Pucking Wild (Jacksonville Rays, #2)

by Emily Rath

“Truly, Mars. And it honestly does sound like fun. But my life is in Cincinnati. My job, my apartment, my…family,” I add, my voice faltering a bit. “I understand,” Mars says at last. “You don’t know how much I wish I could say yes,” I admit. “Six months in Florida, are you kidding? A little beach air in my hair, all that delicious fried shrimp. Not to mention I miss Rachel like a piece of me has been cleaved away. She’s my best friend, Mars.” “I know.” “You three better be so fucking good to her,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “We will,” he says, getting to his feet. “You better,” I challenge, rising to my feet too. “Or I am gonna come down there to Jacksonville. And I’m going to chop you up into tiny little bits and feed you to those damn sea turtles.”

For Mars, it’s the start of something new. For me, it’s the end. He gets to walk in there and say ‘hello’ to his new wife. I get to walk in and say a tearful ‘goodbye’ to my friend, the woman who has been the only home I’ve ever known.

“Hey,” she calls as I turn towards my office door. “Your meeting with Dalton Holdings Limited got pushed to 10:00 a.m. Some HR thing was just scheduled at the last minute. You’re meeting with them at 9:00 a.m.” I glance over my shoulder, lowering my voice so the other secretaries in this suite can’t hear us. “Do we know what it’s about?” “No idea. I just saw your name was added to the meeting invite. Dale is running the show.”

“Are they in conference room B?” I say as I walk past. “Actually, Ms. Owens, they might not be ready for you yet,” says Katie Two, scrambling out of her chair. “The meeting doesn’t start for another two minutes.” I walk right past them, angling for the frosted glass door of the conference room. “Ms. Owens, wait—” The door whispers across the carpet as I push it gently inward. “Good morning, I—” I pause in the open doorway, my hand pressed against the cool glass. My gaze darts quickly around the room. Two of the three partners are here. Oh, and Dale, of course. “I thought I was early,” I say. “Did I get the time wrong?” “Tess, we’re not quite ready for you yet,” Dale replies from his seat at the head of the table. “I’m sorry, Mr. Eubanks,” calls Katie Two from just behind my shoulder. “I tried to tell her.” “It’s fine, Katie,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I don’t understand,” I say, glancing around.

“What happened?” I say. “Oh god, did someone die?” “Come in, Tess,” says Dale. “Let’s get the door shut.”

“What happened?” I say again. Something is definitely wrong. “Why don’t we have you join us over here,” Dale calls, gesturing to a seat empty by one of the other HR reps. I think her name might be Judy. “The suspense is killing me here,” I admit, dropping into the leather swivel chair. I set my tablet and coffee down on the table.

“We were just discussing the ethos of Powell, Fawcett, and Hughes,” Dale says as soon as I’m seated. “We pride ourselves here at PFH that we’re a company of integrity. We may play in the corporate arena, but we’re a family business first, family values. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Fawcett?”

“And part of keeping family values at the center of our business is adhering to a strict code of ethics,” Dale goes on. “We all sign contracts that include a morality clause.” Slowly, Dale turns to me. “Tess, did you know you signed a contract that included a morality clause?” “Yeah. It was pretty boiler plate,” I reply. “It’s a bit more than that,” Dale says, adjusting his glasses. “As one of the client-facing junior partners at our firm, your conduct must be seen as beyond reproach at all times,” he goes on.

“I’m sorry—has there been a complaint I don’t know about?” I glance around the table. “Did one of my clients have a bad experience? Because I swear—”

“This is about how you conduct yourself as a junior partner. We’re under a microscope here. And we can’t allow any conduct unbecoming of a PFH partner. That comes straight from Bea.” My heart squeezes tight in my chest. “Bea knows about this?” I glance sharply over at Troy. “Well, can I please know too?” Slowly, Dale nods. “Show her.”

