I adjusted myself, hard yet again from thoughts of Jewel. The girl had me torqued up. My plans for celibacy were being tested, that much was sure. My coach was strict: no boozing, no drugs, no partying. Whether you had a girl in your life or not was somewhat open to interpretation. Some guys on the team had girlfriends and coach seemed to think that was OK, when they were supportive.
What coach didn’t go in for was drama, the girls showing up with fake nails and hair extensions to scream and hit the bastard they’d fucked last night. He didn’t want his fighters distracted. He wanted them keeping their eyes on the prize. The thing about a girl was she could make you motivated like nothing else, give you a reason for it all, be the one person who told you she believed in you and what’s more, make you believe it, too. But that kind of girl was hard to find. The other kinds, the ones who played games and knocked you down worse than any guy in the cage? Those ones seemed to be a dime a dozen.
I couldn’t figure out what kind of girl Jewel was. Jewel, the shy, timid poker-player. The smoking-hot yoga girl super nerd.
I wanted Jewel to come see me fight. I couldn’t exactly say why, but I knew I did. Plenty of girls would be there watching me. My fan base was growing. I wasn’t interested in any of them. I wanted Jewel.
But that didn’t matter. It didn’t make sense to think about what type of girl she was. She’d never be any type to me, other than a part of my fucked-up family. For a while. Our parents’ marriage might end fast, or it might die a slow death full of cheating and spite. Either way, I knew it wouldn’t last. But for now and for the for-seeable future, Jewel was my stepsister and I had to get her off my mind.
I had one goal this summer and one goal alone: going pro in MMA. I’d told my father I was doing an internship so he’d stay off my back. He was pretty checked out anyway. He hadn’t been thrilled about state school after two generations at Princeton, but I think he still assumed my future was in the bag. All I had was one more year and then I’d be on the treadmill in some hedge fund or brokerage firm.
But I had other plans. I was done being his puppet. After this summer, I was walking. As long as I played my cards right.
In the morning: training. Afternoon: more training. Evening: training. No girls. No booze. No partying. Three regular meals a day, lean proteins and veggies. Protein shakes and water. A full eight hours of sleep every night. Who knew what I could accomplish? I sure wanted to find out.
Sharing this house for eight weeks with Jewel? That was just the universe’s way of tempting me, trying to see what I was really made of. Could I take it?
Hell yeah, I could. I was tough as nails. From what I’d seen, she was a little hermit, her nose stuck to a book, no drinking, no partying. So, I’d be the monk to her nun.
I’d make it through the summer, seeing her in her little yoga outfits and swimsuits. I had the physical toughness, now I needed the mental toughness to match. That and a hell of a lot of cold showers.
CHAPTER 7
Jewel
Thursday morning when the alarm started to sound, I hit snooze. I’d been restless last night. But by six-fifteen I headed out poolside for some yoga. I knew Tuck might see me, that it would be safer to go through my routine in the locked privacy of my bedroom. But this was L.A. What was the point in putting up with all the traffic and pollution and plastic people if you didn’t do yoga outside in the sunny 80-degree weather?
I knew I could wear more clothing, cover myself up. But I felt defiant. I didn’t need to change for Tuck. Business as usual, I’d wear my capri tights and jog bra and he’d just have to deal with it.
About twenty minutes in, I could feel his gaze on me, hot and heavy from the kitchen. He’d come back from his run. I kept stretching and working through my routine, arching back and bending over. I wasn’t going to let him make me hide up in my room.
He was still in the kitchen by the time I finished up.
“Morning,” he grunted, gruff. He was drinking some kind of a dark green power shake. I didn’t even want to know what was in it.
“Morning.” I made my way over to the stove and put on the tea kettle. I knew I could microwave water in a mug, but I liked the ritual of tea, the kettle’s whistle, the leaves steeping. It calmed me. Standing that close to Tuck, where I could hear his breathing and feel his heat, I definitely needed something to calm me down.
