Grumpy Puck

18. Calliope

Chapter 18

Calliope

“ O ne More Time” by Daft Punk belts through the speakers all around us, and we begin moving, which gives me a flashback from when Michael was so recently inside me. Or maybe it’s not just a flashback. Maybe I want him back there? All I know is I’m unnaturally turned-on in front of the richest people in New York, and Michael’s powerful body gyrating next to me isn’t helping in the slightest.

“You’re a good dancer,” he murmurs into my ear.

“It’s all about balance and rhythm,” I gasp into his. “And you’re not bad yourself.” And by that, I mean he’s sex on a hockey stick.

Smirking, he moves his body even more sensually, while I pray my reaction to him stays inside my thong.

When the song stops, the dancers are scored, with the couple near us getting the highest marks.

Michael leans in and I half-expect him to kiss me, but he speaks softly into my ear instead. “This dance-a-thon is a chance to beat Tugev.”

I frown. “Even after all that money he gave to the kids?”

He shrugs. “This is a competition. Someone has to win. Why not us?”

“I guess.”

What do you call the female equivalent of blue balls? Blue vulva? Asking for a friend.

The next dance is even hotter, and we get the highest scores. Unfortunately, Sophia and Tugev score in the next round, and given the looks the two males exchange, Tugev is just as competitive as Michael.

“We need more sexiness points next round,” Michael informs me.

“How?” And is it a good idea? I’m a few such points away from climbing Michael like a panda might the most delicious—and very hard—bamboo.

“Stay closer,” he says. “And gyrate more.”

“If I get any closer, we might need a condom,” I mutter under my breath, but I do as he suggests, earning us another high score—and bringing myself ever closer to blue vulva.

Unfortunately, despite our best gyrations on the next song, Tugev and Sophia come out victorious—which means it’s now a draw.

Up next is the Cha Cha—which, being a ballroom dance, requires prior practice that Michael and I don’t have. Nor do Tugev and his date, it seems. Instead, the highest scores go to an adorable older couple who are so good they might just be retired pros. This same couple dominates the Waltz round that follows, and the Tango, and the rest of the ballroom dances—which makes them the winners of the whole competition. No one seems to care about who got second or third place.

The expression on Michael’s face is thunderous, making me fear for the older couple’s safety. To our left, Tugev wears a matching mien—which just confirms that all hockey players are too competitive to be considered sane.

“Let’s go check on my rats,” I say.

Michael seems to shake off the violent fantasies he was harboring against the winners. “Yeah. And then let’s leave?”

I nod. The sooner we can get back to the hotel, the sooner I can change my panties.

When we reach the door of our honeymoon suite, I notice it’s not fully closed, so I mention this to Michael.

“Let me see.” He bends down to examine the lock, and every muscle in his body seems to tense.

“Someone broke in,” he says grimly as he straightens. His hands ball into tight fists.

“You think?” I push on the door, and it opens.

The lock was clearly tampered with.

“Stay here,” Michael orders. “I’m going in to?—”

“No.” I grab his elbow. “What if they’re still there?”

There’s a dark gleam in his eyes. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

I tighten my grip on him. “No. I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?” He frees his arm and narrows his eyes.

“You could get hurt.” And just the thought of it fills my insides with liquid nitrogen.

“Your stalker is about to get hurt, not me.” The chilling way he says the words reminds me of that terrifying mauling scene from The Revenant .

I gape at him. “You think this is related to?—”

“Yes. I do.”

I grab his arm again. “In that case, I really don’t want you going in there. What if this psycho has a gun?”

He shrugs. “It would still not be a fair fight.”

It’s official. Testosterone is a toxin. “Please. Don’t. I’m worried he’ll get past you and then grab me.”

“Oh.” Michael turns my way, concern written all over his features. “I didn’t think of that. Go downstairs. Now.”

“No. We’re going together.”

He looks reluctant, so I add, “What if the stalker is the lobby?”

“Right,” he grits out. “Let’s go.”

We take the elevator together, sprint to the concierge, and explain the situation. Soon, two police officers appear, as well as a woman who seems to be upper management of this chain of hotels. The cops go up to the suite, but when they come back, they tell us no one was inside—and that the room didn’t seem to have been ransacked.

