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  His head rolls so his eyes come to mine, and I can see it in his gaze--that is all he intended to give me. I can see clearly that he's done with me, not just for the night but for any night thereafter. He opens his mouth I'm sure to either kick me out or let me down easy, so I push up and move over him quickly. My hands go to his cheeks and I press my mouth against his, forcing my tongue inside.

  He doesn't even fight me, seemingly willing to give into me one more time the minute our mouths fuse together. My fingers press into his scalp and I roll, pulling him so he rolls right on top of me. He just fucked me hard and came hard, and yet he kisses me like he's starved. I feel the same way, my tongue and teeth clashing with his.

  I start to moan, needing something more from him. He gives me nothing but his mouth, his hands pressed into the mattress to hold his weight off me.

  Fisting his hair, I give a jerk on his head and it pops up so he looks down at me. His eyes are fevered yet hard, indicating his conflict. I don't care, though. I have him in bed right now and I'm not letting him push me away.

  My lips curve into a catlike smile and I slide my fingers to the top of his head. I push down on it hard, and at first he doesn't budge. Our eyes war with each other, me wanting and him deciding if he's going to give me anything.

  Finally he moves and lets me push him right down my body. He stops a moment to brush his lips across the top swell of my breast, still firmly held in place by my bra that never came off. I push on his head harder and he lets me.

  I push him right down my body, his breath feathering across my stomach, and I spread my legs wide.

  I push him down until my arms can't extend anymore and his face is hovering right over my pussy. My legs raise over his shoulders and come to rest with my calves on his back. His eyes peer up at me, flashing with both defiance and lust.

  I tilt my hips upward in demand and tell him, "Give it to me, Van."

  Fucking Christ...he then gives it to me by burying his face and stabbing his tongue inside of me.

  Crying out, I thrust my hips up, only to have his hands flatten on my stomach and press me back down into the bed. Van gives a groan of approval that vibrates my entire core, and then he eats me out like the world will end if I don't come on his tongue.

  My back arches off the bed, my head pressing down hard into the pillows. My heels dig into his back and my hips start to rotate against his mouth. He groans again and lashes at me hard with his tongue. An orgasm curls low in my pelvis and I suck in a hard breath, lifting my head to watch him. That dark, soft hair falling forward so I can't see his face, but the way his head is moving is so erotic, I decide to just let go and give into it.

  I break apart with a soft cry, my pussy grinding against his face. I come and I come as he works me with his mouth. He doesn't stop and I don't ask him to. I make it past the uncomfortable oversensitivity of my clit, panting with effort to do so. He still doesn't stop and I know he has no intention of doing so.

  So I dig my heels back into him and hang on for the ride.

  --

  Van slams into me one last time and groans out his release. He's got one of my legs raised straight in the air with a big hand wrapped around the back of my thigh, and the other holds my other leg pinned to the bed. My ass is half in the air so that the angle by which he was driving into me caused me to see stars when I came a few moments ago.

  He's finally naked, and that was at my insistence.

  God, he's glorious, even as I watch his face start to cloud over with dismay that I seduced him yet again. After he made me come twice with his mouth, I demanded he strip and fuck me again.

  Van was utterly silent as he did so, his face awash with beautiful pleasure, so I know he wasn't too pissed at me for causing his fall.

  When he finishes this time, though, he pulls out of me and rolls off the bed. I watch as he plucks the condom off, tossing it into a small wastebasket where the other one is resting. He bends over and grabs his jeans off the floor, refusing to look at me.

  "Seriously...you're getting dressed?" I tease him as I stretch out with utter repletion on his mattress. "I thought you had more in you."

  His eyes flash with annoyance as he tugs his jeans on and zips them up. "You need to get out of here. Lucas could be back anytime."

  My chest tightens as I think about what he might be doing with that blonde from the bar. I hope to fuck he got too drunk and has performance issues.

