“It sounds very bohemian of you,” I observe.
“I was young and liked the freedom,” she says. “I’d never had to think about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’d been training since I was a kid for the biathlon. When I finally got tired of it, I had no idea what to do with myself.”
“You deserved a break,” I point out.
“Yes, that’s the way I reasoned it out in my head. But a few weeks turned into months and that turned into years. I chased thrills and lived like a bum for four years.”
“Sounds kind of cool,” I admit a little wistfully. It’s very different from my life of responsibility, whether it was working on the farm since I was probably ten to going right into the Navy after high school. I’d always had obligations I’d never walk away from.
Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about this baby… while Rachel is sort of able to treat it like a road bump in her life.
CHAPTER 8
Rachel
I normally love the sounds of a gym. Clanging of metal on metal, the hum of a treadmill, and the grunts of exertion. It’s certainly no chore when the gym is busy such as it is now with hot, ripped guys. I’ve never been able to explain the phenomena, but for some reason, men have to be insanely gorgeous and built to perfection to work at The Jameson Group. My eyes are having a tough time staying focused on my little work area because I keep wanting to let them stray over to Bodie while he works out with Cage. We’d all flown in on a private charter from L.A. this morning, and then we shared an Uber to come right to the gym to workout.
It was slightly weird flying back with the team, and by weird, I mean sitting across from Bodie and not continually thinking about how great sex is with him. He and I stayed up a good chunk of the night and into the early morning hours just gorging on each other. I kicked him out of my bed around three AM, so I could get a few hours of sleep before our flight. He grumbled about it, but he eventually went. Whenever I happened to look at him during the flight, he would either shoot me a wink or knowing smile. One time, he even licked his bottom lip. I almost combusted.
Damn pregnancy hormones.
The Jameson Group’s gym is state of the art and geared for more than just strength or cardio training. A huge rock wall takes up the eastern side, extending up two stories. There’s an indoor obstacle course that would rival any military boot camp facility, and just off the gym complex is an indoor shooting range. My favorite, though, is the knife station. Three straw dummies are set up with head, chest, and femoral artery targets, and there’s a case full of different-sized throwing knives.
I’m practicing trying to hit the femoral artery of the dummy that’s furthest away. So far, I’ve managed to hit his little straw nuts three times in a row. I pick up a six-inch Japanese Shinobi, flip it in the air so I catch it by the blade, and cock my arm back to launch. Clearing my mind, I focus my gaze to the left side of the dummy’s nut sack and let my confidence clear the way. I launch, and the silver knife glints as it tumbles end over end.
Solid strike to the testicles once again.
“Goddamn motherfucking hairy balls,” I growl a little too loudly. Tank Richardson, another explosives expert at Jameson, gives me a startled look as he throws knives at the dummy in the lane next to me.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Take a deep breath,” he says as he chooses a knife from the tray beside him.
“Excuse me?” I snap. I don’t need to be told to calm the fuck down, which given the quick flush of anger that overtakes me, might actually be good advice.
Fuck you, pregnancy hormones.
“It helps if just before you throw, you take a deep breath and hold it,” he says, either unaware of the anger brewing just under the surface or not really caring.
Knowing Tank, he just doesn’t care. He’s a big brute of a guy with the personality of a fresh Brillo pad. All abrasive and uncaring if he scratches people up.
“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter under my breath. Tank throws his knife, and it hits the dummy’s right eye. He gives me a knowing smirk, and I contemplate launching my next knife to see if I can hit that curve of his lip on the left side of his face.
Even though I can’t stand him in this moment, I grudgingly accept Tank’s advice and suck in a deep breath. I cock my arm, take aim, and laser my eyes onto the target.
Launch.
Strike.
Direct hit to the testicles yet again.
Fury at my own ineptitude paralyzes me for a moment. It’s how I felt when I saw Joram take a bullet, and then an image of Tank smirking at me fills my gaze. He’s not actually smirking at me right now because I’m still staring at the knife lodged firmly in the center of the dummy’s groin, but I can just imagine it.
The paralyzed feeling melts away, and I’m able to move. In a burst of frustration, my hand flies out, sweeping the entire knife case off the table beside me. It goes flying a good ten feet before the knives clatter out against the concrete flooring.
“You stupid motherfucking useless testicle-guided butter knives,” I yell at my adversaries, cringing when the echo of my own petulant tantrum is thrown back at me.
There’s immediate silence in the gym, as if every single person stopped what they were doing to look my way. My head drops, and I stare at my tennis shoes for a moment before I get up the courage to look over at Tank. He’s staring at me with his jaw dropped.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I’m horrified when they start to spill over my bottom lids. Tank’s eyebrows disappear into his military-style buzz cut, but I only see that for a blessedly brief moment before his entire face becomes hazy through the water in my eyes.
“Fuck,” I mutter and spin away from Tank and the knives. I dart across a small area set up with a squat rack where Sal Mezzina and Benji Darden are working out. As I jog past, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, Sal calls in his thick Bronx accent, “Hey Hart… what are the tears for? On the rag or something?”
