Outmatched: A Novel

by Kristen Callihan

  A small part of me hoped the flag wasn’t in there so I could watch Rhys go all commando on the rest of the yellow team’s butts. Yet, if the flag was there, I could take comfort knowing he’d schooled the two guys in my office who’d upset me that week in a way that wouldn’t affect my relationship with them in the office.

  It was all part of a team-building exercise after all.

  Giddiness filled me as I hurried up the ladder and through the hole in the floor. Sure enough, lying in the corner was the yellow team’s flag.

  I crawled into the tree house, snatched it, and hurried back down. Rhys waited at the bottom, smiling up at me. I jumped from the third rung with a girlish squeal of delight and he caught me with a bark of laughter. I lifted the flag in victory. “We won!”

  Our eyes locked, and suddenly the air expelled out of my lungs as the urge to kiss him became almost impossible to hold back.

  “Uh, looks like we aren’t needed.” Laura’s amusement-filled voice drew our heads apart.

  Rhys slowly lowered me to the ground, and I avoided his gaze. With a smile less genuine than the one I’d given him, I turned to Xander, Laura, Stuart, and David with the flag. “Rhys kicked their butts.”

  Stuart grinned at my fake boyfriend. “There’s a surprise.”

  Rhys shrugged while I attempted to tell myself that I didn’t find Paintball Rhys sexy as hell.

  Standing in the clearing where our paintball exercise had begun, I grinned at the sight of my colleagues covered in paint. The only teams who remained unscathed were Rhys and I, Jackson and Camille, Xander and Laura, Stuart and David, and Ben and Nick.

  Everyone else had been shot.

  Jackson grinned at the red team. “Well done.”

  “We had a great team leader.” Xander patted Rhys’s shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Jackson chuckled, “we’re all surprised the ex-professional boxer whooped our asses.”

  Rhys shrugged, a slight smile curling his lips. My eyes zeroed in on his mouth, as Jackson’s voice grew muffled.

  “Are we all set?”

  “Huh?” I asked, dragging my gaze and thoughts off Rhys.

  Jackson gave me a knowing look. “I said, now that the team exercise is over, let’s just play.”

  My heart dropped. “As in … no rules. Just …”

  “Play until we’re exhausted? Pretty much. We booked the outdoor grounds for three hours, and Rhys led the red team to victory in thirty minutes. We might as well get our money’s worth.” Jackson lifted his gun. “You all have ten seconds to get your ugly, khaki, no-good keisters out of here before I cover your cargo pants in paint.”

  Laughter filled the woods at his Home Alone reference as we took off toward the cover of the trees. This time, knowing Rhys was the enemy, I went off on my own.

  Pain flared in my shoulder, and I cried out, realizing I’d been hit. Spinning around, I saw Pete aiming at me with his stupid overpowered gun, a calculated look in his eyes. Just as he was about to fire again, red paint splattered all over his visor.

  Then just all over him, period.

  Glancing around, I found Rhys, standing behind a tree, gun aimed at Pete. His head turned toward me, and he winked.

  I grinned. Grateful.

  Then I shot him.

  Rhys looked down at his chest in apparent shock, and I threw my head back in laughter. It cut off when he lifted his head, eyes narrowed in determination.

  Oh dear God, what had I done?

  With a yelp of apprehension, I spun around and bolted through the trees. I half expected to feel the sting of shots across my back, but instead I heard racing footsteps.

  Oh hell!

  A strong arm caught me around the waist, a heavy weight propelling me toward the nearest tree. At the last second I found myself turned and pulled into Rhys’s arms as we collided with the trunk. He wasted no time pushing me against the tree as he ripped off his mask. Determined heat filled his beautiful green eyes as he gripped the bottom of my mask and gently took it off.

  “What are—”

  My words were lost in his kiss.

  A deep, thorough, searching kiss that made my toes curl in my sneakers and my fingernails bite into his shoulders. His body pressed deep into mine, and I instinctively spread my legs to accommodate him. Everything faded in the heat of his kiss. Watching him kick butt—no, Rhys kicked ass —and defend me was unexpected foreplay.

