WE ARE ONE: Volume Two

by Jewel, Bella

  “Hmm.” He leans against the back counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s a tough one.”

  I reach into my jacket, pull out my money clip, and flick over two fifty-dollar bills. “You can’t happen to tell me some of her usual hangouts, can you?” I place the money on the sticky bar and slide it over.

  His eyes narrow on my hand, then my face. “You bribing me, son?”

  “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get a second chance.”

  His lips thin. His shoulders straighten. “Your money is no good to me.”

  Bullshit. The guy might want to believe he’s above the incentive, but his darting eyes tell a whole different story.

  “You sure?” I hide my growing annoyance behind a relaxed tone. I don’t have time for this shit. Not for him. Not for her. If Brent isn’t careful, I’ll lose my patience, and nobody wants that. “Come on. Just let me know where she hangs out.”

  He sighs, the first sign of a slight buckle in his resolve. “I don’t know much about her. Only a few things I’ve learned here and there from regulars who talk a lot of shit. So, I’d suggest your money would be better spent getting a decent meal at the Hot Wok at the end of the street.” He glances away. “On a Thursday night…at around seven o’clock.”

  I hide my smirk behind another sip of whiskey.

  “And if you’re new to the area, you should check out the boxing club six blocks south of here. I think they have classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.”

  Wednesday—tomorrow.

  I tilt my glass at him in appreciation. “Thanks.”

  His gaze narrows. “If you fuck with her—”

  “I know.” I should laugh. If the threat had come from anyone else, I would.

  “You do right by her. Even if she isn’t interested in what you’ve got to offer.”

  “I will.” The lies come easily. They always have.

  I throw back the remaining liquid, then slide the glass toward him. “Thanks for the drink.” I stand, leaving the bills on the counter.

  “Take the money with you. You left more than enough earlier.”

  “Keep it for next time. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

  He chuckles. “Only if you’re lucky.”

  “Yeah.” Or more specifically, if she’s unlucky.

  I walk outside, unable to help myself as I glance at the building across the street. The third-floor window. I expect to see her there, watching, waiting, and I’m ashamed to admit I’m disappointed she isn’t.

  She thinks the game is over. That the hook-up failed, and we’ve gone our separate ways.

  In reality, our time together has just begun. The two of us are going to get to know one another, whether she likes it or not. And that’s not my fault. It’s all on her—her decisions, her actions. Her damn sassy mouth.

  I continue along the road, down the side street, to my car. I climb in and snatch my phone from the glove compartment.

  Three missed calls, all from Decker, but he’s not the person I need to speak to first.

  I dial Torian, and I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer. The fucker would be sleeping like a baby while I worked. His voicemail cuts in, and the beep sounds without a welcome message.

  “Hey, Torian. There’s been a complication.” I swallow over the bitter taste of temporary failure. “It means a slight delay in the timeline, but I’ll call once I’m done.”

  I hang up, knowing he won’t give a shit about details, and call Decker.

  “Where the fuck are you?” he demands in greeting. “You were supposed to check in over an hour ago.”

  “There was a change of plan.”

  “What change?”

  “A snag with the job. I had to follow a lead.”

  “You’re not a fucking detective. You do your job, get the hell out of there, then call me.”

  I start the ignition and do a U-turn, going in the opposite direction of where I need to be. “You worried about me, pumpkin?”

  “Stressed,” he growls. “I was stressed. Big difference.”

  “That’s cute, Deck. Real cute.” I creep my car to the intersection and glance up at her building. Her window. She’s there, standing to the side of the frame, trying to remain out of view as she peers down at the bar.

  My dick pulses, and I’m not sure I even know what I want from her anymore. I should go back up there and finish what I started. I should end this tonight.

  But I can’t force this. For once, I don’t want to.

  “Fuck you, Hunt.” He snaps my nickname, making it sound like a curse. “So, you’ve quit working for the night? Is this you calling to punch your card?”

  “No. I haven’t started.” I shouldn’t give a shit that she’s up there waiting for a glimpse of me, but I do. I shouldn’t want to draw her attention, but I itch to do that, too. “I only called because I need you to do a background search on someone.”

  “You haven’t started? You checked out hours ago. What the fuck is going on?”

  “Focus.” It’s a warning to us both. I tear my gaze from her silhouette and turn onto her street, driving away from her building. “The name is Stephanie. She lives at apartment nineteen, level three, six-five-nine Belldore Street.” I pause, waiting for confirmation that doesn’t come. “Did you get all that?”

  “All that? You haven’t given me much to go on.”

  “It’s enough. Once you start digging, you’ll find more.” He always does.

  “And what am I digging for, exactly?”

  “Anything and everything.” I want it all. I need it all. “And make sure you get started right away.”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “I mean tonight, Decker. Now. This is your main priority.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  She happened. Long hair, slim legs, sassy blue eyes, and ruby lips I want stretched around my dick. And they are only the physical attributes. I know once I delve into that mind of hers, the fucked-up shit I find will be even more impressive. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Right.” He huffs. “I don’t need to worry at all.”

