by Laura Kaye
Fighting for What’s His
A Warrior Fight Club Novel
Laura Kaye
Fighting for What’s His
FIRST EDITION September 2018
FIGHTING FOR WHAT’S HIS © Laura Kaye.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part or whole of this book may be used, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work via electronic or mechanical means is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. If you are reading the ebook, it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Please do not participate in piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and/or are used fictitiously and are solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead, places, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design and Photography by Sara Eirew
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Warrior Fight Club Series
FIGHTING FOR EVERYTHING
FIGHTING FOR WHAT’S HIS
FIGHTING THE FIRE - November 13, 2018
WORTH FIGHTING FOR - March 12, 2019
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Blasphemy Series
HARD TO SERVE
BOUND TO SUBMIT
MASTERING HER SENSES
EYES ON YOU
THEIRS TO TAKE
ON HIS KNEES
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Raven Riders Series
HARD AS STEEL
RIDE HARD
RIDE ROUGH
RIDE WILD
RIDE DIRTY
* * *
Hard Ink Series
HARD AS IT GETS
HARD AS YOU CAN
HARD TO HOLD ON TO
HARD TO COME BY
HARD TO BE GOOD
HARD TO LET GO
HARD AS STEEL
HARD EVER AFTER
HARD TO SERVE
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Hearts in Darkness Duet
HEARTS IN DARKNESS
LOVE IN THE LIGHT
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Heroes Series
HER FORBIDDEN HERO
ONE NIGHT WITH A HERO
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Stand Alone Titles
DARE TO RESIST
JUST GOTTA SAY
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Contents
The Warrior Fight Club Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
The Warrior Fight Club Series Continues!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Laura Kaye
The Warrior Fight Club Series
This fight club has one rule:
you must be a veteran…
* * *
FIGHTING FOR EVERYTHING
FIGHTING FOR WHAT’S HIS
FIGHTING THE FIRE - November 13, 2018
WORTH FIGHTING FOR - March 12, 2019
To Christi Barth
For always being with me until the very end
Oh, Christi!
(she’ll understand why…)
Chapter One
Shayna Curtis stared at the locked door, debated for about ten seconds, then decided to pick the lock.
Rain pounded down on her as she fished the kit from the worn hobo-style bag on her shoulder. Having an overprotective big brother who’d decided his little sister needed survival-skills lessons before his first deployment came in handy sometimes, as much good-natured eye rolling as she’d done at the time.
Now, to break in before one of her new neighbors called the police. Being arrested for breaking and entering probably wouldn’t be the smartest way to kick off her fresh start here in DC or to make the best first impression on her new roommate. Though, since said roomie was late to meet her and not answering his phone, she thought that earned her a pass.
She inserted the tension wrench, raked the pins, and twisted the wrench until the lock gave way.
“Annnd I’m in,” Shayna said to herself, mentally fist pumping as she opened the door and stepped in out of the rain. “Thanks, bro.” No doubt Ryan would get a kick out of knowing she’d picked her way into his best friend’s townhouse. Hopefully the best friend would find it humorous, too.
She dumped her purse on the hall table and then dashed back out into the downpour to grab her laptop, toiletries, and one bag of her clothes. The rest would have to wait until the rain let up, though she wasn’t happy to leave her camera equipment in the car.
Back inside, she dumped her things and turned on the lights, illuminating a space that was surprisingly modern compared to the old red-brick rowhouse’s exterior.
Gray hard woods stretched throughout the first floor, connecting the open living room dominated by a cushy, stone-colored sectional sofa with a gleaming white kitchen. A large sliding door with transom windows above at the back of the space looked out on a fenced-in brick-paved patio with a hammock that had her name written all over. The property backed up to a narrow road and a tree-lined field beyond.
She turned away from the view and trailed her fingers over the smooth surface of the silver quartz breakfast bar. The kitchen was spotless—not a dish in the sink or a crumb to be found. Her gaze scanned over the living room. Everything was neat as a pin with nary a pillow askew.
That was going to make things interesting, wasn’t it?
Perhaps the coolest—or freakiest?—feature was the floating staircase that connected the first and second floors. The stair treads were stone rectangles that protruded from the wall but weren’t otherwise connected, and the hand rail was nothing more than a sheet of plate glass, which added to the illusion of being suspended in thin air.
