Swink

by Adriana Locke

  “Because you don’t want it or he doesn’t?”

  Hearing the door open behind us and my sister-in-laws’ voices ringing through the air, I feel anxiety kick me in the gut. “It’s not like we met online and courted each other,” I hiss. “He showed up at my house to fix my air conditioning and—”

  “Your air is broken?” Mom asks from behind me. “Have you called anyone?”

  “Oh, she called someone,” Sienna snorts as I elbow her in the side.

  “It’s fine now, Mom,” I say, glaring at my sister. “What did Ellie say?”

  Mom points across the room. I follow her gesture and see Ford and Ellie standing in the front of the living room, the same spot they were married in a few weeks ago. Ellie is snuggled under Ford’s arm as they both wear massive grins.

  “I believe my wife promised you all a little bit of news today,” Ford teases.

  “It’s a girl, isn’t it?” I ask, swiveling around in my seat. “Please, please, tell me it’s a girl.”

  “We don’t know,” Ellie says. “That’s not the surprise.”

  “It’ll be a girl because Ford isn’t quite the man I am to get a boy,” Lincoln says, getting a jab in the side from Danielle. He pretend-winces, earning a disapproving glance from Dad.

  “Want to do a little man vs. man?” Ford offers with a smirk. “I believe the last time I had you tapping out in three seconds.”

  “I just had a baby,” Lincoln protests.

  “Excuse me?” Danielle laughs. “I believe I had the baby.”

  “Enough,” Mom interjects, holding her hands out. “Stay focused, children. Ellie, dear, would you like to please put me out of my misery and give us your news?”

  Ellie smiles, still not quite sure what to do with the entire Landry clan at once. “Well, Mrs. Landry—”

  “Vivian,” Mom cuts her off. “For the hundredth time, it’s Vivian. Or Mom. Or Grandma,” she adds. “But not Mrs. Landry. That was my mother-in-law, God rest her soul.”

  “Vivian,” Ellie starts again, “the news is . . .” She looks around the room, fiddling with the hem of Ford’s shirt. “The news is there are two Landry babies on their way.”

  “What?” I shout, jumping off my chair as the family erupts. Everyone talks at once, questions shouted from across the room, Sienna and I wearing the cheesiest smiles of our life. “You’re having twins? Oh my God! This is fantastic!”

  “Hey!” Ford laughs, motioning for us to settle down. Once we’re quieted, he continues. “We aren’t done.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s triplets!” Sienna squeals.

  Barrett, his hand holding Alison’s, shoves away from the wall and walks to the front of the room. He tries to hide the shit-eating grin on his face but fails. “Huxley! Come here, son,” Barrett calls out.

  Hux strides into the room like a peacock. He’s changed out of his plaid button-up and is now wearing a white t-shirt with big, black letters: BIG BROTHER TO-BE.

  “Barrett?” Mom says, her jaw dropping to the floor. “Alison?”

  “Great,” Graham groans from the sofa. “That leaves me as the only non-child-bearing Landry man.” Mallory gives him a pointed look that makes us all laugh.

  “Alison and I are expecting just a week after Ford and Ellie,” Barrett announces. “We are having the second Landry baby.”

  Sienna and I race to Alison, swamping her with hugs and congratulations. She and Ellie both beam, their faces already hosting the glow of pregnancy, as my brothers stand by like they just won a gold medal.

  “Congrats, Barrett,” I say, giving him a hug.

  “Thanks, Swink.”

  “You know you have to move back to Savannah, right? I need my little niece here to spoil rotten.”

  “Although it’s a boy,” Barrett laughs, “Alison and I have decided it’s best I don’t make a bid for the Presidency and we’ll move back home after this term.”

  “Seriously? That’s fantastic!”

  “Where else should we be starting a family than with family, right? And with Ryan here and Ford’s baby coming right around ours, it would be fun for them to grow up together.”

  “You’re making me look bad,” Graham says, coming up behind me and pulling Barrett in a half-hug. “Congrats, man. I wish you would’ve put it off a little longer, but I can’t blame you.”

