“This is crazy.” I took the coaster from him.
“What do you have to lose?” His eyes were solid and intense as he stared at me.
Nothing. I’d long since lost it all. But he didn’t know that.
Without another word, he walked away, leaving me alone at the bar, perplexed by the interaction.
“What did Eddie Vedder’s son have to say?” Kristen asked, nodding toward Greg, who had resumed his place behind the karaoke machine. Of course Kristen would think of a similar description for his look. It was one of the many reasons we’d been calling each other the “other half” since the first day of freshman year when we were assigned the same dorm room.
“He wants to me to try out for his band,” I said, flashing her the coaster. “Which is stupid.”
“No it isn’t.” She snatched my hand and squeezed. “You’re really good.”
I shook my head. Right now I was high from my time on stage and the applause and compliments I’d received, but as soon as I got home and thought about the unexpected conclusion to my soccer career again, the euphoria would abandon me. Just like my team had.
Just like everyone does.
“You’re a popular lady tonight. The Mohawked hottie stared at you the entire time you talked to karaoke guy.”
I followed Kristen’s gaze to the table where Crazy Hair and his friends were sitting. Though the group seemed to be leaving, downing their drinks and grabbing their coats, Crazy Hair stood still, his penetrating eyes on me.
I had a feeling he was the type of guy who would say anything to get me to take him home, and then slink away without a word the next morning. Though drinking had usually been involved when that had happened, I couldn’t even blame the alcohol. I fell for guys like him because I needed the attention. I needed to feel like someone wanted me. I needed to pretend that someone might be able to love me.
The way parents should have loved me.
It was an impossible void to fill.
Crazy Hair slid one of the muscular arms I’d admired earlier around the shoulders of the girl with the tight red sweater. She had big everything. Big hair, big boobs, big smile. Still holding my gaze, he said something against her ear, and she threw her head back in a laugh revealing big white teeth. Moving his hand to her back, he allowed her to go first as they followed the rest of the group toward the door.
Which reminded me of another definition of smoke show: to dominate, crush, or otherwise humiliate the opposition.
Mission accomplished.
Douche.
Chapter 2
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to sit on your butt your whole break,” Grandpa said. He punctuated his sentence with a quick snap of his newspaper. He’d done it to lift a falling corner, but he may as well have cracked an invisible whip.
“Come on, Dedushka,” I said, stopping my arm midair and lifting my tired eyes from the milk dripping off the spoon to his customary stern face. “I just got home yesterday.”
“And you start your job today.” His steel blue eyes caught mine before returning to the paper.
“Funny. I don’t remember interviewing.” I smirked, then shoveled the spoonful of soggy cereal into my mouth.
“Oh, how I’ve missed your smart mouth, Auden,” he said without even looking up.
Though I would be home for less than a month, living with my grandparents again would be rough. After my first taste of freedom living in the dorms freshman year, going back to Hawk-eye Land will be a challenge.
All my life I had wished I’d had a sibling, but the yearning was never so prominent as when I came home from school. It had been fourteen years since my mom died. Fourteen years of being the only person my grandparents had to worry about. While I appreciated the motive behind their undivided attention, I’d always wanted someone who understood my rants about their constant hovering. Someone to talk with and share silly inside jokes. Since my well-being was my grandparents’ first priority, they were always on my case. It would’ve been nice to have a sibling to pick up some of the slack. I never wanted to sound ungrateful for what they’d done for me, but sometimes I needed a break.
“What kind of job is it?” I asked, keeping any smart-mouth comments to myself. Didn’t feel like ticking him off today.
“Translating.” Grandpa folded the newspaper into a rectangle and set it next to his NOT ONLY PERFECT, BUT RUSSIAN, TOO coffee mug.
My grandfather, Viktor Berezin, was a retired Russian language professor at a state university outside of Detroit. He’d taken on various translating jobs for friends and coworkers his whole life and had set me up with small projects since my junior year of high school. The work hadn’t been difficult; translating documents or contracts from Russian into English or vice versa. It was great money for a teenager, since it paid better than babysitting or a part-time retail job.
“Documents?” I asked.
“For a person. He doesn’t know much English, and he needs a translator to speak with the media for his job. You will help him.”
“He speaks with the media for his job? Is he super-high profile?”
“In some circles, I suppose.” Grandpa shrugged.
