Not unlike the first time she’d met him, anger seemed to roll off his body. Jeez, he looked about ready to jump in the cage himself.
“Your number is up. Huntley and I have unfinished business, Romeo. Time to cool off.”
Jeffrey bristled. “You know this bum, sweetheart?”
Okay, she really could do without the endearments. “Um...” Damn, now what?
She needed Jeffrey. Bracken had ceased being her fallback guy. So what the blazes was he doing here, crashing her training session? Ruining what she had going while he was off protecting America’s storage units, or whatever it was he did as a security guard. Probably stole the stuff himself—him and his biker buddies. She measured her words, or word, carefully. “Yep.”
She heard Bracken snort.
Jeffrey strode over to the cage wall and, widening his stance like her brother Aiden did when he wanted to be intimidating, snapped, “Can we help you?”
Bracken’s gaze fell off Jeffrey as he looked around the room, exasperated or irritated. Whatever it was, Huntley made a noise low in her throat, thinking she’d clear the air before these two warriors went at it.
“How did you know I was training here tonight?”
His eyes snapped back and narrowed on her. “That what you doing, Creampuff? Training? For what, spin the bottle?”
Ouch. The bastard.
“Fuck you, man. Come on up here and say that. Who do you think—”
“Creampuff!” Huntley interrupted, spitting mad. “Back to your typically insulting self. Come on up here is right. Time to set the record straight—”
“Just wasting time, Huntley. You need to send Loose Lips packing, and we need to chat.”
Of all the arrogant assholes she’d paired up with in the cage, no one compared to him. “Now you suddenly need to talk? I haven’t seen you in over a week.”
“Loose Lips?” Jeffrey shouted, late to catch on. “Bloody lips—that’s what you’ll have when I’m through with you. We’re on.”
Bracken ignored him—or maybe he didn’t, because he slid out of his jacket and tossed it onto the edge of the Octagon ring. “Miss me, huh?” he asked her, as if the warrior next to her wasn’t about to serve him his teeth.
“Like a canker sore.”
“That’s from all that kissing you’ve been doing.” First one boot, then the other joined his jacket. Shame he was out of reach or she’d have ripped his T-shirt right off of his body, then strangled him with it. Tonight, Bracken was going to get a taste of her, all right, of a jaw-jarring, teeth-rattling Creampuff wake up call. This time, her mind was completely focused and unpolluted from a tequila-infused giddiness. Completely focused.
“That explains it,” she shot back. “Your lips are probably a breeding ground for STDs.”
Both men fell silent.
Bracken tore his wrinkled T-shirt up over his head. Holy sweet mother Mary. A high-pitched squeak echoed around the Hall.
She’d known he was muscled, having seen the way his T-shirts clung to his torso. Having felt his chest pressed up against her own. Tequila-brain or no tequila-brain, she’d picked up on the fact that his chest was chiseled like fine marble. Hard. Determined. Unyielding, like the man himself. But seeing first-hand the tight corded planes of his chest, his ripped eight-pack, a body that had her practically panting for a feel of him, was exactly what she didn’t need right now. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to look away. She struggled to stay focused, needing to decide whether to give him the cold shoulder or nail him in the groin with a blazing kick.
“You kissed him?” Jeffrey asked, his tone hurt. Oh Lord, he was standing there inside the cage watching her blather and gawk at a man who liked nothing better to do than press people’s buttons.
And wouldn’t you know it, she had a button or two that needed his attention.
No buttons. No bikers on my buttons. Jeffrey is who you need to train you. That’s it.
Bracken unzipped his jeans. “Sure did. Put some tongue into it too.”
Huntley let out something between a sigh and a groan. How long had Bracken been watching them? The man was trouble. Every way you looked at it.
Stepping out of his jeans and down to his Ultimate American Male boxer shorts—black, of course—he rolled his neck twice before making his way to the stairs.
