Luke (A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel Book 8)

by Lane Hart

  “Lennox, do you know where Mommy’s phone is?” I ask him.

  With a silent nod, he jumps off the bed and takes off down the hall. I roll out to follow, and Meg joins me at Lennox’s bedroom door. Together we watch as he slips his arm underneath the toddler mattress and pulls out her phone.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Meg says in relief when Lennox hands the smartphone over to her.

  “So that’s why you didn’t respond to my calls or texts?” I ask her, relieved she wasn’t ignoring me.

  “You called and texted?” she asks.

  “A few times,” I admit with a grin of amusement. “You have to admit, though, it was pretty sweet that he was trying to call me.”

  “Sweet, but he’s still in trouble,” she tells Lennox. “No television today.”

  “Okay, Mommy,” Lennox replies sadly. Then suddenly he perks up as he turns to me and asks, “Uncle Luke, will you play with me?”

  “Of course, buddy,” I tell him while ruffling his blond hair. “We’ve got a lot of time to make up for, starting now.”

  Epilogue

  Luke

  Six months later…

  “Are you ready?” I squat down in my crisp black tux and red bow tie to ask Lennox. My son is dressed nearly identical to me, but he’s at least a million times cuter.

  “Uh-huh,” Lennox answers with a nod.

  “Okay, good. You’re gonna do great,” I say to him before I pull the two white gold wedding rings from my pocket and tie them to the ribbons on his white satin pillow. “Now, all you have to do is hold this and walk down the row between the chairs with Mommy when Miss Abby tells you to.”

  “And then you’ll be my daddy?” he asks, blue eyes wide and hopeful.

  “And then I’ll be your daddy,” I assure him with a hug before he can see the tears filling my eyes.

  Not long after Meg and I decided to give a relationship a real chance, she flew out to Arizona to visit her aunt and came back with a new birth certificate for Lennox.

  One that now says I’m his father.

  So while there’s no stepparent adoption necessary, Meg and I wanted to wait until after the wedding to make it official. And although I was willing to wait however long it took for us to take this step, I’m glad that in January Meg told me she was ready to get married. That’s when we asked Abby to help us plan a small, intimate wedding, with Linc and Claire’s approval to have it in front of their lake. The trees are all in bloom, the sun is high, reflecting off the water, and our closest friends and family are seated and waiting on the rows of wooden benches. Everything is perfect, and I can’t wait to officially make Meg and Lennox mine.

  “The bride’s ready,” Abby comes over and says.

  “Then let’s do this,” I tell her with a smile as I let go of Lennox to straighten. “See you down there in a just a few minutes,” I say to my son before I take my place in front of the water beside Henry, the hospital chaplain I met a few weeks ago when I started my Emergency Management Training. While I still find the time to train a few hours a week at Havoc, it’s nice to be working toward an actual career to not only earn a living for my family but to also try and save lives.

  “All set?” Henry asks with a smile

  “We are,” I tell him, unable to prevent my own grin when the band that’s set up underneath the white tent a few feet away where the reception will take place begins to play The Cure’s “Lovesong.”

  Our wedding won’t be religious or traditional, but it will be us, which is all Meg and I care about.

  Everyone turns their heads around to look when a white, vintage 1965 Mustang convertible with red leather interior pulls up behind the seating area. Meg climbs out of the front passenger seat, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her since last night. She’s even more stunning in her wedding dress than I imagined. The long, sleeveless ivory lace is gorgeous, innocent looking while at the same time sexy as hell, just like her. Meg’s strawberry blonde hair hangs in bouncy spirals over her shoulders, making her appear angelic.

  Unlike all those years ago when I was a teenager, now I know she’s not perfect. Neither am I. The important thing is that we love each other, and because of that, we can get through anything together.

  Meg bends down and says something to Lennox, probably telling him how handsome he looks. Then, taking Lennox’s tiny hand in hers, they both start down the aisle towards me.

  It’s the happiest moment of my life.

  “Hello, beautiful,” I say when Meg’s standing in front of me.

  “Hi, handsome,” she replies with an enormous grin.

  “Family and friends,” Henry starts. “We’re gathered here today to unite this family. When Luke and Megan are joined on this day, they become part of each other: His feelings become her feelings; her sorrows become his sorrows; his joys become her joys; her cares become his cares, and her son will become his son.”

  Turning to me, Henry asks, “Luke, do you promise to be a true and faithful husband and father, always remaining by Megan's and Lennox’s side to comfort, rejoice and endure all the complexities of life you face as a family?”

  “I do,” I reply.

  “And Megan, will you promise to be a true and faithful wife and mother, to commit yourself to always love Luke and Lennox from this day forward?”

  “I do,” Meg replies.

