Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  Leaving his stinking ring behind.

  A week later, she’d tried to return it. Big mistake.

  Had the manipulative bastard’s controlling tendencies kicked in? Had he followed her out to Reno? Had the creepy stalker gene passed from father to son?

  Her gaze fell on a group of unfamiliar faces. A few recognizable. But not the face she was hoping never to see again. Good.

  A gritty, no-holds-barred kind of violence swept over the room. Not the familiar excitement that always had her pulse racing. Cold, that’s how she felt, from the vibe this new crowd sent off. Or was it the turn of her own dark thoughts?

  She bit her lip, her eyes following the men being herded like pack animals into the Hall. Long after the Warehouse quieted and the shouting in the other room had begun, her skin tingled with goosebumps.

  Her whole life she’d been preparing for an unknown danger. The unshakeable feeling she had to constantly look over her shoulder. An irrational fear that one day, the boogeyman might come out of the woodwork. Ironic that the bastard might actually be someone she knew.

  Bring it on, buddy.

  She balled up her bar towel and tossed it in a container. Unwelcome company or not, hardcore training would resume tomorrow. Huntley rolled her shoulders, then took in a deep breath, determined to shake of this weariness and focus on what was mattered most.

  Kicking ass.

  * * *

  “You make contact?”

  Stefan stiffened. “No, I was out picking daisies. Of course I did. What? Do you think you’re the only detective capable of getting the job done?”

  “Yep.”

  Numbnuts held back his retort, showing an uncharacteristic bit of common sense for once.

  The precinct was quiet, a few guys lingering around filling out paperwork and bullshit reports. Despite being tired, Bracken had to be up early to train—that was, after he had a stiff drink. Alone. Enough incentive to get down to business.

  “The transport has been loaded into the vans and the crew is headed on out?”

  Stefan nodded. “Yeah. Updating the vans with slick new GPS systems was a fucking good call. Local municipalities from Kansas to Nevada know we’re tracking them and won’t interfere. I made it clear we’re running things.”

  “They went for it? No local departments feeling like they wanted a piece of the action? No one getting into a dick-stroking contest over who arrests whom?”

  His partner grew silent. Bracken’s lips twitched, knowing how the little fucker hated being questioned. Too goddamned bad. Yet experience said no local municipalities were going to roll over onto their backs that easily.

  “This is my show. You’re on the inside, doing your part. I’m handling things on the outside, including this. That’s the arrangement.” Stefan’s cheeks flushed pink.

  “Your show, huh? What happened to “we operate as a team”? The little prick. “I hate to tell you this but whoever you’re trying to impress will have to be a complete moron to buy into your act.”

  “I’m tired of you and your goddamned insults. As soon as this case is done, you’re done. The day can’t come soon enough.”

  Bracken scowled. Stefan’s balls grew larger by the second. He’d have to do something about that. Soon. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow and dug a bit further, playing his hand. Curious to see if Stefan was just ignorant or intentionally not sharing information. “When are the Mayhem scheduled to arrive in Reno?”

  “Sometime in July.”

  Truman had said August first. What the fuck? “That soon?”

  “It’s just not one hundred percent confirmed.”

  “You’re an asshole. I’m not in position with the Russians yet.”

  “If you hadn’t gotten sidetracked by tits and ass...” Stefan stopped, shifted on his feet, very much aware of Bracken’s clenched fist and how he was a second away from getting a well-deserved beating. But too much was at risk—I.A.’d pull him off the assignment if he hospitalized Stefan.

  “Look, dickwad. If you want anyone to take you seriously, you got to get your facts straight. I want solid confirmation. Location. Date. Exact time.”

  “What do you mean, location? It’s the Warehouse, no question about it. Speaking of the Warehouse, you wrap that chick around your dick yet? I don’t understand what’s taking you so long.”