“You trust me to be someone’s PR person? I have a pretty smart mouth, you know,” I joked, shoveling more cereal into my mouth.
“I’m counting on it, Audushka.”
“Is he an actor? A model?” I pushed my empty cereal bowl to the side. “Wait! Is he some kind of dignitary?”
“I think I’d handle the dignitary if he were one.” Grandpa took a sip of his coffee. “He’s a hockey player.”
“A hockey player,” I repeated. “For the Red Wings?”
Excitement bubbled in my stomach. I’d been a Detroit Red Wings fan since before I could speak. Being a translator for a Russian player on my favorite team in the history of the universe would complete my life.
“Not that high profile.” Grandpa laughed. “He plays for the Pilots.”
A minor-league player? The bubbles in my stomach fizzled and popped, and my tense, excited shoulders dropped.
“Where am I meeting him?”
“You will meet Zhenya at Robinson Arena at noon.”
Grandpa was talking about his lifelong friend, Evgeny Orlenko. Zhenya is the Russian term of endearment for the name Evgeny. Personally, I thought of Orlenko as an uncle, since he and Grandpa were as close as brothers. Professionally, he was a sports agent who represented a number of Russian hockey players. According to recent documents I’d translated, he’d peppered his clientele list with a few basketball players as well.
“Hey, Gram,” I greeted my grandmother, who had just walked into the tiny kitchen with the electric lighted mirror she swore by.
For someone who didn’t approve of her kids or grandkids being vain, Gram was pretty concerned with her looks. She never wore foundation or mascara, but her cheeks were always powdered and her lips were never without lipstick in public. Her fair skin was wrinkled with soft lines, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of her features. Her blue-gray eyes and high cheekbones were complimented by perpetually dark blond hair, thanks to the magic of hair dye. She would’ve been beautiful even if she’d let her hair go gray. I could only hope I got some of those graceful-aging genes.
“What time did you get home last night?” Gram asked, setting the mirror on the table and flipping it to the ultra-magnifying side before stooping to plug it in.
“Around one-thirty, I guess.”
“I can tell. You’re puffy.” She reached over to pat my cheek before turning to inspect her own face in the mirror.
Thanks, I thought. I didn’t dare say it out loud. My grandparents and I had a better relationship since I’d left for college than we ever had when I was growing up. Didn’t want to mess up a good thing. “Where are you off to?”
“It’s my week to clean the church,” Gram answered as she slicked a rose shade across her lips. Then she patted the skin under her eyes with her fingers and turned the mirror’s light off.
“Do you need any help?”
“Pat and Emma will be there, but thank you for asking.”
My breath of relief was almost audible. I hadn’t been back to church since I’d left my grandparents’ house two years ago. Just thinking about the place made me itchy.
I slid out of my seat, tapped my inseams together with a flourish, and straightened my arms at my sides.
“Are you going to tell me my client’s name or is this a super-secret mission, Sir?” I asked in a military monotone.
My grandpa shook his head, picked up the newspaper, and straightened it out. “Don’t know it. I just told Zhenya you’d be happy to do it.”
“Super secret. Got it. I won’t let you down, Sir.” I saluted him. Still staring straight ahead, I waited to be excused.
Grandpa lowered the paper. “Is there something else?”
“May I be excused? I have to shower and dress for the mission.”
“You are a ridiculous girl, Audushka.” He dismissed me with a shake of his head.
“Auden, you’re only home for a month. Please try not to drive your grandfather crazy,” my grandma said.
With a salute to both of them, I ignored her warning. I’d driven my grandpa crazy years ago.
I thought Grandpa would continue to reward my almost-native knowledge of reading, writing, and speaking Russian by giving me tedious translating projects my whole life. I never expected him to allow me to work directly with a client, let alone a client in the public eye. Maybe he had more faith in me than I realized.
–
I arrived at Robinson Arena fifteen minutes early to prove that I took my first translating assignment with an actual human to heart. There was no doubt Evgeny Orlenko would report my professionalism, or lack thereof, to Grandpa. My mission, other than translating, was to keep my grandpa’s stellar reputation intact.
I spotted Orlenko waiting for me at the top of the stairs, outside the main entrance to the arena.
