by Rie Warren
“Lie still.”
It felt as if he’d drugged me, with goddamn yoga, or maybe it was his mesmerizing body, his incredibly steely eyes. I relaxed on the floor, nothing but a puddle of contented muscle. From above me, he trailed his fingers up my neck. They wandered across my forehead to my temples.
“Close your eyes again.”
Every touch, each stroke was more powerful because my usual adrenaline punch and keen perception were removed. I tried to take steadying breaths, but they grew ragged, and I almost moaned from the simple pleasure of his fingers unwinding the tension from my temples, my shoulders, and lastly, the back of my neck.
This wasn’t one of his usual post fight massages.
There was nothing clinical about it.
It was as if he was caring for me, because he wanted to.
My hands lay still beside me, my legs spread open, my lips parted.
He rested my head on his legs. His fingertips brushed down my chest. From his position behind me on the floor, his groin was dangerously close to my face.
“That feels good,” I murmured.
“I know, baby.” His hands skimmed back to my pecs, leaving chills ghosting up my skin.
I pretended I hadn’t heard him call me baby. Why would he do that? I floated instead in the sea of warm pleasure he created. Those large hands ended on my face. At the last moment, before he scooted from under me, he brushed his thumb across my lower lip.
A towel dropped over my lap from above—probably a very good thing. Then Michael used another to swipe my chest, my shoulders, my neck, and face in soft slow strokes.
Tugging at my palm, he pulled me to sitting. He sat there, cross-legged in front of me. He passed me a bottle of water and hummed with approval while I downed it.
“You were in the zone today, my man. That was beautiful to watch.” He bit down on his bottom lip as his cheeks flushed.
Something shifted between us. It didn’t take away the sting of stupid jealousy, but it soothed my raw emotions.
I bowed toward him. “That is only because you are a master yogi.”
“Fuck off with you.”
We chuckled for a moment, but when I peered behind me I groaned. “We’ve got an audience.”
A multitude of female faces glued to the windows, in fact.
“You should be used to that by now.”
We stood to leave, but I didn’t want the intimacy of the moment to end.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, but if it’s one of those straight-guy gay-curious things, I might have to punch you.” He smirked.
“Oh.” I clamped my mouth shut.
“I’m just shitting you, Liam. Shoot.”
I scratched a hand through my hair. “Um. How was it for you, coming out?”
“That’s a loaded question. Why do you want to know?”
Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing most of the time, unless I’m in the ring? “I just don’t wanna seem insensitive, and you said some stuff about that guy Gideon I met, and . . .”
Michael made an impatient noise, grabbing the ends of the towel draped around his neck. “That Gideon guy was a little too fucking forward with you. I hope you’re not thinking about contacting him when we get back to New York.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wants to screw you, that’s why. Jesus.”
“But I’m not . . . it’s not . . .”
Another frustrated huff sounded.
“You don’t have to tell me, Michael.” I headed for the door.
“Wait. Wait a minute!” He captured my arm. “I was the golden boy of my family. Sponsors, scholarships, World Cup destiny, glory. Then I got this bum knee. It was a blessing, Liam.”
I turned around and his hand fell away. “Why?”
“I didn’t have to pretend anymore to keep up the appearance of the brute athlete, the manly man.” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t understand. That’s how you are.”
“Don’t you dare judge me because of what you think you know about me.” I sent him a withering glare. “You don’t know me all that much. I like art and I read books and I don’t think anyone should be ashamed of who they love.”
“Even if it’s two men?”
That’s exactly what I want! “Who cares? I don’t.”
Michael’s damp blond hair tumbled into his eyes when he dropped his head. “Sorry, you just get so used to being defensive.”
“Tell me about it.”
“My parents were okay with it. Sometimes I think they had to be because I’m their only child.”
“I doubt that, Mikey.”
“Mikey?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” A smile peeked around the corners of his mouth.
“When did you know? Who was your first?”
“I was fifteen. It was Wade.”
Shit. Worse than I thought. The futility of wanting Michael fell onto my shoulders like a two hundred-pound weight. “So you’re high school sweethearts.”
“Yeah. We screwed around on the sly in high school. Broke up when we went our separate ways for college. He was my first but not my only.” Michael chewed on his lip. “Got back together after they pinned my knee back in place. Wade was at my bedside night and day. We came out together to our friends and family.”
“He’s devoted to you.”
“Things change though. Who was your first?”
“Margaret Morrissey. Not the best night of my life.”
“What was?”
I couldn’t tell him it was every night he was with me, or now, being here with him like this. “Don’t have one yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
You.
“Your folks must love you very much.” I dragged my eyes from his.
“Don’t yours?”
“My mom, yeah. My da, it’s a crapshoot. Usually including a fifth of whiskey and a carton of smokes.”
“Christ, what have you been through?” He slid his hand into my hair and fisted it with just the right amount of pressure to make me wonder if Mikey liked it a little bit rough. “I wish I could do more to take away your pain.”
“Who? Me? Just the war of the streets and the battle for total boxing domination. I get off on the pain.”