  Bracken schooled his features, careful not to react. Yeah, his partner’s smirk said it all—he was intentionally pressing Bracken’s buttons, testing him, seeing if Huntley’d gotten under his skin yet. Looking to exploit any weakness he could find.

  Good luck with that, fuckhead. “Like you said, you handle things on the outside. I’ll do what I need to do.”

  Stefan scowled and shifted on his feet, clearly insecure and not liking Bracken’s confident tone. Happened all the time, guys on the force overlooking the fact he was sharp. His image as a bad-ass echoed within the hearts of even the good guys. Like they sensed the trash he’d come from. His father’s fists. The mean streets and his little kid version of a gang lifestyle. Guess him becoming a cop had been too much a stretch of their imaginations. Not that they knew just how smart you had to be to survive the fists and a life on the streets.

  Which is why giving up any full control on a case was tough. He’d keep his eyes and ears open, nevertheless.

  “Come on, you can tell me. You get into her panties yet?” Stefan asked snidely.

  Did this guy have a death wish or what? Bracken could talk about the most hardened criminal without any qualms, but this turn in topic was beyond annoying.

  “She fall all over herself like your other women? Or is that beard cramping your style? Why don’t you shave the thing now that Juan is dead? It’s like a wild animal took hold of your chin.”

  “Huntley’s on board. That’s all you need to know.” Jesus, what was it about her that had this guy so freakin’ obsessed? He stood up from his office chair, not wanting to dwell on it. Stefan took a step backward. Message received—this line of conversation was over. “Keep me posted. I want answers,” he repeated. “Something tells me there’s more going on here than we know about.”

  “What are you, a psychic now? A few facts got to be tightened. I’m on it. By the way, the friend, Kaleigh, headed out of town. So your woman is alone. Good time to take advantage of her.”

  Turning, he nailed Numbnuts a long overdue punch to the stomach. “That’s for being such a womanizing prick.”

  Stefan crouched over, clutching his abdomen. “And you’re what?” he gasped.

  “Nothing. I’m nothing,” he replied, grabbing his leather and heading toward the exit sign.

  Nothing. Not a boyfriend, a husband, a genuine lover who’d cuddle his woman after a fuck. Not anyone’s goddamn son, that’s for sure.

  Nope. Nothing pretty much summed it up. Neat and no nonsense.

  That’s the way he’d lived his life, and he was still around to talk about it.

  Chapter Nine

  “You’re in a mood,” Huntley commented between gasps of breath. Bracken had slowed briefly, probably to lessen the distance between them as they headed into a shadier side of town. As if she couldn’t take care of herself.

  They’d been running in a full-out sprint since daybreak. Before the sun’s warm rays could think about making an appearance, Bracken had arrived on her doorstep. No “good morning.” No discussion about the day’s training. Nope, what she’d gotten was his refusal to come inside, along with the tapping of his fingers impatiently on the doorjamb, as if waiting the few minutes for her to pocket a banana and a baggie of peanuts, sustenance for the grueling hours ahead of her, was cutting into his precious time. Jeez, you’d have thought a security guard would have more patience.

  They’d headed out, with him setting a pace that would have given a lesser w
oman a heart attack. He’d kept a few yards ahead, which was fine with her. The view was splendid from behind, with his tight buns flexing within his sweatpants as he ran. And what the heck was that he’d snapped around his waist? It amused the heck out of her. A black leather fanny pack? No badass way. Once he slowed the pace, she meant to tease him about it.

  Just inside the city limits, en route to the high desert valley at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains, she stumbled, her ankle twisting in a shoddy crack in the asphalt. Not enough to break or even sprain it, but just enough to send her down to the ground.

  She heard someone shout, his voice carrying from the run-down motel flanking the boulevard. The kind of place gamblers holed up in while on a losing streak, and prostitutes frequented on an hourly basis. “You okay?” he hollered, concerned.

