Conflict (Black Hearts MMA, #2)

by Kylie Hillman

  This isn’t good.

  Spinning my seat around, I scoot over to the filing cabinet and start looking for the “H” directory. The first drawer ends at “G” so I push it almost all the way shut and lean down to rummage through the second drawer. While I’m busy, the door to Steve’s office slams and I slowly let out the breath I was holding escape between my teeth.

  The beat from the music that pumps through the gym vibrates the walls. Normally I can block it out. Right now, it’s pissing me off—an electronic pulse giving life to the anxiety that’s been eating me alive since I made my decision on Friday night.

  What is the etiquette around proposing FWB—yeah, I’m up in the Tinder speak—when the friend you’d like to benefit is sacked before their first shift ends?

  “Steve around?” Nate saunters into the office.

  I jump in my seat and hit my head on the bottom edge of the top filing cabinet drawer. “Holy crap. Fuck. Ouch.”

  “Let me look at it,” Nate says as he rushes around to my side of the desk.

  He carefully slides my chair out of the way and knocks the offending drawer shut with his elbow. Crouching down next to me, Nate lifts my hand from my injured head and moves my hair away so he can inspect it.

  “You’ve broken the skin, but I don’t think it’s going to bleed.” Nate stops speaking, then he chuckles. “I swear I’ve got deja fucking vu, right now.”

  Chancing a glance at him, I suck in the gasp that tries to escape my mouth when I discover that he’s staring at me. Nate’s gaze is wide, his pupils are dilated, his lips sightly parted. With the apples of his cheeks flushed and his hair sticking up like a mad scientist, he is confusion personified.

  I know exactly how he feels.

  He groans when I place my finger on his lips, then he nips the fleshy part of my finger with his front teeth. I inhale a jagged breath. Nate sighs. We lean toward each other. Meeting in the middle, our hands are as frantic as our lips are tender. They hold the other person tight while our mouths tell a story our words aren’t yet capable of speaking.

  When he prods the seam of my mouth with his tongue, I open my mouth without hesitation to allow him access. When I slide my hands over his shoulders and down his back, he straightens so I can reach under the soft material to touch his skin. When Nate spins my chair so I’m facing him properly, I widen my legs and trap him against my heat.

  The tip of our tongues touch. Our pulses race in unison. The warmth of our bodies mingles. Our breathing becomes a living organism—a matching movement that sustains us both.

  “Ahem,” Steve clears his throat. “Excuse my interruption.”

  I push against Nate’s shoulders when he doesn’t stop kissing me straightaway. The crazy man simply holds me tighter to him, then plants a quick peck on my lips before he looks at our boss. When I attempt to scoot my chair away from him, he takes hold of the arm and muscles me back into place.

  “Effective,” Steve quips. His earlier anger is gone, replaced by a strange glimmer in his eyes. “You’re late. Finish up here and meet me in the third training room.”

  So far, Steve has only addressed Nate. I hold my breath and hope that this will continue. Of course, my luck runs out and he pins me with a knowing look.

  “I hope I don’t have to tell you that this kind of conduct is best suited for outside of work hours? I also hope you’ll try your best to avoid any hurt feelings should things come to an end.”

  “No,” I stammer. Steve drops my gaze, suddenly interested in patterned tiles on the floor. “Of course.”

  Nate stands behind me. He puts his fingers on either side of the nape of my neck and massages the nobs of my spine with a strong, slow motion. I resist the urge to moan, but it’s a close call.

  “We’re consenting adults,” Nate tells Steve. “Our actions won’t affect our jobs one bit.”

  While Steve appeared to accept my assurance without hesitation, he’s not so quick to concede Nate’s point. Tendrils of tension begin to invade the office space, and when I can’t stand the pressure any longer, I rise to my feet.

  “I, ah, have some things...” I trail off when Nate applies extra pressure to the back of my neck to keep me in place.

  Steve looks between me and his newest employee then glances at the door before settling his focus back on Nate. “Once I’ve done a round of the PTs on duty, I’m meet you for training.”

