Primed
RYDER AND I EXIT THE HOUSE IN SILENCE. I CHECK HIM OUT AGAIN, wanting to tell him he looks good, but he hasn’t complimented my appearance, so I say nothing.
“This is me,” I say, pointing to the white SUV parked at the curb.
I get in the driver’s seat. He gets in the passenger side. We buckle up. His silence drags on as I start the engine.
Finally, I glance over at him. “Look, I know you’re going to talk a mile a minute during the car ride, so I implore you, give my ears a bit of a rest sometimes, all right?”
He snorts.
“All right, Luke, off we go.”
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.
“Isn’t it your name?” I roll my eyes.
“Never liked it, so I go by Ryder.”
I think the name Luke is kind of hot, but the hardness of his eyes tells me this isn’t a subject to tease him about. So I just shrug and put the car in drive.
“Did Jensen say why he picked you for this terrible gig?” I ask curiously.
“He didn’t pick me. The PR lady did.” He continues with a trace of sarcasm. “She thinks number one draft pick looks good on the resume when chatting up potential donors.”
“Does she understand you’re physically incapable of the chatting part?” I inquire politely. “Because you’d think someone would’ve warned her.”
“You’d think.”
Then, as if to prove my point, he doesn’t utter another word, while I do everything in my power to change that.
I try discussing the roster Jensen picked. I complain about how we’re stuck going to this thing. I tell him about my upcoming class schedule. Meanwhile, he communicates in grunts, sighs, and shrugs, and a short list of facial expressions ranging in emotion. One look conveys sheer boredom—that’s his go-to. The other is…not quite disdain, but sort of confusion-tinged disbelief, like, Are you still talking to me?
Eventually I give up. I scroll through my playlists and pick a track. Within seconds, a familiar, soothing voice washes over me.
“The call of the Canadian wilderness came to me when I was a young man, barely old enough to drink and yet plenty old to traverse a robust and often brutal landscape in hopes of self-discovery.”
Ryder’s head shifts toward the driver’s seat. I see it from the corner of my eye.
“An aural experience as diverse as it was evocative, I lost myself in the rush of a creek, the heavy crunch of a moose paw against a tangle of undergrowth, the sweet song of the golden-crowned kinglet in the distance. It was enough to rob me of breath. And now…let me take you there.”
The track begins, a flap of wings (I assume belonging to the golden-crowned kinglet) fluttering out of the speakers. Soon, the symphony of the wilderness fills the car.
We’re about ten minutes in before Ryder speaks.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Horizons with Dan Grebbs,” I tell him.
He stares at me. “You say that as if I’m supposed to know what or who that is.”
“Oh, Dan Grebbs is amazing. He’s a nature photographer from South Dakota who ran away from home at sixteen. He rode the railroads for a while, traveling the country and playing the guitar, taking pictures. Then one day he impulsively traded in his guitar for a field recorder and bought passage on a ship heading for South America. He caught the travel bug and has been all over the world ever since, working on his soundscapes. He’s recorded so many different albums. This is his wilderness series.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What do you have against the wilderness? Is it too good for you?”
“Yes, the wilderness is too good for me. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
I fight a smile and lower the volume. “I use these tracks for meditation. A way to quiet my head when it all gets too loud. Life,” I clarify, even though he hadn’t asked what I meant. “You must know what I’m talking about. The hockey world can be so loud. Sometimes you just need to quiet it. Try to ease some of that pressure, you know?”
He looks over again, so I treat it as permission to continue.
“There’s so much pressure, all the time.” I swallow. “And the worst part is, I know I place most of it on myself. It’s…this need to be the best. All the fucking time. Hey, how much do you charge per hour for your therapy services, by the way? And thank you for not asking me how it makes me feel. I went to this therapist once and that’s literally all she asked the entire time. How does it make you feel? And how does this make you feel? What about that, how did that make you feel?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Ryder asks me.
“Do you ever start talking?” I ask him.
He sighs.
“Dan Grebbs it is.”
I turn up the volume, and that’s all we listen to for the remaining forty-minute drive into the city. The lilting calls of loons and mournful wolf cries transform the car into something bigger than the both of us.
As I follow the GPS directions, I realize we’re going to be driving within two miles of my own house in Brookline. The suburb, which is surrounded by Boston on three sides, is probably the most affluent neighborhood in Massachusetts. At the very top of the list, at least.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it when I say, “I grew up three blocks from here.”
The twinkling lights of the country club come into view. This club is one of the oldest in the state. Sprawling hills and twenty-seven award-winning holes make up the lush grounds. The golf course looks gorgeous in the darkness, with the historical clubhouse all lit up among the backdrop of a vast inky sky.
“Let me guess, your family has a membership to this place,” Ryder mutters.
