Okay.
In return, I’ll be an NHL star and give her all the money I earn.
That’s what I thought. What Istillthink.
In spite of the eyesores blocking my way in the downtown club’s parking lot.
Wolverine—yes, it’s after the Wolves—is half motorcycle club, half bar, and we mostly meet here to celebrate our wins and pick our puck bunnies for a celebratory fuck.
But the whole ordeal seems like a hassle lately.
Sex.
It’s just so…boring.
Yes, fucking others, pinning them beneath me and seeing them squirm gave me momentary pleasure, but it’s all so fleeting.
The thing is, even though I could orgasm, it stopped at the flesh level and never really touched me mentally.
And I’ve tried every hole available. Gender doesn’t matter.
A hole is a hole, no matter who it’s attached to.
But that shallow pleasure was just not interesting to me anymore.
So I stopped it altogether, for a while now.
Watching, however? That’s slightly more interesting. There’s something categorically intriguing about observing while others lose themselves in sex, letting their true colors show, even for that moment in time.
Something I don’t believe I’m intrinsically capable of.
Perhaps that handicap—my inability to feel anything more than people’s bodies—is the reason sex is a terrible ordeal now.
Nonetheless, I’d like to participate in the fun inside to wind down and relieve the tension that’s still bunching in my shoulders. Maybe forget about a certain league’s prince whose skin I’m itching to worm myself beneath.
Toy with his insides a little.
Provoke him a little.
But I can’t do that—neither go inside nor forget about the prince. Again, thanks to people who shouldn’t be here.
Five of them, to be exact. Sharp suits, polished shoes, grim expressions as if they’re posing for a eulogy. My vote’s on Dad’s.
With their starched collars and funeral posture, they just don’t belong here. They’re too clean, too pressed, too Osborn for a place that reeks of spilled whiskey and exhaust fumes.
The club’s parking lot looks like it’s been through a few wars and lost every one. Cracked pavement, gum fossils, andbeer bottles kicked into puddles that smell like something died underneath. The light above the door flickers like it’s on life support, washing everything in a depressing buzzing yellow that makes their suits look cheap.
In their midst stands a brown woman who’s wearing the sharpest suit, a tight ponytail, and stiletto heels.
“I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself the last time. My name is Lyra, and I’m the Osborn family’s legal representative.”
“Does a legal representative need so many bodyguards?” I push off my bike, then stalk toward her. She remains still, but her lips purse a little when I stop a few breaths away from her. “Or are you perhaps scared of little old me?”
“These gentlemen were sent by your father to ensure your safety, Mr. Osborn.”
I laugh, and it’s far from humorous. In fact, it’s so mocking, a sheen of discomfort befalls the group.
“Hilarious,” I say in a deadpan voice. “Don’t you think this entire situation is categorically hilarious, Lyra?”