“This thing is a trip,” she said to herself as she made her way upstairs, each newly explored part of the townhouse offering only the barest clues about the man who’d be her roommate for the next two months.
Billy Parrish. One of her brother’s best friends and a former Army Ranger who now worked as a private detective.
If the interior reflected the guy, she’d guess he was either the kind of anal military man who’d been able to bounce quarters off his rack. Or he was never here. God, she hoped it was the latter.
The gray hard woods continued up here, where four doorways extended off the hallway—two closed, two open. She went to the open ones first and found a basic but spotless bathroom and a large bedroom she suspected might be the guest room since, in addition to a queen-sized bed, it had a large curved desk and two sets of bookshelves that probably comprised Billy’s home office.
And finally Shay found something that looked lived in.
The desk wasn’t messy—certainly not by he
r standards—but there were tidy stacks of books, file folders, and legal pads. Two cups filled with pens and paper clips. The bulletin board above the desk represented the most personal thing she’d seen yet, covered as it was in neat rows of pinned phone numbers, photographs, and papers of various sorts.
She leaned over the desk to get a better look at a picture of two guys in camo sitting in beat-up beach chairs, beers in hand. Her brother grinned back at her. And so did Billy.
She’d first met him eight years ago when Ryan had brought him home for Christmas over one of the Rangers’ typically short stateside rotations. She’d been a high school senior, busy with the school newspaper, the winter dance committee, and the nail-biting excitement of college acceptance decisions, while Billy had been a tall, broad-shouldered, belly-laughing god.
Despite the fact that she only saw him occasionally, she’d crushed hard each and every time she had the chance.
Not that he’d looked at her. First, because he was six years older than her and, as such, way out of her league. And second, because her brothers would’ve killed him. Killed him dead.
Well, there was just one brother who might possibly interfere in her love life now. If she had a love life, which she decidedly didn’t. Though, it was funny how she no longer hated the thought of her brothers’ overprotectiveness the way she once had now that she’d lost one of them.
On a sigh, she shook the thought away.
Fresh starts and all that.
Right.
Which brought her back to Billy. She wondered what Ryan had told him about what’d happened. Her gut squeezed, because she shouldn’t wonder. Not if Ry blamed her the way she blamed herself.
“I really hope it’s not going to be weird living here with you,” she said, staring at Billy’s picture for one more moment. It’d been more than three years since Shayna had last seen him, so there was a better-than-average chance of weirdness.
First, because it’d been so long and, really, she barely knew him. Second, because once upon a time she’d crushed on him so bad. And third, because there was no way that a single, thirty-three-year-old man could be thrilled about her invading his space for two months. For free.
When Ryan had raised the idea of staying with Billy, she’d offered to pay, of course. After working an unpaid internship for the last year, she didn’t have a lot of savings, though her second part-time job had allowed her to set some money aside for the relocation. But the guys had insisted she put that toward the deposit she’d need on an apartment in the city.
She just hoped that Billy was really okay with that. Otherwise…awkward. And awkward sucked so bad.
A chill rushed down her spine as the air conditioning kicked on.
Shayna hugged herself, her hands pressing damp fabric to her skin. After driving all day from upstate New York and getting caught in the cold September rain, a hot shower sounded like heaven. She peered down the quiet hallway. Waffled on how bad of an idea it might be to shower in someone’s home after having broken in. Checked her phone, still finding no texts from Billy.
And then she uttered a “fuck it” as she dashed downstairs to retrieve her things. This was her home, too. At least for a while.
She dropped her belongings on the bed, yanked out her toiletry bag, and closed herself into the hall bathroom.
Shay made quick work of getting undressed. In the shower, the hot water raining down on her nearly made her moan. Seven hours of driving had left her achy and stiff, and the needling heat relaxed her muscles and chased away the chill.
But it didn’t ease the guilt she felt in her heart of hearts.
No, nothing could do that.
This day fucking sucked.
That was the tenor of Billy Parrish’s thoughts as he fought through Friday night rush hour traffic on the way to his rowhouse in Upper Northwest DC. The leads on his case had gone stone cold. His charging cord wasn’t working and his phone had died an hour ago. And he was late.
He fucking hated being late.
Especially when it involved a favor for one of his brothers. Didn’t matter that Billy wasn’t enthusiastic about this particular favor. He’d known Ryan Curtis for more than a decade—since West Point, had fought and bled by his side, and owed the guy for having saved his life. So when Ryan had asked, Billy had said yes. Simple as.
