She jabbed hard, and missed. An uppercut to follow would have caught Preppy off-guard.
Beauty didn’t get you anywhere in the cage. And courage, that only got you so far. Skill was what counted, along with natural, god-gifted instincts.
Yet, there was something about her manner that had him thinking. All that arm work for what? She hadn’t attempted to land a punch.
Preppy jumped high, turned and kicked air.
Good instincts. Huntley had seen it coming and deftly jogged out of the way. But she could have taken him there. Grabbed his foot and take him down to the mat.
Bracken’s cock stirred to life. What he’d give to see her beneath him and grappling around for positioning. As if she’d read his mind, Huntley glanced over her shoulder and nodded in his direction.
What the fuck was that?
Number one rule in the cage, keep your eyes on your opponent. A good thing that jackass prep-boy missed his chance at slamming a fist into her chin.
Preppy had had enough—it was written all over his face. With a swirl of his body, he kicked, missed and charged forward. Huntley ducked as a punch sailed over her head. Preppy’s kidneys were hers for the taking. Instead, she jogged backward and out of his reach.
He kept coming, though. Jumping high, he spiraled midair and kicked out.
“Jeez, doesn’t she know better? Grab his leg, woman,” Stefan hollered.
Bracken tracked Huntley’s every movement intently. Just like the thought that had entered his head that he couldn’t shake. Something instinctual, guttural. Something he sensed rather than observed.
She’s going to take him down.
No one saw it coming, and Bracken—he nearly missed it.
Preppy leaped high, and spun once more. Predictably so.
Fast as a blink, Huntley repositioned herself so when he landed, she was behind him. She planted her right heel in front of his left foot. Drew up tightly against his back and, using her entire body weight, threw herself into him.
Took Preppy down with a simple heel sweep.
She grabbed his arm and worked it up across his back and over his head, then pinned his arm in place with her entire weight. Joint manipulation.
Fucking brilliant. She’d pinned Preppy to the mat without taking a single hit.
The crowd fell silent, and their astonished gazes were fixed on Preppy’s reddening face. She had him, and everyone around her knew it.
Nine seconds later, Preppy tapped out.
The horn blared. The crowd went nuts. And Huntley straightened, tugged her T-shirt down over her abdomen and flicked something off her pink pants. Then, she stared right at him, spying him in the crowd like she knew exactly where he’d been standing. She marched over to the edge of the cage and her fingers grasped the chain link. She leaned forward.
Stefan elbowed his way closer. Because her eyes were glued on him—the undeserving prick that he was—Bracken followed. Undeserving because he’d underestimated her. Man, she was beautiful, and skilled.
His lips twitched slightly. The smirk she’d been shooting Preppy was long gone.
Yeah, he’d pissed her off good and fine. Unbridled anger bled out of her very pores. Clearly she hadn’t forgotten him.
“A shame you’re never going to see what all else I can do,” she shouted down at him. “The door is over there, McBadass.”
Fighting words.
Just like that, his decision was made.
Chapter Three
Huntley winced uncomfortably as the stranger swirled his tongue across her collarbone and lapped up the fine line of salt from her skin. Cheers rang out from the Free Drink Patrol—the name Kaleigh had so aptly given to the generous crew of guys surrounding them—as they spurred on one of their own. Pulling his head away, Mr. Body Shot ran his tongue over his lips, then polished off his third tequila in a row with an alcohol-inspired wink. “You’re up, babe,” he informed her.
Without missing a beat, Huntley grabbed her shot and quickly threw it back. She’d pushed herself way beyond her comfort zone already tonight but drew the line at licking booze off of some random guy, free drinks or no free drinks. Bad enough this guy’s saliva was all over her.
“Hey, not fair,” Mr. Body Shot muttered. The music changed and the multicolored ceiling lights quickened. Club Klimax was famous for their special electro-techno mix. Hell, after two shots, Huntley was starting to understand why. “Let’s do this,” the stranger hollered to the posse surrounding them, and off they stumbled toward the dance floor.
