School and Rock (Raptors Book 5) Read online

  School and Rock

  Arizona Raptors, book 5

  RJ Scott

  V.L. Locey

  Copyright

  School and Rock (Arizona Raptors #5)

  Copyright © 2020 RJ Scott, Copyright © 2020 V.L. Locey

  Cover design by Meredith Russell, Edited by Sue Laybourn

  Published by Love Lane Books Limited

  ISBN - 9781785642111

  All Rights Reserved

  This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer-to-peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Contents

  School and Rock

  What’s next from RJ &V.L.?

  Authors Note

  Hockey Romance from RJ & V.L.

  Also by V.L. Locey

  Also by RJ Scott

  Meet V.L. Locey

  Meet RJ Scott

  One

  Colorado

  There were quite a few ways to wake up that ensured a day would be a good one.

  Not being able to roll over due to the hot, nude bodies sharing a bed was one of my favorites, hands down. Speaking of hands…

  I touched a thick leg, a thigh, quite hairy. Tossing my left hand outward, the back of my fingers rested on a substantial breast. I breathed in the smells of warm skin and sex, and rubbed my whiskery cheek against the firm belly my head was pillowed on. A little purr bubbled out of me when my nose bumped a soft cock. Shifting one leg back, I found a hard, muscular body with a meaty calf. I smiled as my eyes remained shut to block out the blazing Arizona sun. Three to one. Yeah, that sounded about right. Even though I was pan I did tend to prefer dudes. That didn’t make my orientation any less valid though. My bed and heart were open to all.

  Taking a moment to center and listen to the gentle sounds of so many sleeping lovers, I let my mind wander to the party last night. It had been one hell of a blowout. My place had been packed with fans, groupies, my fellow musicians, and even a couple of the Raptors. The braver ones. A lot of the team shied away from the rock parties.

  Which I respected. I didn’t do drugs and drink. Ever. I had few rules in my life but drugs and booze were totally off limits. If others wanted to toke up, snort a line, or dive into a bottle of Jack that was on them. Live and let live. My days were all about pleasure, penning songs, and playing hockey. Oh yeah, and the occasional party like last night’s…

  The Chaotic Furballs had signed a record deal with Black Crack Records after the rep, Dilly Andrews, had wooed us fucking hard. And we were more than pumped to sign on the dotted line. Black Crack was one of the biggest and hottest recording companies on the metal scene. They’d risen from obscurity over the past two years by signing new hard rock bands that the other companies were scared to take on. While most places were lusting after K-Pop bands and anyone who sounded like Taylor Swift, Black Crack was all about the metal. They were my kind of people. The band was looking at a massive influx of cash and prestige, something we had worked our asses off for. Now that we’d signed, we’d have to produce. But all that had to wait for hockey to end after we’d just clinched a wild card slot in the playoffs. It was hard balancing two great loves. I’d have been hard-pressed to pick which I adored more, hockey or rock. Both were fundamental to my soul. Both were the most important things in my life. I wasn’t going to turn my back on my band or my team. A real man didn’t walk away from responsibility.

  Whoever was playing my pillow was hungry. His belly rumbled in my ear. I kissed his navel, opened my eyes, and snickered to see it was Dilly whose stomach was making so much noise. Right, the record exec had wooed us hard and I’d fucked him twice as hard. And the pink-haired dude, and the blonde chick with the nice tits, and the big roadie who’d been carting drums for us over the past few months. Love was meant to be shared. I should’ve gotten that inked on my ass cheek.

  “Rock and roll,” I mumbled, wiggling free of the arms and legs, knotted blankets, and stuffed emu tangled around a skinny dude with pink hair and the lone female in my bed. Pouting when I saw my stuffed Kricker—I missed my fucking emu, stupid wildlife laws—I stumbled around my bedroom naked. A warm wind blew through the open sliding doors carrying the heady scent of desert lavender. Nice.

