Seizing Mack: A Contemporary Love Story (Covendale Book 3)

by Abbie Zanders

  Mack put a pin in the “boundaries” lecture she was going to give Dee — again — to correct her. “Cock block is something guys do.”

  Dee sniffed. “He’s got a cock, doesn’t he? And you just blocked me from getting to it.”

  Mack grabbed Dee’s arm and pulled her into an empty room. “Harrison Kennedy is a pillar of this community and one hell of a good guy. He’s also very married.”

  “So?”

  “Back off, Dee. Last warning.”

  “Fine,” Dee huffed. “But you know, some guys actually like a little attention. You might try it sometime.”

  Mack ignored the jibe and went down to one of the practice rooms and took out some of her frustration on one of the mannequins they used for MMA classes. She would never admit it, but Dee had a point. Most people, men and women included, liked to feel attractive and desired once in a while. Herself included.

  Mack pulled on a pair of fingerless, padded gloves and warmed up with a couple of stretches and simple katas. The thing was, Mack was shit at that kind of thing. Honest praise and encouragement, sure — she doled that out like a champ. But flirting? Batting her eyelashes and spewing sexual innuendo? Stuff that seemed to come naturally for most women just wasn’t in her wheelhouse.

  Not everyone was cast from the same mold. So she wasn’t a femme fatale, so what? Being selective, not settling for just any handsome face or hot body — there was nothing wrong with that, no matter what Dee or anyone else thought. The few, completely unremarkable encounters she’d had convinced her that she was better off waiting for someone who made her heart beat faster just by looking at her.

  Like Nick Benning, for example.

  She let out a fierce Kiai, a short shout-out when performing an attacking move, pivoting on her leg and kicking the bag hard. Letting her body take control, Mack lost herself in a series of movements, a dance of her own creation, incorporating a combination of offensive and defensive movements designed to focus the mind and tax her body. By the time she was finished, her body was covered in sweat and her muscles were screaming, but her head was clearer.

  Maybe she was overreacting. Projecting her own, deeply-buried sense of inadequacy out on Dee. Most of the guys did seem to enjoy Dee’s attention. There hadn’t been a single registered complaint, but was that because they really didn’t mind or because they thought Mack would take it personally? She’d just have to stay on top of it and make sure things didn’t get out of hand.

  She turned and reached for a towel, only then realizing that a small crowd had gathered. Carl was there, grinning like an idiot. A former special ops man who had spent more than a dozen years deep in the Middle East, he had taken her rudimentary MMA skills to the next level and beyond.

  “You okay there, boss? That was a hell of a show.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said quietly as Carl’s class filed in. “I should have checked the schedule.”

  “No problem,” he said, his eyes glistening. “Couldn’t ask for a better promo.”

  She laughed, inclining her head toward the students. “Then I’m glad to help.”

  “Seriously, Mack. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just working off a bit of Dee-inspired angst.”

  He nodded knowingly. “Gotcha. In that case, a few simple katas aren’t going to cut it. Want to stick around and help me with the self-defense lesson?”

  Help Carl with his class or go back to the front desk and deal with Dee? It was a no-brainer. “Do I get to kick your ass?”

  “You could try.”

  “Then you’re on.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ~ Nick ~

  It didn’t take long for Nick to settle into a comfortable routine. He had yet to get in touch with Liz, but otherwise, things were coming along nicely. He’d moved into the Cape Cod and was appreciating the peace, quiet, and space. He took joy in the simple pleasures of mowing the lawn and trimming the bushes, things he hadn’t been able to do while living in an apartment or motel.

  The job was going well, too. Nick had a lot of respect for Sam Brown and liked (most of) the people he worked with. Unlike Emerson, they didn’t seem to harbor any underlying animosity. A few of the uniforms cast hairy eyeballs his way occasionally, but since he’d also seem those same cops cozying up to Emerson, it wasn’t unexpected.