  He leaves without another word. The door closes behind him with a decisive snick mere seconds before I find myself back in Nate’s embrace. This time he isn’t as gentle. He lifts me in the air and forces my legs around his hips. Once he’s settled my arse on the edge of my desk, Nate lays each of his hands on my cheeks and tilts my head until I’m looking directly at him.

  “I’m gonna warn you once, then the ball’s in your court.”

  The ache in his voice makes my chest hurt for him. “Okay.”

  “I’m fucked up... like not wired properly in the head. I don’t deserve to even touch someone like you, but that hasn’t stopped me from dreaming about you every minute of every day since I laid eyes on you last week.”

  When he lifts his gaze from my face and focuses on something above my head I bring him back to me by lightly trailing my fingers up the column of his neck. Nate’s Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat and I take hold of his neck with both hands. Squeezing lightly, I force him to look at me.

  It’s a strange thing for me to do, but it feels right.

  Finally, he starts speaking once more. “Usually, my obsessive thoughts are a symptom of my issues. This time it’s different. You’re different. So I’m giving you this warning, then I’m going to ask you to meet me in the underground parking lot when our shifts finish so I can take you home with me...”

  He trails off, closing his eyes and leaning into my grip on his throat. I flex my fingers, tightening and loosening my hold, all the while marvelling at the vulnerability he’s just exposed. His words don’t make sense to me. He hasn’t labelled his mental issues. He’s barely scratched the surface.

  Yet his honesty is astounding.

  It’s more than I expected.

  Truthfully, it’s more than I wanted.

  Friends with benefits doesn’t come with explanations and feelings.

  “I’m not here to judge,” I whisper before I press my lips against his. “I’ll take you whatever way you come. Warning or no warning.”

  “Good.” Nate groans against my mouth when I deepen our kiss. He tugs my hands from his neck and, after capturing my wrists in his big hand, he holds my arms above my head. Kissing his way over my chin and down the centre of my throat, he licks a path along the V-neck of my T-shirt until his tongue is prodding my cleavage.

  I arch my back when he captures the hardened bud of my cotton-covered nipple between his teeth and rolls his tongue around the nub.

  “Jesus,” I moan. “Don’t stop.”

  The loss of his heat from his touch is instantaneous when he steps away from me. My chest rises and falls as I pant. I reach for him, but he takes another step away from me.

  “Being with me is gonna be a rollercoaster. I run hot, then I turn cold. Icy fucking cold. Strip the flesh from your bones cold. My head’s a mess. I’m obsessive. I’m compulsive. I’m depressive then I’m manic. I don’t play nicely with others and I believe rules are for other people. I’m warning you that I’m too much for a woman like you to deal with. You should run, while you still have the option, but I honestly hope you won’t.”

  Nate throws his words at me with the finesse of a first-time baseball pitcher. They spray left and right, never down the centre. Then he lobs the reasons behind his cautions like grenades, leaving me ducking and weaving while I try to make head or tail of what he’s telling me. None of it makes sense. No one is this much of a mess at his age and lives to tell the tale. Yet I feel his disillusionment in my marrow.

  I believe him.

  A morbid understanding settles over me like a cloak of self-righteousness.
r />   Who is he to tell me what I can handle?

  I’m a fucking survivor.

  Anything this boy has to offer—outside a functioning penis and some fun of the adult variety—is nothing compared to what I’ve already endured.

  As the hackles rise on the back of my neck, Nate turns on his heel and strides away from my desk.

  “Meet me when you finish, or not. Ball’s in your court,” he advises me without slowing his step.

  His ultimatum hangs in the air.

  It’s both challenge and condemnation.

  Only time will tell which one will prevail.

  SEVENTEEN

  Nate

  “Whatever your playing at with Amy,” Steve declares the moment I enter the training room. The walls are padded with thin blue mats and the floor is covered with thicker green padding. I instantly feel at home, despite the absences of a cage. “Ends now.”

