They’d parted ways soon after joining bodies, jogging back into town in silence, and leaving the tires for another day. He’d backed out of Sunday’s run too, instructing her to go on without him. That something had come up. His voice had been short and curt over the phone. Typical Bracken. No mention of hot morning sex. No attempt to line up an encore performance. No sign what had happened between them affected him in the slightest.
The pissing contest playing out before her didn’t prove anything.
She wished she could be so nonchalant about casual sex. Wild, smoldering sex. Toe-curling sex with a powerhouse of a man. Well, she could pretend to be.
She turned, releasing her lower lip from the hold her teeth had had on it, and raised her eyebrows as Thickhead angrily strode away. “That’s your way of vetting sparring partners for me? I though you said you wanted to connect with the guys, assess their merit and abilities.”
He scowled at her, his eyes a deep turbulent blue.
“Well?” she prompted, secretly pleased as she watched Thickhead disappear into the crowd.
“I assessed him. A blockhead. Not worth the time.”
“Not worth my time, you mean.”
“Exactly.” His gaze roamed over her, from the show of skin at her shoulder, down across her loose fitted top, to her tight, body-hugging jeans, to her pumps. Like he was remembering every inch his hands had roamed over. A warm blush followed his gaze, right to the tip of her toes.
“If you want fighters to take you seriously, better dress the part.”
The contents of the bottles of Stoli and Johnny poured over her head would have been less of a shock. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?
“Right now I’m selling drinks. Earning a living,” she bit out, her voice thick with emotion, “so either buy one or scram.” She pivoted on her heels, lowering her shoulder in such a way that her top shifted even farther down her arm.
Mercifully, another new guy waved a ten at her from the far end of the bar. Good instincts, him avoiding Bracken’s space. She could empathize with the newcomer, wanting to evade Bracken herself but that urge was surpassed by the desire to make him suffer. In her best Kaleigh interpretation, she strutted over to take the fighter’s order, her hips swaying as if she were walking a runway. Showing Bracken how much his words didn’t matter.
She lingered at the other end of the bar, equal parts wanting to teach Bracken a lesson and earnestly concentrating on interpreting her customer’s thick accent. “Oh, vodka,” she exclaimed, finally catching on to one clear word. The fighter frowned and nodded aggressively. It was enough, and she was forced to head back to the bottles next to the register.
She felt Bracken’s eyes on her as she poured the drink. Did being a biker come with instructions on being an asshat?
“I’ll take a tequila, straight up.”
She tried to ignore him, but it was pointless. After the Warehouse closed, it’d just be the two of them. And tonight, he was showing her a new punch. Silently, she poured the drinks, leaving his on the counter next to the bottle while she waited on the other troublemaker.
“Point taken,” he said softly. Like someone murmured sweet nothings in her ear.
She inhaled sharply. “Was that an apology?”
He raised his glass, then shot back the amber liquid in one long swig.
She resisted rolling her eyes. “Ironic how I’m on such a strict diet, a rigorous training schedule and a committed routine and you’re tossing down hard liquor like it’s your last drink.”
“It very well could be,” he replied, then changed the subject. “Which guy do you want me to consider? Anyone new, who you don’t know too well.”
“Well...the guy you chased away...”
“Not happening. Who else?” His gaze roamed over the crowd, taking in each face as if he was memorizing them.
“Well, aren’t you my knight in shining leather.”
“I aim to please.” He turned back to her and shot her a smug grin. Her nipples pebbled up as she remembered very vividly just how much he aimed to please.
She placed her elbows on the bar and leaned toward him, not wanting him to get the better of her. And not wanting the Mr. Friendly at the end of the bar to hear her. “I’m surprised how many new faces there are. Fewer amateurs. More experienced fighters, I think. Definitely cut from a harder mold, like the guy with the funny accent at the end of the bar. He smiles even less than you do.”
