Penalty (Penalty Duet #1) Read online

  I tell Lauren I’ll meet her at her downtown apartment in an hour and then start to get ready.

  Charlie Dog doesn’t look too impressed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brandy

  “You know I hate to break it to you,” Lauren says, sucking back one of the cherries from the fluorescent stick in her drink. “But you need to get laid.”

  I roll my eyes and busy myself with my beer. I shouldn’t be surprised she said it because she’s been talking about nothing but her sex life for the last two hours.

  Lauren is a serial dater. It’s like her hobby. Lord know she deserves it considering how many hours a day she puts into running Portland Roses, the women’s magazine I write for.

  But I applaud her for her dating prowess and wish I had her confidence. I’m not a skinny girl. I have a big chest and thighs and a soft stomach but Lauren is this tall, statuesque, plus-sized Amazon who pulls in men like bees to honey.

  “I’m serious,” she says. “That shit will grow over.”

  I give her a look. “Come on. It’s been five months.”

  “Six months.”

  “Oh, now you’re counting how long my singledom is stretching on for? Maybe you need to get laid more.”

  She laughs heartily. “I’m trying.” A pause.

  “And I’m not?” I fill in.

  She purses her lips, her magenta lipstick shining. “Look, you’re a hottie. We all know that. But your personality…”

  I raise my brows. “What about my personality?”

  “It’s awesome,” she says quickly. “And any man would fall in love with you the moment he gets to know you. Only you don’t ever give them a chance to get that far. Your resting bitch face should be patented as man-repellant.”

  Ouch. Lauren never sugar-coats anything and I applaud her for that but right now, that smarts.

  “I can’t help my face,” I tell her. “It’s what God gave me.”

  She sighs and downs the rest of her drink. “I think we need more of these.” She signals to the bartender for another round, even though I still have half a beer left. She adjusts herself on the stool, facing me. “I love you Brandy. You’re a great writer, even if you’re wasting your time with the cheap romances, and you’re a lot of fun to be around. I consider you one of my greatest friends and I think the face that God gave you is adorable. But you need to take down your wall, just a bit. I know it sucks that you got hurt and I know that the world has hurt you in the past. You have to let that go. Start viewing men as an opportunity for pleasure, if nothing else. Do that and everything about you will soften. You’re all hard edges most of the time. Show the guys what you show your dog.”

  I almost laugh. “That sounds soooo wrong.”

  “You know what I mean. Loosen up and stay open and the world will give you exactly what you need.”

  I finish the rest of my beer in a few gulps, rattled by what she said. Thank god she ordered more.

  It’s true that I’m known for my resting bitch face and it takes time to get to know me. I’m not outgoing in public, with people I don’t know, so it’s hard for me to put myself out there. It’s much easier to just stand in the corner with crossed arms and stare down every guy in the vicinity.

  But Lauren is right…I need to be more open. Lord knows I need to get laid, anything to just move on.

  “Fine,” I tell her. “I’ll try and be…nicer. I mean, I won’t glare at everyone. And if any guy talks to me, I’ll talk back.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Forget that. You need to talk to them. The next guy you encounter that you don’t think is a total psychopath, you need to strike up a conversation with him. Put yourself out there and he will come.”

  “As long as I’m coming,” I joke, grabbing the new beer and clanking it against her drink. “But I’m not starting tonight.”

  “Oh hell no,” she says. “Tonight is when all the crazies have been let out of the looney bin, drunk on beer and hope. I can tell you this, we’re going to have a riot when this game is over. There’s too much energy and no place for it to go.”

  “Yeah but we’ll probably win,” I tell her.

  “We might not. And I don’t think it matters. Win or lose, this city is going to burn.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  An hour and another beer later though, it seems like Lauren’s prediction might be coming true.

  The bartender comes back into the bar, wiping his hands on a cloth and shaking his head.

  “What is it?” I ask. Because the guy is cute, as most bartenders are. It’s like a rule. And also it’s my new rule to talk more to the opposite sex.