“Aren’t you happy you finally came out with me?” Kaleigh asked, flashing a smile at two hotties who paused briefly to scope them out.
Huntley nodded, unsure how to respond to Kaleigh’s question. The club was overwhelming—the music, the lights, the crowds of people out on the dance floor. Foreign, and so unlike the subdued country clubs of Savannah. Men in skinny jeans far outnumbered those sporting stiff fat ties. A reckless vibe reverberated off the clubbers, wild, carefree...free. Unrestricted by the rigidly upheld social proprieties of the South.
Savannah is behind you now, she reminded herself, tuning in to the tequila-induced warmth spreading through her and forcing her fears away. Robert, the manipulative bastard, wasn’t going to ruin her fresh start in life. She’d wasted too many years as it was.
“You’re the best, Kaleigh,” she finally answered. “Let’s do this,” she mimicked Mr. Body Shot. Without waiting, she worked her way out to the center of the crowded dance floor, with Kaleigh right behind her.
Huntley’s body took to the dance floor like a fighter took to the mat. She knew how to move, having no problem keeping up with the maddening beat of the high-octane song. Years of sparring at a mixed martial arts clubs made her light and limber on her feet. And how damned amazing it felt to simply let go.
This is what I’ve been missing, she thought, looking around in awe. The dance floor was a cross between a 1980s music video and a California beach party, with the over-the-top strobe lights and amount of bare skin on display.
Self-consciously, she tugged her tight black miniskirt back into place. Another recent purchase hand-selected by Kaleigh, it was a size too big in the waist but the length redefined the word mini. Or so it seemed to Huntley, whose wardrobe had consisted of long, flowing skirts, equally lengthy tops, sweats and T-shirts. Conservative. Clothing where you didn’t have to worry about flashing anyone your coochie. With the getup she had on, Huntley fit right in at Klimax.
The beat changed to a faster tempo—or was it Huntley’s blurred senses taking hold of her? With her arms overhead, she closed her eyes and swayed her hips to the music. A grin formed on her lips as the beat seemed to touch her soul, making her want to dance harder. And she did, shaking her hips and moving her shoulders like nobody’s business. Even Kaleigh seemed surprised, fist pumping the air encouragingly.
When was the last time she’d felt so exhilarated? So liberated? A week ago, for sure—when she’d taken Preppy down with one well-planned heel hook. Her blood had been pumping long into the evening, an adrenaline burst from a testosterone-laden ring. Yep, the Octagon cage always did that for her. But the difference was she had to be in control, at all seconds. Unlike tonight, one night, where she’d give in to simply having fun.
Abandon my inhibitions just like I’ve abandoned the good ole South. Crack open the protective shell her family—and yes, even she herself—had constructed around her after her mother’s murder.
Fear could only rule your life for so long. Then you either let it get the best of you or you overcame it.
And Huntley was a fighter, after all. Turned out, her father and three brothers weren’t as strong, despite her best efforts and much to her dismay.
She flipped her long brown hair over a shoulder and let her body move to the music, refusing to give in to
the guilt. Leaving them behind in Savannah—knowing how they still struggled to cope—had been the hardest decision she’d ever made. Yeah, she understood why they’d enrolled her in MMA classes. Self-defense skills, in case some invisible boogeyman popped up out of nowhere. But their encouragement went only so far.
When she’d told them about her registering for The Georgia Peach Annihilator, they’d gone from suffocating her to choking the last breath from deep within her lungs.
Her, their sweet baby sister? Fight professionally?
What would mama have said? Tyler, her older brother, had demanded.
She loved them, but enough was enough.
They deserved happiness, just like she did. Hopefully, the distance would relieve some of the burden they all carried, worrying about her. She hoped to shed a similar load off her own weary shoulders.
Time healed all wounds, right? Well, time’s just about up, she thought, her mind swirling as the last shot kicked in.
A hand touched her elbow and she turned to find Stefan.