Something about Bracken changed. Nothing visible, heck, his gaze didn’t drift toward the guy, the natural reaction when the object being discussed was close by. A slight tightening of his oh-so masculine jaw. A change in the air, a cool blast casting off the hot sizzle that’d been about to combust between them. His eyes fixed on her, yet he seemed deep in thought.
She frowned. “Russian, I think. He ordered vodka, same as the guy you chased away. Why? What’s wrong?”
His eyes filled with some unidentifiable emotion, a second before he hooded them. “Thought you were going to say Italian. I hate Italians.”
“But he doesn’t look the least bit like a dark-haired, olive-skinned Italian. Sweet peaches, he’s fairer than I am.” The pale skin of her exposed shoulder flushed pink as it fell underneath his less than subtle scrutiny.
He studied her, an indecipherable expression across his face, before he abruptly stood. “Stay put. I’m going to see if he’d make a worthy opponent.”
“Seriously? Can’t you pick someone with a bit more personality?”
He paused. “Relax. I might pick up a fight or two myself, starting with him.”
Good thing Bracken stepped out of reach, because she was ready to throttle him. “Listen. If you’re fighting anyone, it’s going to be me. That’s what I’m paying you for. Remember?” Truth was, she hadn’t paid him a dime yet. Unlike Jeffrey, they hadn’t discussed his fee. Something she’d have to remedy tonight
“You going to bust my chops over this?” Without warning, he shot forward, leaned in and snatched her arm, tugging her body close so she was angled across the bar. Bending down, he whispered in her ear, “Fighting and loving, that’s what you’re gonna get, until you can barely walk from either.”
Holy hell.
She felt his teeth on her earlobe, a gentle nip, before he straightened and stalked over to Mr. Friendly.
Through the corner of her eye, she watched the exchange. The Russian seemed wary—no surprise there—as Bracken spoke to him, his eyes hard and his expression even harder. Was this the same guy who’d seconds ago playfully nipped her earlobe?
Mr. Friendly glanced her way, said something to Bracken. Whatever Bracken said in response caused the man’s face to flush bright red.
Making friends his usual way, she thought, turning her attention toward an approaching customer. When she finally glanced back at them, things seemed more amiable...well, calmer anyway. Bracken waved at her, calling her over.
“Two vodkas, straight up, sweetheart,” he ordered, his tone hard as steel but dripping with false honey.
The jerk. She glared at him.
“You gonna stand there all day? Get me and my friend here a drink.” He shot her a stern look of warning, a “don’t fuck with me” glare.
She marched away to pour the drinks, confused by his odd behavior. Fingering the bottle of tequila, she wondered if he’d made a mistake. But if Bracken decided to switch up his order, who was she to question him?
Still, she set the glasses on the bar with enough force they rattled, earning her two sets of raised eyebrows. “So, when is our bout?” she demanded, cocking her head at Mr. Friendly.
The Russian seemed confused.
Assuming a striking pose with her legs spread just so, she jabbed into the air in front of her. “Fighting. You and...”
Huntley hustled backward as
Bracken’s glass flew across the bar, splattering vodka everywhere, before crashing to the floor and breaking into hundreds of splintered pieces. The Russian jumped up, liquid dripping from his chin. McBadass stood as well, scowling as he wiped off his leather jacket.
Mr. Friendly muttered something to Bracken, raised his hand as if he were going to pat him on the shoulder, then thought better of it before hurrying off. Did anyone else see it? That Bracken had sent his drink crashing off the bar intentionally? She glanced around nervously. No one but her, it seemed.
He was cursing up a blue streak, swiping away the liquid on his jacket. Grabbing a wet towel from behind the counter, and careful to not step on the broken glass, she handed it to him.
He grunted, took it and finished cleaning off his leather.
“Why don’t you want me to fight that guy?” she questioned softly.
For a second, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. “You’re too good for the likes of him,” he replied, his tone low and full of gravel. Serious, and utterly sincere.