  I found my jeans, a retro pair with huge bell bottoms, and pulled them up over my bare ass. Then I spied the sheer zebra-print kimono the busty blonde sleeping under the roadie had worn last night. I pulled it on then padded out of my room on bare feet. The satiny robe rubbed my neck and I winced. Stopping by a mirror on the wall, I tipped my head to the right. The new ink I’d gotten last night was tender. The redness had gone down and the musical notes were fucking intense. My gaze fell to the tattoo of Kricker wearing a bowler hat on my pectoral.

  “Always in my heart, bruh,” I mumbled then patted my chest.

  As I ambled through my airy desert home I stopped to check on people, my bandmates in particular, who were all curled around a woman, or two, sleeping off their well-deserved celebrations. I was the only Furball who liked cock, or at least the only one who would freely admit it. Yawning and scratching my belly, I stopped to use the bathroom and stepped over a dude in a kilt sleeping with a red bong in one hand and a green dildo in the other.

  “Looks like you had a good night,” I said then relieved myself, flushed, and washed my hands. I took a closer look at myself in the mirror, smiled at the man I saw, and then pattered downstairs, taking care to avoid the empty bottles of booze, a few random kegs, and assorted people I knew and didn’t know. Not to mention there was a drum set in the living room that someone had filled with water and the four fat koi from the cement pond out back. Sniggering at The Beverly Hillbillies reference, I cruised into the kitchen, blinked at the brightness, and glanced around for the electric tea kettle as I wondered where my phone had gone. I found the kettle in the fridge filled with prawns. My phone was sandwiched between the massive cookstove that I never used, and the counter.

  “Dudes,” I sighed then washed out the kettle and turned it on.

  I always started my day with two cups of ginseng tea sweetened with honey. It was one of a dozen things that my grandmother Alchemy did every morning that I’d incorporated into my routines. Most of my grandmother’s habits were pretty righteous and aimed at taming the beast inside my breast. I missed her company but she was living in Vermont now, heading a co-op of hippie seniors. Soon as hockey was over and the band had laid down some tracks, I was heading to Vermont—the land of Ben & Jerry’s.

  While the kettle heated, I dropped my phone into the charger and whispered, “Alexa, play ‘Dude (Looks Like a Lady) by Aerosmith’ on the whole house system. Volume setting concert level.”

  I threw my head back, spun in a circle, and started belting along with my idol Steven Tyler. My voice was similar to his, and my stage screams were close. Not that anyone could possibly recreate the majesty of his voice, of course. Shaking my ass through Joe Perry’s guitar solo—if I had a fucking buck for every time I spanked my meat to the fantasy of being wedged between Tyler and Perry I’d own the motherfucking Grand Canyon—I sang along as I filled a mug with hot water, dunked my tea bag, and stirred in some clover honey that Alchemy had sent me last week.

 
; I got a sip in when I thought I heard the doorbell ring. Hard to tell with Aerosmith rocking so loud the windows were humming, but it sounded like the bell. I jumped over two half-naked Asian dudes sleeping on the Italian marble in the foyer curled around each other like a couple of cats. Dio’s “Holy Diver” fired up next. I dropped to my knees, silky kimono fluttering out like wings, and offered up a rock prayer to the dearly departed legend.

  The guys behind me giggled. I gave them a wink and then passed my tea along to them to warm themselves before getting to my bare feet and yanking the door open. I expected to see a dude with a brown truck asking me to sign for a delivery. Furball fans and Raptors backers were always mailing me shit. I looked out at the sweeping driveway but there was nothing to be seen but cactus, a roadrunner, and a well-tended flower garden that I never paid any attention to. Gardeners took care of it, just like a cleaning service would come in after I was on the plane to tidy up the house. My agent took care of all that. Who had time?

  “Colorado, we’re cold,” one of the dudes—they might have been twins—behind me called in a sing-song voice.