Not that he thought having Ryan’s kid sister in his house for the next two months was going to be simple. Not when her very presence and his obligation to look out for her was going to be one helluva cockblock.
Finally, he turned into the alley that ran behind his rowhouse on Farragut Place and pulled into the parking spot behind his house. He killed the engine and, for just a few moments, sat still and listened to the rain hammer on the roof of his Explorer.
Christ, he was tired.
Problem was, he slept like shit unless he did one of three things—fuck, fight, or choke down one of the year-old Percocets his doc had prescribed back when things were bad. Or, at least, worse than they were now. Billy tried like hell to avoid taking the pain pills, especially after he’d had a bad experience with them, but that required the fucking or the fighting.
Neither got rid of the phantom pain. Hell, both often made it worse. But they managed to quiet all the shit in his head, and that was what he needed more than anything else.
He blew out a breath and forced his ass out into the rain, and it was with his first steps in the direction of his house that he noticed. The lights were on inside.
Prickles ran over his scalp and his blood turned to ice. Because he hadn’t left them on. On the fucking day that Ryan’s sister was arriving, some asshole had broken in?
Unfuckingbelievable.
He raced to the basement door and let himself in as quietly as he could. He traded his dead cell phone for the gun in the holster at the small of his back. And then he went in search of the scumbag whose day was about to get even worse than his.
Billy eased up the steps to the door that opened into the kitchen. He winced at the creak of the hinges, cleared the corner, and then stepped into the light. One, two, three heartbeats, and he swung around the corner to find that the first floor appeared empty. Still, he cleared the entire space methodically.
Thump.
Billy’s eyes drifted to the ceiling above him. Gotcha.
He kept his footfalls light as he ascended the stairs, stopping to check the second-floor hallway before climbing all the way to the top. His bedroom door remained closed, but light poured out of his office and from under the bathroom door.
He frowned in confusion.
Gun at the ready, he made for the bathroom, his free hand reaching for the knob.
The door swung open on its own.
“Freeze!” he bit out.
Four things happened pretty much at the same time.
The woman screamed, jumped backward into the door, slamming it against the wall behind her, and dropped a pile of clothing to the floor.
And then the towel she wore around her chest came unknotted and swung open, baring every inch of her.
“Jesus fucknugget, Billy!” the woman screeched, her hand going to her heaving chest just above her breasts. Her bare breasts. Full with pink nipples that tipped upward. She had a heart-shaped watercolor tattoo on her right hip. And her hair was red everywhere…
Oh. Oh hell.
In a heartbeat, Billy whirled away and lowered his gun, his mind racing as he reholstered the weapon. “Shayna? How the hell…”
Small brushes of fabric against fabric sounded out from behind him, as if she was resecuring the towel. Over her body. Which he’d just seen naked. “You were late. So…”
“So…?” He went to turn back and reconsidered, bewilderment morphing into regret of the holy shit I just pulled a gun on Ryan’s sister variety. “You, uh, decent?”
“As decent as I get,” she said with a kind of hysterical humor in her voice. Her footsteps retreated toward his office—her room, now.
And that
little bit of humor had his regret morphing yet again into somewhere north of pissed off. Billy turned just as she disappeared inside the bedroom. He stalked after her. “How the hell did you get in here? I thought you were a burglar and nearly shot your ass.”
Picking clothing from the exploded disaster that he assumed had once been a packed suitcase, she gave a rueful chuckle. “Number one, my ass was the only part of me you didn’t nearly shoot. And, B, would a burglar seriously take the time to close the door while they were using a stolen bathroom? And three, my brother’s a Ranger.”
A Ranger who’d taught his little sister to pick a lock, because of course he did. Billy nailed her with a glare as the rest of what she’d said sank in. “You said number one, B, and three.”
Her laughter, even a little nervous as it was, was like the sun cresting the horizon—it brightened the whole fucking room. “That’s what you want to talk about right now?” she asked, peering at him with those blue-green eyes as she pulled a pair of black underwear from the jumble. A blush still colored her cheeks and chest. And the waves of her wet red hair set off the pale creaminess of her skin, as had the reds and oranges of the watercolor heart.
None-the-fuck-of-which he should be noticing or thinking about. Billy crossed his arms. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny,” she said, coming to stand right at his side. She knocked her arm into his. “But I am sorry for scaring you. Also, hi. Nice to see you again.”