Outmatched: A Novel

by Kristen Callihan

  She handed me her helmet and smoothed her hair. “All right.” She took a deep breath that did great things for her tits, and then let it out. “Let’s do this.”

  We both looked up at the massive, sleek yacht hovering at the end of the private dock. People were already crowded on its multiple decks, the windows aglow in the setting sun. Laughter and chatter drifted out into the night.

  I took hold of her elbow and guided her forward. “Act like you own the place and you will.”

  She glanced up at me with a bemused smile. “Is that how you do it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “That you just admitted you’re full of hot air,” she said lightly, and making me chuckle.

  But despite my swagger, as soon as we stepped onto the pale wood mid deck, a sweat broke out on my lower back. The crowd was thick with bleached-toothed, rich assholes and gorgeous women. Everyone had a drink in hand and everyone was exposing those white-capped teeth with fake-ass smiles.

  The yacht itself was stunning. Sleek, polished wood panels and brilliant white leather furniture, multiple decks, each with its own full bar. There was a sunning platform at the aft deck, and a big-ass hot tub on the middle deck where women in string bikinis frolicked.

  I’d been on yachts like this. I could even appreciate the craftsmanship and beauty of the vessel. It was the human element that got under my skin and crawled around like ants. It was too familiar. Too much like that world I left behind. The world I never belonged in but was pulled into to provide entertainment.

  I rolled my shoulders, and Parker glanced up at me.

  “Are you all right?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Of course. Piece of cake, babe.”

  I doubted she believed my bullshit. Whatever she might have said was lost as Fairchild glided up to us.

  “Morgan!” He was all smiles and wearing a white linen suit with purple velvet slippers. Honest-to-God purple slippers—with his initials embroidered on them in gold thread. I choked back a snort as he reached for my hand and pumped it. “Good to see you.”

  He afforded Parker a glance. “And Ms. Brown.”

  “Parker, sir. Please call me Parker.”

  “Parker,” he repeated blandly. “Fine, fine.” His watery gaze landed back on me. “Let me show you around, Morgan. Ever been on a boat?”

  “One or two.” I took hold of Parker’s elbow, feeling the tension humming through her arm. “We’d love a tour.”

  Actually, I’d love to toss him overboard, but hey, being in his company was what both Parker and I needed. So, I’d deal.

  Like a king, Fairchild strutted through the crowd, slapping shoulders, shaking hands, and all the while introducing me. “Rhys Morgan. The Widowmaker. And his friend Parker.”

  Somewhere along the way, I grabbed a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray and handed it to Parker. She gave me a tight but grateful smile and took a healthy swallow. “None for you?” she asked, leaning in to be heard over the increasing chatter.

  “Nah. The stuff gives me a shitty headache.”

  Her lips pursed again, and I knew she was fighting the urge to correct my language. I wouldn’t be surprised if she eventually brought out a swear jar. But Fairchild had heard me and dropped his conversation with a loud older man wearing a palm tree-printed silk shirt.

  “Let me get you a real man’s drink,” he said.

  Parker muttered into her glass as he led us over to a bar.

  “What’ll you have, Rhys, my boy?”

  “Ice water, if you have it,” I said to the bartender.

  “Would you like it in a glass with lemon?” she asked.

  This place.

  “I’ll just take the bottle.”

  “Water?” Fairchild scowled. “Live a little, man.”

  I accepted the ice-cold blue glass bottle of water the bartender offered me. “I’m responsible for getting Parker home safely. And I don’t drink and drive.”

  Wrong thing to say. His scowl turned on Parker as if it were her fault I wasn’t chugging down a beer with him, and she visibly stiffened.

  “Plus,” I added, “I’m teaching a class early tomorrow and I like to stay in top form.” Absolute bullshit. Not the class, but a beer wouldn’t hurt. Fairchild didn’t need to know that, though.

  He perked up. “You’re teaching classes? Boxing?”

  “Tomorrow is kickboxing, but, yeah, we do boxing classes as well.” I took a sip of the water. Jesus. It actually tasted better than usual water. “My gym, Lights Out, offers all sorts of classes. You should stop by. I could hook you up with a private instructor.”

