Bound to the Bounty Hunter

by Hayson Manning

  His head swiveled to take in her clenched jaw. “From now on, you have a houseguest.”

  Chapter Six

  The next day Harlan stood at the back of a gym—gym might be pushing it. More like a disused warehouse. A hand-painted sign propped on the pavement let him know that Javier’s Gym was open for business. Sweat tumbled freely down Harlan’s back. The roof groaned under the expansion and contraction of heat. Industrial fans moved stale air around the room.

  He’d hung around gyms like this, desperate to get away from life for a while and wanting to stack on muscle. Nothing sucked more than being a small kid starting another new school in a shitty neighborhood. Smaller gyms were more likely to turn a blind eye to a kid who wanted to shower and not ask questions. He paid back each year through anonymous donations to local gyms with a note asking they help out teens where they could.

  Sophie had pulled on gloves after putting on headgear while chatting to a man who looked like he crushed rocks for a living. She tilted back her head in laughter. Her chocolate eyes sparkled, and her teeth flashed. Rock Crusher grinned.

  Harlan forced his muscles loose and took in his surroundings. He’d read the rules when he’d walked in. If you were here to lift, then you were asked to throw in what you could. If you were here for the ring, then you threw in ten if you had your own gloves and fifteen if you didn’t.

  His fingers probed a painful crick in his neck. His idea of moving in hadn’t gone down well. Sophie had sprinted from his car before it had come to a full halt. She’d secured the door to her house and set the alarms, then refused to answer her phone. Instead of creating an unholy scene and waking the neighborhood, he’d spent an uncomfortable night in his car’s front seat. Sometime during the night a blanket had arrived on the hood of his car.

  After a quick shower, a protein shake, and an update from Zeb, he’d relieved his comms man, Israel, at midday and picked up Sophie’s tail. He’d been surprised when Sophie turned her car into this gym where there were no rules and no limits and you took your punishment with a smile. He was coming to the fast and uncomfortable conclusion that a lot of what Sophie did would be a surprise. He’d learned the fastest way to piss her off was to tell her what to do. Those big brown eyes narrowed, her tanned skin flushed and she looked like she’d send him off to the afterlife with a hearty good-bye.

  He could jump in the ring and dispatch any man who entered. He’d love to join the group of men lifting weights in one corner, alternately shouting encouragement or the word “pussy” in equal measure followed by laughter. He’d missed his exercise this morning and, on top of last night’s events, he was wired.

  Sophie broke away from Rock Crusher and walked toward him. Black bicycle shorts showcased her insanely long legs and the flare of her hips. A black wife-beater hugged her frame. Hair scraped back. Feet bare.

  Before he could shut it down, he caught a whiff of her unique raspberry scent, and his body jerked. He dug his hands into his pockets trying to hide the evidence, but the denim, as always, was unforgiving.

  Her eyes flicked to the front of his jeans, red creeping up her face.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  She smiled. “I need to relieve some tension. Care to join me in the ring?”

  Oh the possibilities of joining her in the ring, for a wrestle where she’d be underneath him, wriggling. But hitting women? Hell no.

  “I don’t fight women.”

  Picking up female bail jumpers he’d been bitten, scratched, and nearly lost his balls dozens of times, but he couldn’t hit a female. Some in his profession did, but he had a moral code that all his staff adhered to, and hitting a woman wasn’t tolerated.

  She leaned in, and his body pulsed in response. “Honey, you wouldn’t get that close.”

  He couldn’t help the grin stretching across his face.

  He shouldn’t love how at times her attitude made his whole body smile, but that flicker in her eye, that tilt of the chin, and her confident smile was one tempting package that needed to be tamed.

  Sophie turned and walked to the now empty ring.

  Shit.

  A couple of these guys looked like they could take on an eight hundred pound, pissed-off bull and win. They came for a serious workout. Male, female, or wolverine. They didn’t care—once you stepped into the ring, you left your name, age, sex, and occupation at the door.