Was he trying to protect her?
* * *
“Gloves up, chin down.”
Instead of following Bracken’s directions, she placed her gloved hands on her hips. “No shit, Sherlock. Teach me something I didn’t know.”
The glimmer in his eyes promised her that he was thinking about taking her up on that offer—tossing her on her back and showing her exactly what she’d been missing out on.
It was odd how they easily they’d fallen back into a comfortable routine once the Warehouse had cleared out and it was just them. Bracken, who’d been acting strangely an hour earlier, was now more relaxed. Not the sex machine from up on the mountaintop and not the secretive fight manager from an hour earlier.
Though Huntley’d been anxious to get into the cage, they’d been standing next to a new punching bag in a large warm-up area off to the side of it. Two bottles of water sat on a short wall dividing the open space. Aside from the bag, there were weights, mats attached to the wall, and a bench. She’d changed into a pair of long violet sweatpants, a tank top and matching purple sports bra, and a ratty pair of sneakers. Hey, she liked pretty colors, so what? She was a woman, fighter or not. Still, her get-up contrasted starkly with McBadass’s own.
Until he removed it, slowly, neatly folding his leather, shirt and jeans. Stripping right down to snug Ultimate American Male training shorts. Her breath had caught in her throat and an hour later, she still hadn’t fully regained it. She felt lightheaded in a way, excited by her progress, exhilarated to have such a skilled trainer and downright titillated by the unbridled energy that passed between them. Fighters turned lovers, or was it the other way around? Go figure.
“Clean, quick punches. Don’t waste time waiting for a haymaker. Your opponent will see it coming a mile away. Get in, be fast, fall back. Period.” Bracken sprang forward to demonstrate, his fists hitting the bag hard, with measured punches. He was light on his feet and moved with a fighter’s grace. Unexpected, given his size and biker background. You’d have thought he’d be the king of haymakers, and the bag his lesser opponent.
Yep, there was more than meets the eye when it came to Bracken. Secrets she suddenly wanted to discover.
He stopped wailing on the bag, and grabbed it to stop it from swinging. “Your turn.”
She flipped her head down, fastened her hair into a loose ponytail, then straightened. They’d taken the time to wrap their hands in tape but her fingers were free and unprotected.
“Remember what I told you,” he added, his tone so strange it caused her to glance at his face. He was studying the bag, his expression unreadable.
“Yep. Use quick and precise punches that’ll wear a man or woman down.” She shot him a cheeky smile. “Or if you want to a scientific explanation, kinetic energy is one-half mass times velocity squared. HyperPhysics.”
That got him good. Bracken broke into a smile and shot her a look. “Folks, looks like we’ve got an Albert Einstein working the cage. Brains, brawn and beauty.”
“More like a Dorothy Hodgkin or a Marie Curie. Don’t want to overlook female scientists.”
“Creampuff, you’d be hard to miss,” he murmured, giving her that look, the one that said brainiac or not, he’d take another long cream-filled lick. You’d have thought a man like him liked his woman dumb and dirty. Despite the use of her nickname, her intellect seemed to turn him on.
Bracken held the bag against his chest, and her focus shifted back to the task at hand.
“Get up on the balls of your feet. Stay light and move in circles.”
She did as instructed but not without saying, “It’s not like the bag is going to go on the offensive.”
“Train the right way or don’t bother.”
Sweet Jesus, he was one bossy biker. She let out a series of rapid jabs, controlled and well-thought out. One, two, three, four and jab, jab, jab. One, two, three, four and jab, jab, jab.
“Good. You caught on quickly. Terrific form. Feel the power behind your fists as they connect with the bag.”
Jab. Jab. Jab.
“Now try it on an off-count. You don’t want the other guy to—”
“—figure out my rhythm. Got it.” The next series of throws, she counted one, two, jab, jab, jab. Three, four, five, jab, mixing up the pattern so her movements were unpredictable to everyone except herself.