  It wasn’t a typically romantic kiss. In fact, it was much like our kiss at his loft—wet, hungry, breathless, needful, passionate, sexy. And I never wanted it to stop.

  Rhys’s grunt rumbled deliciously down my throat seconds before he broke the kiss with a grimace. “Fuck.”

  As he glanced over his shoulder, it took me a second to come out of my lusty, lip-swollen haze to realize Jackson, Camille, Laura, and Xander surrounded us. They grinned, and I blushed beet red.

  “This is just too easy,” Jackson snorted, stepping back to hold up his gun.

  He, like the others, was covered in paint.

  Rhys stepped back.

  Convinced I was blood red from the tip of my toes to the top of my head, I avoided everyone’s gaze as Rhys turned to the others. That’s when I saw four paint splatters on his back. He’d taken hits while we were kissing, and I hadn’t even noticed.

  My goodness.

  “You’ve been hit.” I stated the obvious in all my fluster.

  Rhys looked over his shoulder at me, eyes full of laughter. “It was worth it, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, thank you for the show,” Xander teased.

  I lifted my gun in warning, and he chuckled, aiming back at me.

  To everyone’s surprise, Rhys stepped in front of me, his hands raised in surrender. “How about we let Parker walk out of here unscathed, huh?”

  “That’s okay.” I moved around him, even though I really didn’t want to get shot at again. It hurt more than a sting. “I can take it.”

  In answer, Rhys pulled down the neckline of my shirt to bare my shoulder. His thumb swept the skin. “You’ve already got a nasty bruise from where Pete hit you.”

  As lovely as his concern was (and he seemed genuinely worried about my bruise), I covered his hand with mine and guided my shirt back up to cover the skin. “Everyone else has been hit.”

  Rhys frowned. “Everyone else is not five foot nothing, weighing in at ninety pounds.”

  “Uh, five foot two and a hundred and ten pounds, thank you very much. Plus, I can take care of myself.”

  “Fine. Let them take aim.”

  I nodded, my inner feminist pleased.

  However, Rhys crossed his arms over his chest and stared at my colleagues. “Of course, if it were me, I wouldn’t really want to risk my mortality by bruising up an ex- heavyweight champion’s girlfriend. But that’s just me.”

  Groaning, I watched as the others exchanged knowing looks, and then my boss called time on the game.

  Rhys looked at me, his gaze dragging down my body and back up again. His eyes lingered on my mouth for a second too long.

  “Why?” I blurted out, referring to the second explosive kiss he’d given me.

  He shrugged. “No one will question our relationship now, Tinker Bell.”

  Disappointment filled me as I realized the kiss had not been a spontaneous response to me shooting him, but a calculated move. A strategic play.

  Rhys wanted to earn that money I was paying him, I reminded myself.

  Right there and then, I decided for my well-being not to let Rhys Morgan’s mouth anywhere near mine ever again.

  I left the field with only Pete’s yellow paint splatter on my shoulder and a whole bunch of pent-up indignation and sexual frustration in my gut.

  Eleven

  Rhys

  * * *

  My fist slammed into the bag. Jab. Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Cross. Jab.

  Calm settled into my bones even as they felt each impact. Hitting something didn’t exactly hurt. Not anymore. But I definitely felt it. Working
the bag drew my awareness inward. It clarified things.

  I needed clarity. Because I was in very real danger of losing it around Parker. Freaking disturbing. Control wasn’t something I lost. Never. I’d spent my life honing it.

  I had excellent control.

  God, she tasted sweet. Felt even better. Her mouth should be listed as a national treasure. Freaking perfect. And when she wrapped those tight thighs around my waist…

  My glove glanced off the edge of the bag. The bag swung back into me, knocking my ribs.

  “Shit.” Disgusted at myself, I ripped off the gloves and tossed them aside.

  “Losing your touch?” Dean lounged at the far side of the sparring room.

  Grabbing my bottled water, I took a long drink before answering. “Get in the ring with me for a couple rounds and find out.”

  “I’m a smart-ass,” he said, walking farther into the room. “Not a dumb-ass.”