“Hey, Huntley. Mind if I join you guys?” he hollered.
She pitched an eyebrow at Kaleigh. This wasn’t exactly the kind of place she expected to find Stefan in, but her friend gave her a shrug, not seeming all that surprised. Which led her to believe Kaleigh had invited the slimeball. Guess one never knew what the cat would drag in at Club Klimax.
Huntley had learned a bit more about him. How he worked for a security business in Reno but sometimes freelanced his services. How crazy the hours were and how much he wished he’d paid attention to his karate instructors so he could fight at the Hall. How tired he was of being a spectator. Unlike his friend, the boxing expert.
She scowled. An unlikely pair, if there ever was one. An annoying wormy sleazebag and a downright hostile biker. A match made in asshat heaven.
A shame the biker had been hell-bent on pissing me off because the man had both a mean punch and a superhot body. What would it have felt like to grapple with him in the cage?
She blinked, shocked her mind would even wander in his direction. And in such a lustful way, like she’d consider him to be something more than what he really was. Jeez, he didn’t even like her.
It’d been a week since she’d seen them, missing neither one of them. Still, no other trainer had come forward to take her on. No volunteers, whatsoever. It was like some invisible obstacle was working against her.
Nevertheless, this was her one and only night out on the Reno strip. Next week, she was headed into a strict training regimen including a restricted diet. One that didn’t include body shots. Seven months—a summer and an entire classroom-free autumn—to train for the New Year’s Belles Brawl. Seven months to discover if she was tough enough to make it. Seven months to pull a 180-degree flip on a life that had been sucking the breath out of her longer than she could remember.
The beat picked up once more, the light overhead seemed to brighten, and sweat poured off of the dancers surrounding them.
Huntley waved her arms overhead as she sunk to the floor then slowly gyrated upward. Kaleigh joined in and back to back, they repeated the move, drunkenly chanting “how low can you go” over the music until several people caught on, joining in and mimicking their motions. Even Stefan—in his striped polo shirt and tan khakis—lamely tried to get his groove on, swaying his hips to the music, throwing his hands up, and bending his legs.
Kaleigh threw one drunken arm around Stefan and another around her, and pulled them into a messy huddle. Minutes passed, where they laughed and swayed together, until Stefan brought her back to reality.
“You still training for Vegas, Huntley?” He raised an eyebrow at her, doubtful. The jerk.
She sobered, thinking about how things appeared right now, with her intoxicated out on the dance floor. He probably didn’t believe she was serious about fighting, that the heel hook she’d put on Preppy had been a fluke, or something. Misjudging her, just like that brute of a friend of his had done. Creampuff? That ass.
Dancing away from them both, she narrowed her eyes at Mr. Buzz Kill. Why was it that everyone else in the club could drink the night away but Huntley was expected to play it straight and narrow? She didn’t owe him, or anyone, an answer. She deserved a mindless night of fun, just like everyone else. Screw him. Witt was going to grab herself a well-earned piece of witlessness.
Something in her expression caused Stefan’s lips to twitch. Either he’d arrived at the correct conclusion—that he’d stuck his nose too far into her business—or she downright amused him. Huntley didn’t stop to find out. Instead, she shouted at Kaleigh, “Bathroom. Then, round three?” Her friend nodded, and Huntley made a beeline for the ladies’ room.
Inside, she fiddled with the tight knot she’d tied into the hem of her crisp, white button-down shirt. At first, this Catholic schoolgirl number seemed harmless—a flash of her taut midriff wasn’t that risqué, she’d worked out in less. She wore conservative black loafers instead of pumps. No wow-wow-ah-ah-wow-wow factor there. The plaid skirt hung low on her hips, an inch lower on her right side because of the weight of the cell phone she’d clipped there, and required her to constantly tug it up just enough to feel comfortable but not enough to reveal the curve of her ass. But what really made this get-up naughty were the black thigh-highs that left about an inch of exposed skin between her stockings and mini.