He tightened his grip. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
Our time ran out, and the room started to fill whether we were done with our heart-to-heart or not. Michael let me loose and shadowed me to the locker room. We chose cubicles in separate blocks, and when we met—with towels hooked around our waists—we both glanced away.
I wanted him to shower with me and let me towel him dry. Instead I shoved clean clothes over my wet body and slipped silently out the door with no goodbye.
When I got to my suite, food steamed from under a covered plate on the bar. Next to the main course, the undressed salad, and the bottle of sparkling water, another silver dish frosted over.
I lifted the lid.
A motherfucking hot fudge sundae.
There was a note:
We’re working this off with an extra hour tomorrow.
I’d try the dessert first.
Michael
Chapter Twelve
Double Date, Double Hate
WE STUCK AROUND IN Chicago the following week, working the born-and-bred in the Midwest angle. On Wednesday, Dev arranged a date night for me. Bless his gold digger heart.
Anya and I rode to the restaurant, in fraught conversation about HBO’s Game of Thrones version versus the books.
When we exited the SUV, I took her arm in mine. Another round of flashes from cameras in my face blinded me. Meanwhile, Anya mewled at all the appropriate moments.
Inside, I scanned the room, stopping at Michael who stood from a table at the rear. He looked every bit as pissed off as I suddenly was.
“You let Dev ambush me?” I asked Anya.
“I do not know what ambush means, but
Mr. Finkelstein set this up. Yes.”
There was a very real possibility I’d have enjoyed my “date” with Anya. There was no way in hell I’d survive a double-fucking-date with Michael. At his side, Wade smiled.
“I’m not liking this,” I snarled.
Anya left her fringed shawl behind and gathered my hand in hers. “You don’t have to. Just make Mykhailo like you.”
My heart stuttered. This was nothing more than another engineered promo stunt from Dev. I couldn’t be queer but needed to make a public show of LGBT support—his message was clear. Good to know double standards were alive and well. I’d rather be reading in my suite with Anya, who at least snuck me cheese-stuffed piroshki.
Michael’s eyes snapped to mine. I bet he wondered if my questions the other day had to do with this new gay-friendly byline. Dev had thrown me under a bus, speeding toward my doom, with no seatbelt. What a pal.
Michael wore a suit tailored to his broad shoulders, nipped in at the waist. Wade, I passed over. Anya was dressed in a svelte red dress—the devil in disguise—while I’d put my best foot forward in a battered leather jacket, motorcycle boots, and a tight T to go with my jeans.
Wade rose to his feet beside Michael and held out his hand. “Nice to see you again, champ.” He nodded at me.
My gaze flipped to Michael and shut down. No one but him had the right to call me that . . . and he’d told his lover.
Michael glanced at Wade before he smoothed his features over. “His name is Liam.” His voice was cool.
“Of course.” Wade looked suitably chided.
Anya introduced herself to Wade the Wank Face. The other two took their seats, and I held Anya’s out for her. My thumb brushed her neck as I pushed her in.
Michael’s gaze pinpointed on the caress. The palpable tension at the table rising another notch, I sat and went right for the wine list.
“We’ve ordered a bottle.” Wade’s easygoing smile annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me.
“Liam’s not drinking,” Michael said without even lifting his head from his menu.
“Tonight, I think I am.”
“Then tomorrow I’m gonna own your ass for two more hours than usual.” The husky drop in Mikey’s voice worked its sexy magic on me.
“Bring it.”
“I will.” He took up my gauntlet.
Wade’s choked response at our barely veiled threats never left his gaping mouth. After that, his face took on a clamped-ass expression.
I sat back in my seat, pretty fucking pleased with myself especially when I noted the glimmer of a grin lifting the corners of Michael’s lips.
Oh yeah, he was gonna blast into me tomorrow, and he couldn’t wait. Neither could I. With one arm looped around Anya’s bare shoulders, I squinted at the menu.
“Why don’t you put your glasses on?” Michael suggested.
I may have growled under my breath. I hated showing a weakness in front of an opponent, and Wade definitely constituted an opponent. I pulled my glasses from my pocket and slid them on. I ignored the telltale pink stain of heat flooding my cheeks.
Michael’s slight grin turned into a wide slash of his lips.
Sitting across from the in love couple through three courses plus dessert was grueling. Having to make small talk and keep up the banter was even worse. At least they didn’t get up to any hanky-panky. But then, what did I know? Anything could be going on under the long drape of the white tablecloth on the other side.
The night was a painful experience made even worse because Anya was nice, beautiful, smart, and completely unattractive to me.
At least she knew the score.
Wade did not.
Wade was attentive to his partner but not clingy, not until he noticed how Michael’s eyes glommed onto me as I stood to hold Anya’s chair out for her when she returned from the lady’s room. Then, all bets were off. There was above-the-table hand holding with fiery-haired Wade sitting so close to Michael he was practically in his lap. Later, for one moment, there was a brief rustle on the other side, decidedly below the waist and perpetrated by Wade. Michael cursed softly, scooted his chair over a bit, and whispered something to his boyfriend.