  That made me laugh. I set the bottle down and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off my face. “What’s up, little brother? Bored already?”

  “Of course, I am.” He shrugged. “Aren’t you? Or do you like hanging out in empty gyms on a Friday night?”

  Dean might not have been able to box at a pro level but he was an expert at verbal hits. I kept my eyes on the tape I’d started unwinding from my fingers, not wanting to look at the forlorn gym that should have been full of members on this rainy evening. Fact was I often closed early because the bulk of our members used the gym during the day.

  Failure never sat well with me, and this place reeked of it. Sometimes, I imagined I stank of it too, that it followed me around like a fug, keeping everyone away.

  Snorting, I tossed the tape in the trash and flexed my fingers. Self-pity wasn’t my thing either, and I’d be damned if I’d fall into that trap.

  “No, I don’t like it,” I told Dean truthfully. “But I’m stuck here. You, on the other hand, are not.”

  He’d ditched the suits and was now wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Thank fuck. The sight of Dean in a suit while hanging out here annoyed the shit out of me; he should be in a corner office somewhere changing the world with that big brain of his. He should be hanging with someone like Parker, creating algorithms or having in-depth conversations about chaos theory.

  How would it have gone if Dean had been the one to meet up with Parker like she was expecting? Would she have stuck to the whole “business only” thing? She disliked me on sight. Dean, she’d recruited.

  A sour taste filled my mouth, and I walked over to the vending machine. A sports drink tumbled down to the open slot in the silence, and I knew Dean was watching me, thinking God knew what.

  “Why do you keep this place?” he finally asked.

  It was the earnest tone, no longer pissy or trying to piss me off, that had me answering with another truth. “It’s all I got.”

  It hurt to say. Hurt to admit to myself. But I was used to pain. I turned and found him staring at me with sad eyes.

  “You had it all.” A frown worked its way over his forehead. “Shit, I was so proud of you. My big brother Rhys, kicking ass and taking numbers.”

  Jesus, this kid. He never needed to use his fists to lay someone flat. He just needed to open his mouth.

  “Dean …” It was a plea but he didn’t seem to hear it.

  “And for what? This dump?”

  My back teeth ground together. “This dump was Dad’s dream. Mom’s dream. It was responsible for putting food on our table and training me to be the fighter you claim you admired so much.”

  Dean nodded, clearly unfazed. “Yeah, it was. But now? Rhys, it’s falling apart around you. I’ve seen enough of the accounting to know it’s so far in the hole only a miracle can save it.”

  Parker was that miracle. Or the cute fairy who’d get me one step closer to it.

  Dean threw up a hand in irritation. “So, don’t tell me that this place makes you happy.”

  “It doesn’t,” I snapped, unable to hold back. “All right? It doesn’t. Not now. But it could, Dean.” I glanced around, imagining it like it was in its heyday. Imagining it better than it was. “It’s something worth saving.”

  He fell silent and studied the room with a jaundiced eye, seeing all its flaws. I didn’t know if he cared to remember the old days, or if he saw a different version of it than I did. Likely so. This place had been my second home. It had given me a sense of myself that nothing else ever did. I’d become a fighter here. It was part of me. And if it was worthless, what was I?

  Dean met my gaze again and his was still troubled. “If you were fighting, you’d bring in enough money to fix all this. In a heartbeat.”

  “Dean …”

  “Don’t ‘Dean’ me in that way. Jesus, you sound like Ma when you do that.”

  “I sound like Ma? Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Well,” he said with a slight smile, “your voice is a lot lower and you’re ugly to boot, but you have that same repressive ‘You’re getting out of hand and do I need to put you in time out?’ tone.”

  I laughed again, even though my chest felt tight and heavy.

  Dean shook his head in disappointment. “I just don’t get it. You said you took time off to look after me. As if I couldn’t do that at twenty-two.”

  “Could you?” I countered, dryly. “Because the way I remember it, you were a fucking wreck, well on your way to becoming a deadbeat drunk.”

  Annoyance flashed in his eyes, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Okay, fine. It was … nice of you to do that.”

  I snorted. “High praise.”