Figured she’d quit school—a master’s program still qualified, right?—only to throw on a naughtier school uniform and be reeducated within a rave club like Klimax.
No going back now. You asked for this.
And if the mental pep-talk didn’t shake off her conservative doubts, another shot would help.
Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the ladies’ room and headed back down the short corridor, past the first entryway leading onto the dance floor, and onward to the one closest to the bar. Her head was spinning yet her mood was light.
Until she spotted the man hovering in the entryway. She stopped dead in her loafers, but it was too late.
His head lifted and his gaze narrowed before raking over her slowly, seeming to take in every inch of her. She tossed her hair and glared back at him, waiting for him to finish his perusal. What the effin’ h? A biker at a rave event, especially Club Klimax’s, was as strange as a kindergartener at a fight. And boy-oh-boy, did he stand out.
His scruffy bearded face, tight, black T-shirt, snug gray jeans, and dark leather boots screamed Motorcycle Club. He’d pulled his shoulder length jet black hair back into a ponytail, making his features sharper, more dangerous. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his long legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned back against the wooden frame of the entryway—like he was waiting for someone, rather impatiently, too. All that was missing was a biker’s cut with a skull and the words Club Bad Ass embroidered on the back.
Surprise, surprise.
More surprising? The estrogen boost that had her body humming from the sight of his finely muscled body.
She had two choices: turn coward and swiftly move back the way she’d come and on into the safety of the dance floor, or ignore him. Hell, just because she’s served him a few drinks on two different Friday nights didn’t mean they were BFFs. Far from it, and he was still an arrogant jerk. Even the drunken wild child demanding she shake things up tonight knew to avoid the badass biker.
Which is why she surprised even herself when she briskly narrowed the distance between them.
“Huntley.”
His tone was firm, like he was stating a fact rather than greeting her.
Whatever. She shot him a fake smirk and stalked by him, just out of reach. Some sixth sense gave her the impression he was about to make a grab for her, and she was prepared for the feel of his fingers on her arm.
But...he didn’t. Surprise, surprise.
What on
earth was a man like him doing here? she wondered once more, pushing through a mass of bodies on her way to the bar. Even with Stefan’s appearance on the dance floor, Bracken’s arrival was extraordinary.
Almost as extraordinary as her breathless excitement every time she set eyes on him. Awareness, animal magnetism and sexual tension rolled off him in spades. Whatever it was caused her pulse to quicken and her stomach to knot up like a fist.
Back in Savannah, she’d dated a man locals believed to be an “upstanding guy.” What a mind-numbing mess up that had been. Maybe if she went for the antithesis of nice, she’d find what she’d been looking for?
Yeah, right. No way. That was definitely the tequila talking.
No sweet, lame kisses from this biker’s lusciously plump lips. No dates that had her counting the minutes until the end. No weird, off-the-wall bombshells that had her moving cross country. What you saw was what you got—straight up. Hot, unadulterated sex. Period.
Dangerous. Unpredictable. And—she frowned, as the thought formed more cohesively within her head—maybe just the wild, no-holds-barred kind of fling she’d been craving.
She was never getting drunk again.
Her pulse raced, the music slowed and with a shake of her head, she hurried back onto the dance floor to dance her crazy off.
But what she spotted going down beneath the disco ball added a whole other dimension to the evening’s craziness. Kaleigh’s head was nestled on Stefan’s shoulder. His arms were snugly woven around her waist and a smug smile lit up his face as they swayed in unison. The sight had Huntley practically running back toward the bar.
Sweet mother of god. Tequila goggles had to be ten times worse than the beer version. Seemed Huntley wasn’t the only one contemplating an erratic, impulsive hook-up. Yet who was she to begrudge her friend an evening with someone who wasn’t her typical type? Temporary joy, because it was doubtful that lame potato Stefan could keep up with her. Still, who was she to judge? Will I ever know that feeling? Find someone who’ll embrace the real me?
Out for the Count Page 5