My eyes go wide as I take in the image staring up at me. It’s printed on glossy photo paper, but the image is grainy, like a blowup from an iPhone. My heart sinks straight out of my chest. It’s a picture of me dancing with Ryan Langley at Rachel’s wedding last week. “What is this?” “You tell us,” Grant replies.

“Troy, what is this?” I say, holding up the photo. My heart is pounding. There are more under it. I look through them quickly. Four photos of me dancing with Ryan. Each one shows us looking cozier than the last. We’re gazing at each other with hearts in our eyes and smiles on our faces. In the last one, his face is turned into my hand as he kisses my palm. I can almost feel the warmth of that kiss.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say, setting the photos down. “What it looks like is you giving ‘fuck me’ eyes to another man,” Troy counters. “Ryan is a friend,” I reply. “Nothing happened. We just danced. And this was a private event, by the way.” “Which just made these photos all the more enticing for the press to get their hands on,” says Dale. “These were posted online a few hours ago with about two dozen other photos from Rachel Price’s wedding. They’re running on every news site with a string of stories, to include a few headlines about you and your new beau.”

And then there are the photos of me dancing with Ryan Langley. One of the headlines calls me his newest lady love. Another calls me his girlfriend. “This is a mistake,” I say. “I can request a retraction or a correction—” “It’s too late, Tess,” says Grant. “PFH is officially in damage control mode,” Dale echoes. “Damage control?” I repeat with a raised brow. “What the heck does that mean? Am I not allowed to defend myself here?” Grant scoffs. “And what defense can you launch to the lead partner of PFH for why you let it look like you’re cheating on her son with a 22-year-old NHL star?” “I was not cheating on Troy in the middle of my best friend’s wedding,” I cry. “And besides, I’d have to still be with Troy for anything I do with another person to count as cheating—” “We’re still married,” Troy says. “You’re my wife, Tess. Jesus—” “That’s a technicality and we all know it.” “It’s a temporary separation. We’re working on our relationship,” he counters. “And it’s private—” “Ohmygod, are we rewriting history now?”

“What about you, Troy? Where was the conference room shakedown when you cheated on me with your secretary in your fucking office? I got to walk in and catch Candace on her knees with your cock in her mouth—” “Whoa,” says Dale, leveling a warning hand at me. “Tess, let’s try not to get vulgar here.”

“You know as well as anyone that appearance is everything,” says Dale. “We can’t excuse this kind of negative press when it involves our partners and their families. There has to be consequences for any and all morality clause breaches.” “So, what were his consequences?” I cry, waving my hand across the table at Troy. “He fucks anything with tits, he does it on PFH property, and yet I’m the one getting my wrist slapped for dancing at a wedding?”

“So, what’s happening now then?” I say. “What’s my punishment for daring to emasculate Bea’s precious son?” “Careful,” Troy growls. “I pushed Mother to be lenient here. Don’t make me change my mind.” “A leave of absence,” says Dale over him. “Only temporary, of course.” “Oh my god!” Shoving back from the table, I stand. “A leave of absence? Are you fucking kidding me?” “Only until this all dies down,” he goes on. “Likely we’ll have a plan of action that will involve you and Troy doing some image control—a few public functions, some client dinners. And Troy is fully on board,” he adds. “We all want this smoothed over as quickly as possible. In six weeks, we can reevaluate.” “Six weeks?” I cry.

“You only need to press it once,” Troy says from my shoulder. “Shut up.” “Pressing it again does nothing—” “Oh my god, you have to shut up,” I cry as the doors slide shut. “Please, for once, just fucking shut up so I can hear myself fucking think!” “God, you’re a mess,” he mutters. “I think this leave of absence is coming at just the right time for you.” I spin around, taking him in. He’s always been handsome—dark eyes, chiseled cheek bones for days. He oozes wealth and sophistication. At 6’2”, he’s a big guy too.

But his beauty no longer distracts me the way it once did. Now I see it for what it is: vanity, insecurity. He works so hard to keep his body in shape because he wants other women to find him desirable and men to find him enviable.