For a few minutes, she lost herself in her efforts, feeling the buzz from knowing how in just one lesson, her punch had dramatically improved. Feeling the hard bag against her knuckles and knowing she was in control. Feeling secure, and safe, knowing that she was capable of defending herself.
Just like she’d been doing since her teen years, in one form or another.
Jab. Jab. Jab. The rhythm was a beautiful dance. Reminding her of another beautiful dance, of the way Bracken had shifted inside of her. Unpredictable. Unexpected. And undeniably hot. Fighters and lovers weren’t so far removed, after all.
She grinned, and glanced up at him.
His eyes were narrowed and fixed on her. Like he’d read her mind.
Her cheeks heated but she ignored it, and gave the bag another series of uppercuts and cross punches.
“Hang on.”
As Bracken steadied the bag, she let her arms drop to her sides. It was only moments after a good workout or a solid fight that the pain set in, and now was no exception.
“Your cross punch needs to come from the hips. Watch.”
If the bag had been a fighter, he’d have been on his ass with the power behind Bracken’s cross punch. Huntley was nearly on the floor as well, because the sight of him with his taut chest and biceps two sizes bigger than her thighs made her want to drool. Once again, he seemed younger. More tender. Less badass.
“Put your hand on my hip,” he ordered, throwing a few more punches.
“What?”
“Do it.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get your designer panties in a knot.” She positioned herself behind him, careful to be out of range of his retracting elbow, and placed her palm against his hip as instructed. She contemplated cupping his tight ass with her other hand but he seemed intent on helping her. Besides, she didn’t have time to screw around. Focus. On. The. Objective. Not his fine ass.
“On three, I’m going to punch. Feel the angle of my hip as I connect with the bag.”
“Got it.”
“One. Two. Three.” His fist shot across his body, and his hip tightened and turned beneath her palm as he hit the bag. Not quite a forty-five-degree angle.
“Your turn.”
She stepped back and dropped her hand. A shame—she wanted nothing better than to run it across his hip and over his package.
Positioning her feet in the impression his had made on the mat, she mimicked hi
s movements, coiling her elbow back and tightening her hip. She punched, and smiled as the bag jerked on impact.
“Not too bad. You’re slightly off.”
She frowned, pretty sure her hip had been just about at the same angle as his.
“Don’t go getting your panties in a knot,” he mimicked her. She jumped as she felt his hands on her hips and him drag her back against his chest. “We’ll do the next couple together.” With his left hand on her hip, he grabbed her right bicep, then ran his fingers down along her arm until his palm covered the back of her taped hand, and curved it into a fist. His arm pressed against her own. His sinful body nestled firmly against her back.
His warm breath caressed her ear. “On the count of three. Ready. One... Two...” For a fraction of a second, she thought he meant to take her down to the mat, wanting him to cover her with his big body and sink into her until she no longer cared about the count. But everything depended on her perfecting her punch, and she pushed her wayward thoughts aside.
“Three,” he finished, and not a moment too soon.
Together they twisted and in unison, their fists hit the bag, Bracken’s fist taking the brunt of the impact. The bag shifted on its chain, and Huntley felt golden. Like a boxer who’d delivered her first knock out. The added degree in her hip had made all the difference.
“Wow. I was beyond skeptical when first meeting you. Talk about underestimating someone. You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” The second she said it, she realized a few things at once.
Bracken hadn’t pulled away, and her back was still nestled firmly against his tight, rigid chest.
His fingers were woven in between her own, tightly clasped within his grasp.
And, he was quiet. So damn silent you could hear a teardrop fall.
She barely heard his breath. “Damn it all to hell.”
Before his muttered curse could even register, his free hand slid around to her stomach, then lower, underneath the elastic of her sweatpants. His whiskers brushed against her skin, and his mouth worked magic on the sensitive tendon of her neck.
Out for the Count Page 15