Jeffrey’s cheeks were flushed like overripe tomatoes. Confirmation enough that Bracken’s barb had struck a nerve. No man liked to have his inadequacies pointed out to him. Clearly her lack of participation in the kiss hadn’t gone unnoted by either man. Damn it.
Jogging in place, Jeffrey threw a few warm-up punches—exactly what she’d been trying to get him to do for the past four training sessions.
Bracken stalked across the mat, flexing his fingers as he approached. Sweet Jesus was he ripped. Like a David Beckham of the biker world, except meaner. Reluctantly, her gaze shifted off his chest, upward. A mistake. Her heart performed a double punch as his eyes, bluer than a summer sky but savage, like a turbulent storm about to rage down, calmed enough to fix on her.
She didn’t know whether to run for cover or brave him out, though the first option was never really a consideration. Holy effin’ hell, even in his present state, unhinged and looking like he’d just come off a bender, he drew her in. God, when did her life become such a cliché? The sweet Southern belle falling for a bad boy. And Bracken was as bad as they got. She sighed, knowing that no matter how hard she fought it, her attraction to the big brute was real.
Jeffrey stepped toward Bracken. “Watch and learn, Huntley. You wanted to see my punches, well, here’s your chance.”
“Seeing them wasn’t what I wanted. Learning some consistency in my throw was,” she muttered.
Bracken stopped rolling his neck as Jeffrey positioned himself just out of striking distance.
Great. A cock fight, and over what? She had a professional relationship with Jeffrey, the one instance of him rubbing his lips over hers excepted. And one memorable night wantonly writhing about on her coffee table while Bracken did a number on her—or rather multiple numbers—hardly qualified as a relationship. The way her body stirred at even the slightest memory of their exchange was more like fantasy than reality. Nothing more than a drunken moment. Jesus, she hadn’t seen or heard from the man in weeks.
Jeffrey jabbed and missed as Bracken easily shifted his body away. With reddening cheeks, her trainer threw an upper cut.
For a man of his size, Bracken was light on his feet. Jeffrey’s fist met nothing but air.
But when Jeffrey’s third throw connected with his chin, Huntley gasped in surprise. Even she’d seen that one coming from her spot off to the side. For some reason—his bad ass attitude perhaps?—she’d been certain Bracken would easily come out on top.
Two more punches followed, landing with a resounding thud on Bracken’s forearm and abdomen. Fist marks reddened his skin.
The tightness her trainer had been carrying in his stance lessened, a sign his confidence was growing.
Bracken’s chin darkened, a surefire bruise. She winced and glanced away, disliking the thought of him being hurt. Disliking herself for feeling concerned. He could take care of himself, right?
Whoosh. It was as if a brutal storm had morphed into brilliant sunshine because the raging lunatic who’d crashed her training session was now smiling. At her. A lip-licking, panty-wetting, sexy-as-sin grin that instantly had her back down on top of her coffee table, with him between her legs. Damn it—despite his appearance, beard or no beard, he was one hell of a hottie.
Jeffrey landed another punch to Bracken’s side.
She cringed. He was still staring at her, his smile just as tenacious as the rest of him.
Okay, so he could take a punch, but enough already. This pissing contest was ridiculous. And if he didn’t stop l
ooking at her and not at Jeffrey, this bout was going to end quickly.
Jeffrey must have thought the same thing. “Pussy. What’s the matter, that body for show only?”
Slowly, Bracken dragged his gaze away from her, gestured with his chin in his typical, provoking, what-the-fuck-is-your-problem nod, and acknowledged Jeffrey. “You punch like you kiss. Half-assed.”
He shot out his fist. It landed perfectly on Jeffrey’s cheek, knocking her trainer off his feet and down onto the mat. “That’s how a real man kisses.” Ignoring Jeffrey’s stunned expression, he turned his full attention back onto her. “You ready to talk now?”
