I’ve been reading this writing duo’s books since the first one they wrote together back in 2017. I’m actually at the point where I’m pretty sure I know who is writing each main character. 😊 Prior to reading their first book I didn’t know a thing about ice hockey but if RJ writes a book, I’m reading it. Their partnership also led me to become a fan and follower of V.L. Locey’s books. So, in the last 5 years I’ve now read more hockey romances than I ever could have predicted. You know what? I still don’t really know anything about hockey but that doesn’t matter one bit; I love reading hockey romance written by several favorite authors I now follow.

You will enjoy Rental more if you’ve read the other books in this series but I think it would do OK as a standalone as long as you are aware that characters from previous books are featured in this one. I’m not going to waste your time restating the blurb because it’s spot on. The writing is tight without a lot of filler and that is only one of the things I like about what these two write. Telling a great story in a short novel isn’t something that all writers can do well.

I laughed and I cried while reading Rental. Logan and Webber probably could have been a bit smarter when it came to their romance but then the story wouldn’t have been as good. 😊 Once the inevitable happened I was fighting tears and ultimately lost the fight. That’s a sure sign for me that I’m loving what I’m reading.

I loved how supportive Webber’s family was and also how the Rebels supported Logan after they got over the shock of certain events. There was one heart-stopping scene that I wasn’t quite prepared for but I knew it would all work out in the end because RJ and V.L. always give their men the HEAs they so richly deserve.

The epilogue, set eighteen months in the future, was the perfect ending to a wonderful story.

Reviews for RJ Scott

Reviews for V.L. Locey

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“Samuel Adams, please, draft, and a menu?” I asked. He nodded, moved off to pull me a beer and grab a menu. Raking my fingers through my short, damp brown hair I settled in, looked to the left, and saw one of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen before, staring at me as if I were a bacon cheeseburger and he was just coming out of a meat-free Lent drought. Gorgeous lower half of his face, anyway. He wet his lips. My pecker perked up instantly. I barely noticed the beer and menu that appeared in front of me. The bartender, who was probably used to seeing men drooling on his bar, moved off to tend to his other customers. “Evening,” I said because I was smooth and suave that way.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice deep as the ocean depths. He was dirty blond, big, and inked. Also, a little younger than me. Not by eons or anything, but maybe early thirties. He had a rugged face, a nose that was wider and perhaps a wee bit crooked. Incredibly lush lips and one hell of a strong jaw. Dark blue eyes. That nose/jaw combo was a real standout. His face was rough and masculine, but he’d not be appearing on the cover of any high-fashion magazine. The man was not a fashionable waif. He was a bruiser. And just my type. His mask was purple with sequins. Very flashy for a man who didn’t strike me as the flashy type, but then again, what did I know about him other than my dick was into his vibe. “You here for food or something else?”

My dick was standing at attention. Okay then, the straightforward type. “I’m here for whatever the night brings me.”

He gave me a smile that could have jarred Satan. Talk about sinful. “Yeah, same.” With that announcement, he slid from his stool, adjusted his cock, which looked like a thick hunk of meat pressing against the zipper of his jeans, and then sauntered off. I sat there overwhelmed, not only at the quickness of finding a willing fuck, but at the potential sheer size of that man’s cock. His ass was a work of perfection. Meaty as hell. Damn this bar was a treasure trove! Why had I not googled gay bars in Boston when I was here before?! He paused at the end of a dark hallway, bathroom signs lit above his head, and gave me that look. That look that scorched all my nerve receptors aside from the ones that led to my crotch. He walked off into the dimly lit corridor.

The bartender cleared his throat. I glanced at him, waiting with a pencil and pad in his hand.

“I have to go wash up first,” I lied like a motherfucking rug.

“Uh-huh.” He placed the pad back into his front pocket and went to make cocktails.

Boston Rebels Series

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