  “But I’m out of college, and I don’t get drunk anymore. That shit won’t fly anymore. You can’t hover over my life. Unless you’re aiming to become one of those creepy pseudo-helicopter parents? Which, I’ve gotta say, you’re skirting the edge of that already.”

  “Like hell,” I muttered. Shit. I had been hovering. Like a fretful parent.

  He ignored that, thankfully. “So why not get back into fighting? You’re too good for this.” He spread his arms out to encompass the gym. “You’re too good to be running around town as some fake-ass boyfriend—”

  “You wanted to be her fake-ass boyfriend.” The thought of Dean with Parker rubbed raw on my skin. “So you’re saying it was okay for you but not me?”

  “Yeah,” he countered. “I am. I’m the fuck-up. I don’t have a job. You …” He pointed a finger in my direction. “Were a world-class boxer, a fucking champion. If I had that talent, I wouldn’t be wasting my life in this shitty gym.”

  “Don’t call this place shitty.”

  “Don’t prevaricate.”

  “Using big words on the stupid ox brother?”

  “Don’t pretend to be stupid. You’re smarter than you look!”

  We were face-to-face now, yelling at each other with increasing volume.

  Dean took another step closer, eyeing me as good as any old opponent would have done. “And don’t fucking try to change the subject. You keep saying that Dad’s death took the fight out of you. But I can’t believe it. Tell me the truth for once. I’m an adult—”

  “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “You clearly aren’t in mourning over Dad anymore,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “So why won’t you go back to boxing?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Are you scared?”

  I scoffed at his taunt. “Scared? Fuck you.”

  He didn’t blink. “Scared that you will suck? That you’ll get your fat ass out there and someone will kick it?”

  “The day I’m afraid of someone kicking my ass is the day I lay down and die.”

  He sneered. “You’re already dead. You’re just walking around like an animated corpse. A fucking waste.”

  I grabbed his collar and hauled him close. He didn’t resist. My voice came out in a snarl. “You should talk, you little shit—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The rage in his eyes was unavoidable. “Tell me a
nother one. Won’t change the fact that you’re a fucking chicken—”

  “Shut up!”

  “No. Tell me why! Why, Rhys?” His words hammered into my skull, pushed against my chest. “Why won’t you go back? Huh? Why?”

  “Because I can’t!” I shouted, my voice breaking. My body sagged. “I can’t … Jake. He … I …”

  Dean’s face became a blur, and I let him go, thrusting him away and turning my back on him. Chest heaving, I tried to draw in a breath, looking for that calm, dead place that I lived in now.

  Behind me, Dean uttered a soft curse. When he talked, his voice was small and hesitant. “It’s because of Jake?”

  Bracing my hands low on my hips to hide their shaking, I blinked up at the ceiling. “I saw him die.” I swallowed convulsively. “I knew it was going to happen. The second he took that hit … I knew it was over. The light went out of his eyes. And I knew.”

  I could still see it. Nausea surged up my gut, and I swallowed again.

  Dean appeared at my side. I hadn’t heard him move. “That was shitty of me, pushing you. I’m … I’m sorry, Rhys.”

  I knew he was apologizing for Jake too. A sound of wry amusement mixed with ugly pain left me, sharp and loud. “Yeah, well, it’s what we do.”

  He didn’t smile but moved a bit closer. I felt the brush of his arm against mine, and I swear to God, I wanted to run out of the room. I was too close to breaking. I took a few deep breaths, refusing to move away.

  “I can’t get in that ring again,” I said in a low, tight voice.

  “I get it,” he said softly.

  I nodded, and we both fell silent. After a minute, Dean stirred, clearing his throat. “I used to love coming here. Back when you were training.”

  I stayed as still as I could, just breathing.

  He kept talking, tentative, reaching for a truce. “It was great. And you’re right. It could be great again.”

  “I’m working on that,” I bit out, the words costing me. Talking meant acknowledging that I was there. When I wanted to be any place but.

  “I know you are. It’s a good plan.” He glanced over at me, regret painted on every line of his face. He’d never truly understand that I never wanted him to feel regret. I never wanted regret to be his burden.