There are a few athletes on the list, but McKay’s name is the only one that jumps out at me.
“Okay, now we have to go,” I tell Ryder.
He shifts, looking uncomfortable.
“Or we can stay here. Whatever you want.”
His blue eyes fix on me. “You want to go, huh?”
“Kind of.”
“Then I’ll go.” He cocks a brow. “But I will not be dancing.”
“Yes, you will.”
“And I’ll also pretend I don’t know you when you ask for Vizza Billity’s autograph.”
“You’ll miss out then. I was planning on getting him to sign my tits.”
Ryder grins.
And that’s how later that evening, we board an actual private jet bound for Manhattan. The plane’s interior is all white, from the leather seats to the plush carpets to the spacious bathroom. As much as I want to joke about it, it’s kind of absurd.
Alex is Uncle Tucker and Aunt Sabrina’s youngest daughter. She’s twenty, so a year younger than me, while her sister is a lawyer and a few years older. It’s so crazy to me that one daughter is toiling away to make partner, while the other is worth a hundred million dollars and rides on private jets.
“What, she’s too rich and famous to pick us up?” Ryder growls in mock outrage when we step onto the snowy tarmac after descending the metal steps. It was only a forty-five-minute flight, and over much too fast. I would have liked to continue devouring that charcuterie spread the flight attendant brought out.
“Unacceptable,” I agree.
Alex did send a car, though—a sleek black Escalade that whisks us away into the heart of the city. Luckily, we manage to avoid Times Square, because all the roads around it are cordoned off. You’ll never make me understand it, the suffocating throng of bodies shivering in the cold waiting for a dumb ball to drop.
Ryder holds my hand in the back seat, but he’s visibly distracted. He’d pulled out his phone on the plane a few times to check the screen, as if waiting for a message. But when I asked about it, he said he was checking the time.
Alex told me to give my name at the door of the venue. There’s a line at least three blocks long. I feel like an ass for skipping to the front, where I receive mutinous glares from the young partygoers waiting in the endless line.
It’s total chaos inside. Strobe lights, air humid with sweat and perfume, and deafening electronic music. Scantily clad women and thirsty men constantly flit in our path as we venture deeper into the club. I will say, it’s kind of exhilarating. There isn’t much of a nightlife in Hastings, and I’m usually too exhausted from practice and games to drive to Boston during the season.
When I text Alex to say we’re here, she tells me to come to the VIP lounge.
“Come on. This way.” I tug Ryder’s hand.
I notice him looking around at the crowd, a bit uneasy. Something still feels off about him, but I chalk it up to him being antisocial because, well, he’s antisocial.
As we weave our way across the crowded main floor, the music begins to seep into my blood, making my hips move. Ryder’s eyes focus on that.
He lifts the corner of his mouth.
“What?” I say.
“You look good.”
We both ditched our coats in the Escalade after the driver said he’d be back for us later, so there’s no hiding my skimpy dress. It’s a shimmery silver with fringe at the bottom. Old-timey modern. I’m not wearing a bra, but the neckline is modest. Only a hint of cleavage. The dress does most of its work down below, showing off my legs.
The VIP area requires an elevator to get up to it. It’s manned by two bouncers with earpieces and radios. I’m ready to drop Alex’s name again when the elevator doors swing open and she appears herself.
It always startles me how beautiful she is. Growing up, I remember constantly thinking how pretty she was. Even as a ten-year-old, she made people take a second look. She started modeling officially when she was seventeen, and in three years, she’s become one of the most recognizable models and influencers in the world.
She’s stunning, with thick dark hair, big brown eyes, a perfect body. I notice Ryder checking her out and I don’t even care because I’m checking her out too. A slinky red dress is glued to her tall willowy frame, showing off her huge tits, tiny waist, and perky ass. She has the kind of body that makes you cry in envy. I’m too muscular to ever look like Alex. Hockey does that to you.
“G!” She throws her arms around me. “They’re with me,” she tells the VIP guards.
The three of us step into the elevator. Everyone who’s been lurking nearby, hoping to sneak their way up to the promised land, shoots us envious looks. Several women glare murder at me. I offer a rueful shrug as the doors close.
“Oh my God, you look incredible,” Alex gushes. “That dress.”
“Me? Look at what you’re wearing. It’s insane.”
I introduce her to Ryder, who she checks out not at all discreetly. At nearly six feet, Alex has an easier time looking him in the eye. I realize they look good together, and although I know it’s irrational of me, I experience a jolt of jealousy.
The VIP lounge is a whole other world. A long railing stretches across the entire space, overlooking the dance floor far below. There are a few mini dance floors up here too, but mostly it’s plush black velvet booths, sensual lighting, and bottle service. In one corner is a raised platform offering another large booth cordoned off by velvet ropes. The Super VIP area of the VIP lounge. Holding court there is a tall guy wearing a white hoodie, white parachute pants, and white designer sneakers. I recognize the rapper instantly. For some reason I expected a lot more bling, but he boasts only a diamond-studded watch. Well, and the mohawk on his head is dyed gold, so I guess the bling factor is all in the hair.
When he notices me staring, he flashes a cocky smile and flicks his hand in a casual wave.
Alex follows my gaze. “You should go thank him,” she says with a grin.
“For what?”
“You flew here on his plane.”
My jaw drops. “Oh my God.” I turn to Ryder. “We flew on Vizza Billity’s plane.” Although now it makes sense why everything was white.
“He’s actually pretty cool,” Alex says. “I’ll introduce you in a bit. First I want to hear everything you’re up to.”
We haven’t seen each other since Tahoe, but it’s hard to catch up over the pounding music and we spend most of the time screaming in each other’s ears. Meanwhile, Ryder stands there sipping a whiskey the server just delivered to him. I ordered my trusty scotch and soda, which made him grin.
“So, this is a thing,” Alex remarks, her manicured finger dancing between Ryder and me.
“Yes,” I answer, rolling my eyes.
“You’re tall,” she tells him.
“Thanks?”
“It’s an observation, not a compliment.”
Ryder chokes out a laugh.
“And you’re both hockey players,” she continues, giggling at me. “You and your hockey player fetish.”
“It’s not a fetish,” I say with a loud snort.
“Wasn’t the last one a hockey player too?”