Game Changer (8 page)

Olivia took her hand. “I can't imagine what you're going through, but that's a no brainer in my book.”

Harper knew her argument against a mastectomy would sound idiotic and vain to her friends, but she couldn't get it out of her head how her mother's mastectomy had disfigured her and sent her into a spiraling depression and, in the end, the cancer had come back anyway.

“I'm with Olivia,” Presley said. “So you'll have fake boobs. Big deal. And, hey, maybe it would help to think of it this way. A lot of women would kill to have fake boobs paid for by their health insurance.”

“Reconstruction isn't an option for me. Not really. The doctors say it would probably be possible eventually, but difficult and painful. I don't have enough skin and fat in my chest to have balloons put in at the same time as the mastectomy in order to stretch my skin and make room for implants, so getting new boobs would require multiple surgeries and skin grafts. The safest, least painful route is to go flat.”

“Damn,” Presley said, pulling her sideways into a hug.

Harper rested her head on her friend's shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Dead is worse than being flat. Cancer is worse than being flat,” Presley said, her voice muffled by Harper's hair.

“I know.” Sniffing, Harper nuzzled her face into Presley's arm.

“If you got the mastectomy, would you still have to do chemo?” Allison asked.

“Maybe. It depends on what they find. They'd biopsy the tissue after they removed it.”

Presley gathered Harper's hands in hers. “We're here for you, all of us. No matter what. Don't you dare keep us in the dark like that again.”

Her friends held her close and made her feel so loved and lucky.

“And Brandon with this stupid bet. He's not giving it up.”

“What bet?” Marlena asked.

Presley groaned. “Don't tell me you and Brandon made another bet. The last one nearly broke your heart.”

“He wants me to fly down to Miami for two nights of hedonism with him, and I agreed to if he could solve my crime problems at the bar.”

Olivia whistled.

“I didn't think he'd actually be able to do it,” Harper said. “But he is. It's unbelievable.”

“That's what he and the rest of the Bomb Squad team are doing downstairs right now. I thought they looked preoccupied,” Marlena said.

“Either way, I can't go to Miami with Brandon, even if there already weren't a lot of great reasons not to. I need to stay in Destiny Falls and deal with this.”

Presley tapped a perfectly manicured finger on her chin. “Or, you go to Miami, spend a few days doing nothing but screwing and having fun—like you deserve more than anyone I know—and then you deal with this on Tuesday, after you get back. One last fling with a sexpert like Brandon, and a younger guy, no less, might be a very good thing for your mental health.”

Harper's phone chimed with the ringtone she used for Locks' employees. She walked to the counter where she'd set her purse and found her phone.

Susan, her bartender, had texted her.
SOS fight brewing down here.

***

Brandon had been itching for this fight all week. His daily workouts had done nothing to quell his frustration at Harper, his anxiety over her doctor's appointment, and his anticipation over relocating to Miami and starting
Meet the Groom.

He, Theo, Will, Gabe, and Liam barred Locks' front door from the four punk-ass motorcyclists.

“You're not welcome here.”

“Fuck you. We go where we want,” the ringleader said. He was a scrawny kid, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, and sporting dilated eyes and sallow skin. Drugs, rather than size or skill, were what made these guys dangerous.

Through the windows, Brandon could see the bar patrons' careful focus on them. Wouldn't be long before someone called the cops.

“I think it's time we take this to the alley,” Liam said.

Harper jogged into view in the window and pinned him with a ruthless stare. She shook her head. “Don't,” she mouthed.

Brandon smiled at her. “Alley sounds about right. You first, gentlemen. Start walking.”

“If you insist,” the ringleader said, but instead of walking, he hunched forward, and the next thing Brandon knew, a knife was coming at him. Before he could react beyond lurching backward, a fist connected with the punk's cheek. Will.

“Damn, I love punching people,” Will said as the punk staggered to the wall.

Liam, Theo, and Gabe already had the other three kids pinned to the ground. Drugs might have made these idiots stronger and braver, but they hadn't made them any smarter. Harper, Kayla, and a handful of people gathered on the sidewalk, but Brandon was too busy to pay much mind to them.