  Scrambling back onto her feet, she held up her hand, palm facing him in a halting gesture. “Right as rain. Thanks for your concern.” The neon beneath the motel sign blinked “vacant,” the artificial brightness temporarily blinding her so she had a hard time seeing the stranger’s face. Or strangers’ faces, as she spotted a second figure standing next to him.

  Beneath the blinking lights, she could just make out the second man, his tall, lanky shape, trim blond hair, suit and tie—like he was staying at a luxurious midtown hotel and not some flea-ridden dive. But she felt his hard stare. A half-second passed before he vanished into a room.

  It couldn’t be.

  The crunch of gravel moving beneath a massive weight sounded behind her. “Your knee is bleeding,” she heard Bracken say, sounding far off in the distance despite being right beside her. “Did that prick do something to you?”

  Bracken turned his head, his eyes shooting daggers at the stranger still standing there with a look on his face that should have sent shivers down her spine. Except someone else had beaten him to it.

  Yes, she wanted to answer. But it’s worse than you think.

  She’d done the right thing going to Robert’s apartment to return the ring. But she hadn’t been prepared for the situation she’d found herself in.

  Robert had been sweet, offering her a drink as a peace offering. Then, his true colors, his true purpose for agreeing to meet her, came out. The bastard had drugged her drink. With her defenseless, he stripped off her clothes, positioned her naked body on his bed, and wrapped a damn blue feather boa beneath her bare breasts, careful to leave her exposed. Spreading her legs wide for the goddamned world to see, he’d snapped a dozen pictures.

  Blackmail. Extortion. His way of pressuring her into signing over her shares of the family business. She’d be too humiliated to speak up. She was going to roll over and take what he dished out.

  So he’d thought.

  “It’s just a scrape. My heel caught on the pavement.” She turned and offered Bracken her best glare, trying her best to suppress the panic. “Let’s go,” she added, taking off. She needed to get far away from that dive. From Bracken’s prying eyes. From whoever might be lurking inside the motel.

  She ran until she was breathless and then harder still.

  It couldn’t be him.

  He doesn’t know where you went. No way had her brothers filled him in. They hated him, just as much as they hated his dad—more so, for having dated their little sister. Damn, she should have told them the truth about Robert. But chances were, Geer, Tyler, Aiden, even Pop would be in jail right now if they knew.

  To his credit, Bracken let her run, giving her the space she needed. Somehow knowing she needed to regroup without knowing the cause. Perceptive as well as a moody badass.

  A mile later, she began to wonder if she’d overreacted. How many men had blond hair and a similar build? For Pete’s sake, her brother Aiden had similar coloring and the same body type, if a bit more muscular. And as angry as she’d made Robert, as controlling as he was, would he really insane enough to track her down?

  After a while, her heart raced from exertion rather than apprehension. The wide expanse of valley quietly grabbed hold of her senses, calming her mind. A few birds and a fat jackrabbit kept them company as the sun cast a warming glow and took the chill out of the air as it made its way up over the mountains.

  “Head to the right.” Bracken’s voice broke the silence, surprisingly close. “There’s a steep climb over that way. We’ll push some truck tires up the slope.”

  Terrific. Nothing she wanted to do more than haul truck tires up a mountainside. She bit her lip and headed right.

  Some genius had piled two neat stacks of ten large tires each at the base of the mountain trail. Pushing these bulky, heavy monstrosities uphill was going to take effort, but first she had to get the top one off a pile three times her height. She studied the stack, contemplating her options.

  Bracken stood beside her. “Look. Before we get into it, before I teach you a few techniques and you begin sparring at the Warehouse, we’ve got to strengthen your upper body. Shoulders, arms, chest.”

  A slight frown marred her forehead, as she formulated the most efficient way to dislodge a tire without getting smacked in the head. He misunderstood her response completely, saying, “If you’re not in this to win...you’re gonna get hurt before you even make it to Vegas.”