  “You girls aren’t following the game on your phones?” he asks with a frown.

  We shake our heads. “We came here to escape the madness,” I tell him. “I couldn’t care less about hockey.”

  “You might be onto something there,” he says. “Games not over yet and people are already rioting.”

  Lauren and I exchange a glance.

  “What?” she asks. “Where, how, why?”

  “We’re losing,” he says, a tinge of anger in his voice. He turns around and pulls out a bottle of tequila. “And if we don’t step up in the next ten minutes, the game is over. We’re done. And the three of us are going to need a shot of this.”

  Shit. This sounds serious. I know I don’t care about hockey but my city rioting is another thing entirely. Both Lauren and I pull out our phones and start watching the newsfeeds. The area around the Moda Center on the east side of the river is reporting vandalism and crowds of drunk, angry hockey fans storming the streets. In Chinatown, the local news says a car has been lit on fire.

  “Oh my god,” I say. “This is scary. What the hell is wrong with these people?”

  There’s only a handful of people in the bar but the moment everyone lets out a simultaneous groan, followed by a few pathetic whimpers, we know exactly what’s happened.

  We lost the Stanley Cup.

  And for some odd reason, I feel the loss, like I was secretly rooting for us all along. I guess I just assumed we would win. I don’t follow the game, so I never really knew the chances, I just thought that Portland would be victorious and the city would get a resurgence.

  Now we’ve lost. We’re the laughing stock of the world right now, least that’s what it feels like. We had glory in our hands and it’s gone.

  Somehow I can kind of understand why the hockey fans have lost their mind. I don’t feel any anger though, just sadness and disappointment. Perhaps if I’d been following the team and been involved, it would be different.

  “Bottoms up,” the bartender says, sliding the shots to us. He raises his. “To the Portland Cougars. Better luck next time.”

  “Better luck next time,” we repeat. The tequila burns as it goes down.

  We don’t linger for much longer in the bar. With the city raging outside, it’s best to get going and I’ve got a train to catch.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay over?” she asks as we head to the door. “Public transport will be a nightmare and you’ll never get a cab.”

  “I would but Charlie Dog won’t have any of that,” I remind her. The joys of having a dog.

  We step outside onto the street, expecting to be blinded by the setting sun. Instead there’s a strange haze in the air, turning everything golden and as we look around the corner, we gasp.

  The bar is situated at the top of a hill on West Burnside, near where the 405 passes, and we have a clear view of the city. Smoke has filled the air, rising up into the sky in numerous places, large columns of black. The sound of smashing glass brings our attention across the street where a group of people are kicking in the window to a cell phone store.

  Oh my god.

  Our city is under siege!

  “This is crazy!” I say to Lauren. “I better hurry to the train before it’s too late.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I really don’t want to go but I can’t leave Charli
e Dog alone. “I’ll be fine, I’ll run.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you,” she says.

  “No, it’s fine.” Now I’m feeling stubborn. Sure things are on fire and people are breaking into stores and stealing but they aren’t hurting each other. Right? “I’ll text you as soon as I’m on the bus, okay?”

  She frowns at me. “If you say so. Just keep your head down and don’t talk to these crazies. Forget everything I said and put your resting bitch face back on.”

  I take in a deep breath, give her a quick hug and start hurrying down Burnside, past Powell’s Books, my favorite place in the whole world, which luckily hasn’t been damaged yet.

  What I am seeing though as I get closer to the light rail stop at Skidmore Fountain, is that gangs of hockey fans are roaming the streets. Everything is on fire. I can’t help but watch as they stick oily rags into a cop car a block away and light it on fire. Jerseys are thrown to the flames.

  At the end of the street I can see police arriving in riot gear. Helicopters are circling above. I’m frightened and wishing I hadn’t been so stubborn, then again, I wouldn’t want to endanger Lauren.