It’s not the first period joke I’ve heard from my male coworkers, and it’s never bothered me before. But apparently, my hormones were in a state of dormancy prior to getting knocked up, and a fresh wave of tears well in my eyes.
Another wave of pure rage rockets through me, heating me up from the inside out. I swear I can even feel my earlobes sizzling.
I veer left and change course without thinking, barreling right at Sal. Through the tears and fury, I see his eyes grow wide. He opens his mouth and holds his hands up in slow motion as if to stop me, but my hands slam right into his chest and he goes flying. Right through the back of the squat rack and onto his ass with a resounding thud.
I come to stand over the top of him, legs spread wide and hands on my hips.
“I’ve got your rag for you, you fucking sexist pig,” I scream.
He stares up at me as if I have horns sprouting from the top of my head. The way I feel right this moment, it wouldn’t surprise me to find them there. My body is not my own.
This enrages me further and I open my mouth to lay every vile curse word in my arsenal on him, when an arm circles me from behind.
Because I know his body so well, I recognize the planes and contours of Bodie’s chest as I’m hauled backward into it.
I’m offended he’d think to stop me in the middle of my tirade; especially since, as a woman being shamed for her period, I have a right to be incensed. Doesn’t matter that it has never bothered me before, or that I’ve always taken it as the type of ribbing from male teammates that means I’m part of their inner circle of trust.
“Easy does it, Hart,” Bodie murmurs in my ear in an attempt to calm me, but I’m thinking that would require some serious anti-psychotic medication at this point.
“Fuck you, Bodie,” I yell as I wrench out of his grasp. Well, he actually lets me go quite easily, and that he knows just what my boundaries are pisses me off even more.
Bodie stares at me warily, face etched with concern. He doesn’t spare a glance at Sal still sitting on the
floor.
I think it might even be okay… that I can come out of this without any embarrassment, but those stupid fucking tears start again, sliding down my cheeks in frustratingly itchy rivulets. Bodie’s expression goes from worried to pitying, and it’s the straw that breaks this pregnant psycho’s back.
“Fuck you,” I snarl at Bodie before looking at Sal again. “And fuck you. Don’t ever say something like that to me again.”
Sal gives me a tight nod, but I don’t give a fuck if he agrees with my right to claim a harassment-free environment. He’s already forgotten as I spin on my heel and barrel through the glass door that leads into the coed locker room.
I stomp across to my locker, and I’m so furious I can’t get my combo entered correctly. On the second attempt, I’m cursing.
On the third, I’m crying harder.
“Rachel…” My body locks tight at the sound of Bodie’s voice behind me. “What’s wrong?”
I ignore him, take a deep breath, and try the combo again.
Bingo. It fucking works. Hallelujah. Something is going right in my life.
“You know Sal was just kidding with you, right?” he says.
I spin on him, incredulously glaring at his insensitivity. And I see it on his face as clear as day. He knows that’s a stupid remark to make to a hormonal pregnant female who was just teased about something that makes her distinctly female in a heavily male-dominated working environment.
He said it specifically to provoke me into conversation, even at the risk of inciting more fury from me.
I can’t help it. I just break.
Right in half.
More tears come pouring out, and my chest tightens with anxiety that I’m having this meltdown.
At work.
In front of Bodie.
“I’m a fucking mess,” I wail loudly, and then my face is mashed into Bodie’s sweaty chest because his arms are around me. I take in a deep breath, appreciate the male sweat along with his strength for just a moment, and then pull my head back so I can speak. “My knife-throwing skills are for shit. I can only hit the nut sack, and that will put my teammates in jeopardy. Sure, a knife to the balls will drop someone, but it’s not a kill shot and sometimes I’ll need a kill shot. And Sal… he’s a douche. And I think he’s on steroids, which makes him a bigger douche, and he has no fucking right to talk about my period, which I no longer have because I’m pregnant. Knocked up. I’m going to get fat, and it’s going to fucking hurt so bad when I give birth. And Bodie… did you know that these hormones cause zits? I’m breaking out on my chin, and I haven’t had fucking acne since I was sixteen and—”
My face is mashed back into his chest with his big hand cupping my head. I feel his lips press to the top of my head, and he rocks me slightly back and forth. For a glorious few minutes, I accept his strength. I burrow into him and revel in the cocoon of his arms wrapped around me. My tears dry up, and my chest loosens slightly.
But that moment of respite fades as I take in the sounds around me. Lockers being closed, and the dull murmur of voices.
My head snaps up, and I push slightly away from Bodie to look around. There are three other people here in various stages of undress. Ice prickles down my spine as I realize… Bodie hadn’t wrapped me in a tight hug with my face pressed to his chest to comfort me. He’d tried to stop my tirade, which had included bemoaning the fact I’m pregnant even though it was supposed to be a secret.
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur, and my head drops in shame over my own stupidity. Tears form in my eyes again when I realize the cat is out of the bag, and I feel tremendously sorry for myself. That thin thread of control I had regained from Bodie’s strength is starting to slip, and I’m afraid I might scream in frustration.
My body tightens up defensively, waiting for Bodie to offer me solace again. If he does, I think it might break me completely.