  And then you can show your appreciation by becoming our sponsor.

  He hummed. “Maybe I will. But you shouldn’t be teaching classes. You should be in the ring. Would you consider fighting again?”

  My gut turned to lead and my throat closed. I wasn’t on some fancy yacht anymore. I was sitting on the hard-plastic chair that cut into my thighs and put a kink in my back. The same chair I sat in for three days straight, waiting in vain for Jake to wake up. Sitting there as the doctor told us Jake was brain-dead. Sitting there, watching as Marcy decided to pull the plug, that Jake wouldn’t want to be left in a bed like that.

  It was the day I found out my dad had lost almost all my savings on a bet that had Jake winning with a KO in the eighth round. He’d been knocked out in the seventh. Never to rise again.

  Bile burned up my throat, and I swallowed convulsively. I was going to be sick. All over Fairchild’s purple and gold slippers.

  A smooth, slim hand slipped into my loose grasp and squeezed.

  Parker.

  I blinked down at her, confused, and she smiled up at me, all bright and sunny.

  “Rhys once told me it was best to tap out on top,” she told Fairchild.

  Lies. But also true.

  I licked my dry lips. “True. My time in the ring is over.”

  Fairchild frowned but nodded with clear reluctance. An awkward tension had settled over us and I couldn’t find a way to cut it. Parker, on the other hand, glanced around the boat and then turned back to Fairchild. “This is a beautiful craft, Mr. Fairchild. Am I mistaken or are those solar panels you have there?”

  He glanced at the area she pointed to. “It is. Now, Morgan. About this so-called retirement.”

  I held up a hand. “Sorry, Fairchild, but can you point me in the direction of the bathroom? Nature calls.”

  I barely listened to his directions before I got the hell out of there, unable to listen to another word about me going back to the sport. The bathroom was down a long hallway, near the bow. Connected to a stateroom, it was glossy and quiet. I ran cold water over my wrists and splashed my face. Bracing myself on the sink, I stared into the mirror, hardly recognizing myself.

  Lines of strain bracketed my mouth and crept out from the corners of my eyes. I was thirty-four going on fifty-four, and I was hiding out in a bathroom like a chickenshit.

  “Buck the fuck up, Morgan.” Pushing off from the sink, I opened the door and came face-to-face with Parker.

  From the compressed line of her lips and the raised schoolmarm brow, I knew I was going to have to talk. I just didn’t know what the hell I was going to say.

  Parker

  * * *

  As soon as Rhys disappeared to use the bathroom, Mr. Fairchild lost all interest in me. A red-haired woman with impressive breasts was clearly far more intriguing. He walked away toward her without saying a word, demonstrating beyond a doubt that I needed Rhys by my side to stay on the jerk’s radar.

  It baffled me that a man wearing a white linen suit and purple slippers with gold embroidered initials held the fate of my future in his tiny little billionaire hands.

  Rhys, and his not-so tiny hands, was currently off somewhere, freaking out.

  He might be more stoic about it than most people, and Fairchild was too self-involved to have noticed, but the subject of Rhys’s retirement appeared to be a sore one. I was worri
ed about his pallor when he strode away. Throwing out polite smiles to anyone who met my gaze, I hurried to follow in my fake boyfriend’s wake.

  My concern was disconcerting.

  Rhys was a big boy. One who showed up on a Harley to take me to a formal event. Not that I was complaining. I mean, I’d have to research its emission levels, but aesthetically the bike was delicious. It felt sexy. Really pleasantly sexy with my inner thighs pressed against Rhys’s hard thighs and the machine purring beneath me as the wind blew the tantalizing scent of Rhys’s spicy cologne around me.

  Yum.

  Who knew?

  I threw that thought away. I could not have sexy thoughts about a man who would never have those kinds of thoughts about me in return. And I could not be hot for a guy who required a swear jar.

  It wasn’t him, I reminded myself. It was the bike! The bike made everything hot.

  I really hoped it had low emissions.