  Just get to the train, I tell myself, but even though it’s a few blocks away now, chaos seems to be erupting everywhere. An explosion rocks the area near Voodoo Donuts and sirens fill the air. I have to stop and catch my breath, wondering if I should start heading further into the madness. By now, more black plumes of smoke are rising up.

  The cops are out, you’ll be safe, I repeat to myself. Just get to the train while you can.

  I start hurrying, almost at a jog, feeling the urgency. The sky is now darker, night approaching fast.

  When I hit NW 2nd, I’m swallowed into a mob. It’s like every single irate hockey fan in the city has gathered here. Men and women, hockey jerseys torn, alcohol on their breath. There are rallying cries for justice, as if we’re protesting something important.

  I try and fight my way through and I’m elbowed repeatedly. I can’t see where I’m going and the crowd is marching south, as if they just came from the bridge and are heading deep downtown and I’m being swept along with them like driftwood. I’m not normally claustrophobic but all I can smell is B.O. and all I can see are the backs of people’s heads and all I can feel is angry humanity all around me, pressing into my hips and shoulders.

  I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.

  I fight harder against them, trying to get across, knowing that the rail station must be nearby, even though it’s quite obvious already that the trains aren’t running – the massive crowd has taken over the entire street and no traffic or trains can get through.

  Another explosion, this one west of us, on 2nd. People scream, my own cry is caught in my throat, and now there’s panic. People are yelling that cop cars are exploding; others are saying people at the front are being tear-gassed by the riot police. Helicopters whirl overhead, loud and deafening.

  Then there is resistance. The crowd stops moving and I am immediately squished between people like I’m in a trash compactor. Some people are crying out in panic.

  And then the crowd starts to break apart. People are running. I suck in the sooty air and try and run somewhere, anywhere. I’m pushing past people, they’re pushing past me.

  Finally, I break free only to find myself tumbling forward, my feet tripping over a curb. I land on my shoulder, the cement slamming up into me as I roll across the road. Pain shoots through me and I nearly pass out from it. I can’t get up, my head is full of stars and knives.

  “Are you okay?” a deep male voice asks and suddenly there’s a hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes, my vision blurry, to see what I think is an extremely hot guy crouching beside me.

  I nod, thinking I must be hallucinating, and then inhale sharply as I try and sit up, wincing at the pain.

  The guy quickly leans forward, grabbing the back of my head with one hand, his face close to mine as I watch him with wary eyes. “I don’t want to move you, you might have a concussion, but the riot police are coming from one end and there’s a fire at the other. We have to go. Now.”

  I blink at him as his face comes more into focus. He’s right. There’s a fire behind us down the street and it’s illuminating his face in wavering orange and yellows. Yet I can’t stop staring at this stranger. He’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen and that can’t be my possible concussion talking.

  His eyes are a striking blue, the color of the morning sky in late August, pale and rich all at once. Add in his full lips, sculpted jaw and high-cheekbones, he looks like he could have played the late Paul Walker’s stunt double in all those Fast and the Furious movies. He even has the same light brown hair, down to the buzz cut.

  “I’ll help you,” he says, breaking the staring contest I must have been having with him, and before I know what’s happening, he’s hauling me to my feet and flipping me up over his shoulder like I’m a sack of potatoes.

  I let out a little yelp, his hard, wide shoulders pressing into my stomach, but my cry stifles when I look up and see the wall of flames on one side, another vehicle on fire.

  "Are you okay?" he asks, spinning around slightly so that my view changes from the flames to the wall of riot police who are steadily marching our way and spraying tear gas to a few violent rioters.

  "Um, define okay?" I cry out, my voice shaking. It's not every day that I'm picked up by one of the hottest guys I've ever seen, and I mean literally picked up. It's also not that common to be in the middle of a city under siege.

  "I'll get us out of here," he says, jogging across the road. With the way he's carrying me, caveman style, I can't help but watch his ass as he moves, a perky bundle underneath his jeans.