  He’d already closed one of the four cases he’d been assigned and he’d set up a meeting with the local school board about ramping up their drug and alcohol awareness and resistance program in the fall. He spent a fair share of his limited free time at Seize, working out, building a rapport with the kids... and seeking out the elusive and enigmatic woman who’d unknowingly gotten under his skin.

  “Come on, Mack. Admit it. I won.” Nick grinned down at her, holding the towel high in the air, just out of her reach. It wasn’t difficult since he was nearly a foot taller than her and had a much longer wingspan. Yeah, he knew he was pressing her buttons, but he couldn’t help it. It was as if a little devil was sitting on his shoulder, goading him into tugging her pigtails, so to speak.

  It hadn’t taken much effort to learn her routine, and despite telling himself he was playing with fire, he had made a point of crossing paths with her at least once a day. He couldn’t say why, exactly, except that he wanted to.

  He liked her. Liked her sass. Her confidence. The way she seemed determined not to encourage him even though her pupils dilated whenever he managed to get near her. Clearly, she had no idea that by doing so, she was only piquing his interest.

  Nick liked a challenge and, since his job wasn’t exactly a nine-to-five, he often appeared at different times throughout the day, keeping her on her toes. She never knew when to expect him, which meant it was more difficult for her to avoid him.

  She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him with a look that would have made a lesser man cower. “I bet you have sisters you like to torment, don’t you?”

  “Just one.” He grinned wider, more aroused than intimidated by her scowl. “But she’s bigger than you.”

  Mack snorted. When he’d found her, she was just finishing up ten miles on the treadmill’s digitally simulated course. He didn’t know what made him snatch the workout towel out of her grasp before she could wipe away the sheen of perspiration; it was just an impulse he hadn’t tried hard to resist. With her skin flushed from her run and glistening like that, she looked sexy as hell.

  “You are such an adultolescent.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you just call me?”

  “An adultolescent.” She rolled her eyes. Even that was attractive when Mack did it. “A person who has physically matured to adulthood, yet still behaves like an adolescent.”

  “You made that up.” Even if it did fit the situation remarkably well.

  “Did not. Google it.”

  He didn’t, because he already knew by the confident gleam in her eye that he would find it and the definition would be exactly what she said it was, probably word for word. She was annoyingly knowledgeable that way, he’d discovered after a few well-timed, “coincidental” run-ins and some discreet investigation. His background in profiling didn’t hurt, either.

  “How am I an adulto-whatever-you-said?”

  “Adultolescent,” she corrected, taking advantage of his momentary loss of focus to make an impressive vertical leap and snatch the towel from his hands. “You’re a six-foot-two cop resorting to juvenile taunting just because you managed to beat me in a video game created for six-year-olds.”

  He grinned widely at the reminder. Earlier, he’d tracked her to the center’s lounge, where she had been talking to a few of the pre-teens about upcoming sports try-outs. Somehow, he had managed to goad her into playing a video game with him (he may have shamelessly enlisted the support of the kids). Of course, she had no way of knowing that in Chicago, he’d worked with kids who ate, slept, and breathed the stuff. As a result, he had systematically handed Mack her ass in a best-of-three series of Mario Ka
rt.

  “Yeah, well you’re a sore loser,” he teased. “Do you know what that is, or should I Google that for you?

  “I am not a sore loser,” she sniffed, lifting her chin. “I openly admit to sucking at video games. Best me at a real contest.”

  His masculine interest surged. This was the first time she had suggested any interaction beyond their “coincidental” crossing of paths. It could be just the opening he’d been hoping for. “Such as?”

  She scrunched up her nose as she thought about it. It was so damn cute. “Archery.”

  “Who are you, Katniss Everdeen?” he quipped.

  She smirked. “Can’t handle pointy sticks. Got it. What about hand-to-hand combat?”

  He scoffed, though the lower half of his anatomy found the idea of getting up close and personal quite appealing. “Please. I’ve had dogs bigger than you.”

  “Scared?” she taunted.