“About...?” Apprehension collided with anticipation, and then hesitation. After all, up until a second ago, she’d been working with a perfectly decent trainer, even if he now lay sprawled out on the mat, looking dazed and confused. But Jeffrey was safe, predictable. Perhaps too loose with his hands, perhaps more focused on nailing her than teaching her how to nail someone with her fist. Yep, predictable. Pretty much the kind of guy she was used to.
And the antithesis of every man she’d known was nonchalantly running the back of his hand across his forehead, as if to relieve himself of a bead of nonexistent sweat. With an arrogant nod toward the stairs, he said, “In private.” Then, he stalked off without a backward glance.
Huntley stood frozen in place. Jeffrey moaned from his prone position on the mat. And Bracken stood outside the cage, the smile long gone from his face. Waiting. On her.
No. Don’t even consider it. Play. It. Safe.
“Sorry, Jeffrey. I’ll square payment away with you later, okay?” she heard herself saying, before she pivoted on her heels and, in a move destined for the Huntley Book of Illogical Moves, headed out of the cage.
Knowing full well that by the looks of things, she was going to be perfecting more than her punch.
* * *
He should have nailed her that night. Losing his touch—that’s what happened when a man without a conscience suddenly decided to grow one. It’d have made things a hell of a lot easier. Huntley’d be pliable and eager, like so many of his women. He’d have relieved some of this pent-up stress wearing him thin. They’d have moved on already, getting her throw all squared away, her training up to speed, her ready for that fight. Him recognized by every perp at the Warehouse as her trainer.
Damn, he was exhausted. Fucking tired of all the shit: the hours, the stress, the bums, as that gym monkey had called him. Get in, get the bust and get going. That was his plan. Tonight, what he’d anticipated was a bit of a verbal sparring match before Huntley caved and took him back as her trainer. Not an actually sparring match with an arrogant ass.
One Huntley had been locking lips with.
With more force than necessary, he jerked his arms through his leather sleeves and slid into his jacket. Just as angry with himself as with the curvaceous fighter keeping up with him as they headed out of the Warehouse. The click-clack of her shoes on the asphalt was like a chorus in his head: lets-see-who-snaps-whose-fingers-and-who-jumps. If he didn’t know himself better, he’d say his reaction was far too green for comfort. Jealousy? It wasn’t an emotion he recognized. Although when he realized she’d dumped that dick and had followed him his pulse had shifted into second gear. Part of him began to wonder if all she had to do was snap her fingers together and he’d be asking her “how high.”
He needed to get a grip. Fast.
“Where are we going?”
Not to the apartment he rented on a month-to-month basis. He never brought women home, no matter how temporary the accommodations were. He never mixed business with pleasure—ironic, because for him, it was business 24/7. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself relax and enjoy the moment. Keep her bed warm and your heart cold was his motto, a lesson learned long ago on violent, unmerciful streets. He’d survived on brute strength and sharp thinking, developed an uncanny ability to command the homeless gangs of Nashville. He’d come a long way, though there’d been days where it hadn’t seemed like it.
In the parking lot, Huntley halted and, folding her arms across her chest, cocked her head at him. “You are a real piece of work. First you swoop in out of nowhere, looking like you’ve been on a bender, antagonize my trainer, humiliate him, then order me about. Lord knows why I followed you. I’ve got news for you, I’m not going any—”
“I figured we’d catch the sunrise.”
Her eyebrows flared upward at his response. “The sunrise?”
“You heard me.”
She was looking at him like he’d grown two heads. One more to beat against the nearest wall. The goddamn sunrise? Classic.
“I didn’t peg you for the romantic sort.”
He grunted. “Got me all figured out, huh?” Good luck with that; he was still banging both heads on the wall trying to figure his own actions out.
She ignored his question. “It’s only four. Hours before the sun comes up.” Her cheeks were flushed, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and looking like someone’s little sister. Fresh faced and naïve as hell.
And he was just the kind of guy to corrupt the shit outta her. “I’ll show you how to move your body.” Fucking great. “Maximize your power.”
