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
