Red Line Riot (LOS ANGELES FIREBIRDS HOCKEY #2) by Mariah Wolfe EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Mariah Wolfe
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.9 MB
- Price: Free
WESTON
Liar.
Liar.
Fucking liar.
If there was a poster girl for all the liars in the world, it would be Renee
DuBois. And I would be the moron staring at the poster with some pathetic,
livestock-brained durrr gaze on my face.
It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her, but the rage is still a poison in my blood.
Nothing quiets it. Not whiskey. Not work. Not smashing heads or ripping
slapshots.
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The worst part is there’s another poison still lingering, too. The poison of
missing her. How ridiculous is that? She tore my life to pieces and my dumb
ass still misses her.
“You look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet.” Hunter waggles a
brow at me.
I don’t need his shit—not now, not today, and especially not from someone
who has been helping me stay drunk pretty much around the clock.
“Yeah, well, I can get a couple good nights of sleep and be back to my old
self. You’re going to need plastic surgery to get my boot out of your face if
you don’t shut up.”
He must sense a little extra venom in my voice today, because he doesn’t
retort. He just kicks his feet up on my coffee table, pulls on his vape, and
sighs.
I promptly shove his feet right off the table. I don’t give a shit about the
furniture; I’m just spoiling for a fight, and he’s the closest thing I can
punch. He’s been close for a while now, actually. Hasn’t left in days. It
almost feels like he’s hiding from something.
To which I’d say: join the fuckin’ club, man.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“I’m not leaving you here.” He shakes his head. “You aren’t gutting
yourself on my watch.”
“I’m not suicidal, dickhead. I like me too much to hurt me. You, on the
other hand… I don’t like you very much at all.”
“Par for the course. Don’t you have practice to go to?”
I do, and it’s the only reason I’m so painfully sober at the moment. “I don’t
need you to tell me when I have practice. You’re not my goddamn mother.”
He’s still laughing when I snatch my bag up and storm out the door. If I
wasn’t already late, I’d go back in and keep snarling at him.
Instead, I drive like I have nine lives to the arena, whip the car into the lot,
and then sit for a minute wondering why I even bothered to show up.
On a normal day, the answer is because I love this game. Today, though,
I’m baffled. I consider turning the car around and saying Fuck it, but I
don’t. I’m mad and stubborn enough to go inside and get dressed.
If I have to be here, I might as well wear myself out so I can sleep tonight.
Sleep is hard to come by these days
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