Sawyer (Carolina Reapers 2)

It was one-thirty in the morning in Charleston, but only ten-thirty my time, and though I should have been exhausted, I was hyped up enough to run a fucking marathon.

The air was thick with humidity as I made my way across the street to Scythe, the bar Faith and Harper had taken me to the last time I was in Charleston. I stuck to the crosswalk at the corner of the busy intersection. The last thing I needed was to go to jail for jaywalking and miss my tryout. Though the thought did hold some level of appeal.

I glanced toward where the street ended at Reapers’ Arena. Shit, I could read the sign from here, that’s how close I was. No bank-named arena, or sponsors needed for that team. The whole thing was financed by billionaire Asher Silas. He built the state-of-the-art facilities, hired the best team, and when the best gear wasn’t up to his standard, he hired a development team—headed by his genius sister, Harper—to invent it. He was a tech tycoon with a passion for hockey, and while I’d never met the guy, Harper loved him, which was enough for me.

Harper had been my other roommate, and once Faith had started dating Lukas, it wasn’t long before Harper had fallen head over heels for Nathan Noble, a defenseman who was now with the Reapers. Funny thing was that she’d never mentioned her brother was on the cover of Forbes Magazine in all the years we’d lived together. The same as she hadn’t advertised that she lived with me while we went to the University of Washington. She was too loyal for that shit.

I opened the door to the bar and was greeted by Def Leppard blaring from the jukebox. A bachelorette party sang along at the top of their lungs, and the bride was up on the corner table, both hands in the air while a waitress shook her head.

Bypassing a few empty tables and a few crowded ones, I grabbed a seat at the empty side of the bar.

“Sorry, but last call was a few minutes ago,” a waitress told me with a wince as she approached another crowded table.

“That’s okay. I’ll take this one.”

The sound of her voice had me turning back toward the bar, and a corner of my mouth lifted into something that was almost a smirk as she came into view, walking toward me from the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

Echo Hayes stopped in front of me, and then stared me down with an arched eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little far from home?” she questioned with a slow southern drawl, staring pointedly at my Pearl Jam shirt.

I took in her black Ramones T-shirt that had been cut so it draped off one shoulder, and let my eyes trail down her cut-off shorts that barely covered her ass, fishnet stockings, and black moto boots. Fuck, this woman had curves for miles, and desperately needed a giant warning sign that read danger all over her. By the time I reached her pixie-shaped face, diamond stud nose ring, turquoise eyes, and purple hair that fell in various shades down her back, I was smiling, and she was glaring.

She was incredibly beautiful and so fucking sexy that I was going to have to shift my jeans if I stared too long.

“You have no idea,” I replied to her snarky question. There was zero chance in the world she remembered me. Maybe if I’d been with Harper and Faith—

“Bourbon?” she asked.

My jaw slacked momentarily in surprise. “You remember?”

“You’re not exactly easy to forget, even if you’re not with the Queens of Reaper Village.” Her eyes took their turn with me, and I felt her gaze on my skin as if it was her hand, stroking over the muscles of my biceps, caressing the pecs that stretched the material of my T-shirt, down to the waist she couldn’t quite see with the bar in her way, then back up, lingering on my neck until she reached my eyes. Then she blinked, her gaze softening. “You look like you need a drink.”

Without another word, she reached for the same bottle I’d had last time and poured it neat. She really did remember.

She slid the drink across the bar and then leaned on the counter so only the expanse of black granite separated us. “Start talking, West Coast.”

I took a sip of the bourbon and savored the burn as it slid down my throat.

“Fields is out,” I said quietly, unsure of what information the Reapers had released.

“Yeah, I saw it.” She tilted her head, exposing the pale, smooth skin along her jawline. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I had a tryout clause in my contract.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“That’s because I was an emergency—”

“Goalie,” she finished, pouring herself a glass of water. “You played in the last minute of the third period during the Sharks’ game.” She took a drink and then grinned. “What, you honestly thought I didn’t know who you were the first time you walked into this bar?”