Script: A Gay Hockey Romance (L.A. Storm Book 1) by RJ Scott & V.L. Locey

Author:RJ Scott & V.L. Locey [Scott, RJ & Locey, V.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781785644412
Publisher: Love Lane Books Ltd
Published: 2023-08-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Cameron

I woke up a week later, my head fuzzy, and not from a night out at some exclusive club or from staying up too late with a new hook-up. I’d not even thought about anyone other than Finn since… well… since that day he’d followed me from the barn. Talk about something even scarier than testicular torsion. Being so zoned in on one lover was terrifying. And annoying, as I’d been pretty good at avoiding entanglements of any romantic nature for all of my adult life.

Now, here I was, lying in bed, my head filled with cotton batting as I battled to figure out how to balance being with Finn more, while keeping an emotional distance from him. I’d grown addicted to his presence in my life in a short amount of time. Our nights filled with Netflix and calling for Korean takeout home delivery—we both had a mad passion for sesame beef—had flipped some sort of domesticity button in my brain. Something my brother had told me would happen one day. Which sucked because now I’d have to admit that Lyle was right about something. Hopefully, not to his face though. Just to myself, which was possibly as bad.

So now, it seemed like I woke up, and the first thing I thought about was Finn. Like right now. My head was filling with dreamy little snippets from last night’s movie. Some old Ryan Reynolds flick where he worked in a restaurant, which had some killer funny bits, and Ryan himself, which was enough to hold my attention on most occasions. Seems not even Mr. Reynolds could keep my gaze, hands, or mouth, off Finn Kerrigan. After mutual blow jobs, you would think I’d be filled up on Finn. Nope. Point in case--me lying here thinking of Finn.

Also, someone was hammering on the sliding door of my bedroom in a steady two-handed beat that made me want to open the glass door and boot the asshole off the patio.

“Hey, I can see you in there lying in bed!” Rottie called as he pounded out the drumbeat from what I assumed was one of his loud as fuck metal songs. Probably from a new album or video. Rottie appearing on my patio was nothing new. Fences meant nothing to him. He was a brazen-as-hell wild man who thought nothing of scaling canyon walls as well as security fences, and seemed to think everyone needed a Rottie Blade in their house. “Come on, Chavkin, roll out. I have a neighborly issue to discuss with you!”

I moved to my side, squinting at the tall, lanky rocker with long white and black hair pulled into a top knot. That was a new look. He stood on my patio in a green kilt that hung off his lean hips, his tattooed chest bared, wearing yellow hiking boots and a grin. The bastard was stupid hot. And stupid annoying.

I held up a middle finger, then, in slow increments, I kicked the covers aside and plodded to the patio.

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