The Brawler: The End Game Series (Book 3)

by Piper Westbrook

  Sliding the jacket down his arms, Aly stretched upward and he saw the heat in her gray eyes dim with something that looked like fear. “I don’t think I should want this, but I can’t not touch you every chance I get.”

  God. Fuck, yes, this was how he needed her. Honest. Raw. Unscripted. Moist lips and hot skin and hungry hands.

  When his arms sprang free of the jacket, he caught her waist and took her with him to the chair that rocked back on two legs at the force of their weight. It righted with a firm slam that shook them both.

  Aly laughed as she straddled his thighs. “That was exhilarating.”

  Jackson pulled the straps of her dress over her shoulders and down until he uncovered a bra.

  “Searching for something in particular?” she murmured as his hands cupped her.

  “Your piercing.” But he was after more than that. Though he shouldn’t be, he was desperate for her, as though she was a fucking necessity.

  Unhooking the bra, he peeled the garment off and closed his mouth over the tip of one tit, then the other.

  A hand over her mouth, she stifled a moan that he felt pulse through him.

  “Give me your mouth, Aly.” He yanked her closer, kissing her hard.

  “Take more than that.” She brought his hand to her ass. “Keep taking. Anything you want.”

  But a knock on the door had her springing up in an instant.

  “Sir?” the security specialist who’d trailed them called through the door. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. We’re—”

  “Leaving,” Aly cut in, from the corner of the room where she’d escaped to, looking like a sexy wood nymph with her skin flushed and her pink-tipped breasts exposed.

  “Okay,” the specialist said, then all was quiet for a good, agonizing five seconds.

  “We’re crazy,” she announced. “We have to be. This is trouble.”

  “So we stop here? Don’t ever take things as far as they went that night four years ago? Or as far as they went the other night?”

  “That would be the non-crazy choice.” Aly snatched her bra from the floor.

  “All right.” He should’ve kissed her longer, held her tighter. “But seeing you with your lipstick smeared, your beautiful tits wet from my mouth, your body shivering for me? That makes me say fuck all the reasons I shouldn’t touch you again.”

  Confusion flooded her eyes. She put on the bra, straightened her dress. “So we’re done.” Another sharp, conflicted glance. “Aren’t we?”

  He had to say it—and believe it. Holiday miracles and happiness weren’t in their future, because those things were meant for better men. Aly was meant for a better man. “We’re done.”

  But he walked away sensing they were both liars.

  Chapter Eight

  When Aly went to bed on Christmas Eve, visions of sugar plums weren’t dancing in her head. Dangerous impulses were.

  She blamed it on the European necktie she’d successfully laundered herself—thanks to a YouTube tutorial—and taken to a high-end specialty boutique to be professionally wrapped.

  Okay, perhaps on the surface it wasn’t good taste to pass off a person’s own possessions as Christmas presents. But gifting Jackson the tie that had tumbled from his jacket pocket during her mission to sex him up good and proper at MGM Grand? And including a note that read “I resuscitated your necktie”? Well, it would be more of an inside joke, a way to shrug and airily say “No regrets.”

  At least she’d taken the care to clean the tie—and she’d done so without ruining the fabric. That in and of itself was a gift.

  Anyway, what to give a man who was more naughty than nice and had practically anything he could want?

  A reason to laugh the kind of laugh that baited the dimple in his cheek and teased her like a million little kisses—that’s what she’d give him.

  But now, at six can-I-go-back-to-bed o’clock, with Christmas being ushered in on gray skies and her mood preset to crappy, she was having reservations.

  What if he didn’t find the joke funny? What if someone at the party asked him about the tie? Worse—what if he brought a date and she asked about it?

  As far as solutions went, primping and driving to Batiste’s Boxing Club at an early hour was the most reasonable, even if the most inconvenient. There were perks, though: pit-stopping for fresh bakery doughnuts and leaving the tomblike quiet of her house behind.