I briefly considered macking on Anya just to even the playing field, but what would it matter? The two of them had been together since—oh yeah, how could I forget—high school, and I was nothing but a tagalong tonight.
Over coffee, Michael sipped from his cup and watched me over the rim. I’d acceded to decaf since he’d already lectured me about the filet mignon, baked potato with all the fixings, and the bowl of sorbet I’d eaten.
Dabbing at her mouth with her napkin while somehow managing to keep her fire engine-red lipstick in place, Anya leaned her elbows onto the table. “Mykhailo. When was first time you see our Liam fight?”
The clever, clever vixen.
“Oh, I’m sure he can’t remember.” Wade fidgeted with the handle of his cup.
“It was a night I’ll never forget, actually.” Michael shook his head.
Blond curls clung to his forehead. With one leg crossed at the knee, he looked so goddamn sexy in his suit I wanted to rip off his tie and jump his bones.
I was all ears—after I subsumed the immediate need to fuck—because I’d never heard this story before.
“It was in Cincinnati. Colder than an old whore outside that November night, but so hot in the U.S. Bank Arena, snow could’ve melted on the floor.”
I raised my hand to stop Michael. “Wait. You were at the old Riverfront Coliseum? You saw me, four years ago?”
“I didn’t just see you. I went specifically to watch you. I’d been getting into cage fighting because of some of my PT clients, and man, you were like a mythical being they whispered about.”
Holy. Shit.
His eyes shined vividly. “Do you remember the other guy?”
“Juan the Juggernaut.” We shared a smile no one else was privy to, not even Wade, who turned an unattractive shade of pale.
That’s right, fucker.
“I thought for sure there was no way this scrappy boy—you—could get out of the cage alive, let alone the winner. How big was he again?”
“Almost a three-hundred-pounder. But I wasn’t a scrappy nothin’ by then. I was already at my current weight. Jabba the Juggernaut just made me look small. Talk about someone who needs to go on one of your famous fucking rabbit diets.”
Laughter shook through Michael.
Wade glared.
Anya pressed her leg against mine.
“I’d already placed a ridiculous bet on you because of what the boys had said, and I was pretty sure I’d be out my ticket back home after I watched you hop into the cage.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, smirking to himself.
“What? Just because I’m Irish?”
“No. Because you were handsome and cocky and way too big for your britches.”
Wade sputtered off to the side. No one paid him any attention.
“Still am.” I lifted an eyebrow.
“Don’t I know it?” Michael replied.
Anya joined her hands together beneath her delicate chin. “Go on.”
Michael’s voice lowered. “I’d never seen anything like you. Sure, you’re big. You’ve got the body of a bruiser. But there’s something else about you, Liam. When you fight, you’re a predator, an animal, but not one that goes for the obvious kill. No way. It’s like you seduce your opponents into trusting you.”
“That’s uh . . . very poetic. No one’s ever said anything like that to me before.” I was so turned on. I gripped the edge of the table as we stared at one another.
“You lure them in for the strike. It’s fucking beautiful, Liam.” He leaned forward. “You crushed Juan to your will. That’s when I knew I wanted to work for you. When I heard you went professional, holy crap. I spent the next year boning up on my earliest love, boxing. I networked with dozens of other trainers, took on any fighter I could get my hands on before I approached Sean,
and he got me to Devlin.”
Anya clapped her hands, squealing with joy.
Wade shot out of his seat.
He splatted a wad of cash onto the table. “I think we’re going home now.”
I pushed the crisp green bills away. “I always pay for my dates.”
“Are you accustomed to having several?” Wade sneered.
Woops. Looked like I’d just lost a fan.
Like I cared.
“There’s only one.” My gaze locked on Michael.
He stood more slowly, and his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Blinking those intense eyes, he slid his gaze from me. He smiled thinly at Wade, and they said their goodnights—Michael’s warmer than ever, Wade’s completely wooden. Striding out of the restaurant, they were already exchanging low-voiced words.
Anya and I watched in silence as they retreated. There was gonna be some fallout after this, between the two of them and probably between Michael and me when he brought the hammer down on me tomorrow. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to care because Mikey had taken an interest in me long before I’d ever known.
I collected Anya’s wrap and draped it over her shoulders.
“I don’t think Wade is a fang.”
“A fan.” I corrected.
“Exactly.”
And right back at him.
Chapter Thirteen
Bad Call
I MADE THE CALL to Devlin first thing in the morning, explaining the switch I wanted. I held the phone at arm’s length while he screamed across it.
“What da fuck you mean, you want someone else to massage you?”
I listened to him rant and rave for a few more minutes about expenditures and outlay and personnel and background checks. I waited for him to take a breath between Fuckin’ A and fuck this and . . .
“You about done, Dev?”
“Nah. Not until you tell me what this is all about.”
I spoke to him in a coaxing tone, the kind one would use on a rabid dog about to rip off your foot and use it as a brand new chew toy. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
Asswipe. “You know what.”
I heard him, literally heard him flossing his teeth then chewing on the string and swallowing it. Rabid didn’t cover the half of it. Demented, maybe.