With a growl, the punk still standing came at Brandon again, but this time he was ready. Harnessing his power and weight and tapping into his years in kickboxing, he swung his leg up and kicked the kid's knife-holding hand with his Invictus foot as hard as he could.

The kid shrieked in pain and dropped the knife.

“That's a hard foot, isn't it? Titanium, among other things.” Brandon scooped up the fallen knife. Grabbing the scruff of the kid's neck, he pulled him up and slammed him against the brick wall.

He held the kid's own knife at his throat. “Time to listen, asshole. Can you hear me in there?”

“Fuck you.”

Brandon clocked him across the nose with his elbow. “You're right, Will. That did feel good.”

Will folded his arms across his chest. “Told ya.”

Ringleader punk calmed down fast. Breathing hard, he licked at the blood streaming from his nose to his mouth.

“Theo, Liam, Gabe, bring the other guys over here. I'd like to have a look at those patches they're wearing,” Brandon said.

When all four punks were lined up in a row against the wall, Brandon ripped the patch from one of their leather cuts and held it out to Theo. “Hey, Theo. Question. Do these look like real motorcycle club patches?”

“Nah, they're not. Never heard of the Night Crawlers. I think I'd remember a club named after a type of worm. The Grave Riders club controls this area.”

Brandon grinned and shoved the patch in Punk Ass Number One's face. “Did the Grave Riders give you permission to ride in their territory?”

The idiot sneered at Brandon. “Permission? Why would we need permission?”

Brandon stepped back, all benevolent smiles now. He leaned an elbow on Theo's shoulder. “I don't think these guys understand the rules of motorcycle clubs and what happens to punk-ass kids who don't respect those rules.”

Theo sniffed, looking downright lethal in his leather jacket, red bandana, and sunglasses. “Doesn't seem like it. Maybe they should change their names to Death Wish.”

“You've got some friends in the Grave Riders, right?” Brandon asked. They hadn't practiced this part, but Brandon had to hope Theo would play along.

“You bet. A cousin of mine, actually.”

Theo didn't have any cousins, to the best of Brandon's knowledge, and definitely no American cousins. “That's what I thought. You mind getting in touch with your cousin and have him alert the rest of the Riders that we've detained some trespassers we found in their territory?”

Theo whipped out his phone, right on cue. “My pleasure. I'm sure they'll send some delegates out to enlighten these idiots about how trespassers and posers are dealt with.”

One of the four punks made a strangling sound and shook his head.

Brandon mugged a smile at the ringleader. “Sound like fun? It does to me. I was already seeing red tonight about something else and I think I'd rather enjoy watching a good ass kicking.”

Theo cleared his throat. “Oh, they wouldn't kick these idiots' asses. They'd kill them,” he said in a perfect deadpan.

Brandon shook his head. “Hmm. That's no fun.”

“Or you could let us go,” the ringleader said.

“No, I don't think that's going to happen.” Brandon snapped his fingers. “How about this, just to make it fun. Theo calls his cousin, but instead of detaining you, we see if those tricked-out poser bikes of yours can outride the Grave Riders to the edge of their territory at the Indiana border.”

Another one of the punks whimpered. “No, please.”

“Theo, give your cousin a call,” Liam said.

“Already am.”

Brandon tipped his head toward the punks' bikes. “Well, go on. Let's see what those bikes are made of.”

Brandon, Theo, and the guys gave the punks plenty of room to hightail it back to their bikes. A roar of engines turning over rattled Brandon's teeth. He pocketed the knife and watched with everyone else as the four punks rode away.

The crowd on the sidewalks cheered, even as police sirens sounded in the distance.

“I guess we'd better scram,” Liam said.

“Go on ahead,” Brandon said. “I'm right behind you. Just one thing I've got to take care of first.”

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Brandon marched up to Harper, who'd moved to the sidewalk in front of the door. He grabbed a handful of her shirt and pulled her to him, kissing her hard and openmouthed, getting his tongue involved—his favorite way to lock lips with her. She pressed her hands to his chest and jerked her face away. Fine. He'd have plenty of time to kiss her in Miami.