  He snorted, but yeah, he was scared, all right. Scared of what it was about this woman that kept drawing him in. Scared of the dreams that kick-ass, sexy body of hers inspired. The most remarkable thing was, he didn’t think she had any idea she was doing it.

  The way she was pointedly looking him up and down with that scheming, predatory gleam in her eyes wasn’t doing much to help matters, either. If she kept looking at him like that, he was going to get an embarrassing tent in his shorts like the adolescent she’d just accused him of being.

  “Hey, you’re a cop. You’ve got a gun, right?”

  “It’s kind of required so, yeah,” he said instantly wary.

  “Can you shoot it?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance. “Of course I can.”

  “Perfect. O’Malley’s Firing Range. Know it?”

  He had passed it a few times, knew that guys on the force went there to keep their skills sharp. The place hadn’t been around ten years ago, but he’d been to enough just like it.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  “Okay,” he said, drawing the word out slowly. “But it’s only fair I warn you that I hold the record for marksmanship at the academy.”

  She shrugged, completely unimpressed. That probably shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was. “Talk is cheap, Detective.”

  “Nick,” he corrected automatically. “You’re on, Mack. Winner gets... what?”

  Her eyes lost focus for a minute as she considered his question. “I kick your butt, you have to take a Zumba class.”

  His brows knitted together. “And if I win?”

  Mack snorted in laughter, doubling over and putting her hands on her knees. “Yeah, right, okay. Sorry, give me a minute...”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I can beat you?”

  “Hell, no,” she said, still laughing as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what, smart ass. I agree to your terms, but if I win, you take a Zumba class, and you do it in your underwear.”

  Mack stopped laughing. “Seriously?”

  He smirked. “Put up or shut up, Mack.”

  Chapter Twelve

  ~ Mack ~

  Mack only hesitated for a moment before agreeing to his terms. First, as good as he claimed to be, she was damn sure she wasn’t going to lose. He wasn’t the only one at the top of his class. And even if she did lose, most of her underwear consisted of boy shorts and full coverage, minimizing sports bras anyway, not the lacy thongs and push-up bras he was probably envisioning. Ha!

  She stuck out her hand. “Deal. I’ve got a standing reservation booked at the range every Tuesday, six o’clock. Oh, and would you look at that? Today just happens to be Tuesday.”

  He grinned, enveloping her small hand with his much larger one. She tried not to jolt at the sudden and unexpected rush of energy that flowed between them, intensifying the tingles already present because of his close proximity.

  “I’m there,” he told her. “But don’t you want to insist that if I lose I have to take the class in my underwear?”

  Mack pictured him in a tight pair of boxer briefs, hugging his nice ass and with her luck, a nicely wrapped package as well. No way in hell she wanted to flaunt that in front of a class of women high on endorphins. Not because she was jealous (that sudden spike of aggression she felt was definitely not jealousy) but because the good detective wouldn’t stand a chance in a class of she-wolves.

  “No, Detective,” she told him with a wicked smile. “I was thinking more along the line of cheetah-print spandex...”

  Absolute horror flashed briefly in his eyes before being replaced by smug confidence. He actually believed he could win. It was cute.

  Mack took her leave, feeling rather pleased with herself. Was this what flirting felt like? A sense of buoyancy and anticipation for what might come next?

  No, she corrected herself. This wasn’t a date, not in the true sense of the word. It was more like a friendly competition for bragging rights. Dates didn’t take place at firing ranges. When a couple when out on a date-date, dinner or a movie or something that didn’t include the use of firearms was usually involved.

  But maybe, just maybe, after she kicked his ass, she’d suggest a stop at Ground Zero for a coffee or something... if he wasn’t a sore loser.

