Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)

by Kat Bastion

  Her chest expanded, then the screwdrivering resumed. “Thought we weren’t having sex.”

  “We aren’t.”

  “Then why are you talking about it?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Uhhh…” Her soft laughter puffed warm air over my forearm. “You are.”

  With a flex of her wrist, she tightened one last turn before crouching lower, breaking our intense side-to-side contact. My brain cleared in that fraction of a second.

  Change the subject, Einstein.

  I ignored logic. “Only pointing out facts. Guys don’t ask questions. When sex is on the table, it’s on the table, the floor, couch end, sturdy piece of art…”

  Another pause in her twisting lasted only a second. Then she picked up the pace, screwing furiously. “Well, if we aren’t having sex—”

  “We aren’t,” I reiterated.

  “—then maybe we shouldn’t be talking about where we’d do this imaginary sex.”

  “I didn’t say ‘we.’”

  “Uh-huh.” Her tone held doubt.

  I grinned, loving every moment of frazzling her. Had no idea why I’d started, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

  “There.” She suddenly burst up, then backed away from me.

  I stood from my crouch, stretching my legs.

  She eyed me warily. From a good four-foot distance.

  “So, no sex.” She pointed the screwdriver at me.

  “No sex.” Decision made. But the ban on sex didn’t mean I couldn’t tease. I enjoyed the hell out of riling her.

  As she stood there glaring at me with suspicion, my gaze traveled down her body. Couldn’t stop myself. All five-foot-five of her—hair wild, dark smudges on her face, hands now propped on her hips—grew more adorable when provoked.

  You do not want her.

  My body didn’t listen; arousal lingered behind the fly of my jeans.

  “Stop staring at me.” One of her brows arched provocatively. “No sex.”

  She crossed her arms, which pushed her breasts together—not helping. But then she leaned onto one hip and propped her other foot out.

  I stared at her exposed shoe. I blinked hard, surprised. “What is that?”

  “What?” She followed my line of sight, glancing downward.

  “Your shoe.” I nodded toward it.

  “They’re Vibram FiveFingers.”

  “Specialized footwear.” I knew what they were. Just shocked as hell she wore them. Her mellow artist type didn’t match the purpose of those shoes.

  “For running.” She nodded, pivoting her foot on her big toe to expose the side of the black-on-black shoe.

  I cleared my throat. “They have…toes.” Had to give her shit about them. Anything to veer my mind from the sexual path it had been charging down.

  “Yup.” She tapped the ground between us, pointing them at me. “Sexy, right?”

  Incredibly. But the shoes had nothing to do with it.

  “You run.” The skeptical question came out flat. Couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Was she in great shape? Absolutely. But running seemed so…off…for her.

  “’Bout to. Stumbled across an article about the shoes. A lot of people are challenging themselves to do a Couch to 5K, or something like that. I’ve been wearing them around the warehouse for a couple of months, getting used to them.”

  “Ever run?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why now?”

  “I want to get in better shape and need something different. Separate from art. Out of doors. Something just for me.”

  “And a 5K is your idea of ‘out of doors’?” My mind flashed to a disturbing picture of her running between tall buildings…down dark narrow alleys.

  She shrugged. “It’s not cooped up in the warehouse with sculptures and a comedic kitten.”

  “Kitten?” I suddenly remembered what she’d called out when I’d arrived. “Chip Monkey?”

  “No, not ‘Chip Monkey’ with two words. He’s part chipmunk and monkey blended together. Chipmunky.” She gave a hard nod, as if that explained everything.

  Then she turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “C’mere, Chipmunkeeey. Here kitty, kittyyy.”

  A few seconds later, in bounded a fuzzy blur of color. He had a reddish-brown body and duplicate thin black-and-white stripes of color that ran down either side of his back. His tail vibrated. I smiled at the comical little guy. “He does look like a chipmunk.”

  “Wait for it…” She reached into a small pocket stitched into the bottom of her tank top.

  Tail still twitching, he raised up on his hindquarters. His front paws swiped at the empty air in front of him. She tossed him a green fish-shaped treat.

  The kitten watched it bounce once on the ground before it landed right in front of him. Using both paws, he plucked it from the dirt, reached his muzzle forward, and chomped the treat into his mouth before crunching it twice then swallowing it down.

  “See? Chipmunky.”

  Simple as that. Her world was colored with the unusual that made perfect sense.

  Except the idea of her running down a city street didn’t make sense to me at all.

  Without thinking, I blurted, “Want a personal trainer?”

  She blinked.

  So did I.

  When in my chaotic life would I have time to train her?

  But the thought of leaving with my sound boards in a few minutes then maybe catching a glimpse of her—at one of Invitation Only’s parties while she and I both worked, or once every few months at Loading Zone where I worked and she danced—didn’t sit well with me.

  I would not to do anything physical with her. We couldn’t have a relationship. But maybe we could still see each other under the pretense of something she wanted.

  Her slender brows furrowed in slow motion. “For running a 5K?”

  Not exactly… “For training to be able to.”