  He pushed off the wall, but as if sensing the movement, she turned and arched a brow. He pretended to slouch back against the rough concrete, but every muscle was coiled to launch if anyone hurt her.

  After twenty minutes, a man a couple of inches shorter than Sophie, but who clearly worked out, entered. Sophie walked toward him.

  Harlan pushed off the wall and walked to the ring. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but the man shrugged a shoulder and thrust out his hand, which Sophie bumped.

  At Harlan’s growl, a few men shot him curious glances, but he ignored them. The metallic scent of blood mixed with sweat and muscle repair cream filled his sinuses. He walked to where the honor fridge sat, threw four dollars on the top, then took two bottles of water, his eyes never leaving Sophie. His gut did a full clench when Sophie stepped between the ropes and into the ring, the man she’d been talking to joining her.

  The rules were simple. Three rounds lasting one minute each. If you went down and stayed down longer than ten seconds, the other person won.

  Sophie hit what looked like a light switch on the wall. A sharp buzz followed.

  The man, who had enough attitude to fill a maximum-security jail, swaggered toward Sophie. His gaze crawled across her body then landed on her chest. He licked his lips and adjusted his junk. A sleazy grin stretched across his ferret-looking face. He and Sophie circled each other. Sophie kept her hands up, her eyes never leaving her opponent. The man pretended to fall. Sophie went to reach for him to break his fall, he reared back, a gloved hand sweeping across her face. One second she was upright and the next she was down, having been felled by a leg sweep, the Ferret hitting her with short, sharp jabs across her face.

  For what seemed like an ice age, Sophie didn’t react. Harlan fought to pull in shattered breaths.

  Fuck.

  Harlan gripped the mat, hands bunched, about to swing into the ring, when Sophie’s legs wrapped around the fighter’s neck and squeezed. He tried to pull back but she held him in a vise grip.

  The buzzer sounded.

  Both stood and went to their respective corners.

  Harlan stalked to Sophie’s corner and went to hand her a bottle of water.

  “No, but thank you,” she panted.

  He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

  Before he could say a word, the buzzer sounded, starting round two. Sophie pranced into the center of the ring where she and Ferret squared off, circling each other, neither making a significant move, exchanging blows against the other’s gloves a few times. Sophie lunged left, but the man had anticipated her, and she stumbled back when a jab had her rocking back on her heels. She said something to him. Surprise flittered across his face.

  The buzzer sounded. The Ferret started walking to his corner, stopped, and looked at Sophie over his shoulder. She smiled at him, the smile not moving past her lips.

  The buzzer sounded for the third and final round.

  This time Sophie wasn’t taken by surprise. The buzzer had barely sounded when she darted forward, knocking the startled man off his feet with a left hook Harlan felt from outside the ring.

  She followed the fighter down and sat on his chest, dipping and swaying away from his legs trying to get her head in a grip.

  His dick strained against his zipper.

  Christ, I’m turned on watching her.

  A Hulk Hogan type came to stand next to Harlan, holding a massive hand weight.

  “Fuck that’s hot.”

  Harlan turned his head. The man stared at Sophie, his mouth open.

  “I wouldn’t mind taking a beating
from her.”

  He stared at the man, who obviously caught his vibe and turned away grinning. Ferret still kept lashing out, hate twisting his features.

  Sophie wasn’t letting him go. If anything, she seemed to be gaining strength.

  “How does it feel to be powerless and have someone hitting you?” She grunted. “Feel good?”

  The group of lifters had abandoned their weights and now stood in groups around the ring.

  “You expected your about to be ex to drop the restraining order?” Sophie held him by the throat, ducking and weaving from the blows connecting with soft tissue. “She got smart. She’s gone. The next time you’ll see her is when she testifies against you.”

  Harlan stared in surprise and grinned. He circled to where Sophie had maneuvered the man to a corner.

  “A jumper?”

  “Yep,” she grunted, flipping him onto his chest and pulling his arms behind him. “Princess here likes to beat on his wife in front of his kids. His wife got smart, got a restraining order, which he broke. His about-to-be ex-wife told me he sometimes turns up here for a session, so here I am.”