“Audushka!” He leaned in to kiss my cheeks, as was Russian custom, but he stopped himself and offered me his leather-gloved hand instead. I shook it firmly. “We’ll keep this professional, yes? It’s good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, Mr. Orlenko,” I responded as a smile crept across my face.
Orlenko wasted no time getting to business, greeting me with the Russian-inspired diminutive of my name and continuing the conversation in his native language. I threw my grandpa a mental fist-bump for teaching me Russian so well I could’ve been born and raised in Moscow.
“Your destiny awaits,” he said with a wink, holding a heavy blue door open. “Tell me how you got Vitya to give you this assignment. I thought he’d have you translating contracts until you were a little old lady.”
Since only Orlenko called Grandpa by his diminutive, Vitya, I had to think for a minute. My grandma, being of Irish descent, doesn’t use diminutives—or any nicknames. She called Grandpa only by two names: Viktor or Horse’s Ass.
“I have no clue. I thought the same thing, except I always throw in some cats. Little old cat lady translating Pushkin and Tolstoy until her arthritic hand falls off.”
Orlenko’s deep laugh echoed through the empty concourse as we entered the arena. When the heavy door slammed shut, the frigid air hit my exposed skin, sending an involuntary ripple from my fingertips to my toes.
“You will be spending quite a bit of time here, so you may want to dress for warmth,” Orlenko said.
I nodded. Wearing a black skirt suit for a job at an ice arena hadn’t been the smartest decision, but it was the only suit I owned, so I didn’t have another option. Maybe my grandparents would take pity on me and spot me some cash for appropriate work attire.
I followed Orlenko through the arena’s concourse and down a few long hallways into the dank, fluorescent-lit basement.
Stan Martin, Michigan furniture store guru and owner of the Pilots, was in the process of having a brand-new downtown arena built in the city, but it wouldn’t open until next fall. Until then, the Pilots called Robinson Arena home. A state-of-the-art arena in its heyday, Robinson had become a massive eyesore over its thirty-five-year existence. And I’d only observed it from the exterior.
The basement gave deteriorating a whole new meaning. The floors, walls, and ceilings showed their age as numerous cracks and chips marred the painted concrete surfaces. The Pilots logo, a black and blue plane, sparkled in comparison, having been stenciled onto the walls within the last two years. The logo guided us down the hall like we were jets lurching forward on a runway waiting for our turn to take off.
Just when I thought I’d get lost in the maze of dull white walls, we turned right into a hallway covered in light wood paneling and historic team photographs hiding the grubby concrete. Massive, red double doors with the Pilots logo welcomed us at the end of the hallway. Above the logo was a sign: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Before we entered the locker room, a ripple of pride rushed through me. I felt like a true professional.
And then I watched Orlenko try to pull open the door. It barely budged, so he grabbed the long, thin handle and tugged it with what I’d guess was all two hundred fifty pounds of his weight. If I did that every day, I’d yank my arms out of their sockets.
Undeterred, I took a deep, optimistic breath before following him into the locker room, where the stench of sweaty hockey gear immediately assaulted my senses.
Now I understood why Dedushka gave me this assignment. Well played, Grandpa. Well played.
Instead of focusing on the smell, I took in the surroundings of my new “office.” Tall, open oak lockers spanned three walls of the compact room. The space might not have been that small, but it seemed that way with all the large bodies crammed into it.
Large men’s bodies.
Large men’s bodies in various states of undress.
Fully clothed men—and women—with cameras, microphones, and handheld recording devices filled the room, as well. The media.
Keep your eyes up. I couldn’t be caught staring at the men with towels wrapped inches below muscular abs. Abs that must have taken more than eight minutes a day to chisel out.
Orlenko weaved his way through the swarm of people to the back wall of the locker room. He stopped behind a group of reporters and tapped a short cameraman on the shoulder. I couldn’t see the player who was being swarmed by the media, but judging from the nameplate attached to the locker, it was my client.
VARENKOV.
“Excuse me,” Orlenko interrupted the stream of questions being directed at the guy I still couldn’t see. “Aleksandr is done with questions for today. Thank you.”
I rose up on my toes, craning my neck to get a glimpse of my client before the crowd dissipated. No such luck, until the two men in front of me who’d been blocking my vision excused themselves and inched past.
“Couldn’t resist my package?” a voice asked in Russian.
I jerked my head up and locked eyes with Crazy Hair from the karaoke bar.
And he was half naked.