  Oh my god, focus Brandy, I chide myself, my cheeks going red at the thought. This is obviously another sign that I need to get laid - I'm spending more time checking this stranger out than I am worrying about my situation.

  The funny thing is, I know I should be worrying but I can't help but feel completely safe. It happened the moment I looked into his eyes. Somehow I knew that this stranger was going to help me, that I was safe protected in his arms.

  That still doesn't stop me from worrying though. As he heads to the river, pushing past the crowds with ease, I have to wonder how on earth I'm going to get home after this. If the MAX isn't running, I'm sure every cab in the city is booked up and my apartment is way too far to walk to.

  A few people cry out angrily at us as we go, some guy gets in the stranger's face and has the audacity to yell, "You suck!" Even the most normal, pleasant people have turned angry and I have no idea why people seem to hate us so much, maybe because we're trying to escape the rioting crowds. Misery loves company and all that.

  Finally we're near the Skidmore Bridge when he comes to a stop and slowly eases me down.

  The ground feels foreign, almost numb, beneath my feet.

  "We should be safe here," he says and I can't help but note he said we.

  "What's wrong with everyone? Why do they hate us?" I ask, staring up at him.

  Oh, man. I just want to smile like an idiot when I stare into those glacial blue eyes.

  He cocks a brow, making him look even more handsome. I have to bite my lip and swallow hard, wishing my hormones were under control. What a terrible time for them to act up. Talk about inappropriate.

  "Why do they hate us?" he asks slowly. He scratches at his chin. "Did you even watch the game?"

  I shake my head. "Hell no. I hate hockey."

  Now he's grinning. His teeth! They're so white. Against his tawny skin, he looks like he could be selling toothpaste.

  "You're serious," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "You hate hockey. You didn't watch the game?"

  "Yup. I know. But I don't drink the Kool-Aid. I went out for drinks with my friend, hoping this whole thing would blow over. Little did I know that the whole city would be ripped apart." I pause. "Let me guess, you're a huge hockey fan?"

  "You could say that,"
he says, his grin morphing into a smirk. "Though to be honest with you, I didn't see this coming either. But I guess the city has a right to be upset. All this lead up, all these promises, all that hope. It was bound to happen. I just wish it could have been for the positive, then all this bullshit wouldn't have happened. I...it's like the team let Portland down."

  I shrug, not really caring either way. "Well they didn't let me down. Like I said, I didn't care. And I'm sure the players wanted the Cup just as much as the city and probably more. Isn't that every young hockey player's dream? To win the Stanley Cup?'

  It's like someone has turned off the light behind his eyes. "Yes," he says grimly. "It is."

  He looks off to the river. On the other side, smoke rises in a few sections and people are still steadily making their way across the bridge toward us and the downtown, despite the very apparent police force making themselves known. Sirens fill the air.

  "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital and get things checked out?" he asks and at that he steps closer, reaching over to touch my shoulder gently where it ran into the ground.

  I suck in my breath sharply as he touches me, his hand slowly trailing up from my shoulder, to my neck, to my cheek and then to the side of my head. His eyes remain glued to my body the whole time while my eyes are watching him as if this is all a dream. A wonderful dream in which I'll wake up from in the middle of the night and then will have to furiously masturbate in order to go back to sleep.

  I swallow thickly. "I'm okay," I say, but my voice catches in my throat. "To be honest, I'm more worried about how I'm going to get home." I nod to the west. "I could stay over with my friend but my dog is home and if I leave him there overnight, there will be hell to pay."

  His eyes light up. "You have a dog? What kind?"

  "A mutt," I tell him. "Rescued him from a kill-shelter. His name is Charlie Dog."

  He lets out a laugh, something deep and beautiful that makes those teeth shine again. Jeez, he's got a smile that could charm the prickles off a cactus.

  "Charlie Dog? That's amazing. I thought my friend's dog’s name, Slick Steve, was the best one I'd heard."