  “It’s just stress, remember?”

  “You know, it’s no coincidence your nickname rhymes with cunt.”

  I grin. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  6

  Her

  I pound the pavement, jogging the six blocks to the mid-morning boxing class due to start in less than five minutes.

  I should’ve been up early to start my research on the names Dan gave me. Instead, I slept in, which is out of the ordinary. Being kept awake until three a.m. with a rabid case of insomnia is also an anomaly. And only one person carries the blame.

  Hazel eyes haunted me all night. No, they didn’t haunt. They taunted. Teased. I hadn’t been able to get my pounding heartrate to lessen, which made relaxation impossible. I’d tossed and turned, each movement reminding me of the feel of a dominant man against my skin.

  I don’t even know his name.

  It could be Bob or Jim or something equally lustless. Whereas I currently imagine calling out Ryder or Heath or Drew in the height of passion.

  I could scream the fuck out of Heath.

  Jim? Not so much.

  I push through the door to the boxing class and haul the pack off my back to scrounge inside, pulling out my black and white sparring gloves and matching defending pads.

  “You’re late.” Adam, my instructor, raises his voice as I walk across the room and dump my backpack on the floor. “We’ve got even numbers today. So hurry up and pair with the new guy.”

  “New guy?” I scrunch my face accordingly.

  Fuck the new guy. I always work out with Adam. He’s the only one with enough respect and guts to challenge me.

  “You’ll be fine.” He juts his chin to the left and I follow the direction, already glaring in the hopes my intimidating squint will earn me a place back beside my rightful partner.

>   “Oh, hell no.” The words whisper from my mouth as my attention fixes on yet another anomaly.

  He’s here. My insomnia-inducing, weapon-wielding fantasy is throwing air jabs like the rest of the class, his remarkably cut muscles on display through his white sports tank and mid-thigh black shorts.

  He meets my glare with soulless, excitement-starved eyes. Yet, every part of me notices every part of him. Not only the taunting lack of familiarity in his expression, but his tauntingly sexy body, too. Every damn inch of my sweaty, heated skin is well aware there isn’t an ounce of unsculpted flesh anywhere to be seen on this man. Not on his thighs. Not on his arms. And I’d bet my life, not on his ass, either.

  There’s definitely no gun hidden on him today, but this time it doesn’t matter. The guy is a weapon in himself. A lethal assassin. At least where my pussy is concerned. This visual inspection is slaying my cooch. It’s brutal and unwarranted and entirely thrilling.

  I stride toward him, masking the need to salivate as if my life depends on it. “You following me again?”

  He keeps jabbing at the air as a subtle grin kicks at one side of his lips. “That’s a little paranoid, seeing as though I was here first, and this place isn’t even in your suburb.”

  That’s the exact reason I’ve been coming here for the last three months. It isn’t somewhere anyone would expect me to be. I bypass two similar classes on the run here. I even jog additional miles, sometimes doubling back on myself, to ensure nobody follows.

  So, yes, I do wave the paranoid flag with pride. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t tailing me.

  “You’re serious?” His lips thin, and he stops jabbing the air to stand at his full domineering height.

  I drop my gloves to the floor and cross my arms over my chest in response. Don’t loom over me, asshole.

  He scoffs, the sound barely audible as he shakes his head. “No, princess, I’m not following you. But after seeing you in those curve hugging clothes, a guy might just change his plans.” His interest stalks my active-wear, flittering over my body like a physical caress. Ankles to chest.

  I want to tell him to stop, to back the fuck off, but there’s something about the lazy way he appraises me that encourages stupid decisions.

  “Thanks, buddy,” I reply with a luscious amount of sarcasm. “It’s actually funny you mention my outfit, because when I got dressed this morning I thought to myself, ‘Hey, if I’m lucky enough to run into that random guy I met in the bar, who just so happened to bring a gun into my apartment, what would be the best outfit I could wear to impress him?’ And these were the clothes I pulled out.”

  “I’m sensing a little hostility.”

  I raise a brow. “Really?”

  He’s different today. Tired. I don’t like that I want to know why. I don’t like much at all about this guy turning up in my life, only his eyes…and his grin…and his confidence, his muscles, the way he kisses…

  Shit. I like too damn much about this man.

  “You brought a lethal weapon into my apartment. Of course there’s hostility.” I take my position beside him and fall into routine.

  Jab, jab, jab.

  Jab, jab, jab.

  He does the same, those sculpted arms assailing my peripheral vision.

  “I can’t believe you’re still hung up on me having a gun,” he mutters under his breath.

  “For starters, it happened less than twenty-four hours ago. And second, no, I’m not hung up on you having a gun. I’m hung up on you bringing it into my apartment. Into my home.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I apologized?”

  I freeze, entirely surprised by the question, because, yeah, a sincere apology and explanation would help this situation. But I’m beginning to think a clean-up crew for this mess would be more dangerous than my annoyance.

  I don’t want to like this guy. Nope. He is already too far under my skin. Continuing dialogue would be a mistake.