  “You need to get in on the action,” I tell Graham. “We need a little mini-CEO around here to keep the next generation in line.”

  His brow pulls tight, his jaw clenching. “That’s a conversation for a different day.”

  “Fine, fine,” I say, holding my hands up. “No pressure.”

  Turning away, I intend to head to the kitchen, but find myself on the back patio. It’s one of my favorite spots on the estate. The view over the lawn, the tree line, the edge of the lake that you can glimpse through the trees, is so peaceful. Climbing onto the porch swing, I feel the warm breeze against my face.

  The ruckus in the house is still in full effect, the noise drifting through the windows and walls. An excitement races through my veins for my brothers and their wives, but a little dose of loneliness sits squarely in my chest.

  All I’ve ever wanted to be in life is my mother. I’ve wanted a family, to work for charities, to have a fabulous husband and sweet, gorgeous children, and make dinners like you see on the covers of a magazine. As a little girl, I would play in front of my plastic kitchen for hours, making meals for my baby dolls.

  I got a degree in liberal arts because my parents demanded we go to college but nothing felt right to me. Nursing, teaching, business—squeamish, cringes, yawns. College was just a filler, something to take the space from high school until I met the man that would sweep me off my feet.

  Yet here I am. On a path that looks nothing like that.

  Twenty-five years old. Dating—if you can call it that—a man that I have no future with, yet can’t leave alone. The charity work I thought called my name is only semi-satisfying, and I’m left with major holes in what I thought I would be my life by now.

  “You’re so stupid,” I say to myself as I pull out my phone. I scroll until I find his name and pull up my texts.

  Me: Hey.

  Dom:You suppering?

  Me: Not yet. My brother is having a baby. Everyone is celebrating.

  Dom: Didn’t you know that?

  Me: Another brother.

  Dom: It’s a fucking baby factory over there.

  Me: I guess so. LOL

  Dom: Shoot me a text when you make it home. K?

  Me: Ok. Be careful.

  Dom: Enjoy your dinner party.

  Me: That was written with sarcasm. I can feel it.

  Dom: I always make sure you feel it, babe.

  With a laugh, I tuck my phone away. His statement is true—he does make me feel it. He makes me feel a whole hell of a lot more than I can afford to.

  Dominic

  THE MATS ARE COOL AND still a little damp from the cleaning agent Hannah used on them a little while ago. I sit, legs together, and bend forward, loosening my hamstrings.

  Hannah’s gaze is heavy on my back as I stretch. She’s the gym equivalent of a lot lizard—the chick that’s ready and willing to give you a whirl. Or a twirl. Hell, she’ll give you whatever you request with an enthusiasm that’s hard to match.

  That’s what girls like that do. They know how the game is played and they want their chance, their fifteen minutes of legs spread wide open, to see if they can sink you as you sink into them. This is especially true if you’re the fighter the gym is known for. That either makes you extra special or extra targeted, depending on how you look at it.

  It’s easy to be persuaded by how crazy girls like that seem for you. I mean, enthusiasm is fifty-one percent of what makes a good fuck. It’s hard to beat an eagerness to take your cock like it’s her purpose in life. Think about it. A little zest for the best can make up for a lot of the rest. A lot, but not all.

  Fifty-one percent might be a majority, bu
t no one ever said that was a passing grade.

  As I look over my shoulder and see her watching me from the desk, the conclusion I came to six months ago when she walked in the door is reconfirmed: extra targeted.

  “How’s your rib, Dom?” she asks.

  “It’s good.”

  “Bond was worried he broke it.”

  “I’m sure he was,” I say.

  Turning away from her, my hands flurry against a heavy bag. With each snap, my muscles ease a little of the tension I seem to have been born with. It’s something I can never totally get rid of. It’s a feeling that something is always either wrong or about to go sideways. The result, I suppose, of growing up with an alcoholic father and a mother too weak to tell him to go fuck himself.

  “Yo, Dom!”

  Stepping back and sucking in a quick breath of air, I glance towards the locker room.

