Page 4 of Pucked Together
"See? This is exactly why we should've just stayed in Los Angeles," I tell Wednesday for the hundredth time since we left on this road trip. "I thought Texans were supposed to be friendly."
Wednesday settles back into the passenger seat like she's over the drama. But not me. No, now I'm livid. I shake my head and cuss out the cowboy until we pull up to Keelan's white mansion of a house.
The fountain in the middle of the roundabout driveway prominently displays the symbol of my brother’s one true love—a giant hockey puck, and it looks to be on fire.
How my brother was able to get a fountain with both water and a fire feature is beyond me, but I guess there's not much that money can't buy.
I pull into the driveway, and lo and behold, who of all people do I find parked behind Keelan's yellow, state-of-the-art Bronco Raptor? I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Of course, my welcome committee is the jerk from the gate who now owes me a new windshield.
Just great. He must be one of Keelan's guys.
I quickly dab on some gloss, fluff up my hair, and push my shoulders back before getting out of the car to confront him. Just as I exit my car, he pushes the door open to his.
Even with the small distance between us, I can tell he stands what feels like a full two feet tall above me. But that doesn't stop me from giving him a piece of my mind.
"Hey! You ever hear of manners, jackass?"
He assesses me before opening his mouth to speak. And when he does, he takes a bold step closer to me, towering above me and making my neck crane. I continue to shoot daggers at him regardless.
"Ever hear of moving with a purpose?" He retorts in a raw huskiness that sends my insides swirling.
"Excuse me?" I choke out.
"That's right, Cali-girl. 'Round here, you move fast, or you get lost."
Cali-girl?! Ok, I see what this is about.
Texans can't stand Californians stomping all over their sweltering state. Well, tough luck, asshole, because Cali is in the mother-fucking house.
He pushes his shades up onto his golden head, and hazel-green eyes dance over me as he looks me up and down.
Does he have to look like he just materialized from the pages of Greek mythology?
This isn't even fair. His muscles are bulging under his tight black shirt. He's pure mass, and it makes me even more annoyed that he thinks he can treat people like trash because he's so damn good-looking.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking I find him attractive. It's pretty obvious he’s a jerk. Instead, I mutter through my clenched jaw, "You owe me a new windshield."
He tips his head to the side and studies my '93 two-tone Bronco.
"Would you like a whole new ride to go with that, sweetheart?" His eyes come back to mine.
"No, my car works just fine. Obviously."
He's still looking at me with his head turned like a curious puppy. But when I don't say anything else, he just says, "Right. Well, just put it on my tab."
As if he plans to wreck more than just my car while he’s here.
He slips his glasses back over his eyes without another word, like arguing with me isn't worth his breath, and turns back to his car. Popping open the trunk, he takes out a suitcase and a medium-sized box that he tucks under a brawny arm.
"Please tell me you don't live here," I say to him, popping my hands to both my hips.
He presses a button, and the trunk slowly shuts. Then he digs in his pocket for something and looks at it before tossing it to me. I catch it easily and see that it's the clicker for the front gate.
"I don't live here," he replies, clearly mocking me.
He pulls his luggage behind him as he brushes past me and walks up to the massive black double doors. Just as he reaches them, Keelan pulls one of the doors open, sporting a huge smile. He's dressed in an open Hawaiian shirt and some board shorts.
You'd think my brother was a professional surfer, not the star center for the Houston Heatwave NHL team. A lucky trade on their part when they swiped him from the Stars a few years back.