  “And we would be…”

  “Friends.” My tone was firm. Maybe I tried to convince not only her, but myself. All I could handle right now. But I had plenty of friends, most were guys.

  None of them were anything like spirited Kiki.

  When she didn’t reply, I repeated. “Just friends. No sex. Think you can handle that?”

  Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. Like she didn’t like the idea. As if the word “friends” had four letters not six.

  After a couple of beats, her lips curved into a smile. She gave a nod. “Just friends.”

  Good. All it could ever be.

  But then her stance widened. Her chin raised. A glimmer flashed in her eyes as if she’d thrown the challenge back at me.

  Do not look at the sexy girl standing in front of you.

  Do not notice the vulnerability in her gaze behind all that bravado.

  I let out a slow breath, mind focused on the only thing I could do to have her in my life, the only way it would ever work. “9:00 a.m. tomorrow good for you?”

  She gave me a nod, eyes narrowing a fraction again. “Yeah, I could do that.”

  “Good. Meet me at 2450 North Lexington.”

  Challenge accepted.

  Kiki…

  Nine hours had passed since Darren had rattled me; the last thing I needed was a guy friend I was physically attracted to—a guy I wanted, even if only for one sordid night. But when he’d baited me with a way to spend more time together under the pretense of training, I hadn’t been able to resist.

  And my body warmed the instant he texted late that night.

  You got regular shoes?

  Amused at the blunt question, I replied.

  REGULAR shoes? And don’t FRIENDS get a hello first?

  A blue bubble appeared as he typed.

  NOT shoes with TOES. Tennis shoes… Cross-trainers…

  Mmm-hmm…

  Not answering until you say it.

  A good ninety seconds ticked by before his reply.

  H E L L o

  I pressed my lips together, fighting
a smile.

  Cute. Swearing AND a greeting, rolled into one.

  After a few more seconds, another text flashed up.

  I’m talented like that. Well?

  Tired eyes drooping shut at the midnight hour, I replied before I passed out.

  Yes. I have regular shoes.

  I fell asleep during the unlit silence that followed.

  In the morning, I’d found his last text.

  Good. Wear em.

  No “please” or explanation had come with it. Only an order barked through in text form.

  Fine. Two could play at his game. He wanted to be bossy? He wanted to pound the point of being “just friends” home? I would be the best friend he’d ever had.

  Of course, while I demonstrated my stellar friendliness, no harm in highlighting my best qualities: flirtatiousness, adorableness—sexiness.

  “Wait. Can I be both adorable and sexy?” I questioned aloud while driving in my empty car.

  After I turned onto Lexington Avenue, I straightened in my seat. A quick glance in the rearview mirror made me smile. Hair in a fluffy ponytail, cheeks lightly pinked, a swipe of mascara on my lashes, and a dab of lip gloss? Check for adorable.

  A smile tugged at my lips as I thought about what I’d worn: tropical-flowered sports bra, low-cut T-shirt, and hip-hugging yoga capris. Nothing else but plenty of skin? Check for sexiness.

  After I swung right to curve along a roundabout, then pulled into a small parking lot, I blew out an anxious breath. Why so nervous? I shook my head.

  “Rely on your instincts, Kiki. You got this.” Flirtatiousness? I had down cold. Pretty much had since birth.

  Confident with all the stealthy weapons in my arsenal, I turned off my car. I twisted toward the back seat and grabbed my bag and water bottle.

  Yet when I opened my door and put my tennis-shoe’d foot onto the asphalt, I frowned. Then I double-checked the address. “2450.” The numbers, plain as day, were in big bronze letters above commercial double doors on a massive brick building.

  Right address. Wrong assumption.

  For some reason, I had thought I’d be meeting him at his place.

  Even with my sunglasses, I raised a shielding hand over my brow to block the glare of the morning sun. I stared for a confused few seconds at the nondescript building. Then my gaze panned to sprawling grounds off toward the right.

  The neighboring property resembled an abandoned school—with no school buildings. Instead, brick structures appeared to have been converted into quaint apartment homes. Pretty awnings covered large windows. Colorful spring flowers lined sidewalks that led to brightly painted front doors. Playground areas were filled with a collection of toddlers, moms, and strollers rather than older school-aged kids.

  But I’d parked next to Darren’s black F150, so I’d apparently found the right place. I adjusted my bag onto my other shoulder, shut my car door, and walked toward the entrance.

  After tugging open one of the heavy metal doors, I propped my sunglasses on top of my head as I followed the distant sounds of low grunting down a dimly lit tiled corridor; half of the dozen overhead florescent lights had burned out. Around the corner, the stark hallway ended in a set of gray double doors, the right one had been propped open by a weight bench.

  Four guys occupied what appeared to be a converted basketball gym: one skipped rope, one lay on a bench while lifting a barbell below his spotter, the last was separated off in a far corner. Although the large space felt comfortably cooled, three oscillating fans hummed along the perimeter, sweeping back and forth in out-of-sync cadences.