  Still, I followed my curiosity to the bathroom Fairchild had directed Rhys to and waited outside for him. As soon as he opened the door, I blocked his path.

  He sighed just before his expression shut down.

  Uh-uh.

  Answers were needed.

  “The whole reason I agreed to this deception was because Fairchild was interested in Rhys the Widowmaker.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

  And not snapping in that playful, antagonistic banter thing way we had going. This time he meant it.

  What had happened here?

  Sympathy softened my tone. “Rhys, if there’s a reason you find it difficult to talk about your boxing days, maybe we shouldn’t do this. I don’t want to put you in that position. Especially not with someone like Fairchild.”

  He lifted his chin, his features taut. “I’m fine. There’s nothing to see here.”

  “I disagree.” I gave his arm a squeeze, and he tensed at the gesture. Feeling awkward for touching him when he hadn’t invited it, I took a step back. “Something is going on with you. Is it… about your dad? Does your retirement remind you of why… of him?”

  With an exasperated sigh, he stepped out into the hall. “He’s not the real reason I quit. Someone died. It wasn’t one of my matches, but I knew the guy, and it was a wake-up call. No sport is worth leaving your little brother behind with no fucking family to speak of. My career didn’t end the way I thought it would. That’s it. But”—he pushed into my personal space and I felt warm tingles between my thighs—“I can do this. There’s no getting out of this contract, Tinker Bell, so forget about it.”

  He was deflecting, and I was going to let him. There was more to his story, I knew it, but I was also aware that I didn’t have his trust yet. That was fine. I could deal with that. It wasn’t as though I trusted him completely. Or that we were even about sharing personal information. Rhys wanted to keep this all business—why should I argue?

  “I wasn’t attempting to get out of the contract. Unfortunately, I need you.” I made a face. “As soon as you left, Fairchild spotted a pair of breasts across the yacht he fancied more.”

  Rhys snorted and slipped his hand into mine. “Then let’s go find him and show him how wrong he is.”

  A spark of awareness shot up my arm. He had big, strong hands with calluses on his palms. I’d never dated a man with calluses before. They were surprisingly appealing.

  Not that we were dating.

  Needing to distract myself from whatever was happening to my body, I blurted out, “Did you know super yachts are bad for the environment?”

  Rhys shot me an amused look. “There’s a surprise.”

  “It’s true. However, last year an eco super yacht was launched in the Netherlands called the Black Pearl. The Black Pearl – you know, like from Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s got these big black DynaRig sails so it uses wind power. A true zero-emissions boat—”

  “Is there a reason you’re rambling, Tink?” Rhys asked, laughter in his voice as we walked onto the upper deck.

  It was annoying to consider he might be perceptive enough to know the difference between one of my rambles and when I was merely being informative. “Of course you’d consider anything related to environmental awareness as ‘rambling’”

  He spun on me suddenly, forcing me back against the upper deck railing. Bracketing his hands on either side of the rails, he bent his head toward mine. Rhys frowned, as he seemed to search my face for something. “Let’s get rid of whatever stuck-up idea you got in your head about me. I might not be marching through the streets with my fucking Greenpeace sign, but I watch wildlife documentaries and I care that our selfish shit is devastating the planet’s ecosystems. Princess, I like animals more than I like people, so I definitely don’t like what we’re doing to their planet. Did you see the documentary with the walruses?” Rhys shook his head, genuine anger lighting his eyes. “I’m a grown fucking man, and I nearly bawled like a baby watching that shit.”

  Rhys’s sincerity caused a tightening of attraction deep in my gut. He watched wildlife documentaries? I did bawl like a baby at the walruses and was strangely turned on that he was compassionate enough to admit to feelings on the matter.

  I might have emitted a moan.

  His eyebrows rose toward his hairline, and then a wicked grin flashed across his face.

  Yup, I definitely emitted a moan.

  If I were Hermione Granger, I could make the railing behind me disappear, thus plunging me into the waters below. A far more efficient equivalent to praying for the floor to open beneath my feet.