  That feeling deserts me the second Steve’s statement rights itself in my addled head.

  I’m still riding a high from kissing Amy. I can taste her on my lips and feel her in my arms. Her lithe frame fits perfectly with mine. Her skin is smooth where mine is rough.

  Her confidence assured where mine is weak.

  She’d taken my warning and dismissed it by allowing a single a flicker of annoyance to show in her eyes.

  I’m certain she’s going to be waiting for me in the underground parking lot tonight.

  “Do you hear me, Nate?” Steve asks in a louder voice. “I told you she’s off limits.”

  Stripping my T-shirt over my head, I toss it next to the wooden bench. My boots are quickly toed off and my denim joins the pile of clothes on the floor. I pull my training shorts out of my back pack and pull them on then plonk on the bench to wind my wraps around my wrist.

  Steve drops to his knees in front of me. He knocks away my hands and takes over the wrapping.

  I can feel his censure in every touch. His disapproval of my interest in Amy coats his entire body.

  “Nate.” Steve spits my name like a curse. “She’s too good for an amateur fighter.”

  Once he’s slid my sparring gloves into place, I bang my fists together. Standing, I walk around him to the middle of the mat then beckon him forward.

  “Nate.” He raises his voice further when he says my name again. “I’m not joking. Amy’s been through a lot... she doesn’t need the likes of you hurting her more.”

  Again, I gesture for him to meet me in the middle of the mat. His ire is rising each time his voice does. My lack of response is getting under his skin. Niggling at him. Annoying him to his core.

  Good. His lack of faith has gotten right under mine.

  “Stop being a headstrong little shit,” Steve shouts at me as he meets me head on. “I’m not telling you again.”

  When he takes a swing, I’m ready for him. He’s only in his mid-thirties—hardly what you’d call past his prime—and he was once the world’s best. I could be biting off more than I can chew.

  I don’t care.

  First, Jep issues an ultimatum like he has some kind of dominion over me.

  Then, Steve decides he can tell me who I can spend time with.

  It’s time everyone learned that I’m my own man.

  Steve’s first swing goes wide when I duck. He follows it up quickly with a sharp jab. This time, he connects. I hit him back, hard enough to stun, not hard enough to damage him, and his eyes narrow. He lifts his chin and issues a silent challenge.

  We spar, circling each other as we bounce on our toes. He continues to make the first move, a jab here, a leg kick there, a combination followed by a flurry. I counter them all and bide my time while I adapt to his natural rhythm and lead him forward so I can discover his reach.

  This one of the first things my uncle ever taught me about MMA.

  Let them come to you.

  Allow them the opportunities to expose themselves.

  Deny them the ability to learn more about you than you’re ready for them to know.

  Soon enough, Steve’s mouth has dropped open and he’s breathing hard. When he begins to take a little bit longer to lift his guard back into place and his chin starts to spend more time on his chest than protected behind his fist, I know it’s time to pounce.

  One stiff jab to that weak spot we all have under our chin is enough. His knees weaken immediately, and he drops. I follow him to the ground. Knock him on his back and take full mount in one move. He fights me from below, kneeing my ribs hard enough to hurt and bringing his elbow down on the soft, vulnerable part of my shoulder.

  I ride out his flurry, squeezing his torso hard with my knees until I feel his power reducing. When he’s tired, I let my full weight drop on him, spin my hips until I’m in side control and wedge my forearm under his chin before he can stop me. My arm is locked into place. There’s no way he’s going to dislodge me.

  Still he fights.

  I would expect nothing less from someone who once trained with my uncle.

  Incrementally increasing my pressure, I grin when I feel his breathing begin to splutter.

  Steve taps out moments before I would’ve put him to sleep and I let him go straightaway.

  We both lie on the mat, breathing hard and fast, sweat dripping from us, an uneasy truce reached.

  “You’re a Harvie, through and through,” Steve declares. He struggles to sit up, so I climb to my feet and hold out my hand to assist him. Without hesitation, he accepts my offer. “You’re gonna go far if you maintain that level of focus.”