“To summarize,” he said. “We installed a surveillance camera in the lot, put up signs, and I got you a weekday bouncer. Then we got rid of those punk-ass biker wannabes. In other words, I solved your crime problems, just like I said I would.” He reached into his back pocket, then handed her an envelope. “Next Friday morning at nine thirty, the airport shuttle is scheduled to pick you up. Your flight leaves at noon. The ticket's in there.”

Her mouth flopped open, so he seized the opportunity and kissed her again. This time she merely held still and let him do it.

“Oh, and pack light,” he said. “You're not going to be wearing many clothes while you're there.”

Friday night, Harper knocked on the door of Brandon and Gabe's apartment an hour after her text message to Brandon about them needing to talk had gone unanswered.

She'd stewed over the plane ticket for a solid twenty-four hours, debating the best way to break it to him that she hadn't changed her mind about calling off the bet, even if he'd held up his end of the bet. In the end, she'd decided that she didn't need to explain her choice to him. She'd made her decision, and unless he planned to kidnap her, she would not be flying to Miami. Period.

At the sound of a lock unlatching, she held the plane ticket out in front of her and steeled herself to be firm, but polite, then leave before they could argue. She was so sick and tired of arguing with him.

The door swung open. Gabe stood before her, dressed in sweats. He held a beer bottle in his prosthetic hand. “Hi. Didn't expect to see you here tonight. Come on in.”

“Thanks, but I think it's better if I stay right here.”

“Why? What's up? Everything still peaceful at the bar?”

“Yes. Thank you for your help with that,” she said. “I'm looking for Brandon. Is he here?”

“Naw, sorry. He went to the Iceplex to skate after closing time. He does that sometimes when he's got a lot on his mind.”

Brandon was fast friends with the Iceplex owners, as was Duke. They pretty much had the run of the place and it came as no surprise that he was given leave to be there by himself after closing time.

“I'll go look for him there.”

“Hey,” Gabe said. “Maybe tonight isn't the right time to bug him. He's in a black mood again. Not sure why because he kicked some butt at Locks last night, but there you have it.”

“Yes, he did kick butt. You all did. Thanks for the warning, but I'll take my chances.” She was in a pretty black mood herself.

“Suit yourself.”

The Iceplex lot was nearly empty, save for two cars, one of which was Brandon's. Through the glass front doors, she could see Jay at the counter. She parked close to the entrance, then shrugged into her heavy jacket. From her trunk she retrieved the ice skates she'd swung back by her apartment to pick up. Over the years she'd lived in Destiny Falls, she'd learned to love ice-skating and now it was her favorite form of exercise.

When she pulled open the front door, Jay called, “We're closing! Oh, hey, Harper.”

She held up her skates. “Good evening. I'm here to see Brandon.” Behind the counter, Brandon was clearly visible at center ice, his back to the main entrance, surrounded by a smattering of pucks that he was hitting into the goal net on the far side of the rink. Only about half the lights were on and the dimness lent the space a cavernous feeling. Every time Brandon's stick slapped a puck, the echoing sound adding to the illusion of vast emptiness.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Jay said. “We're closing, but I left a key with Brandon, so as long as you leave when he does and don't unlock any of the other doors, you'll be fine.”

“Thanks.”

She slipped into the team bench area and laced into her ice skates. If Brandon saw her or sensed her presence, he gave no indication.

As she was lacing up her second skate, Jay called his good-night. The words hovered in the empty space, as did the sound of Brandon's reply, then the bang of the front door closing, then locking. They were alone.

With her skates laced, she donned the gloves she kept in her jacket pocket and stood. The first scratch of her blade on the ice sent a shiver up her spine.

Brandon never once looked in her direction, even as he said, “How did you know where to find me?”

“Gabe.”

“Are you here to tell me what your doctor said this morning, or are you here to renege on our bet?”

His bluntness had her scrambling for mental footing. “Both.”

He spun to face her, the end of his stick dragging against the ice next to his left skate. “You can't renege on the bet. A deal's a deal.”