  "After he goes to bed tonight, want me to sneak back in here?" I ask Van, choosing to go back to teasing him rather than consider the ramifications of my brother's assholery.

  "Nope," he says as he grabs his shirt off the end of the bed and pulls it over his head.

  "Let me guess," I say dryly as I roll to my side and rest my head on the palm of my hand. I'm slightly mollified when Van gives a cursory but totally appreciative look at my naked body. "This was a one-time thing only. Or rather a two-time thing. Two orgasms for you. Four for me, to clarify."

  "Pretty much," he says as he bends over again and grabs his wallet from the floor, tucking it into his back pocket. He turns toward his bedroom door, and this surprises me enough that I scurry off the bed.

  "Wait," I call out as I move toward him. "You're not leaving, are you?"

  "Yep," he says in that monotone, don't-fuck-with-me way.

  "Do you think this is over?" I ask as I lay my hand on his arm.

  "Yep," he says, and I know he's doing it to piss me off.

  I roll my eyes at him. "Oh for fuck's sake, Van. What we just did was fucking amazing and you know it. Why would you walk away from that?"

  I'm flat-out stunned when he pulls his chin in slightly so he can glance casually down my body. When his eyes come back up to meet mine, he looks me dead in the eye and says, "Now that you're wearing my sweat on your skin, you've sort of lost your shine. Time to move on."

  I gasp in indignation over his coarse words, not that I thought what we shared melded our hearts together or anything. But I've never heard him be that cruel before. Part of me knows it's him trying to reestablish a wall, but damn...part of me is a little hurt by that.

  "You don't mean that," I say with absolutely no certainty.

  He just stares at me, refusing to affirm his statement, but not giving me anything else either.

  "So if I dropped to my knees right now and took you into my throat, you wouldn't be interested in that?"

  His jaw locks tight and he swallows hard. Triumph sweeps through me, because his refusal to answer tells me everything I need to know.

  Leaning into Van slightly, I whisper, "I'll give you some space for now. But don't be surprised if I crawl into your bed while you're sleeping."

  "I'll make sure to lock the door," he growls, and then turns and walks out of his room.

  I let my laugh follow him all the way out, snickering when the front door slams shut behind him.

  He and I both know there aren't any locks on the bedroom doors.

  Chapter 9

  Van

  I take the last sip of gas station coffee I'd picked up about twenty minutes ago and place the empty Styrofoam cup in the cup holder. I look across the parking to the visitor entrance. I've been here once before but I didn't take in the details. I've been sitting in this parking lot for over four hours now, waiting for visiting hours to start.

  I've had plenty of time the last several hours to look at the facility. The visitors' complex is a large square building with a guard tower rising up from the southeast corner. Behind that building is the prison itself. Everything is done in white stucco that's aged and molded over the years. A twenty-foot fence with barbed wire coils at the top separates the visitors' center from the rest of the facility, but even if a prisoner were to make it past that, there's another twenty-foot fence with barbed wire enclosing the visitor building from the outside world.

  When I see a few people start to arrive, I don't get out of my truck right away. Instead I lean over to my glove compartment and pull out a worn envelope
I'd received almost three months ago. Ironically, it had come just one week before I got the trade offer to come east to the Cold Fury.

  It's addressed to Grant VanBuskirk in care of Etta Turner at Etta's home in Redding, California. I was still playing for the LA Demons when she received it. My standing orders were to toss out any letters from the Virginia Department of Corrections, and she always did that. But this one wasn't from him, but rather from the warden's office. She felt it important enough to forward to me.

  I reach inside the envelope and pull the letter out.

  Dear Mr. VanBuskirk,

  I am writing this inquiry to you per the request of Inmate #94920555, Arco VanBuskirk. As you are his next of kin, he has asked me to inform you that he has been diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer and his prognosis is grim, since he is choosing not to undergo treatment. Mr. VanBuskirk has attempted to contact you, but he suspects you are not reading his letters. He wanted to make one last effort to reach you, in the hopes that you might consider a phone call or a visit with him before he passes.