  “Forget it,” I mutter. I train my gaze straight ahead, determined to focus on getting the workout I need, not the workout he could give me.

  “Time to pair up,” Adam calls. “One throwing punches, one holding pads. I want to see jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook.”

  I reach for the gloves at my feet, not giving him the option of who will punch first. I need to swing the frustration from my body. To jab, cross, hook this shit out of my system.

  “I guess I’ll hold the pads to start off,” he grumbles.

  I glare. At him. At myself. At everything that seems out of place and abnormal. I don’t like this. I’m not comfortable with the human interaction or how much I’m beginning to enjoy it.

  Every time our eyes meet, that zing hits me.

  I loathe it.

  “So…” He pulls the worn class pads onto his hands and holds them at chest height. “You don’t want an apology, but would it help if I told you I took your advice?”

  “My advice?” I throw a hard jab, and he jolts.

  He recovers quickly and gives me a game-on smirk. “Yeah. You told me to ditch the gun. Which I did.”

  I ignore him and throw a cross, packing all my strength into the swing. This time, he doesn’t flinch. He barely moves.

  “And I can assure you, the only thing hard in these pants is my dick.”

  A mental image assails me, and I have no idea why my imagination has overcompensated in the package department. Huge man, huge dick. It seems proportionate, but I don’t want that visual.

  Nope.

  It’s difficult enough concentrating on throwing a powerful hook without my pussy contracting with his every word.

  “Jab, cross,” I hiss as I complete the actions. “Hook.” I throw everything I have into those punches, driving him backward.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  “Whoa,” Adam calls out, coming to my side. “Ease up, Emma. I don’t want you scaring away the new guy.”

  Shit.

  I ignore the narrowing hazel eyes staring back at me from my boxing partner and force myself to calm down.

  Adam gives a disapproving shake of his head and moves on to the next pair.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  “Emma?” The stranger’s steely gaze questions me more than the deeply murmured word.

  “Concentrate.” I cross higher, making him duck to avoid an impact to the face.

  “I thought your name was Steph.” He crouches, bringing our eyes level.

  I hide my apprehension behind a scowl. “Emma Stephens. Some people shorten my surname and use it as a nickname.”

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  The intensity in his expression increases, and I don’t appreciate the scrutiny. I can’t blame him for the disbelief. The explanation was poor, especially for my standards. Usually, I’m quick on my feet, mentally speaking.

  Today? Not so much.

  “Okay, everyone,” Adam yells. “Switch places.”

  I throw my gloves to the floor and pull on a set of pads. Once I’m standing straight and ready, the asshole hits me with a jab worthy of knocking a lesser woman on her ass. I stumble, and he smirks at me.

  “Sorry. I’ll go easier on you.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” I hold my hands in place, preparing for the cross. This one is equally hard, but at least I’m ready. The hook, on the other hand, makes me stumble sideways.

  He watches me with each swing, staring into me, holding me captive. The physical exertion and mental games make my heart pound incredibly hard. I start to pant, my breaths short and sharp, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

  He doesn’t question me anymore, not in words, but those eyes seek answers. They’re digging deep, seeing things I don’t want him to see.

  “Stop it,” I growl.

  He chuckles, soft and oh-so low. “Stop what? Do you need me to throw softer punches?”

  “You kno
w what I’m talking about.”

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  The more he moves, the more sweat beads his skin, making those muscles glisten.

  “Get a drink, guys.”

  I slump at Adam’s instruction, dropping the pads to the floor as I hunch, all my muscles squealing in agony.

  “You did well.” My tormentor pats me on the back, his actions and words equally derisive.

  Fuck him. Fuck him for starving my libido. Fuck him for the insomnia. And fuck him for playing mind games.

  He’s messing with me, and he already knows enough to entice him to snoop. I straighten, my nostrils whistling like a damn bull with my labored breathing as Muscle Man stands at my side.

  “What’s wrong?” His grated whisper brushes my ear. “You look livid…and let me tell you, it’s sexy as fuck.”

  A shudder jolts through me, the vibration culminating in my nipples.

  Something isn’t right. I don’t know what it is. I can’t see through his brain-numbing fog to understand it.

  It’s intuition that tells me to get out of here. I lean over, scoop my gloves and pads off the floor, and walk for my backpack. I rip the bag open, the zipper grinding under the pressure. I shove my stuff inside and haul it over my shoulder before stalking to the door.

  Nobody tries to stop me. I have no friends here. No one knows me.

  I push outside, and cold air hits my cheeks, bringing clarity. As cute as it was to think I had a similar personality to this guy, we are nothing alike. We never will be.

  I’m not normal. Not my past and not my future. I don’t fit in, and I don’t want to. I need to remain under the radar, and it feels like this guy has nailed a neon sign on my ass.

  I start down the sidewalk and hear the door push open behind me.

  “Wait.”

  His demand has no effect on me.

  Liar.

  Of course it does. I want to plant my feet and confront the hell out of him. I want to ask him why he’s hassling me, why he’s paying attention when I’ve skated by unnoticed for so long. I want to know why the hell I’m torn with every action and every word where he’s concerned.