She pushed off, gliding toward him. “But I am.”

He leaned into his stick, silently fuming.

“I've disappointed you, and for that I'm sorry,” she said. “But the hard truth is you're not good for me, and I need to start thinking with my brain instead of my heart.”

“Your doctor's appointment today wasn't only a routine visit, was it?”

It was impossible to do this, to say it all again, to break the terrible news to one person after another. “No.”

His gaze dropped to the ice for a long, silent stretch. “Cancer?”

She reached the center of the rink and used her toe pick to stop an arm's length away from him. “Maybe. They ran more tests on me today, but I haven't gotten the results yet.”

“Go get a stick from the bench. Let's play some one-on-one.”

She sighed. “I don't think I'm up for that tonight. Can we just talk?” She spun away from him and headed toward the entrance.

“Damn it, Harper. Just . . . just stop. Stop thinking so hard. Stop making excuses. All I'm asking for is a few more minutes of your time. A last good-bye, since we won't get one in Miami.”

She glided along the edge of the ice to the team bench. A last good-bye. How could she refuse him that? She was a good skater, but not in some of the ways that hockey demanded, with quick stops and pivots. She was certainly no match for someone with Brandon's mastery of the game.

She heard him approaching before she felt his presence behind her. He brushed past her and onto the team bench, where his hockey bag sat. From the bag, he pulled a second pair of hockey gloves, which he outfitted her with, and then a second stick.

Together, they returned to the center of the ice and faced each other. Though they were both fiercely competitive, this was the first time they'd ever competed against each other in a game other than darts or pool.

“Go easy on me. This is my first hockey game,” she said.

His cheek twitched. “You score at the net you're facing. I score at the one behind you.”

“Do we really have to keep score?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Haven't we always?”

He let the puck drop between them, but his attention never strayed from her face. Maybe he meant to rattle her. If so, he was going to be in for a shock because Harper was going to give this game everything she had. She put her shoulder down and slammed into his chest, digging for the puck.

She came out the victor, but the sweetness of victory was lessened by the knowledge that he'd let her have it.

She skated backward, one eye on the puck at the end of her stick and the other on Brandon. “You wanted this game, so play it, damn it.”

“You told me to go easy on you.”

“I'm changing my mind.” She burst forward, around the side, thinking she might sneak past Brandon in pursuit of a goal, but her speed overpowered her puck-handling skills and she lost the puck behind her.

The next thing she knew, she was flying backward. Brandon's arm came up behind her to stabilize her even as he checked her into the boards.

She didn't hit hard, but it still took her a moment to catch her breath. “This is a no-contact game.”

His face was stone, save for the fire shining fiercely in his eyes. “My bad.”

He released her, then raced to the abandoned puck. Harper pushed herself as fast as she could, but he skated the puck over the blue line and, with a flick of the wrist, made an easy goal. She expected gloating, but his stone mask never faltered.

“Again,” he said. “Get the puck and we'll try that again.”

Harper fished the puck out of the net, then skated with it to center ice, practicing a side stop when she got there. She was a little wobbly, but not bad.

She handed him the puck. “You drop it.”

He did, watching her again, letting her win the face-off. Again, she hooked the puck with her stick and skated away from him. He played defense at her blue line, his eyes still on her face and not the puck.

She stopped moving, taking a moment to strategize her play. Since her puck-handling skills sucked, there was only one solution. She slapped the puck, sending it out in front of her, then skated to catch up to it. When she crossed center ice, Brandon crowded her, poking at the puck. She spun, trying to keep him from it, but failed. He hooked his stick around the puck and pulled it away from her. Without worrying about handling the puck, she was faster. Not as fast as he was, but good enough to meet him near the boards.

She swiveled sideways, squaring her shoulder and bracing in preparation to hip check him. But, with a speed he hadn't revealed to her yet that game, he reversed their positions and slammed her back against the boards. The plastic sheeting rattled. Stunned by the brief flash of discomfort from the hit, and ticked off that they were so unevenly matched, she released a guttural growl and jabbed at the puck with her stick, fighting for control of the game.