I hold his gaze. “Troy, we’re done. I want a divorce.”

It’s about to be David versus Goliath, and I left my slingshot in my other pencil skirt. “Tess! Goddamn it, will you just talk to me?” Troy shouts. I jerk open my office door, desperate to put a wall between us and the secretaries before he tears into me. I can’t bear to let other people see me cry, and I don’t think I can hold these angry tears back much longer. Slamming my tablet and coffee down, my chest heaves as I pant for breath. I look down at my hands splayed against the dark, polished wood of my executive desk. I can feel Troy sucking up all the air behind me as my office door clicks shut. The asshole has the audacity to turn the lock.

I spin around. “Unlock the door, Troy.” “I don’t want us to be disturbed,” he counters, dark eyes narrowed at me. “And I don’t want to feel trapped in here with you. Unlock the fucking door before I scream.”

“There, are you happy? Will you stop being crazy now and just talk to me?” “I want a divorce,” I repeat. “No.” “Troy—” “Tess, no. I’m not going to let you make this decision right now. You’re too emotional—” “You’re damn right, I’m emotional! This was you, wasn’t it? You found those photos and took them to Dale, complaining about this morality clause bullshit—”

“This is about your ego and nothing else. What I want to know is why now? Why these photos? Surely you have better evidence—” “That’s right, I do,” he says, stepping into my space. “I’ve got enough evidence of your affairs to end you. Out of the goodness of my heart, I was the bigger fucking person and I kept quiet.”

“You know, when everything first fell apart, I wanted a divorce. But your mother encouraged us to take it slow, to work on finding a fix. I agreed to counseling. It was only when I learned that you were still fucking the secretaries that I walked out.” He scoffs, turning away. “But then your mother came to me again and asked me to consider a trial separation,” I go on. I know he knows all this, but he likes to conveniently forget the important details. “She asked me to keep it quiet for the sake of the company, for the sake of the family. I agreed. I’d do anything for her, Troy. You know that. And it didn’t seem important to dissolve a paper marriage as long as you were behaving—”

“I told you it was nothing—” “Yeah, like I believe that,” he scoffs. Righteous indignation surges through me. “I’ve never lied to you, Troy. That’s your M.O.” He glares at me, daggering me with his eyes. After a tense moment, I let out a tired sigh. “Just give me a divorce, Troy. It’s time—” “No. We’re not there yet.” He shakes his head. “I’m not gonna let you do this to us.” “We are so there! We’re right fucking there. Troy, this isn’t a marriage anymore. It’s a hostage crisis!”

“This is about you being a frigid workaholic. You pushed me away, Tess. You gave up on us, and you blame me for seeking comfort in someone else’s arms? I couldn’t live in the shadow of your indifference. You never put me first. So yes, I put me first, Tess,” he shouts, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “Someone had to.” His words hit me like a slap, and I reel back. “You really believe that, don’t you?” “It’s true, and you know it,” he replies. “Even if you won’t ever admit it.” “I did put you first, Troy. I always only ever put you first. I sacrificed everything for you—” “And what did that earn me except your shitty resentment?” he says, leveling a finger in my face.

“You don’t get to play the martyr and make me the villain,” he says. “I didn’t ask you to pick my law school or work for my family firm or fucking smother me—” “Well, did I smother you, or was I indifferent?” I challenge. He turns away, cursing under his breath. “You can’t have it both ways, Troy,” I call at his back. “Did I put you first or last? Or do you even know? Did you even notice me until I was gone? No, you were too busy with your golf weekends and your client dinners and your girlfriends—”

“Please, just let me go,” I whisper. “Troy, please. I want a divorce.” “And now you want to quit. Yeah, things are tough right now. But you know what? That’s real life, Tess. We’ve got problems to work through. But now you’re suddenly just done? I guess I don’t know what else I expected. Go ahead and run. That’s what you do best.”

