Beast Behaving Badly (7 page)

CHAPTER 7

“T
his was great,” Blayne said, rolling back and forth in front of Bo. “I learned so much.”

Bo relaxed against the railing, watching Blayne move.
God, she's pretty.
“Good,” he muttered, not really sure what he was responding to and not really caring.

“So we'll do this again tomorrow?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great! I'll meet you here at seven.”

“Wait . . . what?” What had he just agreed to? Why was he not paying attention? But before he could tell her no she skated up to him and put her arms around him, shocking him into silence.

“I really appreciate this help.”

“Oh. Uh. You're welcome.” Where was his strength of will? Where was his focus? When did he become so goddamn weak?

“I'm gonna be so ready for the championship.” She grinned up at him. “And it'll be all down to you. My hero.”

Eh. Strength of will was overrated.

“Do you know the time?” she asked.

Of course he did but that wasn't the point. “I see you're still wearing your fake Prada.”

She unwrapped herself from him so she could smile down at it. “Actually, this is my Cha-Chanel. And it's working!” She studied it. “Sort of. But isn't it pretty?”

“Pretty useless.”

She rolled her eyes but didn't seem insulted. “Don't start that again. And what time is it? I need to be somewhere by eight thirty.”

Bo glanced at his watch, then couldn't look away. He'd scheduled only an hour with Blayne. One hour. No more, no less. But . . . but . . .

“It's . . . it's eight twenty,” he said.

Blayne smiled. “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

“Eight twenty,” he said again.

“Yeah. I got that. Wait. Is there a subtext to the number? Like two eleven on
X-Files
?”

“What?” Bo shook his head. “We should have been done twenty minutes ago.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the list. “See? I have it written down.”

“You actually have a list written down?”

“Lists are important.”

“See? This is what I mean. This can't be healthy for you. Living on this rigid, ridiculous schedule.”

That's when Bo asked, “Didn't you say you had to be somewhere by eight thirty?”

“Yup!” She smiled and Bo gawked at her. He gawked until her eyes got big and she blurted out,
“Oh, shit!”
She lifted herself up and over the railing with one arm. He would have enjoyed it more if she didn't aim her skates right at his head, but he knew she was panicking and he was fast enough to get out of her way. He watched her skate out the door only to return twenty seconds later. “I never went to the locker room,” she said, sliding to a stop by a backpack and a haphazard pile of clothes on the floor.

She started to pull her clothes off right there in the stadium, and Bo rushed over to her and quickly grabbed her hands. “Not in here.”

“Why?”

“We're not alone.”

“Huh?”

He motioned to the top bleachers in the far corner of the room. The maintenance guys who kept the entire sports center running like a well-oiled machine were eating their breakfast and watching the pair. They often watched Bo in the mornings over their breakfast, but they had somehow found their way down to the derby stadium. Bo didn't mind, but he wasn't about to let them have a free show of a naked, panicked Blayne.

“Hey, guys!” Blayne raised her arm and waved.

The males waved back. “Hi, Blayne!”

She smirked. “You guys wouldn't have watched me change without letting me know you were there, now would you?”

“You're kidding, right?” one of them answered back.

“Bad shifters!” she teasingly chastised. “Bad, bad, bad!”

Sensing she'd already forgotten how late it was, Bo grabbed a handful of Blayne's crap. “Come on.”

She gazed at him calmly. “What's the rush?”

“It's now eight twenty-four,” he announced.

“Shit!” She grabbed the rest of her things and tore out of the stadium, Bo following after her.

One of the maintenance crew tossed out, “Good luck with that one, Marauder.”

Followed by another's, “You're gonna need it!”

With a snort that some might consider a laugh, Bo tracked Blayne down in the nearby ladies' locker room. Bo set down what he had by the stuff she'd thrown on the floor. What he didn't understand was why she had so many clothes if she were only going to work? He could hear her in the showers and, unable to ignore the pile of stuff she had lying around, he began to pick up and organize everything.

“Shit!” she called out, not seeming bothered by the fact he was in the locker room with her.

“What?” he asked while he folded her clothes.

“Forgot to take off my skates before I got in here.”

“How did you—”
No. It was better not to ask.

Taking the quickest shower in history—for a woman—Blayne ran back out in nothing but a towel, her skates and practice clothes in her hand.

Bo took the skates and sweaty clothes and handed her a pair of gray cargo pants, a black sweatshirt, and a matching set of sports bra and panties, all neatly folded.

“Thanks!” She went around to the other side of the lockers for privacy, and Bo found a plastic bag to put her dirty clothes in and packed it into her backpack along with her skates—after drying them off and wrapping the wheels in a plastic bag.

Blayne ran back out, now dressed, and reached for her bag. Bo put his hand over it and said, “Shoes.”

“Oh!” She spun in a full circle looking for her sneakers, so he held them up to her face.

“Here.”

“Oh. Thanks!”

“Sit.”

She sat down and undid the laces on her sneakers. At least she tried. Instead she made knots. That's when her cell phone started to ring. She looked at it with something as close to fear as Bo had ever seen. He reached for it and she shook her head. “It's gonna be Gwen,” she whispered. “She'll kick my ass.”

“Why are you whispering?” he whispered back. “I'm sure she can't hear you.”

“You don't know Gwen.”