I snuck a glance over at him. He wore nothing but running sneakers and athletic shorts, of course. I wondered how many traffic accidents he’d caused running down streets looking like that. His bare chest should be illegal.
He had another cut on his face, up over his eyebrow. He always had cuts and bruises, along his cheekbone, over his eyes. Sensing the focus of my gaze, he brought a hand up to his brow and touched it, tentatively.
“From fighting?” I asked.
“Sparring.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Why, do you want to be my nurse?” He grinned and I looked away. I did want to take care of him, damn it. I did want to bring my hand to his face, soothe him, make sure he felt good. This was so fucked up.
I spooned some yogurt and berries into a bowl. That was his cue to leave. We didn’t do normal chit chat. We didn’t seem capable of it.
But he surprised me by asking a question. “What are you up to tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?” I turned toward him. “I don’t know.”
“It’s Friday night. We should play poker.”
“No!” I took a step back, suddenly feeling shaky.
“Why not?” He grinned, enjoying how much he flustered me. “You name the stakes.”
“No, it’s not a good idea.” I shook my head.
“Afraid you’ll lose?”
“No, I know I’d win.” I couldn’t just let his taunting fly by unnoticed.
“Tough talk,” he teased.
“I’m going out.” I suddenly decided. Mike and Maria and a few other interns had plans after work tomorrow. They’d invited me and I’d demurred, but now I decided it was just what I needed, some time out of the house and far away from my stepbrother.
“You’re going out?” Now he took a step closer to me, all powerfully corded muscle.
“To happy hour.” I focused on keeping my breathing steady. There was no reason for my pulse to start jumping. “There’s a taqueria next to the center on the beach. I’m going there after work with some of the other interns.”
“Will Mike be there?” Tuck’s eyes looked dark.
“Yes.” He was such a cave man, so big and possessive. Why did I like it? I needed to keep thoughts in my head, keep the conversation going. “Why aren’t you going out?” I asked. Playa played on Friday night. Only I hadn’t seen too much of that lately from him, had I?
“I have a fight Saturday night.”
“You do?” I asked. He nodded. “In boxing? Or martial arts?”
He cracked a smile. “You’re so cute, you have no clue, do you?” My heart stopped when he looked at me like that, not teasing, not messing with me, honestly seeming to have a lighthearted moment.
“I don’t have a clue.” I agreed, my mouth feeling dry.
“People call it MMA. It’s mixed martial arts.”
“So, like, karate?” I remembered him saying something about a black belt back when we were in New York.
“That, and the best pro fighters mix in wrestling, boxing, kickboxing.”
I winced. “You’re in a pro MMA fight Saturday night?” I suddenly felt worried for him. I’d never been to anything like it, but I pictured a large, crowded room with all eyes on him. His opponent would probably be a huge machine of a man intent of clobbering him. He could get killed.
“No, I’m an amateur,” he reassured me. “You have to work your way up if you want to go pro. But I’ve been fighting on the amateur circuit for the past year and a half.”
“Really?” I had no idea.
“Yeah, and this is an exhibition match. Scouts, promoters, sponsors will all be th
ere to check it out.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No.” He answered quickly but he looked different than I’d ever seen him before. Slightly tentative or unsure. In a low voice, he asked, “Want to come see me?”
“Really?” I couldn’t hide the surprise from my voice. “You want me to come watch?”
“Forget it.” He looked away.
“No, I’d like to,” I took a step closer to him and almost reached out to put a hand on his arm. Good thing I stopped myself before I did it. “I’m just surprised you asked me. Where’s the fight?”
“A hotel downtown,” he looked up again, meeting my eyes. “Near the STAPLES Center.”
“The STAPLES Center?!” That held like 20,000 people!
“No, not in it. A hotel near it. This is an amateur event. They bill us as ‘rising stars.’” He smiled at me. Freaking irresistible.
“You want me to come watch?” I had to ask again, it seemed so incongruous with his behavior. Prior to this he only had two modes with me: ignore or tease. This couldn’t fit into either category.