“Wait,” he says, his voice suddenly softer. He steps forward, his hand brushing my shoulder, and I go stiff. “Fuck, seriously?” He drops his hand away. “I can’t even fucking touch you without you flinching away? Am I such a monster to you now?” He’s right up in my space, his large body inches from mine. He overwhelms me, the spicy scent of his aftershave mixed with his cologne. I know it so well. That scent signature is burrowed deep in my psyche. So masculine… The connection has me sucking in a sharp breath as I piece it together. Of course. “It’s because he’s a man,” I say, not turning around. “Isn’t it?” He goes still. “What are you talking about?” Slowly I turn, my breast brushing his arm in our closeness. I gaze up at him, my hand clutching tight to the leather handle of my bag. “You’re torching my life now because Ryan Langley is a threat to your fragile masculinity. Hot young NHL star with stamina for days, making his millions, flashing that handsome smile—” “There’s nothing fragile about my masculinity,” he snarls. “And I don’t care who you fuck.”

“I’ve had a string of lovers since we split,” I say. “You know about them all. Erica practically lived with me for half of last year. But since you, all my lovers have been women. You can dismiss a woman. She’s not a threat to you or your reputation. But one picture of me with Ryan, and now you’re setting my life on fire. Finally, you have some real competition…and an excuse to torch me.” “You’re delusional. And you’re an utterly forgettable lay. I bet he struggled to get off. I know I always did.”

“Well…he didn’t seem to complain when I was deep throating him on my knees, choking on his cum. His dick is huge, by the way. My pussy still feels wrecked, and it’s been a week—” “Shut the fuck up,” he growls, his hand going to my throat. My hand rises on instinct, wrapping around his wrist. Tears sting my eyes as he squeezes. “Troy—” He presses me back against the desk. “Don’t say another word, you filthy fucking whore,” he orders, his lips almost brushing mine in his closeness. “I gave you everything. I pulled you up out of the gutter and gave you this life that you take for granted. You don’t deserve my love!”

“I said shut up! You make me fucking crazy when you won’t just shut up and listen to me!” “Troy…honey, you’re choking me,” I rasp, a tear slipping down my cheek. Slowly, I see the anger recede in his eyes as he traces a line down his own arm, ending at the hand on my throat. With a groan, he drops his hand away and steps back.

“This isn’t love, Troy.” I massage my throat, praying he didn’t leave a mark. “You don’t love me…and I don’t love you.” “You can’t tell me how I feel—” “This is possession,” I press, dropping my hand back to my side. “All we do is hurt each other, and it has to stop. We gave your mother her way, but enough is enough. Let me write up the papers. All you have to do is sign, and you can finally be free of me. Please, Troy—” “God—fuck—just stop pushing,” he cries. “You know this isn’t easy for me, Tess. I’m not a quitter. I don’t lose. I—fuck, you just had to go embarrass me in front of the whole fucking world.” He steps into my space, and I hold my ground, not letting him see how scared I am, how much I want him to just leave. “I bet you wanted those photos taken,” he says, his face inches from mine. “I bet you posed for them. You wanted to twist the fucking knife in my heart!”

“I don’t care about other people,” he says angrily, shrugging away from my touch. “I care about you and me. Us. How do I work with you after this? There’s no escaping your judgmental looks or your shitty, hurt expressions. I can’t just let you drag me down and paint me as your cheating ex-husband.” “Troy, I would never do that. I’m a professional—” “You’re already doing it,” he counters. “Every day you waltz in here, totally unaffected by our separation. It’s so easy for you to make a mockery of me, and I can’t have that. I’m rising up the ladder here, taking on more responsibility every day. Soon I’ll be full partner.” I lean away, eyes wide. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying this is bigger than you and me. It’s careers and reputations.”

“So, you’re saying I stay married to you to protect your reputation…or you’ll have me fired? You’ll end the career I spent a decade building over a few grainy cellphone photos?” “I’m saying you need to think about what matters most to you,” he counters, slipping his hands in his pockets. “You’ve got a reputation, too, you know. I’d hate to see you make an irrational choice. You say I’m the one lighting the fire here, Tess, but that’s not true. You’re holding the match. You’ve got all the power right now, not me. What you do with it is up to you.”