  His eyes danced with delight. “Did I just push one of your hot buttons?”

  I flushed bright red, and Rhys threw his head back in laughter. The big jerk. Narrowing my eyes, I tried to shove his arm away from the railing to free myself, but he wrapped his arms around me instead.

  “What are you doing?” I huffed, staring up into his smiling, cocky, too-handsome face. My hands were braced on his powerful chest, his were pressing deep into my spine, and the tingles I’d felt earlier were now progressing to pivotal erogenous zones.

  It was disconcerting to say the least.

  “Caring about wildlife gets you hot. Good to know.”

  I squirmed in his arms. “Does this conversation really require cuddling?”

  His grip loosened, his hands coasting down my waist to my hips. “We’re supposed to be a couple, remember. Couples touch. In fact—”

  “Morgan!” Fairchild’s voice cut through us, reminding me we were not alone.

  Rhys turned toward the voice, dropping one hand but sliding his other arm around my waist. Mr. Fairchild crossed the upper deck with the tall, glamorous redhead from earlier. She wore a white dress that clung to every smooth curve of her body, of which there were plenty. Her huge breasts strained against the draped, low neckline of the dress, so much so even I stared.

  Mine were bee stings in comparison.

  “Morgan, this is Adriana Bellington. She attended one of your fights, immediately recognized you—”

  “And forced Fairchild to introduce us.” Adriana fluttered her lashes at him. If it were possible, I think even her boobs were fluttering at Rhys.

  I was discomfited to find myself comparing assets as the redhead pulled Rhys away from me to kiss his cheeks and crush her humongous tatas against his chest.

  I’d never felt insecure about my figure but then I’d never pretend dated a guy whose usual type was voluptuous women. That niggle of insecurity was accompanied by more than a hint of annoyance.

  He was my fake boyfriend. Who cared if he preferred watermelons over my little peaches? He’d never get near them for it to be an issue.

  “Nice to meet you,” Rhys said to Adriana, moving back toward me and doing an admirable job of averting his gaze from her enviable frontage.

  The redhead flicked a look and summarily dismissed me, and moved a little closer to Rhys. “I’ve just taken over ownership of Sportbox.”

  Rhys raised an eyebrow. “The sports networ
k?”

  “The very one.”

  A successful businesswoman, in sports, and she was ridiculously sexy.

  Wonderful.

  “We’re making boxing a focus. It’s a pity you’re no longer fighting. Perhaps we could grab a drink together and you can tell me what you’ve been up to?” Adriana nodded her head toward the bar.

  “A sound idea,” Fairchild agreed. “Perhaps you can let me convince the man to come out of retirement.”

  Adriana smiled at Rhys in a way there was no misinterpreting the come-on. “Oh, I’m very good at convincing a man to see things my way.”

  “Oh wow,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

  Seriously?

  Rhys appeared to be struggling not to laugh as he wrapped his arm around my waist again and pulled me into his side. A minute ago, I’d felt feminine and fragile in his arms and with those feelings came unexpected sexy ones. Who knew overwhelming masculinity could be a turn-on?

  Now, however, next to Adriana Bellington, I felt like a little girl.

  It was upsetting that my fake date could provoke such feelings of self-doubt.

  I did not like this revelation at all.

  Rhys was unaware of my inner turmoil as he stroked a hand down my hip. “I’m here with my girlfriend, actually.”

  Adriana’s features flattened with surprise and displeasure.

  This was how it would always be, I realized. No one in Rhys’s previous or current circle would ever believe he would date someone like me, and no one in mine would believe I’d date someone like him.

  “Well, it was nice to see you.” Adriana flicked a look at me. “And meet you.” She turned to Fairchild. “We’ll talk later about the Hamilton deal.”

  Fairchild nodded and watched her walk away. She was something to watch. He turned to us. “What a woman.” He winked at Rhys. “You’ve got an ‘in’ there.”

  My jaw dropped.

  It might have even made a sound hitting the floor.

  Rhys’s hold on me tightened. “Not meaning any disrespect, sir, but I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing I like you saying in front of my girl.”