Her lips lifted and her eyes filled with excitement. “You’re going to train me then?”
“Why else would I be here?”
The brightness in her gaze dimmed slightly before she recovered. Message received. This was business. Fucking her, that would be business too—had to be. He had to make up for lost time, get in hard and fast. But he’d make his move when she least suspected it. Let her chill, and think otherwise. Her step quickened, and for the moment, it looked like Huntley’s desire to perfect her punch outweighed her desire for him.
Shame the situation wasn’t going so well on his end.
He pulled out his keys to his Ford F150 and pressed the unlock button. Opening the passenger door, he waved her inside.
Again, she stopped, and gave him a curious look. “Do you even have a bike?”
“Not tonight.” The memory of their last parking lot encounter, with her straddling that Harley, played out in his head and his cock twitched in response. Thank god he’d left his Harley at home. Besides, his biker days were all but done. Croaked right alongside Juan. The goddamned beard was next.
She hesitated, her hands on her hips as she considered him.
“Look, do we have a deal or not? Because if you climb into my truck right now, there’s going to be no turning back. One hundred percent commitment, that’s what I expect. I say jump, you answer how high. Your kick needs to be extended, your footwork could use switching up more, and then there’s your punch.” And you’ll smile and introduce me to your fighter friends, helping me figure out who’s vying to be the biggest methamphetamine pimp on the West Coast.
Numbnuts had been adamant the bikers were delivering the goods to someone big at the Warehouse. That is, if Stefan didn’t screw up in his intel.
“You’re right, I don’t have you all figured out. I could be driving off into the desert with a murderer.”
He blinked, hoping the parking lot was dark enough to hide his reaction. Man, the things he’d seen...done...in his lifetime, both as a youth and as a cop. Fuck.
“My tongue’s been inside your sweetness. Nothing more to figure out,” he deflected. He caught the widening of her eyes. Bin-fucking-GO. A little more loving and she’d be putty in his hands. “You just going to stand there?” he added, his tone low and husky, not at all unaffected by her reaction. Factor in the heavy weight of his cock... Jesus, get a grip.
“Sweet Mary,” she let out in an exasperated huff, before she climbed in and he shut the door.
His lips lifted slightly as he made his way around the pickup.
Game fucking on.
The ga
rish Reno cityscape flickered in his rear-view mirror like over-the-top Christmas lights for several miles until finally being replaced by the desert night.
“I...um...” she began, interrupting herself to cuss softly. He knew what was coming next. Way ahead of you, Witt. “About what happened that night, it was a one-time deal. I’m dead serious about training, and need you to know that that’s all I want out of this arrangement. I wasted enough time trying to get Jeffrey to actually teach me something.”
Jeffrey. “Yeah, I could tell.” Damn. The thought of that numbskull with his hands all over her and his lips pressed against hers made Bracken want to feed him his fist all over again. What the fuck? He’d better get some perspective here, or his investigation would be over before it had even begun. “You got it,” he said.
He heard her move on the leather seat, and felt her gaze fixed on him. Moments passed without comment as he navigated his pickup off the main drag, onto a small dirt road leading into the mountains overlooking the city. Many a night he’d driven up here, a private place to gather his thoughts, away from the prying eyes of the dregs he’d been in bed with for most of the year.
“What happened? You decide to give Rip Van Wrinkle a run for his money? You look gruff. More so than usual.” Her tone was low, gruff in its own right. His cock stirred in reaction.
He’d been in a hurry to see her, and had come straight from the hole in Vegas. A quick shower to wash off the stench. Not that it cleaned up his head at all. Or his act. Harder to shake off his hard-living ways after so long. And, let’s face it, he’d been weaned on fists and punches. Life’s hard knocks. He was a fighter, first and foremost.
“Strictly business,” she murmured even more softly, as if reminding herself.
“That’s all this will ever be,” he responded harshly, unsure about exactly who he was trying to convince.
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