  “Bitch got what she deserved, so will you.”

  “Yeah, like you’re getting what you deserve now.”

  Harlan pulled a bunch of cable ties from his pocket and held the plastic restraints out to her. She shook her head then using her teeth, she ripped at the Velcro on her gloves, pulling her hands free one at a time, keeping the pressure on his neck, then pulled ties from inside her T-shirt. He guessed her bra.

  Lucky cable ties.

  She grabbed a long cable tie and in a swift move had the thin but strong tie in place, pulling until it locked tight.

  The man’s face went crimson, hatred in his eyes.

  She hauled the jumper to his feet, her chest heaving, sweat layering her forehead, muscles in her shoulders flexing under smooth skin, and her eyes sparking.

  Hot.

  Scrap that.

  Volcanically hot.

  He shook his head. “You’re a schoolboy’s wet dream.”

  Harlan followed Sophie and the man out of the gym. He waited until Sophie had the jumper buckled up in her car. She stood and moved to the driver-side door.

  The scent of raspberries and sweat was way more intoxicating than Jack Daniels.

  And far more deadly.

  Frustration, sexual and otherwise, clawed his insides. The sexual he could take care of later, in the shower, a picture of Sophie tied and begging him playing in his mind. The frustration of guarding her when she wouldn’t do a thing he said…

  “Are you planning on sleeping in my driveway again tonight?” she asked, her head tilted to one side.

  “Every night,” he barked.

  She frowned. “Every night?”

  “Every single night.” He shot back.

  She studied him until her jumper started banging on the roof of her car.

  “Why do you care?” she asked quietly.

  He couldn’t tell her he was guarding her, working her, keeping her safe. Nor could he tell her that the thought of anyone laying a hand on her could turn him into a felon. Instead, he spun her a patchwork of truth.

  “You’re not getting hurt or worse when I can do something about it.” He leaned in, and because he was a stupid fucker, he scented her neck.

  Her body jolted, and she stilled.

  “I will be winning the bet. You will be mine for one night,” he said touching his tongue to the side of her neck, licking a drop of sweat. He’d sit in her driveway every night thinking of when he’d run his tongue along every curve on her body.

  Anger rolled off her and slammed into him.

  “We were going to have a night until you played me and left me locked in my underwear in a hotel bathroom,” she hissed, frustration, hurt, and pissed off rippling across her face. “I had to wait until a security guard came and let me out.” She shuddered. “I was in my underwear. Did you even know who he was? What could have happened?”

  Shame and guilt splintered him.

  Yeah, he’d been the biggest cock on the planet.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not my finest moment. I’m sorry. In my defense, I did confirm he was gay. After I processed the jumper I went back to make sure he’d let you out.”

  He’d been the one called out. Lionel the attendant had called him a dick, given him a lecture about leaving a woman in her underwear locked in a bathroom, and returned his money. He’d stomached the lecture, ate a shame sandwich, and chugged back a gallon of jerk.

  She got straight into his face. “Let’s stop this bullshit act you’ve got going of pretending to like me. We both know this is an act, so just stop. Listen to this conversation in your head later.” Her eyes dropped to his dick, digging painfully through denim. “I mean your big head. Listen up. There will be no one night.”

  An act? She thinks walking around with a boner every time I’m near her is an act?

  “What do you mean pretending to like you? I’m hard every time I’m around you. It’s hard to be around you, Sophie, because I’m hard around you.”

  “Just stop.” She swatted at her eyes.

  Shit.

  Tears usually didn’t affect him, but Sophie tears made him want to pull her into his arms and stroke the back of her head until all the shitty hurt he’d inflicted would be gone.

  For the fifteen hundredth time, he mentally decked himself with a right hook.

  If he could turn back time to that night he would, and it would have a way better ending. One where he wouldn’t be the dickhead who’d left her humiliated. Instead he’d give up the jumper and have her curled around his body.