  Sure, she’d appreciated the silence of the house when she’d taken ownership last month. It had been a perfect environment for studying and would be again once the next term began.

  But if the place was going to be her home, it needed more noise, disorder, and character. Waking up to a completely silent Christmas morning, with no family or friends within reach, had introduced her to loneliness. And she despised it.

  So she gladly traded a few laidback do-nothing hours for a place rich with noise, disorder, and character.

  The gym was unlocked and, expecting to find Jackson all sweaty and focused and sexy, she added a little swing to her strut. Which was for no practical reason, because they’d chosen the “un-crazy” route that prohibited getting aroused and touching each other.

  No one stood in the ring or milled around the weight training stations. Muffled voices came from the rear of the building.

  Drawn to the bulletin board, to the flyer advertising the Batiste vs. Brazda event, she waited. It was the same image that had begun appearing on billboards months ago. People had predicted a winner before the matchup had even been officially announced. Once the fighters had greeted the media, the hype had exploded.

  Eliáš Brazda was a dangerous boxer, determined to usurp the power of Las Vegas’s king.

  Jackson Batiste was a living legend. America’s rags-to-riches champ, a man who could retire at any moment and enjoy the prime of his life at the precipice of unlimited luxury. But he called himself a beast, defined himself as something engineered for fighting…for violence.

  She’d seen him box before. She’d watched his strength mercilessly immobilize warriorlike men and his fists damage without relenting. She had seen him fight as if victory was oxygen.

  Aly knew that undefeated only applied to boxing. Outside the ring, he could be humbled and hurt, capable of honor, respect, compassion.

  Quit, Aly. A man laughs at a stupid joke and gives you an orgasm, and suddenly you know him completely?

  Giving herself a mental kick, she turned away from the board. Carelessness was letting attraction shake loose everything she’d already decided about sex and love and her future.

  Jackson might satisfy her kink for rough-around-the-edges men, but incompatible couples didn’t usually find their way into fairy tales. He was ten years older, lived across the country, didn’t want children, and beat the shit out of fighters for a living. The violence of him alone should’ve sent her running.

  Instead she was at a gym on Christmas morning with doughnuts and the necktie he’d left behind after groping her in a dressing suite.

  Aly stood stationary as Jackson’s uncle and a lean, hard-faced man trudged in through an entrance at the rear of the building.

  Pax Batiste preceded the other man, who carried what looked like a child-size backpack that he jerked out of reach when Pax made a grab for it.

  The men disappeared into an office, and she heard more muffled conversation.

  Where was Jackson?

  She started to approach the office, but the door swung open and the stranger strode out, sans backpack. Staring after him, puzzled, she didn’t notice Pax materialize in the doorway.

  “Ordinarily I welcome beautiful ladies who bring me—what’s that, doughnuts?—but the gym’s closed,” he said, advancing quickly.

  “Who was that—”

  “Repairman. Washer’s gone to hell.”

  “I have a feeling he’ll be back soon.”

  Pax held her gaze, as though trying to read her thoughts.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He left without his toolbox.” Or his backpack, now that she thought about it.

  “I’d hate to lug around a stocked toolbox just to give estimates, too,” he said with a liberal amount of agitation. “No labor on Christmas.”

  “Didn’t mean to offend.” She was taken aback at his tone and the taut tension clearly visible in the way he shifted from foot to foot and flexed his fingers. “I have something for your nephew—”

  “Doughnuts?”

  “No. A gift.”

  “Jackson’s not coming in. Dez and Corbin took him to Reno last night. A man trains hard, he needs to get the edge off.”

  Edge?

  Aly almost dropped the doughnuts. The suggestion made her entire anatomy sting, and damn it, that really pissed her off.

  I’m not supposed to care. We agreed to be done. So he’s free to sample Reno women and I’m free to eat this whole fucking box of doughnuts.

  Except for the doughnuts bingeing part, it was sound reasoning. After all, she was standing in Batiste’s Boxing Club now to return his tie and get on with her professional life, her sex life…the life she had before he’d crashed into it again and twisted her inside out.

