Zack

  Zack is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original Copyright (c) 2015 by Sawyer Bennett Excerpt from Ryker by Sawyer Bennett copyright (c) 2015 by Sawyer Bennett All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Ryker by Sawyer Bennett. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101886779

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover photograph: Claudio Marinesco www.readloveswept.com

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue: Zack

  Chapter 1: Zack

  Chapter 2: Kate

  Chapter 3: Zack

  Chapter 4: Kate

  Chapter 5: Zack

  Chapter 6: Kate

  Chapter 7: Zack

  Chapter 8: Kate

  Chapter 9: Zack

  Chapter 10: Kate

  Chapter 11: Zack

  Chapter 12: Kate

  Chapter 13: Zack

  Chapter 14: Kate

  Chapter 15: Zack

  Chapter 16: Kate

  Chapter 17: Zack

  Chapter 18: Kate

  Chapter 19: Zack

  Chapter 20: Kate

  Chapter 21: Zack

  Chapter 22: Kate

  Chapter 23: Zack

  Chapter 24: Kate

  Chapter 25: Zack

  Chapter 26: Kate

  Chapter 27: Zack

  Chapter 28: Kate

  Chapter 29: Zack

  Chapter 30: Kate

  Chapter 31: Zack

  Epilogue: Zack

  Dedication

  By Sawyer Bennett

  About the Author

  The Editor's Corner

  Excerpt from Ryker

  Prologue

  Zack

  The overhead lights go out, and the club would be in total darkness if not for the recessed lights that edge the perimeter of the stage. I slouch down in my seat, pulling my ball cap lower over my forehead. This causes me to have to tilt my head back a little bit farther to watch the show but keeps my face better obscured. The beard I'd been growing for the past four months I'm sure helps to hide my fame as well.

  I don't want to be recognized.

  I don't want anyone to see me and realize just how low Zack Grantham has fallen from grace.

  A sexy techno beat starts thrumming low, gradually building in decibels. A few whistles pierce the air, one redneck sounding a catcall. A rolling tide of mechanical fog slithers across the black lacquered stage and then swirling spotlights from the corners of the club start rotating. A slight flutter at the pitch-black curtains that sit closed tight is the only indication that something is about to happen.

  A quick glance down at my phone that sits on the table in front of me shows that the time is almost midnight. Time for the grand finale of the evening. The moment all of the drunk and horny patrons of The Golden Box have been waiting for.

  I ignore the phone, but tip back the tequila shot sitting in front of me, my eyes sliding up to the stage as I set the glass back down. When the music reaches its apex, a slim but toned bare leg sporting an obscenely high-heeled red shoe peeks through the slit of the curtains, thigh parallel to the floor...calf muscle taut, with toes pointing downward. The whistles and catcalls increase, but I watch dispassionately.

  The owner of that bare leg raises her knee up higher, then stretches it out fully...gracefully, and holds it there, just as the music lulls to a slow grind.

  She holds it for just a second.

  Just a moment, where everyone waits to see what comes next.

  The curtains fly apart just as the bass thump of music crashes through the club and a stunning woman with glorious curly blond hair bursts through. My brain processes a starched white button-down shirt and a black fedora on her head, then just as quickly processes the fact that she reaches to the dipping gap at her chest and rips the shirt open. Beautiful, round--and by the looks of them, real--boobs pop forth...spectacularly bare and bouncing.

  A hundred horny men start cheering and I'm sure the majority of dicks go to full mast.

  The stripper, who I happen to know goes by the name Candi Apple--and yeah, that's Candi with an i--struts confidently up to the silver pole lodged firmly at the edge of the stage.

  Hips swaying, tongue licking at her full bottom lip, hair wild and blowing from some kind of cheesy wind machine built into the stage flooring.

  Her right hand reaches out, grabs the pole, and she bends her knees...squatting way down until her ass is almost on the floor. Her legs are spread wide and the rotating strobe lights cause sparkles to bounce off the silver sequins that cover the scrap of material between her legs. Candi gyrates her hips, fucking the pole...right in front of me. Her dark eyes scan the men surrounding the stage, calculating who might be the biggest tipper. Her gaze passes right over me because I don't have green clutched in my fingertips waving back and forth with zeal to stuff them in her G-string.

  The show goes on and I watch it all...willing for my body to feel something. I'd hoped for a hard-on to prove I wasn't dead, but even a slight fluttering of lust deep in my groin would have been welcomed. Hell, I'd probably kill for a gurgle of indigestion--just fucking something--anything to show I could react.

  I come up fucking empty.

  The slight ache in my right wrist pulls my attention away from the tits and ass, and I open and close my fist several times to ease the cramp, finally giving it a hearty shake. Overall, my wrist has healed well over the last four months. The plates and screws have been removed, physical therapy has been completed, and I'm feeling physically strong. Yeah...my wrist is aching right now, but only because I've been gripping the armrests of my chair too tightly while I waited to see if Candi Apple might be the one to bring me back to life.