  “May I have the rings?” Henry asks Lennox, who offers him the pillow so that he can untie them. Holding up the smaller ring, Henry says to me, “Luke, place this ring on Megan’s finger as a symbol of your commitment to love, honor, and respect her for all the days of your life.”

  I take Meg’s left hand in mine and slip the ring on her finger, and then she does the same with mine.

  “And Lennox,” Henry says to our son. “Will you now take Luke’s hand as he takes your mother’s, forming a circle that represents your family’s love for each other. Love that has no beginning or end but is unconditional and unwavering.”

  My son defers to Meg, who nods in encouragement, before he finally holds his free hand out for me to take.

  “Thank you,” I say to him, trying to hold back my emotions threatening to break through. “May I?” I ask Meg with my palm up in offering. She places her dainty hand in mine, and then the circle is complete.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride and your son,” Henry announces.

  Since Meg is closer, I kiss her first, sweetly and gently on the lips.

  “I love you,” she says to me when I pull away.

  “I love you too,” I reply before I lean down to kiss Lennox on his forehead. “And I love you more than you know.”

  “Can I call you Daddy now?” my son looks up and asks.

  “Forever and always,” I tell him.

  The End

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart was born and raised in North Carolina. She continues to live in the south with her husband, two daughters, and several pets named after Star Wars characters.

  When Lane's not writing or reading sexy novels, she can be found in the summer on the beaches of the east coast, and in the fall watching football, cheering on the Carolina Panthers.

  Connect with Lane:

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/WritingfromHart

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lanehartbooks

  Website: http://www.lanehartbooks.com

  Email: lane.hart@hotmail.com

  Keep reading for a free sneak peek of Perfect Spiral!

  Perfect Spiral

  A Playing Dirty Sports Romance

  By Lane Hart

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coinci
dental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.

  © 2017 Editor's Choice Publishing

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.

  Editor’s Choice Publishing

  P.O. Box 10024

  Greensboro, NC 27404

  Edited by Angela Snyder

  Cover by Addendum Designs

  http://addendumdesigns.com/

  Cover photo from www.123rf.com

  WARNING: THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY. THE STORY CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE AND EXPLICIT SEX SCENES.

  Prologue

  Callie Clarke

  Six months ago…

  As soon as I make the final turn onto Saint Andrews Drive, I see my sister’s flashy red car parked at the curb of my now lonely cottage home. The anger that had started to sizzle out over the last few months comes roaring back to life like a scorching inferno. Her presence here is the equivalent of pressing play on the live-action horror show of her betrayal, one that I’ve tried desperately to forget but haven’t quite managed. Maybe I never will.

  Climbing out of my much more conservative, metallic blue Corolla, I slam the door at the same time she rises from hers. The first word out of my mouth to her is “Leave!”

  “Callie, wait. Just hear me out. Please?” she comes across the yard and begs, her normally sunny blonde hair dyed a depressing black.

  “I don’t care if you’re starving or homeless or whatever other sad sob story you have. I will never give you another penny for you to spend on heroin,” I tell her before scurrying up the three steps of the front porch.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Just two words, but they manage to steal my breath and weaken my knees. I have to reach for the stair rail to keep myself standing.

  “I’ve been clean…since I found out. I swear,” my little sister sobs from behind me.

  For a moment, I even feel a hint of sympathy starting to swirl in the pit of my stomach for her, despite my hate. Until the realization hits me.

  “It’s his, isn’t it?” I spin around to ask her, tears burning my eyes, my emotions putting a stranglehold around my throat.

  “No, Callie. It’s not John’s –”

  I slap my hands over my ears because I can’t bear to hear another word following the name of the man who vowed to love me through sickness and in health and all the other bullshit. After eight years of marriage and seven years of trying to conceive, he couldn’t give me the one thing I’ve ever wanted. No, but he obviously had no problem knocking up my sister.

  “Leave and don’t ever think of coming back here!” I scream at her through my sobs. “I’m done with you and your lies! I took you in more times than I can count when you had no other place to go. I spent thousands of dollars on rehab and attorneys to get you out of your self-destructive messes, and how did you repay me? By fucking my husband for a hit like the worthless drug whore you are!”

  “John knew I was weak, that I couldn’t resist! This is all his fault. Please, Callie!” she pleads.

  Turning back around, I climb the last step, unlock the front door and slam it closed for the final time on my sister begging in my front yard.

  Chapter One

  Quinton Dunn

  I’m a pretty lucky son of a bitch.

  Some people spend their entire lives searching for that one unique thing that they’re completely and utterly passionate about, their God-given purpose, if you will, and never actually succeed in finding it.

  Me? Well, I found my calling when I was only seven years old.