  The rest of the afternoon dragged by. Despite her efforts not to read too much into their wager, she was looking forward to seeing him. Lusty secret fantasies aside, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

  After work, she rushed home, wolfed down a quick salad, then grabbed a shower and put on her best pair of jeans (the ones that made her ass look great), form-fitting tank, and a short-sleeved cotton overshirt (which she kept unbuttoned). The outfit wouldn’t win her any commendations by the fashion police, but it had the benefit of flattering her figure while remaining within her narrow zone of comfort.

  Not that she was trying to impress anyone. Much.

  She pulled into O’Malley’s fifteen minutes early and scanned the vehicles already there. She had no idea what Nick drove, but since she recognized every car in the lot, she knew he hadn’t yet arrived. That was good. It would give her a few extra minutes to warm up.

  She greeted the regulars, ignoring their questioning looks as they took in her nicer-than-normal appearance, and pulled out her favorite handgun, a P320 X-Five Full-Size.

  What kind of gun did Nick prefer, she wondered? Was he a Glock man? A .45 ACP? 9mm? A man’s weapon of choice said a lot about him. She hoped he wasn’t the flashy, look-at-my-big-gun type. They were the ones usually overcompensating.

  She didn’t think Nick was overcompensating.

  At 6:30 pm, Mack took a deep breath, then held it, her body as still as a marble statue. She fired off another round at the target, alternating kill shots to the head and chest. She wasn’t angry, and she wasn’t disappointed. Because if she was either of those things, then it would mean that she had, on some level, actually been expecting him to show.

  Which would have been really, really stupid.

  “Remind me not to piss you off,” Chaz grinned when she removed the ear protectors and handed them back to him. Mack smiled back at the sixty-something retired Ranger who ran the place. “Probably a good idea.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “Who?”

  He shifted the ever-present cinnamon toothpick to the other side of his mouth with a well-practiced movement. “Whoever’s got you shooting like that. Shit, Mack. You’d make one hell of a sniper, you know that?”

  She grinned and shook her head as she signed the spent targets. “You’ve got it all wrong, Chaz. There’s not a man alive with a pair of balls big enough to think he can handle me.”

  He laughed. “If only I was thirty years younger, Mack, you wouldn’t be able to run far or fast enough.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what’s wrong with these guys today. Can’t handle a real woman.”

  A small pang shot across her chest. He had no idea how much his words meant, even if he wa
s just saying them to be kind. Kindness for kindness’ sake was just so rare.

  “You know it,” she said, smiling through the sudden, unwelcome wash of melancholy. “I’ll be back next week, yeah?”

  “Hey, Mack,” he called as she was about to head out the door. “Mind if I hang a couple of these up? Show these posers how it’s done?”

  Mack looked at the spent targets he held in his hand, allowing herself a tiny ribbon of pride. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ~ Nick ~

  “That’s him,” Jesse Walker said quietly from the back of the car. Jesse’s mother, sitting next to her son, nodded in affirmation.

  From their position half a block down from Jesse’s house, they had a clear view of the big, bearded man as he got off his bike and made a beeline for the front door. Jesse Walker, Sr. had just been released from prison after serving time for a multitude of crimes and, despite a restraining order, had decided to make their house the second stop on his freedom tour. The first had been the clubhouse of the outlaw motorcycle club he belonged to.

  The man moved slowly but with definite purpose, staggering once or twice as he made his way up the walk. If the bulges in his jacket were any indication, the guy was packing, adding yet another item to the fast-growing list of things parolees were not supposed to have or do.

  “Okay. Sit tight and stay here. Everything is going to be okay.”

  Jesse nodded and put his arm around his trembling mother. Nick spoke quietly into his phone, then exited his vehicle and started walking toward the house. Several police cars pulled up at the same time, surrounding the man. Jesse Senior tried to run, but he was taken down quickly and subdued.

  Less than forty-eight hours after being released, he was headed right back to prison. This time, Nick was going to make sure he stayed there for a very long time.

  Nick drove Jesse and his mother to the station where they filled out a formal report, then gave them a ride home. He declined an offer of dinner but thanked them for offering. As he walked back to his car, Jesse followed.