  “They’ll be back in time for your folks’ get-together,” he said.

  Get-together. Aly could almost see the disapproval that’d saturate her mother’s face if she were to hear that.

  “Is that the gift? I’ll put it in my office.” Pax was already prying it and the box of doughnuts from her grip.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” she protested.

  “No one goes into my office if I’m not there, if you’re worried about it disappearing,” he assured. “Give it.”

  Pax carried the items to the office, then the door slammed shut. Aly was on her way to knock and demand the gift back when her phone chimed.

  “Merry Christmas,” she greeted her sister Waverly.

  “Aly, I’m at your house, but you’re not.”

  And here Aly had assumed the early-morning pop-in was their mother’s signature move. “I’m at the Batistes’ gym.”

  Waverly paused. “Doing what?”

  Having the weirdest ever encounter with Pax. “Delivering doughnuts, but the boys all went to Reno to play.”

  “I need you back here.”

  Only something drop-everything serious could strip Waverly’s voice of its confident strength.

  “Okay,” Aly said, jerking around to head for the exit.

  Driving as fast as she could without winding up with a Christmas speeding ticket, she returned home to find Jeremiah Tarantino’s car behind her gates.

  She rushed into the house. If her instincts were wrong and this was a let’s-check-up-on-Aly ambush—and Waverly had recruited her man to assist—she was going to change her locks.

  “Guys,” she said, joining the pair in the living room. “What’s up?”

  Waverly pushed off the sofa. “It’s about Jeremiah’s father.”

  Oh, goody. The man who’d sold the Las Vegas Villains to the Greers and then accused J.T. of acquiring the franchise by force. His lies had only led to the actual truth—that he’d been involved in an illegal gambling network and had bribed coaches and players to manipulate games.

  “Not to offend,” she said to Jeremiah, who sat with his fingers steepled and his face dappled with fury, “but your father isn’t someone I want to concern myself with.”

  “Afraid that’s not an option right now,” he said. “My brother found out Dad’s attorneys are issuing a statement to the feds and the NFL that says J.T. was a co-conspirator in the misconduct prior to being approved to buy the team.”

  “Bullshit.” Aly looked to her sister. “Clearly it’s another lie.”

  “I know. Jeremiah knows—”

  “So why are we wasting Christmas morning on this ridiculousness?”

  “We need a strategy in place before the media gets wind of it. Mom and Dad are probably on a call with the GM or their lawyers. We need you and the PR team to get ahead of the media on this one.”

  Approaching the play-offs, their men didn’t need a distraction and the franchise didn’t need to be engulfed in this kind of hell.

  Waverly bowed her head, pushed her fingers through her curly blond hair. “Uh, look, Aly…the angle Luca Tarantino’s going with claims Dad showed interest in buying three seasons ago.”

  Three seasons ago, the Villains’ record had sunk. The team had become the joke of the league and hadn’t shown signs of resurrection until the Greers had taken ownership.

  So what did that mean for Luca Tarantino’s scramble to bring the Greers down with him?

  Ah. “J.T. Greer shows interest in the team two years before he acquires it. Because buying a winning team isn’t as marketable as buying the shittiest team in the league and taking it to practically perfection,” Aly said, visualizing how the situation could be interpreted. “To lay the groundwork, he gets Luca Tarantino onboard to bring that record down, down, down and keep it at the bottom beyond one season—because only one losing season could look like a fluke and not hold the media’s attention.”

  “Then,” Waverly said, “J.T. brings his wife on as co-owner, employs his daughters, and he’s making a statement about gender equality in football. The franchise has its most stellar season, and J.T. looks like the man with the golden touch.”

  Frustrated, Aly sank onto a chair. “Except Luca Tarantino is a fucking liar. Dad and Mom bought the team because they were willing to put in the work to make it successful in ways Tarantino never achieved.”