“No, but they tried hard to court us when I was about fourteen,” I answer with a rueful smile. “Mom was, like, Let’s give it a shot. Who knows, we might love it. So we spent an entire afternoon trying it out. Dad hates golf and tennis, so he played squash and discovered he hated that more than those other two combined. He stole the racket and took it home and burned it in our fireplace. Mom was annoyed when they told her the dress code for women was only white or pastels. And it was the furthest thing from mine and Wyatt’s scene. We did some skeet shooting, and Wyatt got pissed because I outshot him, so he stomped off and tried to score weed from one of the kitchen workers.” I chuckle to myself. “That’s the day we discovered we’re not a country club family.”
I pull into the majestic circular drive and stop behind a BMW in the valet line. At the valet station, I hand my keys to the young man in the white polo shirt and khakis. He opens the door for me, and I realize too late that I didn’t bring any cash to tip the valets. Ryder has us covered, though, slipping the kid a ten-dollar bill.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Big spender,” I murmur when the car disappears.
He shrugs. “These poor guys basically survive on tips. Least I could do.”
We walk through the arched entryway toward the ornate front doors.
Ryder tugs on his collar, ill at ease. “What now?”
“Now we mingle.”
“Kill me,” he begs.
“How do you feel about murder-suicide? I could easily kill you, but I don’t think I can kill myself, so you’ll need to murder me and then take care of yourself. Is that something you’re comfortable doing?”
He looks at me. “Forget I said anything.”
We enter the fancy lobby, side by side but with two feet of distance between us. It smells like money in here. Looks like it too, thanks to the mahogany-paneled walls and white marble floors. We provide our names at the table tucked away on one end of the lobby, then follow the discreet easel-set signs toward the main ballroom. There, we’re surrounded by a sea of people in tuxedos and gowns.
Semiformal, my ass. Clearly everyone went the black-tie route.
Every single woman we pass scopes Ryder out. That’s usually the case with tall gorgeous men, but it’s also the vibe he gives off. The men here are all slick, wealthy professionals. They’re businessmen, lawyers, doctors. Whereas Ryder… There’s something primal about him. It’s the barely contained power of his body. The way he walks. The intensity in his eyes. The way his expression conveys that he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone and couldn’t be bothered to be here. That bad-boy energy sucks you in every time. Women are drawn to it. Most men are too.
“Gigi Graham!” A stocky man in a crisp suit and graying hair at his temples appears in our path.
I vaguely recognize him but can’t remember his name.
“Jonas Dawson,” he says in introduction. “My firm represents your father’s foundation.”
“Oh, right.” I pretend to recall this fact. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dawson.”
Five more steps and we’re intercepted by another stranger who thinks they’re my best friend.
“Gigi, so nice to see you!” a heavyset woman booms, clasping both my hands in hers. “Brenda Yarden, Bruins’ head office. We met last year at your father’s jersey number retirement event?”
“Of course.” I feign recollection of this too. I gesture to Ryder. “This is Luke Ryder. Cocaptain of the Briar men’s team.”
“Good to meet you.” Yarden gives his hand a quick shake before turning back to me. “We’re hearing murmurs about the Hall of Fame, and we cannot be more excited. What’s your father thinking about it all?”
“I mean, that’s up to the selection committee,” I remind her. “Not sure Dad has any say about whether he’s nominated.”
The next ambush involves a trio of male boosters who interrogate us about whether Chad Jensen expects to win the Frozen Four this year. I don’t know why they think I can speak for Jensen, nor can I offer many details about the men’s team because I don’t actually play on it. But Ryder is no help, so I talk out of my ass for about ten minutes before they mercifully move along.
For the next hour, we shuffle around the ballroom like mindless robots, while I pretend to care about the boosters and what they’re saying to me. I’m the only one touting the program, so my voice hurts by the time we manage to find a quiet moment for the two of us.
I grab two skinny flutes of champagne from a server in a black uniform with a red bow tie.
Ryder starts, “I don’t want one—”
“It’s not for you,” I grumble.
I chug the first glass in front of the amused waiter and place the empty on his tray. Once he’s gone, I sip the second flute.
“Easy, partner,” Ryder warns.
“Partner? Is that what this is? A partnership? Because from where I’m standing, I’m the one who’s been doing all the Briar hyping. PS you’re driving home because I plan to have at least, oh, ten more of these.”
“I told Jensen I wasn’t good at this shit.”
“Yeah, and you’re even worse than you made yourself out to be. Would it kill you to smile?” I peer at him over the rim of my glass. “I’ve seen you do it, so I know your face is capable of arranging the muscles in that way.”
He narrows his eyes.
I spot another small group of donors making their way toward us. Pure, single-minded purpose.
“Oh God, no,” I moan. “I just need five minutes of peace and quiet.”