  Assuming someone from the party had pranked my ass, I was about to slam the heavy front door shut and warm up the two chilly groupies when a small little mewl, like that of a kitten, drew my attention downward. Thank all the fucking gods I’d passed along that scalding cup of tea to those guys. My whole mental state went blank as I gaped at the tiny baby staring up at me from within its carrier-tote thing. It had a big head with soft, dark peach fuzz and blue eyes. It was all in pink so I figured it was a girl, but why not be more gender-neutral? Come on people. The edge of an envelope stuck out from the base of the carrier, so I wiggled it free.

  “Yo,” I said to the baby. It gurgled. “Where’s your mother, little person? Is she around back sleeping it off with Buick? He’s into MILF’s.” Drummers were horn dogs. Proven fact. Just like goalies are weird. I totally owned my shit.

  Ripping open the wrinkled letter as a breeze ruffled my stolen kimono and the baby’s soft fuzz, I sat down cross-legged beside the infant and shook open the incredibly short missive.

  Colorado,

  This baby is yours. I named her after my grandmothers Madeline and Celeste.

  My gaze flicked to the kid chewing on her fingers. “Grandmothers are cool,” I told her and she gabbled around her fist. I gave her a lopsided smile then the first line of the note sank in and my gut flipped. I focused back to the note written in purple pen.

  Raise her well. You can afford her, I can’t. Next time use a condom you slutty man whore.

  One of a thousand

  “Shit,” I whispered, the note fluttering off in the morning wind. Madeline Celeste and I started at each other for a millisecond. Then I dove into what could only be described as a major freak-out. Like I lost it biblically. Snapping up the carrier with the baby I then raced back into the house, a banging tune by Tenacious D blaring throughout the sixty-seven thousand square foot Mediterranean-style mansion. The baby, Madeline, began wailing, which really didn’t do a damn thing for my mental state or Jack Black’s ripping vocals. The twins took one look at me and the screaming infant and melted into the shadows.

  I raced into the kitchen, placed the baby on the counter, barked at Alexa to shut the hell up, and then pounced on my phone. There was no way to be sure Madeline was mine without a blood test, but she had some impressive pipes so maybe she was my kid. Although she had blue eyes and mine were a greenish-brown hazel so maybe she wasn’t?

  I called Alchemy but her answering machine—honestly, who the hell used an answering machine anymore other than hippie octogenarians—informed me she was on a spirit quest and would not return to this realm until Friday so please leave a message.

  In lieu of saying anything, I held out my phone so she could hear my kid… the kid… screaming bloody murder. Allegedly my kid. Right. Allegedly. No proof. Just a letter from someone who thought they were a member of the Borg collective. One of a thousand. Did she hang out with Seven of Nine?

  Colorado, stop with the Star Trek shit and focus on the problem before I kick your fucking ass.

  “So yeah, this is happening. Can you please call me when you’ve returned to your mortal shell?!” I shouted at my grandmother then immediately felt terrible. “Sorry, just a bit stressed. Please call me, okay. I really need to talk to you. Love. Peace out. Oh my shit, she’s like red in the face!”

  I hung up, unfastened the little belt holding the raging baby in the carrier, and slid a hand under her. Recalling holding a teammate’s new baby at a social function last month, I cradled Madeline’s head and placed her against my chest. She quieted instantly. Snot and drool coated my shoulder. Not that I was freaked out by that. Life wasn’t worth living if you didn’t have some sort of bodily fluid on your skin.

  “Okay, yeah good,” I mumbled, rocking side to side as I made another frantic call. “Yeah, that’s a good girl. Not everyone can relate to Tenacious D in the bright and early. Come on, Vlad, pick up the mother… loving phone before I—Vlad! Oh man, I have a small issue here. Like, really small. Maybe seven pounds and… no, dude, it is not a baby emu. It’s a baby.” Madeline nuzzled my collarbone, sucking madly. Shit. Was she hungry? When had she eaten last? What kind of person dropped a kid off at the door of a notorious asshole rock and roll goalie without some grub? “What do you feed a baby? What? No, dude, I told you it’s not a baby animal. Seriously? Why would I buy a tiger cub? Okay, yeah, it would be cool and does kind of sound like something I’d do. I’ll grant you that one. Vlad, listen, some chick dropped a baby off at my front door and—Yes! A real baby. A human baby. Note said it’s mine.”