  “I hurt you, Sophie, and I’m sorry. It was a dick move, but I wanted you that night as much as you wanted me. We would have fucked each other senseless.”

  “Our time has passed,” she countered, standing proud, blinking back tears. “Different rules this time. The game has changed, so when I win the bet, you’ll leave me alone.”

  Nope.

  She stared at him.

  He stared back.

  Sophie, being Sophie, startled him again.

  “Since there is never going to be anything between us, you can stay in my spare room until one of us finds out who the militia is.” At his surprise she continued. “I’m only doing this because it will keep Titus from staying up all night.”

  She turned and got into the driver’s seat. After repeatedly thumping the dashboard, her car spluttered to life.

  Harlan jumped in his car and followed her, keeping his distance one lane over and three cars back. A black Jeep pulled in three cars behind Sophie in her lane and stuck close. Not one of his cars.

  Harlan gripped the wheel. Tinted windows concealed the occupants. Sophie took a sharp left ahead. He breathed easy when the Jeep went straight past. He forced himself into gaps and took the turn at the last minute. Two minutes later, the Jeep tucked in behind Sophie again.

  Harlan cursed under his breath and maneuvered behind the vehicle. Another Jeep pulled into position beside him to his left. Same tinted windows. Another Jeep pulled in beside him, to his right.

  The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

  Cornered.

  The bet now a memory.

  Keeping her alive and finding out who wanted her the only things on his mind.

  Chapter Seven

  At some time around seven in the morning, Sophie padded into the kitchen, poured a coffee, and stared at her immaculate countertop. She gripped the counter and willed her aorta not to explode.

  As soon as she put down a spoon or a fork, he washed it and put it away. Her idea of bringing home a bucket of KFC with all the sides and sharing the deliciousness that was deep-fried chicken coated in secret herbs and spices had taken on a new meaning when Harlan removed the skin and chowed down on naked drumsticks and glasses of water while she kicked back with box wine. He’d then tidied with the prowess of a seventies sitcom mom. No leaving the plates in the sink u
ntil the morning on his shift. Oh, no.

  At the supermarket he’d raised his eyebrows when she’d loaded up on Pringles, frozen meals for one, and had rummaged through the marked-down produce, meat, and bakery items. They’d had a stand-up fight at the checkout when he’d tried to pay for her groceries until she’d threatened to make a scene.

  The experience of living with Harlan was as much fun as a case of hemorrhoids.

  And then there was the kicker that walloped her heart like a pissed-off pony. Two days ago, he’d looked at her like he’d wanted to devour her. At Javier’s Gym she’d seen a flash of admiration in Harlan’s eyes when she’d had Williams in a chokehold. He even seemed genuinely sorry for being the jerk of the century. He’d looked at her with hunger and tenderness and she’d nearly fallen for it, again.

  Now he looked at her as if she were diseased.

  And it burned.

  Like a deep, blistering scar.

  The Jeeps scared the shit out of her—she wasn’t afraid to admit it. Outmaneuvered in her little hatchback she had no move to make. She had no idea what Harlan’s play would have been if two of the trio hadn’t peeled off, and she had no idea why they had. Some sort of pissing competition? Letting one another know of their presence but not ready to make a move? She’d started her own investigation, but whoever was following her had a lot of money and resources, two things she didn’t have in spades. That didn’t mean she’d be sitting around doing nothing.

  An idea had wiggled into her brain and wouldn’t leave.

  Could this be payback for one of her father’s cons?

  Her fingers made circles on her temples.

  Good old Dad.

  The memory of the bony, parched hand of a farmer’s wife in the throes of the death rattle, the smell of grief and disinfectant in the room. Sophie had bit the inside of her mouth to stop from gagging. The anguished man pleading that the prayer would work and his wife wouldn’t die of cancer, leaving him a widower with six children.

  She closed her eyes in shame.

  The embarrassment that she hadn’t figured it out earlier made her feel equal parts idiot, gullible, and humiliated. The hopelessness and rage that he’d used her, used vulnerable people for a quick buck burned straight through to her soul.