“Do you want to come watch?” he tossed back, eyes looking into my own.
“I don’t know.” I bit my lip, feeling shy.
“Forget it.” He shook his head and turned to walk away.
“No, wait.” Now I did reach out and touch him, on his bicep, my hand around his hard muscle. He looked down at it, instantly hyper aware of our physical contact.
“I want to go,” I insisted. “Do you have a ticket?”
“I can leave your name at the door.” He looked at me and swallowed.
“Leave my name at the door.” I nodded, transfixed. We stood so close.
“OK.” His voice came out gruff. I forced myself to remove my hand. Oh man I was in trouble.
§
In the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I checked out my reflection, turning this way and that. I had no idea what had possessed me to buy the dress. I told myself it wasn’t so he could see me in it. All I knew was when I drove past it displayed in a shop window my car had simply stopped. A parking spot right out front just for me, I’d found myself in the store and trying it on before I knew what was happening. My threadbare credit card still worked and before I knew it I had a brand new white dress in a shiny shopping bag.
What a dress. It reminded me of Marilyn Monroe back in the 50s, a total movie star siren dress, hugging my curves up top, flirting into a flippy skirt that ended above my knees. It wasn’t a formal dress, just stretchy cotton, but it was a far cry from the typical sort of thing I threw on. As I looked at myself in the mirror, striking a pose, I couldn’t believe the woman looking back at me.
Somewhere along the line I’d gotten curves. Real ones. I still thought of myself like I looked at age 13, braces, glasses, wild orange hair and skin so pale it made my freckles look like chicken pox. I’d been flat as a stick through all of high school.
But something had happened in the past two years. At 20, someone else entirely looked back at me from the mirror. She had soft auburn hair, curving hips, a small waist and generous breasts. My mother had blonde hair, of course, but I had to admit it, I looked a lot like her.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t noticed the changes in my body at all. I’d gone bra shopping when I outgrew my cup size. But I hadn’t exactly stopped to check myself out, not like this. My mind had been fixed on other things, focused on getting out of the situation with my mother and gaining real independence. For me, that had meant focusing on academics at all costs.
I spent most of my time up in my head. But lately, I’d been more aware of the rest of me. The way Tuck looked at me with carnal heat, like an animal. He made me acutely aware of my curves, the rises and swells of my most feminine features, the ways in which I was all woman, him all man. I’d never experienced anything like it. I had no idea what to do with myself.
It wasn’t fair the way he distracted me, walking around next-to-naked around the house all the time. I’d head into the kitchen and find him there, sweat beading down his thick, corded muscles, his head tilted back as he chugged water from a gallon jug. Even the way his throat worked looked sexy, his Adam’s apple moving up and down while he swallowed. I wanted to touch every inch of him, and not just with my fingers, with my lips and tongue.
These weren’t the kinds of thoughts I was used to having. I was used to moving through each day as a small, organized piece in my short-term plans to meet my long-term goals. Instead, I felt impatient, restless.
I looked at myself in the mirror, giving myself a sultry pout. I wanted him to see me in that dress. At the fight tomorrow night. I couldn’t believe he’d invited me. I hadn’t decided yet, would I go? Would I wear the dress?
I could even walk downstairs in my white dress right then. I could head into the kitchen and get myself a drink. He might be there. He seemed to stay in every night like me. If he saw me and asked why I was wearing it I could act casual, explain I was trying it on, deciding if I should keep it.
I’d love to see his eyes take me in. He’d like me in this dress. I knew he would. I wanted to stoke his fires like he stoked mine.
But it was dangerous. I shouldn’t do it.
Forcing myself, I undid the zipper and hung it up in my closet. Some day maybe I’d wear it, but not tonight. Tonight I’d go to bed like a good girl. Tomorrow night I’d go out to happy hour at the tacqueria, hang out with the other interns. Then there’d only be seven more weeks left. Seven more weeks with Tuck.