“Except for the bear suit,” says the cop with the beard. “Someone ripped that up.”

My mascot suit? Why?

“You should go see if anything is missing,” says the manager.

We agree, and she accompanies us alongside the police as we head upstairs. We find that everything is indeed in order, except for my suit, which someone has cut into teddy-bear-sized chunks.

“Who would do this?” I goggle at the poor suit.

“And why?” the manager asks.

“Some weird fan?” the bearded cop suggests.

“I think it’s a stalker,” Michael says. “Someone who’s after Calliope.” He glowers at the suit. “I think this was some sort of a sick ritual.”

Wow. That’s dark. Does he think whoever did this was picturing me inside the suit as he mangled it?

I turn to the woman. “Can you find out who this was based on security footage?”

She nods. “The officers have already requested it. Unfortunately, we recently switched to a new system, so I was told that it might take a few days to get a hold of the footage.”

“You’ll send it to me as soon as you have it,” Michael says imperiously.

“I’m sending it to the police.”

The expression on Michael’s face causes both cops to lay their hands over their guns. “You will send the footage to me or?—”

“Bear in mind, we’ll be in Florida in a couple of days,” I chime in. I have a feeling Michael is about to get himself arrested for making deadly threats or some such, so I quickly add, “And if this is a stalker situation, he might follow us home and leave nothing to do for the police in New York.” What I don’t mention is my skepticism about the cops even looking at the footage given nothing was stolen and no one was hurt.

“Actually,” the bearded cop says, “if?—”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Michael growls. He looms over the manager. “Do you know who we are?”

She shakes her head.

“Google ‘Honey and Boo Boo,’” he says grimly. “And then ask yourself if you want us to publicly shit all over your hotel, which is what will happen if you don’t comply with my very reasonable request.”

The woman takes her phone out, does a search, and pales.

“What’s your email?” she asks Michael.

He gives it to her, and she promises she’ll send the footage he wants.

“We’re going to go,” the bearded cop says.

“Thanks for your help,” I say.

As soon as they leave, Michael asks the manager for another room.

“Make that two,” I say.

Now that the game is over, they should have more availability.

“Two?” The manager looks confused. “Aren’t you together?”

Shit. The fake relationship. “We had a fight.” Hey, this isn’t exactly a lie. “I need some space.”

“One room.” Michael turns my way, eyes squinty. “I insist.”

“Why?” Despite the scare, or perhaps because of it, I’m the horniest I’ve ever been, and therefore can’t trust myself to be in the same bed with him. Especially after yesterday.

He walks over and takes my hand. “Until this stalker thing is sorted, I don’t want you to be alone.”

Damn it. He makes sense—but this also means we’d share a space for at least a few more days, an idea that makes me feel weirdly bubbly.

“Okay,” I say to the manager with my best poker face on. “A single room, please.”

“You can have the Presidential Suite,” she chirps. “It has two bedrooms, so you can choose to sleep in any arrangement that you desire.”

Why am I so disappointed by the very idea of two bedrooms? Because I am, and as the manager helps us make the move to the Presidential Suite, Michael doesn’t look pleased either.

“I’ll hire private security to watch the hallway outside your door,” the manager says before leaving. “And while we wait for them, I’ll have a couple of porters do the job.”

Wow. “Thank you. You’ve gone above and beyond.” I can even almost forgive the two-room idea.

Almost.

“No problem,” she says and exits.

“When did we fight?” Michael demands as soon as we are alone.

“What?”

“You told her we had a fight,” he says. “What were you referring to?”

I blink at him. “I was just covering up for saying we need two rooms.”

“Ah.” He takes a step toward me. “But that leaves the question: why do you want two separate rooms?”

My heartbeat spikes. “Why not? That’s what we wanted last night.”

Those pitch-black eyes gleam dangerously. “That was before .”

I lift my chin. “Before the act that you called a mistake?”

As his nostrils flare, I realize even his nose is strong and attractive.

“Pot, meet kettle,” he grits out. “It was you who called what happened a mistake. Something about casual hookups and claims that I do not date.”

“Well, you don’t. You have some bullshit rule about it.”

He closes the distance and lifts my chin with his bent knuckles. “There are always exceptions to every rule.”

With that, he claims my lips in a vicious, all-encompassing kiss.