  His words hit me in the solar plexus and strip the oxygen from my lungs.

  I just fought a good fight—a fair fight—without losing my cool or letting my intensity drop.

  That’s not normal for me.

  Hooligan has always chided me whenever we’ve fought because my lack of focus is my greatest weakness.

  There’s only one thing different tonight.

  I had a reason to fight.

  Amy.

  When Steve had told me I wasn’t worthy of her, I’d become determined to prove him wrong.

  My need for her had fuelled me.

  My desire for her had focused me.

  Her acceptance of me had driven me.

  Somehow, through sheer luck or good fortune, I’d unlocked the key to controlling my brain.

  It wasn’t the meds I needed.

  It was her.

  EIGHTEEN

  Amy

  Waiting by the exit door from the stairwell to the underground garage, I turn my phone over and over in my hands. On the way down the stairs, I texted my sitter—the uni student who leaves down the street with her parents—to let her know that I wouldn’t be home until sunrise and that she should go to sleep in my spare room. She’d texted back seconds later telling me to have a good night, complete with a winky face emoji.

  Seems like everything’s fallen into place.

  Except for one thing.

  It’s now ten minutes past midnight and there’s been no sign of Nate. Since I don’t know what he drives and I don’t have his number, I haven’t the first clue how to find him.

  Honestly, I don’t know if I want to now that I’ve really thought about what I’m about to do.

  It’s easy to decide to sleep with someone in the comforting darkness of the night while you lie alone in your empty bed with nothing but an old photograph of your husband for company. It’s easy to talk yourself into meeting the sexy, obviously broken man who warned you away from him when you’re by yourself in your cozy office. It’s even easier to say goodnight to your work mates and head down the stairwell to the basement car park even though your car is parked on the first level.

  It’s all easy until he doesn’t show and you realise that it’s actually much harder than you ever imagined.

  You see, I talk a good game. Gabbi would tell you that I’ve slept with countless men since Jon passed away. She would appear to be telling the truth, because to her knowledge, she is.

  It
’d still be all lies.

  Because I’m a liar.

  I’ve led everyone around me to believe that I’m an occasional, good time party girl.

  I’m not.

  The nights when I leave a club with a random end as soon as we hail a cab.

  They go their way, sometimes cursing, usually disappointed, and I go mine.

  Home. To my lonely bedroom. And my even lonelier bed. Then, I regale my friends with wild stories about the night before and they shake their heads and tut at me.

  When they do, I see beneath the mock judgement and the low-level censure that they’re actually pleased with my behaviour.

  Because I’m no longer the sad widow that makes everyone uncomfortable.

  I’m the promiscuous single mother they can judge without feeling ashamed.

  The empty parking lot echoes as the final vehicle pulls out of the garage and the automatic mesh door lowers back into place. I allow the emptiness of the concrete level to wash over me—to mock me with its sad indictment of my stupid decision—before I turn around and start climbing the stairs back to the building.

  “Geez, impatient much?” a husky voice jokes from above me. “I’m barely fifteen minutes late.”

  Taking a step closer to the barrier of the stairwell, I tilt my head and laugh when I see Nate staring down at me. He crosses his eyes and pokes out his tongue, then the sound of his hurried footsteps clanging on the metal stairs fills the stairwell.

  In record time, he makes it down to me, and with a spontaneity I’m not known for, I open my arms wide and welcome him inside my embrace.

  Nate lifts me off my feet to kiss me. “If I knew I’d get a hello like that, I’d have been even later.”

  I swat at his arms and he chuckles. With my toes hanging above the ground, he climbs down the remainder of the steps. Once we’re on the concrete level of the parking garage, he sets me back on my feet and takes hold of my hand. Leading me around the corner, he stops next to the only vehicle left in the parking lot.

  A motorcycle.

  It was hidden behind the pillars, which is why I hadn’t seen it when I was looking earlier.