  If you could please contact me to discuss this, I can forward your decision to Mr. VanBuskirk.

  Thank you for your consideration.

  Sincerely,

  Arnold Glyner

  Warden, Virginia Department of Corrections

  Richmond Maximum Security Prison

  I stare at the greeting again.

  Dear Mr. VanBuskirk.

  That hasn't been my name since I was nine years old, when Etta helped me legally change my name when she adopted me. The only nod I gave to my heritage was to keep Van and add Etta's last name, Turner, to create my new identity. Grant VanBuskirk died a long time ago.

  With a sigh, I toss the letter and envelope onto my passenger seat. I don't need it to get in the prison. This I was assured when I was here a few months ago. I didn't come to see Arco, but rather I made an appointment to talk to the warden. He confirmed what I already figured.

  Arco was still a sociopath, and there were no medications available that would change that.

  He was indeed dying and he had maybe six months if he was lucky.

  He had requested medical clemency and was denied summarily. His sentence of life in prison without parole, not to mention the horrific things he did, all were going to ensure he died in prison.

  The warden did not know for sure why Arco wanted to see me, but he could only guess it was to make some type of amends.

  That had cracked me up. I'd actually laughed at Mr. Glyner for his foolish assumption. Arco made amends with no one. He had not one moment of remorse for the things he did, including ruining his son's childhood.

  The last thing I got from the warden was help in paving the way for a future visit to Arco if I decided to go. I really didn't want to, but the fucker was dying, and I wanted to make sure I didn't have any regrets. Getting entrance was a little tricky, because as Arco's next of kin, I was still listed under my old name. My new identification proclaimed me to be Van Turner. The warden put a note on my file to explain the name difference, and that was the best he could do. I didn't like this, because at age twenty-eight, after playing ten years in the NHL, no one knows my true identity. That's the way I wanted to keep it, but I think the risk at this point is needed. What happened between Simone and me last night has me freaking the fuck out.

  It was a chance I was taking coming here...being recognized. The most I could do was put my glasses on, and hoped that no Cold Fury fans worked in this prison, or even a die-hard fan who knew many of the league's players.

  The process to meet a prisoner isn't overly complicated, but it takes time. I check in, go through two metal detectors and a pat down. I'm led to a waiting room, where about ten other people sit, waiting for their visit with a loved one. I'd learned that some prisoners could meet in an open room with limited contact. Other prisoners--the more dangerous ones--were kept behind a glass partition and we had to communicate via phones.

  Arco was in this category.

  "First time?" a man says beside me where we perch on flimsy plastic chairs.

  I turn to look at him warily, but he's wearing nothing but the pleasantly bland smile of someone making conversation.

  "Yeah," I admit.

  "This place is the pits," he says. "My son is in here for armed robbery. I try to get to see him at least once a month and it kills me. This place is sucking the life right out of him."

  "I can imagine," I mutter, not really wanting to talk about it.

  "Who are you visiting?" the guy asks genially.

  "A friend," I tell him, but Arco is no friend of mine.

  "What's he in for--" the man starts to ask, but a door opens.

  A security guard calls out my name. "Grant VanBuskirk."

  I'm thankful they didn't use my current identity, and I probably owe thanks to the warden for that, however he annotated Arco's file.

  Standing up, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. The man calls out, "Good luck," but I don't acknowledge him. My stomach is churning as I walk toward the guard, trying to prepare myself to face my father for the first time in two decades.

  --

  Arco VanBuskirk was born and raised in the D.C. area. He was a handsome man. Smart, outgoing, and the life of any party. He sold insurance and was quite good at it. He married Miriam when he was almost thirty and she was twenty. She used to tell me it was true love at first sight, but I'm pretty sure Arco manipulated her into falling in love with him. They had me within nine months.