“And don’t worry,” he adds, pulling my door open. “I won’t have security escort you out. I’m not the asshole you think I am, Tessy. But you should really go ahead and clear out of here before lunch…leave us to clean up your mess.”

My keys rattle down on the kitchen island as I stare blankly across the wide expanse of my apartment. It’s raining outside. Pouring. Sheets of icy sleet pelt sideways against my wall of windows making a rhythmic rata-tat-tat sound. Thunder rolls far in the distance, a deep rumble I feel in my chest. I lift a hand slowly, pressing it against my wet cheek. The sleet burns so cold, my skin almost feels hot. I’m drenched. I could have ordered an Uber, but there was something poetic about walking home in the freezing rain in utter disgrace, dismissed from my job for daring to dance with a cute hockey player at my best friend’s not-so-private wedding.

Stripping it off, I drop it to the floor with a wet plop. Then I undo the buttons of my cream Antonio Melani belted wrap coat, shrugging it from my shoulders. I become more frantic as I go, tugging at the bottom of the silky blouse tucked into my pencil skirt. My breath comes in sharp pants as I jerk the buttons, popping one clean off. It rattles onto the counter. I need it off. All of it. Now. I can’t breathe. I unzip my skirt and shimmy it down my hips, stepping out of it. Then I stretch my arms behind my back, chilled fingers fumbling for the strap of my bra. The clasp releases and I gasp, dropping it from my shoulders. I stand there in my kitchen in nothing but my stockings and underwear. Arms wrapped tightly around my middle, I sob. I’m so angry I could scream. I do scream. Loud. It’s feral and raw and not nearly enough of a release. The sound is sharp in my throat, stinging in its intensity. “Fuck,” I shout. “Fucking fuck!” Inside the pocket of my coat, my phone dings.

RACHEL (11:07 a.m.): I let Poppy take a few photos too. Much better quality than the weasel’s sneaky, zoomed-in shots. Thought you might like this one. A picture pops up in the feed. I tap it with my thumb, and it fills the screen. It’s a candid shot taken of several of us sitting on one of the living room couches. Ilmari is on the end looking every inch the Finnish bear. What has me pausing is that he’s clearly laughing, his mouth open, eyes creased in the corners. His arm is around Rachel who is leaning into him but turned away. I’m next to her, leaning in, also mid-laugh. My hand is slightly raised, like I’m trying to catch my smile before it runs away. Next to me are two of the Rays, Morrow and Novikov. I think they both play defense. Jake is leaning over the back of the couch, his head down between theirs, as they share a laugh too. The captain, Sully, is perched on the end of the couch, saying something with a smile.

RACHEL (11:09 a.m.): It’s good to see you looking so happy. The boys are ready to make you an honorary Ray.

I used to be happy all the time. I used to laugh and love out loud. I was wild once. I was free. I’ve been trying to find my way back to that girl who danced in her underwear. Rachel was helping me find her. I miss her. I miss me. Tears slip down my cheeks as I watch the lights on my Christmas tree blink and twinkle—red and blue, green and pink. Blink. Blink. Blink. “Fuck this,” I say, my resolve hardening in my chest. I am that girl. Slapping my phone down on the counter, I march across my apartment and into my bedroom, heading straight for the closet. Determination burns in my chest like a warming fire as I snatch up my suitcase and haul it into the bedroom, slinging it onto my bed. I drop the throw from around my shoulders and unzip the suitcase. I’m free, I repeat to myself as I begin to pack. I’m wild and fun and fucking free.