  Again she eyed Jeremiah. She almost wanted to hold him accountable, because he was accessible and she was desperate to do something that didn’t make her feel defenseless. But he was here now because his loyalty was to her sister, her family. “My feelings wouldn’t be hurt if you left. I wouldn’t want to sit silently while people tore down my father.”

  “When a man’s wrong, he’s wrong,” Jeremiah said, but he pushed to his feet. “I need to drive out to Henderson, talk to my brother—”

  “Go,” Waverly agreed. “I’ll get a driver to swing by if Aly can’t give me a lift.”

  Jeremiah started for the foyer, but Waverly said his name once, then sprinted to him. As they collided, he gripped her, locked her in his arms and in his kiss.

  It knocked the wind out of Aly’s sails, damn near sank her ship in guilt. Jeremiah wasn’t a strictly by-the-book man. He’d manipulated and deceived and done things he said he regretted, but he hadn’t inherited his father’s maliciousness.

  Luca Tarantino’s actions wouldn’t take a toll on just the Greers and their football team, but also Jeremiah and Waverly’s relationship.

  “I didn’t fall in love with you because I take the easy route,” Waverly said to Jeremiah.

  “Good.” He squeezed her ass and let her go. “Don’t ever say I’m easy. You’ll scandalize my rep.”

  Waverly laughed at the irony, and Aly wanted to also.

  Except jealousy choked her. Would she ever feel secure in the resilience that came with love? Would she ever know the rewards that came with trusting her risky heart, even when it wanted a man who wasn’t storybook perfect?

  Or would she keep the habit Chelle had described: boot men out of her life all day long, then dream about fairy tales at night?

  After walking Jeremiah out, Waverly returned to the living room sofa. “I—damn, it, never mind.”

  “Waverly?”

  “Before we take action, let’s forget that J.T. and Joan are our parents. Who are they?”

  “A mega-successful husband and wife. A man and woman who mastered the skill of getting what they want.”

  “Mastered it how?”

  “Fundamental stuff. Perseverance, sacrifice, risks, tough choices. Waverly, this is all leading to what?”

  “Their methods can be Machiavellian. Ask Veronica. Ask yourself, Aly. They demand
family loyalty, but it’s the business that they put first.”

  “Completely true, and that might seem seriously screwed up, but it’s also how I know J.T. and Joan—Dad and Mom—didn’t do what Luca Tarantino is claiming.” She plunked down on the sofa, nudging her sister playfully. “Move. I prefer this cushion.”

  “Too bad. Guests get first dibs.” Waverly sighed. “Hey. How do you know?”

  “Protecting the business is the utmost priority. Making a dirty deal to buy it would mean they’d jeopardized it from day one.”

  “God, that was a lucid defense.” Waverly seemed impressed—no, stunned.

  “I have experience beyond men and mixed drinks.”

  “You’re a purveyor of sarcastic one-liners.”

  Aly tipped an imaginary hat.

  “Anyway, I didn’t want to doubt or misunderstand our parents. But Jeremiah’s father also demanded loyalty, and what’d he do? Betray. He’s a corrupt man.”

  “To put it mildly.” A man who’d gamble on his team’s games and pay a player to injure his son wasn’t deserving of an adjective as nice as corrupt.

  “Jeremiah didn’t think that side of his father existed. Veronica didn’t think our parents were capable of manipulating her as they did when she was GM.”

  “What’s her take on the situation?”

  “I’ll tell you when I find out. Called her and Simon, left messages. Guess they’re busy.”

  “Busy getting their holiday delight on?” Aly wisecracked. “On that note, could everyone not ambush me? I’m going to start confiscating keys.”

  “Who did it first?”

  “Mom. She thought my friend Gideon and I were having sexy times, because my pants were off and—” She stopped at her sister’s wide-eyed look. “Anyway, she was wrong. I told her so and we fought about Christmas decorations.”

  “Oh. I thought the mantel-only décor was a trend I’d missed.”

  “The mantel would be bare, too, if Jackson hadn’t helped.” Aly got up and touched the H stocking holder.

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah.”