“C’mere.” Ryder grabs my champagne flute and deposits it on the tray of a passing waitress, then takes my hand.
The next thing I know, he’s whisking me across the ballroom toward the stage. There’s a curtained area on either side of it, blocking off the two sets of steps leading up to the wings. I blink, and suddenly we’re tucked behind the curtains. Enveloped in darkness.
“Better?”
His rough voice tickles my ear.
I gulp, my pulse speeding at the realization that Ryder and I are standing in the dark, scant inches apart.
“This wasn’t what I had in mind,” I murmur over my pounding heart.
“Yeah, well. Best I could do.”
I draw a breath, falling silent for a moment. The music in the ballroom is muffled now, not only because of the barrier provided by the curtain, but because my heartbeat continues to thunder against my rib cage. The scent of him surrounds me. Woodsy and spicy, with a note of leather I find odd because he’s not wearing leather. It’s deliciously masculine. I probably shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do.
“I don’t get you,” I confess.
“Nothing to get.” He shrugs, and the action causes his shoulder to nudge mine.
“Seriously, I can’t figure out if this grumpy Mr. Silent thing is an act. Some cool persona you put on.”
“Sounds like a lot of effort.”
“Exactly, and that’s why I’m leaning toward it being genuine. That you really are just this grumpy, dangerous—”
“Dangerous, huh?” he cuts in. A soft rasp.
My eyes are adjusting to the darkness. I note that his are heavy-lidded, slitted as he looks me up and down. One side of his mouth lifts mockingly.
“Do you feel like you’re in danger right now, Gigi?”
“Should I?”
“No.” He chuckles. Low and smoky.
“Well, then I don’t.”
Something dangerous is happening, though. A strange thread of awareness traveling between us. Or maybe that’s a natural consequence of being in the dark with an incredibly hot guy. Ryder eases a bit closer. Still watching me.
“What?” I ask self-consciously.
“You look nice.” His voice is gruff.
Surprise flickers through me. “What?”
“I should have said it earlier when you showed up. That was rude of me.”
“Since when do you care about being rude?”
“I don’t.”
A laugh slips out. “Well. Thanks, I guess. You look nice too.”
Another beat of silence.
“Do you think we can hide in here forever?” I ask hopefully.
“No. Eventually somebody’s gonna pry you out of here so they can rave about how amazing your father is.”
“I hate this, you know.” I tip my head to look at him. “Whatever you think about me and my last name, I don’t use it to get ahead. I never have. Hell, I would legally change it if I knew it wouldn’t break my dad’s heart. But it would kill him. And, really, it’s not his fault he’s the greatest hockey player of all time. He deserves all the love and accolades.”
“But…you hate this,” he prompts.
I bite my bottom lip. “Yes. I hate these events with a passion. I’ve never enjoyed myself at a single one. Like, I’d literally rather be anywhere else.”
“You used to go out with Colson, yeah?”
“Yes…?”
The query comes out of left field, but he’s quick to connect it to the topic at hand.
“Did he ever come with you to these things?”
“Sometimes.” I shift awkwardly. It feels weird to discuss Case with Luke Ryder.
“And he didn’t get creative? Find ways to make these shindigs more fun for you?”
“What do you know about fun?” I can’t help but tease.
He offers his trademark shrug.
“No, tell me,” I push. “What would you be doing right now if you were Case? How would you make it fun?”
“If I was Colson.”
“Yes.”
“And you were my girl.”
“Yes.”
Ryder leans in, his warm breath on my ear, sending a tiny shiver through my body. “We would have been behind this curtain five minutes after we got here.”
“Doing what?”
I regret the question the moment I voice it.
“Getting you primed.”
My throat closes up with arousal. I struggle to swallow.
“Primed,” I echo weakly. “Primed for what?”
“For me.”
Oh my God.
His voice deepens. Just a hint of gravel. “I’d use my fingers probably. Yeah. I’d press my fingers inside you. Get you close. But I wouldn’t let you come. Just close enough that your entire body hurts, and then I’d force you to go back out there. Watch you squirm while you talk to all those irrelevant people, until finally you’re begging me to leave so I can take you home and make you come.”
It’s the most animated he’s sounded since I met him.
I can scarcely breathe. And the lack of oxygen gets worse when his hand finds my cheek. Rough fingertips scrape along my feverish skin.
Ryder dips his head and brings his mouth close to mine. Our lips are a whisper away. My eyelids flutter closed as for one heart-stopping moment I think he’s going to kiss me.
“But…I’m not Colson,” he finishes, wearing the merest hint of a smile as he straightens up.
To my dismay—and disappointment I don’t expect to feel—he inches the curtain aside to check if the coast is clear. Then he slides out and leaves me there feeling the exact way he just threatened to make me feel.
Squirming with need.