He tossed her the phone and grabbed her sneakers. “Answer it.”

She did. “Hello?” She immediately winced. “I know I'm late. I'll be there in a few minutes. Where am I?” Her eyes moved around the room, and he wondered what she was looking for. An acceptable lie?

“I'm, uh, stuck on Fifth. Why am I on Fifth?”

Bo kneeled in front of her to put her sneakers on but stopped long enough to cover the phone and say, “You stopped to get her breakfast.”

“I did?”

“You did now.”

“Oh!” She smiled. “Thanks.” Clearing her throat, she said into the phone, “I stopped to get you breakfast, but I didn't know traffic would be this bad. Is it a good breakfast?” Blayne looked at him and he nodded.

“Best in Manhattan,” he whispered.

“Best in Manhattan, apparently.” She smiled, now relieved. “Yes. The coffee will be hot. If it's not hot, I'll get some more at a Starbucks or something. Okay. Won't be long.”

She disconnected the call. “I hate lying.”

“Probably because you're really bad at it.”

“I know.”

“If she'd been standing in the room, you'd have been screwed.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

Bo put her sneakers on her feet and tied the laces. “There.” He reached over and grabbed her backpack. “I've packed up everything.”

Blayne took the bag. “That is so sweet. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stood. “Got a pen?”

“Yeah.” She dug into her cargo pants and pulled out a pen. Bo took her hand and wrote on her palm, “This is where you're going to get your breakfast for the two of you. It's shifter run and not far from here. Best Danish in Manhattan. Tell Mike I sent you. I'll call him and tell him you're coming.” When Blayne only gazed up at him, he added, “You go wherever you're going without food and/or coffee and that tigon's going to rip your face off.”

“Good point.” She slung the backpack over her shoulder. “Thanks for all this.”

“No problem. And get a new watch.”

“I will . . . eventually.” She took off out the locker room door, and as Bo came out behind her, Blayne was running back. He wondered if her life was made up of U-turns.

“Wrong way,” she said with a laugh.

“I know.” He sighed. “And seven tomorrow. Here.”

She tripped to a stop. “Seven tomorrow here for what?”

“Blayne . . .”

“Oh.” She laughed. “Totally forgot.” She pointed at her head. “Thank God it's attached.” Without warning, she suddenly sprung up—again without a running start—and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much! See you tomorrow!”

“And you better be on time!” he yelled after her. “And don't forget the Danish!”

 

 

“He was right,” Gwen said around a mouthful of Danish. “This
is
the best Danish in Manhattan.”

Blayne nodded her head and ate. She was already in love with the bakery because she found treats that were sweetened with honey rather than sugar. When she reached for her third Danish, she said to Gwen, “How did you know I was lying anyway?”

“I always know when you're lying. And those dramatic pauses certainly didn't help.”

“I know, I gotta work on the pauses.”

“So how did training go with the great Novikov?”

“It went really well. Apparently I don't have enough focus.”

“Someone's Captain Obvious.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that everyone knows you don't have enough focus. Even you know.”

Blayne couldn't even find the energy to argue that point. “Okay, yeah. I know. But you know, he's really not that bad a guy. In fact—”

“Don't do it, Blayne.”

“—I feel bad for the guy.”

“And here we go!”

“What does that mean?”

“He doesn't need to be fixed, Blayne.”

“I'm not trying to fix him.” She took another bite of Danish, chewed it thoroughly, swallowed, and said, “But he could be a much happier person.”

Gwen's head dropped forward, a large sigh escaping.

“What?” Blayne demanded. “What did I say?”

“You cannot keep treating every male you meet as some sort of wounded puppy you found on the street.”

“I don't—”

“And now you're doing it with Bo Novikov of all people. He's rich, famous, not bad looking, and has had a bevy of females to ride his cock. But you need to believe, for some reason, that he's secretly miserable.”

“Well, he can't be happy.”

“Why do you say that? Because he's not running around hugging everyone? Because he's been known to beat up a few fans? Make a few kids cry? Get into fistfights with his teammates on and off the ice?”

“That's part of it.”

“Not everyone is like you, Blayne. There has been nothing to indicate, at least to me, that Bo Novikov is an unhappy person.”

“Oh, really?” Blayne grabbed her backpack and pulled it open, laying it down in front of Gwen. “And what about this?”

The tigon stared at the bag for a long moment. “He did that?”

“You didn't think it was me, did you?”

“Good God. It's so . . . organized.”

“He folded my extra sets of panties . . . who folds panties?”

“Maybe he's secretly perverted. He wanted to feel your panties—”

“So he organized my entire bag while I was in the shower? There's not even one pair missing. Gwen, this overly organized bag is a cry for help.”

“Or he's happily gay. Gay men, for the most part, are very tidy and very happy they don't have to deal with women's bullshit.”

“I thought about that, but I don't think we have that situation here. Look what's missing from this high level of coordination. . .”

“It's not color coordinated.”

“Nope. It's alphabetical and in rigid boring lines.”

“In other words, something your dad would appreciate.”

“Exactly. And I can't let anyone live like that, Gwen. Not anyone!”

Gwen laughed. “That poor guy. He has no idea what he's in for.”

Ric skated over to Lock, leaning against the rink wall and protective glass. “Who is that?” he demanded.