Grace reassured her with a chuckle. “And if it’s that bad, he’ll just bend you over the bureau with your face in the other direction.”
Even though her cheeks heated at the image her friend’s comment created, Ronnie laughed so hard, she nearly swallowed the gum.
“Or here’s another novel idea: I could make him wait five seconds while I borrow his toothbrush.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Well, if you wanted to take the logical route, I suppose that would work.”
Ronnie still couldn’t believe they were doing this. An impromptu road trip hadn’t been on her list of things to do over the weekend, but as soon as Gracehad called her back to let her know that Jenna was not only alive and well, but crossing all of her fingers and toes that last night’s mission had been accomplished, and then suggested they get the hell out of Dodge just in case, Ronnie had suddenly thought it sounded like a stellar idea.
It was one thing to manipulate events and take some liberties with a man’s free will when it came to sex, but it was a whole other thing to stick around and wait for The Wrath of Gage to fall upon them.
If he woke up pissed, Ronnie just knew she and Grace were going to be at the top of his list of people to kill. And the man was a redwood. He could snap them in half with his pinky finger, if the notion took him . . . something she would just as soon avoid, if at all possible.
So a road trip for a little out-of-town nookie and temporary witness relocation it was.
The parking lot was packed, but they eventually found a spot about six miles from the main building and pulled in. Both women gathered their purses and small overnight bags, then locked up and made the long trek to the hotel lobby.
Unlike most nearly empty hotel lobbies, this one was packed—and every other person milling about wore a Cleveland Rockets jersey, sweat- or T-shirt, or some other type of hockey paraphernalia. There were even a few giant foam fingers being waved around.
Those who weren’t obvious hockey fans were even more obvious puck bunnies, dressed in skintight jeans or short-shorts and tops so snug, one good breath would have their breasts popping out like they were at a La Leche convention.
She probably couldn’t spot them as quickly as Grace did, but Ronnie knew a groupie when she saw one. And living with a sports reporter who covered the Rockets almost exclusively meant that she spent her fair share of time at games and practices, and wasn’t the least bit surprised by the number of fans hanging out in the hotel lobby praying a player would wander through. Some were hoping for autographs, others pictures. And the bunnies . . . well, they were hoping for the chance to put another notch on their bedposts with some willing player’s skate blade.
“Thank God we don’t have to bother with going up to the registration desk and asking for room numbers,” Grace said as they bypassed the crowd and headed directly for the bank of elevators.
“Yep. It pays to be sleeping with a star goalie and the team’s own personal sports reporter,” Ronnie quipped in response.
Grace cast a disparaging glance toward the stacked and shellacked bimbettes waiting for a chance to do just that. “Not that you’d ever catch me hanging around like that. I don’t care how hot some of the players are, don’t those women have
any
self-respect?”
Ronnie followed Grace’s gaze just in time to see a groupie with blond hair bleached within an inch of its life lean over . . . and the waistband of her jeans ride down to reveal a bright red thong and a vine-and-roses tramp stamp at the small of her back.
“Good God,” Ronnie said, appalled. She blinked rapidly and turned away. “I think I’ve been struck blind.”
Grace chuckled as the elevator dinged and the up arrow turned green. “Do you need me to walk you toDylan’s room, or do you think you’ll be okay?” she asked as they stepped into the car.
“Give me a minute, I think
Even though her cheeks heated at the image her friend’s comment created, Ronnie laughed so hard, she nearly swallowed the gum.
“Or here’s another novel idea: I could make him wait five seconds while I borrow his toothbrush.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Well, if you wanted to take the logical route, I suppose that would work.”
Ronnie still couldn’t believe they were doing this. An impromptu road trip hadn’t been on her list of things to do over the weekend, but as soon as Gracehad called her back to let her know that Jenna was not only alive and well, but crossing all of her fingers and toes that last night’s mission had been accomplished, and then suggested they get the hell out of Dodge just in case, Ronnie had suddenly thought it sounded like a stellar idea.
It was one thing to manipulate events and take some liberties with a man’s free will when it came to sex, but it was a whole other thing to stick around and wait for The Wrath of Gage to fall upon them.
If he woke up pissed, Ronnie just knew she and Grace were going to be at the top of his list of people to kill. And the man was a redwood. He could snap them in half with his pinky finger, if the notion took him . . . something she would just as soon avoid, if at all possible.
So a road trip for a little out-of-town nookie and temporary witness relocation it was.
The parking lot was packed, but they eventually found a spot about six miles from the main building and pulled in. Both women gathered their purses and small overnight bags, then locked up and made the long trek to the hotel lobby.
Unlike most nearly empty hotel lobbies, this one was packed—and every other person milling about wore a Cleveland Rockets jersey, sweat- or T-shirt, or some other type of hockey paraphernalia. There were even a few giant foam fingers being waved around.
Those who weren’t obvious hockey fans were even more obvious puck bunnies, dressed in skintight jeans or short-shorts and tops so snug, one good breath would have their breasts popping out like they were at a La Leche convention.
She probably couldn’t spot them as quickly as Grace did, but Ronnie knew a groupie when she saw one. And living with a sports reporter who covered the Rockets almost exclusively meant that she spent her fair share of time at games and practices, and wasn’t the least bit surprised by the number of fans hanging out in the hotel lobby praying a player would wander through. Some were hoping for autographs, others pictures. And the bunnies . . . well, they were hoping for the chance to put another notch on their bedposts with some willing player’s skate blade.
“Thank God we don’t have to bother with going up to the registration desk and asking for room numbers,” Grace said as they bypassed the crowd and headed directly for the bank of elevators.
“Yep. It pays to be sleeping with a star goalie and the team’s own personal sports reporter,” Ronnie quipped in response.
Grace cast a disparaging glance toward the stacked and shellacked bimbettes waiting for a chance to do just that. “Not that you’d ever catch me hanging around like that. I don’t care how hot some of the players are, don’t those women have
any
self-respect?”
Ronnie followed Grace’s gaze just in time to see a groupie with blond hair bleached within an inch of its life lean over . . . and the waistband of her jeans ride down to reveal a bright red thong and a vine-and-roses tramp stamp at the small of her back.
“Good God,” Ronnie said, appalled. She blinked rapidly and turned away. “I think I’ve been struck blind.”
Grace chuckled as the elevator dinged and the up arrow turned green. “Do you need me to walk you toDylan’s room, or do you think you’ll be okay?” she asked as they stepped into the car.
“Give me a minute, I think
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