Instead, I jolt and my head jerks up to look at him in surprise when he says, “You need to suck it up, Hart.”
His voice is low.
Calm.
Assured.
His expression is neutral without any condemnation over my tantrum.
“Excuse me?” I say through the hoarse buildup of emotion in my throat. My eyes dry up like a sponge was pressed to the corners.
“Suck up the taunts from guys like Sal,” he says in a commanding tone that’s still so low only I can hear it. “If you can’t suck it up, stay away from the locker room and gym until your hormones cool down. Or come to me. You can let it out on me. At the very least, I’ll fuck it out of you.”
Many women would be offended by his blasé, cold attitude. But honestly… it’s exactly what I needed to reorient myself.
If Bodie had touched me in sympathy or tried to comfort me again, I’d have probably gone ape shit.
He knew.
He absolutely fucking knew what I needed. I needed him to tell me to be strong. Just before that, I needed him to hug me, and he knew that, too.
He gave me what I needed both times without me even asking for it.
Bodie’s fingers come under my chin, forcing me to look up at him. He steps in just slightly and murmurs, “You come to me. You got it?”
I give him a slight nod.
“I’ve got your back, Rachel,” he says softly. “Always.”
I want to cry again, but I don’t.
Instead, I marvel at something that’s uncurling from deep within my chest.
Never once since I fucked Bodie or found out I was pregnant had I ever considered developing feelings for him. I saw this as an arrangement. A way for me to take responsibility for my poor choices when it came to safe sex.
It never occurred to me that Bodie could provoke something inside of me.
But those words.
I’ve got your back, Rachel. Always.
I have no clue what Bodie is to me, but he is most definitely not just a sperm donor or casual fuck anymore.
CHAPTER 9
Bodie
“Olson manages to get a stick on the puck, kicks it out, and Fabritis pulls it free. Across to Samuelson and… he scores! Garrett Samuelson over the right shoulder of Bertrand to put the Cold Fury up four to two.”
“Goal,” Cage yells, throwing his hands up in victory as the hockey players on TV are all hugs and backslaps. “That fucking Stanley Cup is ours again this year.”
I laugh and shake my head. Cage is from North Carolina and sort of psycho for his Carolina Cold Fury. He went to every game of the Stanley Cup finals last year where they won. I expect he’ll do the same this year if they make it past this round of the playoffs.
As for hockey, not my thing. Growing up in the Midwest, it was all about football. Cornhusker football to be exact. One of the things I miss most about my dad is watching college football on Saturday’s together. I expect if I head home with a baby that tradition will be in place once again, which is a good thing.
“Another beer, Bodie?” the bartender asks, and I nod.
“Me too,” Cage says before he picks up his pint glass and drains the rest. I’d gladly said yes when he invited me out for a late lunch and some beers while he watched the hockey game on TV. We’re at our favorite sports bar in Vegas, and we’re well known here.
The bartender snags our empties and discards them into a sink behind the bar. She grabs two more chilled glasses from a cooler and pours our drafts.
The hockey game cuts away to a commercial for a sports drink, and our fresh beers are slid in front of us. Just as I pick mine up to take a sip, Cage says, “So Hart’s pregnant, huh?”
My glass freezes halfway to my mouth for just a second before I regain my senses. I take a large mouthful and then set the pint glass on the counter, carefully calculating my response. Clearly her meltdown in the locker room has made the gossip rounds.
“Yeah,” I say, turning to look at him. “She was just having a rough day, I guess.”
“That’s wild,” Cage says thoughtfully. “Thinking about Hart bei
ng pregnant, that is. I can’t think of a woman who is less motherly than her.”
It shouldn’t bother me… those words.
But they do.
They bother me because he’s right. Rachel has made it clear she doesn’t want to be a mom at this point in her life. But he’s also wrong. She’s also wrong.
I can see the potential within her.
“I wonder if Kynan knocked her up,” he muses before taking a sip of his beer.
“Why would you say that?” I ask. It comes out a little too aggressively.
Cage turns his head to look me in the eye. “Oh, come on. They’ve got a past. Fuck buddies and all that.”
My abdomen contracts painfully, like I’d been kicked right in the gut. The news is jarring.
“They’re fuck buddies?” I ask, my throat dry. I’m not sure why it bothers me, because what she did in her past shouldn’t matter.
Not really.
I’ve watched her fuck random men at The Wicked Horse, and that’s never bothered me. Still doesn’t, as a matter of fact, because I know it was meaningless.
Just like the women I’ve fucked there were meaningless.
But Kynan?
That’s not meaningless. They’ve known each other a long fucking time. Since before The Jameson Group.
“How do you know they’re fuck buddies?” I ask, trying to appear casual about my inquiry.
Cage shrugs. “Well, it’s just rumor really. Some of the original members like Sal and Tank were talking about it in the locker room earlier today. Said they were an item back in the day.”
After Rachel had her public meltdown and then jetted out of there. It took no more than a few minutes before all the guys were gossiping like a bunch of clucking hens.
And what the fuck does “back in the day” even mean?
Wicked Choice (The Wicked Horse Vegas #4) Page 7