  My whiskery cheek rested on her soft head as we waltzed around the kitchen. She smelled good, like sunshine and warm kitten fur. A rush of Russian flowed into the room from Vlad. I rolled my eyes as we danced around my phone lying on the counter. All I’d wanted was some tea, some food, maybe one quick round with the four people still snoozing in my bed, and a shower before I left for the airport. Was that asking too—?

  “Stay there. I will be over quickly,” Vlad said then hung up.

  The panic attack backed off a bit, just enough to jar me into motion. Someone in this mansion had to know what to do for a baby. Every chick I woke up to feed Madeline got super pissy and called me a sexist asshole for asking only women how to care for a baby. Who was I going to ask? Buick? My best buddy in the band could barely feed himself let alone an infant. A mewling, whining baby cleared out the house fast. I suspected she may have shit herself as well if the stench I was smelling was coming from her and not my unwashed skanky man whore ass. I was never so happy to see the arrival of my team captain in my whole life. I was less happy to see Coach Carmichael and his boyfriend.

  “Dude, why the hell did you call them?” I barked at Vlad as soon as they entered the house.

  “He called because I’m your head coach,” Coach C snapped.

  Mark, one of the owners of the Raptors, slid between us with bags of stuff dangling from his fingers. “Take these,” he said and reached to take Madeline from me. I jerked to the side, holding her little body tightly to my chest. Mark gave me a look that screamed irritation. “Take the bags. There’s formula, bottles, and diapers for her.”

  I glanced from Vlad to Coach to Westman-Reid while my… Madeline nuzzled my clavicle.

  “Thanks.” I hooked the shopping bags on my fingers then carried Madeline into the white living room. There were two. One was white and the other was… sort of an off-white.

  “What the hell happened in here?” Coach asked as I laid the baby on a loveseat and sat there staring at her. She really stank.

  “We signed a record deal and got a wild card slot,” I replied as Madeline stared holes into my soul.

  “Ah, did you party all night?” Mark asked in a tone that immediately sent his comment to my mental trash bin. The owners had never liked me. There were days I wasn’t sure Coach did, but he’d headhunted me, so here I was, in al
l my Penn family glory.

  “I’m clean. I’ll go piss in a jar when we arrive in Vegas, but right now the band and the team kind of take a back seat, yeah?” They all nodded sheepishly. Vlad muttered something about calling Child Services just as I’d worked up the courage to unsnap the tiny pink sleeper Madeline was wearing to check for a diaper disaster. The stench that rolled up from inside her sleeper made us all choke. “No,” I said as my eyes watered and Coach took a step back. “We are not sending my kid to foster care.”

  “Colorado, you don’t know she’s yours,” Coach pointed out. I gagged a bit. How could a person so small make such a massive stink? “We’re due in Nevada in five hours for the first round of the playoffs. You cannot travel with that baby. The wise thing to do would be to call Child Services, have the blood test, and if you’re determined to be the father then you can search for the mother. Don’t shake your head, there are legalities that need to be—”

  “No. I am not turning my back on her. She’s mine until it’s proven otherwise. Good parents do not leave their kids for other people to raise!” I yelled.

  Coach glowered but he didn’t call me out. Mark and Vlad stood in the distance like golems for several seconds until Westman-Reid said something that was actually useful.

  “My sisters-in-law use nannies all the time. They might be able to help us out.” Mark glanced around. I nodded. Coach nodded. Vlad nodded. “Okay, so change that diaper and we’ll figure out the formula so she can eat.”

  Mark turned his back on us while he rang up a sister-in-law. I peeled open the diaper, just one side, and drew back in total horror. Coach and Vlad left the room like Satan was nipping at their balls. Madeline kicked and giggled.