Before she knew what was happening, Brandon's stick had pinned her hips against the wall. His other hand cupped her cheek and wrenched her face up. Then his lips descended over hers and he kissed her. Shocked, she let it happen. She let his tongue in and let him take her.

He pulled away, breathing heavy, and skated after the puck.

Harper stayed put. Her lips remained parted, dewy with the taste of him. “You're trying to rattle me to throw me off my game. That's low-down.”

He lingered near his own blue line with the puck at the end of his stick. “I already warned you. Nothing says I have to play fair where you're concerned. My only question is, is it working?”

“Never.” To prove it, she pushed away from the board and zipped around him in a tight circle. She'd never know if he let her have the puck or if she took it from him fair and square, but the point was that she did have it and she'd broken away. She skated over the blue line, wound back, and scored.

At the next puck drop, the tension was thick. This time, she dropped the puck between them.

“You're so competitive,” he said as they scrounged for control of the puck. “I love that about you.”

“I'm the competitive one? You're the one who's been trying for five years to get me in your bed for nothing but the challenge of it.”

The next time he body checked her against the boards, she knew what would rattle him the most. She hooked her hand against the back of his neck and pulled his face to hers. She kissed him hard, openmouthed, with her tongue. She liked being the aggressor for a change, the sense of power it infused within her.

When he tried to flip their positions against the boards and take over the kiss, she ducked and twisted away, then skated out of reach, leaving the puck with him at the boards.

“It's not for nothing but the challenge of bedding you. You should know me better than that.”

She skated a wide circle around him. “Not really. I barely know anything about you except how badly you want to fuck me. That's all we ever talk about.”

He raced toward his net in pursuit of another goal, but she cut him off at the pass and lunged at him, tipping the puck with her stick. He checked her again, harder this time. She had to gasp to catch her breath, but already his lips were on hers. The kiss was angry this time.
Good.
This felt right, letting off the steam from all the frustration she'd felt that week, all the fear and resurging grief from thinking about the other women in her family who'd suffered and died—all that she might suffer.

When he broke the kiss, he panted through parted lips and flared nostrils. “You should see the way you look right now,” he growled. “The fight in your eyes. The fire. I live to see you like this.”

“Such pretty words,” she sneered, shoving at his chest. “If only they weren't empty.”

He huffed and held her pinned to the boards. “You have no idea how hard I've tried to give you up.”

“Stop saying that as though it means something.”

He peeled away, giving her the space she needed to catch her breath.

“Then what do you want from me?” he said, the volume of his voice rising. “You want me to lie? Tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do and I'll do it. What will it take to get you in my bed?”

“Okay. I'll tell you what needs to happen. Tell me why you're so afraid of us as a real couple that you think all we'd be good for is a quick screw.”

He skated the equivalent of a slow prowl around her. “Let's not forget that you rejected me first. And you've been rejecting me ever since. I'm the one begging here. It's always me. How is that fear? You're the one who's afraid to live.”

Too agitated to stay still, she pushed off, tracing the same slow circle as he did.
Damn, it felt good to fight.
She hadn't realized how desperately she'd needed to vent after the fear and lack of control she'd felt all day. “Your idea of living sounds like hell to me.”

“You're so afraid to live that you sit there in that brick building like one of the three little pigs, waiting for the big bad wolf to come huff and puff and blow your house in.”

Without warning, he rushed at her. She skated backward, but she was no match for him. Right there in the middle of the ice, he took hold of her face and kissed her.

“Admit it, baby. You think I'm the wolf, don't you?”

She rubbed her face against the stubble on his cheek, turned on and pissed off and full of so much adrenaline she didn't know which way was up. “Stop calling me
baby
.”

She twisted away from him once more and took possession of the puck, then skated as hard as she could toward his net.

Brandon made no attempt to give chase. “You did this same thing after your genetic testing results. You were so afraid of the future that you cancelled our second date and shut me out of your life.”

She stopped short of the net and flicked the puck in, then spun to face him. “That wasn't going to be a real second date, anyway. Just a second chance for you to try to get under my skirt. I deserved better than that. I still do.”