“Let me just get your bags then.” “Oh no,” I cry, patting his shoulder. “Just pop your trunk and I’ll get the bags. You just stay dry, okay?” “Thanks, ma’am,” he says with obvious relief. “You know how to swim, right?” “Sure do,” I reply, flinging open my door. The rain pelts in, making me yelp as I hurry out of the backseat and around to the trunk. I work fast to drag all my bags out of the back. My computer bag is slung over my shoulder, the strap slicing between my breasts.

Puffing out a sharp breath, I press my thumb against the doorbell. Inside the house, a dog barks. I wait, my hands clutching to the handles of my bags. Water drips down my neck, between my breasts, off the tip of my nose. The door swings open to reveal Jake standing there in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts, a bag of Garden Salsa Sun Chips in his hand. “Tess,” he cries. “Hey, Jake,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Where did you come from?” says Jake, peering behind me as if he’s looking for an alien spacecraft or a teleportation device. “Umm, the airport,” I admit with a shrug. “Did I know you were coming?” he says. Then he gasps, eyes wide. “Ohmygod, did I forget to pick you up?” “No,” I say with a laugh. “No, this visit wasn’t planned.” “Oh, thank God,” he says, his free hand splayed over his chest like he’s trying to keep his heart from jumping through his skin. “Rachel would’ve made me sleep on the couch for a week if I left her best friend high and dry at the airport…well, high and wet,” he adds, taking me in from head to toe. “Jeez, get in here.” Sticking his free hand out the doorway, he grabs one of my bags and reels it in over the threshold, stepping back to make room for me.

“Seattle’s gonna be so psyched to see you.” I go still, hand clutching to my bag. “Is she here?” “Nah, she and Cay are out for dinner and a movie,” he replies. “He’s trying the whole ‘domestic wedded bliss’ thing. It’s adorable, like watching a chimp on roller-skates.” I can’t help but smile trying to picture Caleb Price being married and domestic. I’m also kind of relieved Rachel isn’t here. As soon as I face her, I know I’ll lose it. She reads me like a book. She’ll have me telling her everything, and I’m not ready for that quite yet. “Do you want me to call her?” he asks, slipping his hand into the pocket of his shorts. “I’m sure they can cut their evening short—” “No,” I say quickly. “I, umm…well, I didn’t actually come to see Rachel.”

“Well…actually, I came to see Ilmari.” If possible, Jake’s eyes go even wider. “Seriously?” “Yeah. Is he home?” I peer over his shoulder down the hall. “Hey, Mars,” he shouts. “Get over here. Right fucking now!”

He strides down the hallway, bag of open pistachios in hand. His eyes go wide as he takes me in. “Did you order a spicy redhead?” says Jake, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “No,” Ilmari replies. I glance between them. This ball of emotion sitting in my throat might just choke the air right out of me. It’s been lodged there since I impulsively ordered an Uber and drove straight to the Cincinnati airport. “Were we expecting you?” Ilmari says at me. “No,” I reply, suddenly breathless.

Before I can stop myself, I’m closing the distance between us. I let out a sob as I fling my arms around his neck and press myself against him, crying into his naked shoulder. His hand holding the bag of pistachios gets pinned between us with a soft crunch. He goes stiff, muttering something in Finnish. I don’t know which he’s hating worse: the hug or the tears. “What the fuck did you do?” Jake cries at his partner. “Nothing,” says Ilmari, wholly indignant as he awkwardly pats my shoulder. “Well, she was fine until you got here,” Jake challenges. He leans in closer to me, his hand on my other shoulder. “Tess? Are you injured?” “No,” I sniffle, my hands gripping tighter to Ilmari’s shoulders. “Are you on the run from the law? Is this like a hideout situation?” “Christ, Jake,” Ilmari mutters.

“Cay doesn’t call her Tornado for nothing. Maybe she spun some shit up, and now she’s on the lam. We can’t afford to hide a fugitive right now, Mars. We leave for the Winter Classic tomorrow. And I’m sure as fuck not going to prison as her accomplice. Are you kidding me?” “No one’s going to jail,” Ilmari replies. “Just give her a moment to compose herself, and she’ll tell us why she’s here.”