  Luckily, it's just an ache and certainly not something that gives me any pause. I've been cleared by the team orthopedist, Mark Godson, and cleared by Coach Pretore as well. Starting next week, I'll resume practice with the team, and if I'm lucky, it won't be long before I'm back in the game...a starting second-line left winger for the Cold Fury.

  My insides feel dead, my capacity to care for much of anything seems lost, but there are two things that still keep me functioning. It's the prospect of playing hockey again, and, more important, my son, Ben.

  A flare of light catches my eye and I see my phone screen glare brightly. I grab it and wince at the angry text from my sister, Delaney.

  WTF Zack? You leave an hour ago to get some milk and you're not back. Where are you?

  Guilt suffuses through me, and it's not lost on me that I'm actually feeling an emotion. But then again...the acknowledgment of guilt has not been hard for me the past four months.

  I wonder what Delaney would say if I texted her back I'm at a strip club. Hoping Candi Apple turns me on.

  She'd shit a brick, that's for sure.

  I stand up from the table, ignoring Miss Apple onstage. I fish a five-dollar bill out of my pocket and throw it on the table for the waitress. I had tipped her once when she brought my shot of tequila, since she was fast and nice, and hell...she had a great rack too, so might as well tip her again. Without a backward glance, I leave the lights, music, and bobbing breasts behind, feeling absolutely not
one thing from this experience other than a small burn in my stomach from the shot of liquor.

  As soon as I get out of the club and into the silence of my car, I dial Delaney.

  She answers on the first ring. "You scared the shit out of me. Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," I murmur as I start the engine and wait for my Bluetooth to connect. When I hear the subtle click telling me she's on speakerphone, I put the car in drive and say, "Just driving around...thinking."

  I hear her blow out a gust of sympathetic frustration, but her voice is gentle. "Okay. Just get home."

  "Is Ben okay?" I ask.

  "He's fine. Sleeping. Have you gone over the applicants I picked out for you?"

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and a tiny pain shoots through my wrist, a pain I'd never admit to the team doctors, so I ignore it and tell her, "Not yet."

  "Tomorrow," Delaney says sternly. "You have to make a decision tomorrow."

  "I know," I mutter, realizing that the time for dragging my feet and procrastinating is over. "I promise. Tomorrow."

  "Okay," she says softly. "That's good."

  I don't say anything else, my mind already starting to shut down. I abhor the thought of culling through her final recommendations for a nanny for Ben. Because that means this is final...that Gina is really dead and Ben's mommy is definitely not coming back. In my mind, it's putting the final nail in her coffin.

  "I love you," Delaney says, almost desperately, into the phone.

  I bite my lip...hard, and feel my tooth slice down into the delicate flesh. "Back at ya," I say, my voice harsh and raspy.

  Words of love to my older sister--the woman who has been my rock-solid support the last four months since Gina died--unable to materialize. I disconnect the call and stare blankly out the windshield. I'm practically on autopilot as I drive home.

  Out of the silence of my car, an unbidden, sarcastic snort bursts forth from me, and then I start snickering to myself.

  Home.

  What a fucking joke.

  My five-bedroom house on Marchand Street feels like a prison, the walls closing in on me and causing me to seek out strippers named Candi Apple at midnight. I can't escape my memories there, my guilt devours me as I look at Gina's pictures throughout the house, and every day, rather than rise above my pain, I get swallowed up in it a little deeper. I hate that fucking house now, and I've pretty much resolved myself to sell it. Maybe moving will help leave the ghosts behind and give Ben and me a fresh start.

  If it wasn't for Ben...

  Beautiful, blond-haired, blue-eyed Ben.

  The spitting image of Gina.

  My little boy, who seems to have bounced back fine after losing his mother, giving me toothy grins and cuddling with me on the couch at night. If it wasn't for him...

  No, I don't even want to think about where I'd be if it wasn't for Ben. Let me just appreciate the fact that I have the most wonderful child in the world, and it's only because of him that I at least have some sort of desire to want to feel again.

  While I can't seem to feel outside the bounds of pure and unconditional love for my child, it doesn't mean I want to be this way. I'm smart enough to know that Ben will look to me for guidance on how to live this life without Gina, and I'm savvy enough to know that if I don't get my shit together, for his sake, I stand a really good chance of fucking his head up.

  So I try the only way I know how--by seeking out the Candi Apples of this world--and dig down deep for something to interest me in this life outside of my child and my hockey career.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull onto the outer belt line that circles around Raleigh, and let it out slowly. Yeah, tomorrow I need to start the process of removing my head from my ass. I also know the first step is to do as Delaney says and make a choice from the final applicants and hire a nanny for Ben. Once I start back at practices next week, I'll need someone to help me with him.

  Delaney has been down here in Raleigh for the past week, interviewing prospects and checking out references. She's narrowed it down to a choice of three, and while I really don't want to care about whom to pick, I know that for the sake of my son, I need to be satisfied the person I do choose is right for the job. I trust Delaney implicitly, but I also know that I need to show some interest...at least for her peace of mind. The day after tomorrow she'll head back to Manhattan, where she works as a financial analyst, and I can't let her leave with undue worry over me and Ben.