But once I’d slipped in between the sheets of my bed, after I’d turned out the light, I let my mind wander. Saturday night… Would I go? What would it be like to watch Tuck fight?
I bet I’d like it. In the secret, private world of my bed, I could let myself admit how much I liked watching Tuck. How much it had turned me on to watch him fuck that girl against the wall. Back in New York, in that hot tub together, we’d come so close. I’d wanted him to touch me. I’d wanted him to slip his hand down, like I did now, sliding my fingers down to my sex, wet and waiting for him.
His bedroom was only two doors down. He might be in it right now, no shirt on, those tattoos winding and snaking their way across his fully ripped muscles. He wouldn’t know, he’d never find out if I closed my eyes and pretended my hand was his, stroking, coaxing out the need in me.
The silky, dark tones of his voice. The ridges and planes of his body, so sculpted, hard and huge. The way he looked at me, as if he burned to touch me. Stroking my slick folds, I brought myself closer, circling and working my clit.
The other morning, I’d seen his cock pressing erect and full against his shorts. He looked so huge, so powerful. I could see so much, erotic and vivid, his thick crown outlined against the nylon. What would it feel like to be with a man that big?
I could feel myself tensing up, needing release. My fingers slipped in and out, so wet, my body twisting and writhing toward climax. Close to the edge, the waves of pleasure mounting, building, I imagined his husky, deep voice telling me to come. In the dark with a deep moan, I followed his command.
CHAPTER 8
Tuck
At nine o’clock Friday night I decided I felt like fish tacos. I’d made my weigh-in earlier that day at 235. The pressure to cut weight in the heavyweight division wasn’t bad; you didn’t want to get too skinny since you could be up against a guy who weighed 260. At 6’3”, nothing but muscle, 235 felt just right. A brick shithouse. I pitied the fool showing up against me tomorrow. I’d seen him at weigh-in, some guy from Fresno with crappy tattoos. He’d tried to stare me down. Good fucking luck with that.
I’d heard there were great fish tacos at this place over by the Marine Mammal Center. I figured I’d go check it out. And while I was there, I might as well look around for my stepsister. Happy hour went from five to seven. That meant it had ended two hours ago. Where the fuck was she?
The place was hopping, little colorful lights surrounding an outdoor patio. A few heads turned my way and checked me out
as I entered, guys sizing up the competition, girls looking like they’d like to climb on up. I gave one of them a smile and a wink as I walked up to the hostess. Bet her panties just got wet.
“Welcome! Are you here to sit down or take out?” She held a menu in her hand and I took it from her.
“Take out.” I scanned quickly and ordered up at the counter. Leaning against the wall, I crossed my arms against my chest and surveyed the scene.
I spotted her right away. Long red hair cascading down her back, she sat with a group of seven or eight people. She laughed at something, tilting back her head, exposing that lovely throat. My hands tightened into fists. Was Mike over there with them? He wasn’t going to get to lay a hand on her, not if I had something to say about it.
Jewel looked radiant and relaxed. Maybe a little tispy? Her cheeks rosy, she leaned back in her chair and took a sip of a drink. She was dressed simply in flip flops, a plain t-shirt and a skirt that went down to her knees but somehow she made it all look sexy. The girl at the bar trying the least hard, wearing the least make-up, looking the most fuckable by far.
As if sensing my admiration, she looked over and saw me standing against the wall. Her eyes widened with surprise. Then she surprised me by breaking into a smile and walking over. I enjoyed watching her come to me, her soft breasts and hips swaying with each step.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, almost sounding happy to see me. She had to be drunk.
“Getting dinner to go.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, here. I’ve heard the fish tacos are good.”
She broke into a smile again, delighted. “You’ve heard that?”
“From a reputable source.” I nodded.
“I’m ‘treamly reputable.” Oh, she was drunk all right. “Have you tried their margaritas? They’re soooo good.”
I didn’t like the thought of her drunk in this place. Anything could happen to her. With anyone.
“How are you getting home?” I asked, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.
Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance Page 7