  She turned and scowled at him. How much she’d give to see the judgmental jerk eat crow. In this to win? She was in it to dominate, not simply win. Sponsors and MMA opponents alike were going to sit up and take notice. Realize that Huntley Rey Wittaker was the real deal. She never did anything worthwhile halfway. Vegas would never be the same.

  But first she had to contend with these tires. And McBadass.

  “I’ll take a taste of winning right now.” Darn it. Why couldn’t she have ignored his bullish ways instead of waving a red flag in his face? You’ll show him, once and for all, the stuff you’re made of, Creampuff. “Let’s wager,” she heard herself add. Yep, the run may have scrambled her thinking. But being the only girl in a household of men, handling a guy on his turf came second nature to her. “If I beat you even once, you being the strong man and all, I win. If you win all four times, you win.”

  “Four? You trying to kill me? Let’s see where were at after one tire.”

  Bracken rolled his neck, nonchalantly, like she hadn’t caught the glimmer of truth within his deep blue eyes. He loved the challenge. Just like her brothers.

  And sweet Mary, so did she. She felt alive, and eager to show him her backside the whole way up the mountain. A perfect remedy for her worries and fears. She marched over to the pile that loomed high overhead. Getting the first tire off was going to take brains, as well as skill.

  She cocked her head and looked at him. “Ready?”

  Bracken didn’t budge.

  Something crossed over his face, something profound which she sensed rather than witnessed. Like she’d thrown his game off. What was he thinking?

  Heat rushed into her cheeks as she remembered their tequila-inspired night, the things he’d done to her. Hell’s bells. She’d already won, several times over. She stalked over to him, raised herself up on her toes, and brought her face up to his. A gesture that usually made her brothers squeamish. “You’re not the kind of man I’d expected to find wearing a fanny pack, either.”

  Instead of pulling away, emasculated, he leaned in closer. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the tiny prickle of his whiskers on her skin. So close, it would take very little for his lips to lock with hers. Kissing her. Making her forget about the challenge, the bet, the fight.

  His eyes flashed, rich and clear, a desert sky blue.

  Oh sweet heaven. He’s going to do it. I want him to do it.

  His mouth opened slightly then closed. Firmly. His lips tightened.

  “Well, are you game or not?” she demanded, her tone hoarse with desire, unsure what she was asking him.

  He gra
sped her chin gently with his fingers. “What’s my prize? Fuck knows, after this past year, I deserve one.” A pained look flashed over his face. Stunning her, causing her to lean toward him, as if her closeness might comfort him. “Yeah, I know exactly what I want,” he added softly.

  His words hung between them like a silent promise. A win-win situation. Sometimes in life, it wasn’t the prize that lifted a person’s soul but the effort made to achieve it. And rolling a blasted tire up this mountain trail might just cause her soul to sing. As long as she won in the end, that is.

  “You have to beat me first. You and your fanny pack.”

  “It’s a hip holster, Creampuff,” he ground out. A smile spread across his face, taking the wind out of her. “Here’s what I want. A homestyle, Southern meal. Chicken with gravy. Biscuits.” He caressed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Pie,” he added, though she could have sworn he said sex. Glorious, down-and-dirty sex.

  “That’s it? You want me to cook for you?” she murmured huskily, imagining herself in nothing but an apron, serving him up some gravy.

  “Yeah. Can’t remember the last time I had home cooking, if ever.” There it was again, that look. The flash of pain that came and went in the blink of an eye. She studied him for a second, fascinated by how quickly his emotions shifted. Whatever had caused him pain was replaced with a downright boyish sparkle in his eyes. In that moment, if it wasn’t for that beard, he’d seem younger. Younger than you’d thought. Late twenties.

  She blinked, realizing how little she knew about him.

  “The way to a man’s heart, you know.”

  What? His murmur caused her to blink again. Her heart fluttered as well. The energy sizzling between them remained.

  His hand dropped and he stepped away. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

  “Uh...what’s my prize for winning?” The faint butterfly beat of her heart accelerated.