  Tall and lanky for my age even then thanks to my father’s giant German ancestors, I was assigned to the Roanoke Bulldog’s quarterback position. I didn’t understand the importance of this role on our pee wee team until our first game. We were down fourteen to nothing in the first seconds of the fourth quarter. The center hiked the ball to me at the forty-yard line and then, with a sudden moment of clarity, I realized that not only was I literally the only one holding the vital pigskin in my hands, but I was the only one holding it figuratively as well.

  Okay, so I didn’t think about it exactly in those terms since I probably didn’t know what literally or figuratively meant until college. But I understood that win or lose, the outcome of our team rested on my shoulders as the quarterback. Sure, our little linemen had a job to do keeping the defense away from me; the receivers had to catch the balls I threw to them, and the running backs had to do their parts, but I was ultimately the lynchpin. Our success or failure was on me.

  It was a lot of pressure to put on a seven year old, and my first inclination was to run screaming like my ass was on fire to the parking lot and toss my cookies. My second inclination was to do whatever I had to do to win. Thankfully, the second was much stronger. My competitiveness reared up and beat back the nervousness with a sledgehammer until there was no more fear or doubt. All that remained was a confidence in myself to utilize everything our team had been practicing and get the job done.

  The coaches and my father told me I had an incredibly powerful arm. I was a lot bigger and stronger than all the other kids my age, standing half a head taller than most. Looking over the top of my opponents’ helmets, their backs all to the goal posts, the end zone was in my sights alone, mine for the taking.

  From that moment on in the game, my throws were dead accurate, perfect spirals. Our receivers were tough and fast. And the Hawks were no match for the Bulldogs that day.

  I may have been young and foolish; hell, I’m still young and foolish, but even back then I was wise enough to know without a doubt that nothing would ever feel as magnificent as leading my team to a win. The admiration, the cheers, and praise of my performance is still exhilarating, addicting even. Which is why I work my ass off to be the best damn quarterback I can be for my team.

  My only problem as the starting quarterback for the Wilmington Wildcats is that my professional success now comes with even greater levels of anxiety before I take the field.

  Tomorrow is the first real game of my fourth season playing professional football, and already my palms are sweating, and my heart is ricocheting around in my chest like a pinball game thanks to the nervousness. As much as I love to win, my position as the leader of my team is a double-edged sword. If we lose, it’s all on me. And when I fail, I let down my parents, my fifty-two teammates, the dozens of coaches and management staff, and the millions of fans. That’s why I absolutely abhor losing and why I had to chug half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol half an hour ago before I could eat dinner.

  “Do you think we should just shave our heads?” Lathan Savage asks me, interrupting my struggle to keep down the steak we grilled out on my oceanfront deck before turning on the State versus East Carolina game in my living room.

  Blinking in confusion at my best friend and tight end, I try to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about. When he runs his fingers through his blond Mohawk that’s identical to my jet black one thanks to a bet we both lost a few weeks ago, understanding finally dawns.

  “You know, just take it all off and start over from scratch?” he clarifies.

  “I’m not shaving my fucking head,” I tell him, reaching up to stroke the velvety sides of my new do. “My melon is too lumpy for that shit. The rest of our hair will grow back soon,” I assure him. While I always cut my hair as soon as it starts curling around my ears, Lathan’s was nearly brushing his shoulders when our teammates chopped it off, so he had a lot more of it to miss.

  “I think I might shave all mine, you know, since my mom’s starting to lose her hair again,” he says sadly while keeping his eyes on the television.

  Dammit.r />
  I am such an insensitive asshole. Here I am having a pity party about winning a freaking football game tomorrow while Lathan’s over there wondering if his mom will live through Christmas. I should’ve realized he wasn’t thinking about shaving his head for vanity's sake, but I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, especially when my head is so incredibly far up my own ass. Lathan’s mom just started going through chemo and radiation again after the cancer in her kidney’s spread to her pancreas.

  “I’m sorry, man,” I tell Lathan sincerely, meaning for my ignorance and for what he’s going through. “How’s she doing?”

  “From bad to worse,” he answers. “At least there’s a game tomorrow to give me a distraction.”

  As if on cue, like a gift-wrapped present sent from the good Lord above, my doorbell rings.

  “How about a distraction tonight?” I ask Lathan as I get to my feet. “I don’t know who it is, but I’m sure she has hot friends.”

  “Seriously? Another booty call?” he scoffs with an eye roll.

  “I can’t help it if the ladies always come back wanting more,” I argue.

  It’s no secret that I thoroughly enjoy sex or that I’ve had a lot of lovers. In fact, I don’t even have to try to get a girl into my bed anymore. Like the sun rising over the ocean each morning, it just happens naturally. Which is why I recently started playing a little game I like to call “Cheesy, Sleazy and Easy.” Lately, when a woman comes on to me, I try and break out the stupidest, most arrogant pickup lines that come to my mind to repulse them, to encourage a slap to my face rather than have them bend over and beg me to slap their asses. So far I’m oh-for-forty-five.