  “Hey, Nate,” I say to my brother. “Didn’t know you were here.”

  “Yeah, I just stopped to get a quick workout in before I head to the bar. My bartender called off tonight so I got Chrissy to watch Ryder.”

  “You still fucking her?”

  He grins. “Not on the regular. But she wanted a little last night and I gave it to her like the giver I am. So she owed me one.”

  “I love how you convince her that you’re doing her some kind of favor,” I laugh.

  “Hey, she likes my cock and my kid. What else could I ask for?”

  “I’d put not trying to get herself knocked up on the list.”

  “Which is why,” he says, drawing out the last syllable, “I’m not fucking her on the regular.” He taps the side of his head. “I’m the one with the brains. Remember?”

  My right hand smacks the side of the bag in a quick jab. “That’s what you keep telling me.”

  He stands with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching me work. Nate is three years older, a little shorter, and a lot stockier. We look a lot alike besides our build with jet black hair, our mother’s blue eyes, and a musculature that’s proven to be the only good thing our father ever did for us.

  “I got a call from the bank today.”

  My head snaps to Nate, the weight of those words hitting me like a perfectly delivered one-two. “What’d they say?”

  “They said I got the loan.”

  Sighing in relief, I wrap an arm around the bag. “That’s good news.”

  “It’ll take sixty days or so to get the money, so I gotta figure out how to float until then. But, yeah, man, that has me breathing a little easier.”

  “You know it’s bullshit,” I spit. “They triple your property taxes on The Gold Room and expect you to just come up with that while doubling your fucking license fees?”

  “I know. But what can I do?”

  “Just pisses me off,” I say, slamming a fist into the bag as my blood pressure picks up. “You got some silver-spoon-fed assholes sitting somewhere trying to figure out how they can give themselves a raise. What do they do? They charge you for it while you’re busting ass day in and day out to feed Ryder.”

  Nate’s serenity does what it’s done since the day we were at the park and our mom came with tears streaking down her cheeks, telling us our oldest brother got hit by a car—it centers me.

  No matter how bad life gets, Nate weathers it. He took the hits from our dad when he was drunk. He kept me calm when our world fell apart and the third piece of our brotherhood was killed. He didn’t completely lose his shit either when Ryder’s mom overdosed on heroin six months after the kid was born.

  We’re brothers, as strong as the DNA that binds us. But we’re also completely different, and while he accepts the bureaucrats almost forcing him to close the doors on his bar, I’d be happy rolling some heads.

  “It’ll work out,” Nate says, smacking me on the back. “It always does.”

  “My offer still stands.”

  “What offer is that?”

  “You and Ryder move in with me. Just until the loan goes through. Between rent and utilities, man, you’d save a ton.”

  He rubs the toe of his shoe over the floor, nudging the edge of the mat.

  “It makes sense, Nate.”

  “I don’t want to go cramping your style,” he laughs. “You don’t know what it’s like living with a four-year-old.”

  “Just don’t bring that purple dinosaur video,” I wince, “and it’ll be fine. It’s just for a few months, right?”

  “Yeah.” He looks me in the eye, the start of a smirk on his lips. “What about Cam?”

  “She doesn’t live with me.”

  “No shit. She wouldn’t be caught dead living in that apartment,” Nate laughs. “But I’m guessing she comes over for booty calls now and then.”

  My eyebrows wiggle as I think of her from a couple of hours ago. “God, that ass.”

  “You’re gonna have a hard time letting that one go, huh?”

  “Nah,” I say, tapping at the bag again. “I know what time it is. I know how this goes.”

  “The one time I knew how it went, it almost made it harder not falling for her.” He shoves his hands in his pockets again, watching me throw punches. “Of course, with me it was with a girl that set a new level of crazy. With you, it’s with the princess of Savannah.”

  “What can I say?” I laugh.

  “As much as I hate her brothers,” he admits, “I kinda like her.”

  “You’re just pissed they walked in your bar like they owned the place.”

  “Damn right I am. They probably could’ve pulled out their wallets and bought the place with their pocket change, and I find that downright offensive.”