  I have no idea if Arco was raping and murdering women when he married my mom, but he was arrested for five murders when I was just seven years old. I was eight when he was convicted and I was in court for his sentencing. Because my father was tried in the summer, my mom made me attend every day of the trial, as she resolutely refused to believe her husband could do something so heinous. She felt we needed to present a united front. She did not care that her third-grade son had to hear the horrific details of what his father was accused of doing. I had nightmares for years, but I still loved my mother.

  When Arco was convicted and received his sentence, he bragged to the court there were many others they'd never find. I remember how proud of himself he seemed.

  My mom killed herself three days later, unable to accept she had been so wrong about him.

  Arco's sister, Etta Turner, was four years older than him and recently divorced. She knew her brother was a sociopath, just like the court shrinks did. Luckily, his insanity defense fell on deaf ears with the jury, but Etta would always tell me, "Your father is just batshit crazy."

  Temporary custody was granted to Etta, who also was still in the D.C. area but had little to no contact with her brother. She once admitted to me when I got older that he killed her cat right in front of her when they were kids, and that's when she knew his mental health was corroded beyond repair.

  But Etta swooped in and became my savior. It didn't take her long to realize we couldn't stay in the area. School had become intolerable to me, as I'd become an easy target for bullies. If I wasn't getting my ass kicked because my father was a serial killer, I was being patently ignored by everyone else, including my teachers. My grades plummeted, and that was when I started the long but permanent withdrawal inward.

  Etta had seen enough of this after only three months. Her divorce left her well off, so she spent a shit pot full of money petitioning the court to terminate Arco's parental rights. The only good thing he ever did for me was to not fight the petition, and after I was awarded full and sole custody to Etta, she fled with me across the country.

  We settled in Redding, California, and before I reached my ninth birthday my name was Van Turner and Etta was my mother for all intents and purposes.

  The guard leads me to a large room with several partitioned desks separating visitors from inmates. I sit in a metal folding chair with a small wooden ledge in front of me. There's a phone receiver attached to the partition that blocks me off from the chairs to my left and right. A Plexiglas
shield separates me from the room where the inmates are led through.

  I'm drumming my fingers on the worn wood of the desk, trying to appear calm for that moment when Arco walks in.

  And when he does, my gut contracts so hard I'm afraid I'm going to shit myself.

  He's led in by a guard who holds on to his elbow, wearing a beige jumpsuit with his hands and legs shackled. He's hunched over as he shuffles inside and his gaze goes along the row of people on my side of the glass. When his eyes lock on to mine, his lips curve into what could be deemed a relieved smile.

  I don't trust it for a moment.

  Fuck he looks bad. If my math is right, he's got to be going on fifty-nine years old, but he looks like he's eighty. He was once a tall and powerful man; now he's frail. His body is emaciated, his face gaunt. His hair is almost completely gray, including the grizzled beard he's sporting.

  I've refused to look at any news articles or pictures of him since I moved to California. When I got older, Etta would keep me updated to some extent. She'd let me know how his appeals went, or tell me when I'd receive a letter from him. Every single one of them went into the garbage can. Arco was nothing to me.

  With the guard guiding him, Arco ambles with short steps to the chair opposite me and waits for his handcuffs to be removed, after which he takes a seat with his legs still shackled. He just stares at me a moment, almost as if he's drinking me in. His eyes roam over my face, coming back repeatedly to my eyes, which are also his eyes. I keep my expression neutral and just wait to see what he does.

  Finally he picks up the receiver on his end, and I reluctantly do the same. When I press it to my ear, I hear his monstrous voice say, "I knew you'd come."

  "Only to see for myself you were dying," I say callously.

  This causes Arco to chuckle as he shakes his head.

  "Still a little pissant," he says with clear affection. It makes me queasy that he thinks he even has the right to feel anything for me.

  But then his eyes turn hard and calculating. Leaning toward the glass and placing a forearm on his desk, he says in a low voice, "But we know that's not the only reason you came."

  Fuck, I hate he knows that about me. I also hate the look on his face that says he has the upper hand, and it pisses me off.