  It pisses me off that I have to hire a nanny. It feels like I'm replacing Gina...hiring a new mommy for my boy. Deep down, the rational side of me knows this isn't true. While I've been able to handle Ben just fine on my own for the last four months while I recovered from my wrist injury, there is no way I can be a single parent to Ben when much of my career is spent on the road. I will need someone to be with him full-time when I'm gone, and it has to be someone trustworthy.

  So I'll do my duty tomorrow and give the applicants thoughtful consideration. Then I'll make my decision and start the process of introducing a new woman who will become a provider and mother figure to my son.

  That thought causes pain to shoot through my chest, and while I know it's unfair, a little part of me already hates this woman because she will be taking Gina's place in that respect.

  Chapter 1

  Zack

  The doorbell rings just as I'm trying to simultaneously flip a pancake with one hand and pull bacon off the griddle with another. The pancake ends up sticking, then folding in half, and my forearm hits the edge of the griddle. I swear I can hear my skin sizzle from the contact.

  "Fuck!" I jerk backward, dropping both the fork in one hand and the spatula in the other, thankful that Ben is in his room playing and didn't hear me say that. It's a constant battle sometimes to watch my language around the kid.

  Slapping at the control knobs, I turn the heat completely off the large electric griddle I had been struggling with and rub gently the burn on my arm as I head toward the front door. As I round the corner from the kitchen into the living room, I slam my bare foot into Ben's large dump-truck toy, causing a string of curses to come out of my mouth now as I hobble onward to the door.

  My front door is honey-colored oak and has a large oval glass inset with a beveled flower design. Gina had picked it out and had it installed, claiming that it allowed more light into the front entranceway. I thought it was a little too girly, but I didn't argue with her. The house was her domain.

  The glass lets me see my visitor on the other side, but provides no details because of the beveled cuts and partial frosting, which distort the person. But I know who it is.

  Ben's new nanny.

  Roberta Francis.

  She was Delaney's top choice, and after I briefly scanned her application I had to sit and listen to my sister rave about her. Delaney felt she was perfect for the job in all respects. She was fantastic with children, having helped raise her three nephews for a period of time. She was also a student with a flexible schedule. Delaney actually droned on and on about this particular situation, but I tuned her out and started thinking about everything I'd need to do to get the house ready to put on the market. I was seriously considering selling it. Maybe move farther out into the country, where we could have some land and Ben could have a dog.

  Finally, I just cut Delaney off and said, "She sounds perfect. Let's go with her."

  And now, as I'm about to open the door to let a woman into my house who will have the most important of responsibilities in helping me care for my son, I'm suddenly realizing I don't know anything about her other than her name and a vague recollection that she's a student who helped raise her nephews.

  Just fucking great. Way to be an involved and responsible parent, Zack.

  The only saving grace at this moment is that Delaney thoroughly interviewed this girl, checked out her references, and was absolutely enchanted with her. I trust Delaney, so this will be fine. She'll be great, in fact.

  I wish I believed myself.

&n
bsp; I swing the door open and get my first look at the woman who will be moving into my house and caring for my son. I'm not sure what I expected, but this wasn't it.

  Based on Delaney's assessment, I expected her to have a superhero's cape on, or at the very least a shiny gold halo and massive angel wings sprouting out of her back.

  Instead...she's sort of unremarkable.

  She stares up at me with round, crystal-blue eyes that are devoid of any makeup and surrounded by brown plastic-framed glasses. Her hair is dark, held back with a headband and twisted up behind her so I have no clue how long it is. She's small, barely coming up to my shoulder, and swimming in an oversized, extremely faded red NC State sweatshirt and baggy jeans that look about two sizes too big for her. An old backpack slung over her shoulder and a pair of well-worn tennis shoes complete her outfit.

  "Roberta?" I ask hesitantly, because suddenly I'm thinking this may be someone soliciting something...or maybe even a homeless person looking for a meal. The way those clothes completely swallow her makes me think she's starving underneath all that material.

  She gives me an outwardly bright smile and sticks a delicate hand out toward me. Her sweatshirt is so big, her sleeves are rolled up around her wrists. "Actually...I go by Kate. Roberta's my first name, which I was named after my daddy, Robert, but seriously...who wouldn't hate that name? So I go by my middle name, which is Kathryn, actually. So I shorted it down to Kate, because Kathryn sounds just so...I don't know...like a Catholic saint or something, and I'm not Catholic. I was raised Southern Baptist, but I really don't go to church anymore, so--"

  She pauses...finally, and takes a deep breath. Her smile goes from politely earnest to a sheepish grin, and she gives an apologetic shrug. "Sorry...I'm nervous and I tend to prattle when I'm nervous."

  I just blink at her, completely shocked silent. I have no clue what to think about this strange woman...no, girl, I think, because she looks so fucking young.