  My laughter booms through the gym, getting the attention of the two guys sparring in the ring across the room. “So, you and Ryder gonna move in or what?”

  “You sure it won’t fuck up your love life?”

  “Love life? Try fuck life, and no, it won’t.”

  A wash of relief passes through his eyes and isn’t missed by me. “Thanks, brother.”

  “Shut the fuck up and just don’t ask me to help you move your shit.” Circling the bag, I concentrate on my footwork and not the thoughts of Camilla that are wiggling their way in my mind.

  “Bond’s here, so I’m out,” Nate growls. “Call me when you’re done and we can work out the details.”

  “Okay.” Over his shoulder, my gaze lands on Hannah’s. She’s talking to Bond, but watching me. Flipping my sight back to my brother, I laugh. “I think this will be a quick one.”

  “What? The workout or her?” he asks with a little nod to Hannah.

  “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.”

  “I never could count well,” he says, heading for the door.

  “And you say you’re smart one,” I call after him.

  “We all have our moments.”

  As Bond’s voice trails through the air and makes its way to me, my eyes involuntarily roll to the back of my head.

  Bond Grayson is a fantastic boxer, my height and weight, and aggressive. He’s the perfect training partner—or he would be, if he could keep his mouth shut.

  Outside the ring, he’s the epitome of what I can’t stand. Loud, arrogant, and impulsive—he’s a dick. I can only barely tolerate him the time or two a week we meet up to train, and I wouldn’t tolerate him then if I didn’t need that prize money a couple of times a year.

  My shoulders sag as the truth swirls around me.

  I don’t really need that money this year. God knows my ribs don’t need the punishment either. But Nate and Ryder do.

  With the curled smirk of Bond coming straight at me, I push aside what I really want to do—saying fuck it and going to find Cam—and prepare to bang it out with Bond.

  Camilla

  “HEY,” I SAY INTO THE phone as my keys hit the little glass tray I keep by the door. “How was the gym?”

  “You home yet?”

  My brows furrow at his quick question. “I just walked in. Why?”
>
  “No reason.”

  “I was going to call you in a second,” I tell him. “I literally just walked in the door. Is everything okay?”

  He blows out a breath. “I just, you know, it’s getting late and I wanted to make sure you made it home.”

  A warmth unleashes in my chest and pulls the corners of my lips into an achingly wide grin. “Yeah, I’m home.” I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “So, how did it go with Bond?”

  “He left holding his rib tonight, so pretty damn good, if you ask me.”

  “Isn’t training supposed to mean helping each other get better?” I ask, flipping on the light in the kitchen. “It sounds to me when you ‘work out’ with him, it’s a little more serious than that.”

  “Any time two men are fighting, whether it’s sparring or actually going at it, there’s ego on the line. Factor in that it’s him I’m in there with and there’s a whole new dimension to consider.”

  As he rants about how much he dislikes Bond, I find a carton of chocolate frozen yogurt in the freezer and sit down at the table with a spoon. “I still think you should just stop fighting altogether.”

  “Not your choice.”

  Stabbing my spoon in the dessert with a little more gusto than necessary, I sigh. “I know it’s not my choice. You’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t want my opinion on the matter.”

  “If you know that’s true, you’d think you’d stop throwing it out there left and right.”

  There’s a moment of silence, one that worries me every time it happens. I find myself holding my breath, my chest burning, as I stare off into space and brace myself for him to give me a bullshit answer and end the call. One of these days, it’s going to happen.

  I’m surprised it hasn’t yet. When I pulled my door open last summer, looking like a sweaty mess, I didn’t expect to see him on the other side. I didn’t expect to have my knees get all wobbly or my stomach turn to mush at the smile he sent my way.

  There was no way to predict I would’ve been handing my phone number over to the air conditioner repair guy a few hours later or that I’d be enjoying a hamburger and French fry dinner with him the next evening. Least of all, there was absolutely no way in the world I would’ve believed I would see him again almost every day for the next ten months. But I have.