  Since logic told me the fourth guy had to be Darren, I gravitated toward him. And as I approached, I watched his prone body lower, then lift.

  Lower.

  Lift.

  My breath caught and my stride slowed as I drew closer. My mouth gradually fell open. My eyes widened.

  Shirtless, baseball hat spun backward, hands sunk into silver metal pails of sand, he performed the most unique pushups I’d ever seen. His skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration under the section’s brighter lights. Taut muscles along his back, shoulders, and arms flexed under the strain of every measured drop and rise.

  The world around me seemed to stop—except for him. Art in motion. Beauty in action. Every woman’s fantasy-come-to-life coalesced into one surreal moment where my mind fabricated my body beneath that incredible male form, under all that raw muscle and energy.

  On the next downstroke, he paused. Then he glanced up. His gaze locked with mine.

  Busted.

  Yet powerless to stop myself, I studied the rigid contours of muscle as he held that position. The artist in me flared to life, imagining those lines sketched in charcoal. His tattoo. My gaze lingered on three thick curving tribal-style crescents. The largest began at the base of his neck, where its tip fanned into multiple points. Two smaller crescents overlapped tips with the first, each arcing a different direction, one toward his back, the other curving beneath his arm.

  My skin began to heat under the spotlight of his attention, and I burned the image into my memory for when I had a quiet moment, later.

  My mouth had gone dry.

  I swallowed hard.

  Then I found my voice as my brain cells finally began to fire again. “Really? You invite me here and do that” —I gestured toward him with a wild wave of my fingers— “and I’m supposed to think only friendly thoughts?”

  His lips twisted into a smirk. “Try.”

  I forced my attention back to his face and held his stare. “All I see is sex on a stick.”

  Oh, shit. I blurted that out loud.

  His knees lowered to the floor, then he pulled his hands from the sand. “Try harder.”

  Nice. Flirtatiousness? How about smoothness? I sighed heavily. “Not helping with your word choice.”

  He ignored my quip, stood, then grabbed the buckets by their handles before lining them up against the wall. All business. Like he hadn’t noticed my skimpy outfit. Or my sexiness. Or maybe he had—but I’d been too gobsmacked by his erotic pushups.

  “What’s with the sand?” I followed him.

  He grabbed a white towel, then wiped it down his neck and over his chest. “I straighten my fingers, then sink my hands and curl them in a partial fist to anchor myself. Builds hand strength for drumming.”

  “You’re a drummer?” I paused midstep with a heavy blink.

  “Since I was five.”

  “I had no idea.”

  He regarded me for a moment. “You never asked.”

  True. But then, I hadn’t needed to know much about a guy who was supposed to be a one-night stand. Now that we’d sidetracked into friend territory, the rules had apparently changed.

  I nodded toward the buckets. “I wanna try.”

  His brows lifted as he followed my gaze. “The sand?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “No. You’ll hurt yourself. And too coarse on your skin.” He walked to a shelf, then grabbed two black metal handles on circular bases. “Try these.”

  I dropped my bag beside his, then watched as he placed the handles on the floor about my shoulder width apart. Dropping to my knees, I eyed the handles. Then I grasped their rubber-covered handholds with a solid grip and positioned myself into a plank above them.

  Under his scrutiny, I tightened my body from head to toe, then lowered until my nose was a couple of inches from the floor. I held my breath as fire ignited deep within my muscles.

  On a steady hard exhale, arms trembling, I pushed back up again. “Okay. I’m good.” I dropped my knees then stood.

  His deep chuckle rankled me.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Obviously I need to do more of this.” I circled a finger around the gym floor.

  He shot me an amused look. “Why don’t we start with running?”

  From a small refrigerator beside the shelving unit, he grabbed two bottles of blue Gatorade, then headed toward a far door. I followed, skipping my steps fas
ter to keep up with his long casual stride.

  “So what makes you such a great personal trainer?” I wondered if he’d offered because he wanted to be around me more...or if he’d done the same for others. “You a jock?”

  “Ran track in high school.”

  “Ah.” In other words, no big deal to show some girl how to run around a track.

  Outside, the sun glared from a clear blue sky. I pulled my shades back on as a slight chill in the morning air danced over my skin. I surveyed the clay-colored rubberized track and the aluminum stadium bleachers that lined both sides.

  “What is this place?”

  He lifted his baseball hat and spun it forward before pinching the bill and tugging it down his forehead, shadowing his eyes. “Old private college. Town converted it to a community center a few years back.” He tilted his head to the side, assessing me for a moment, then stared through the opening in the chain link fence. “We’ll start with a nice-and-easy jog around the track for a warmup.”

  Sounded simple enough.

  Once our shoes hit the track, he set that nice-and-easy pace—also known as brisk—which I matched, determined to keep up. Around the first turn, I grew seriously winded, uncertain I could keep up a conversation. Good thing Darren wasn’t talkative while running.

  Midway down the next straightaway, my lungs began to burn. My focus attuned to the individual elements of my body: long breaths gulping in and out, brain forcing tired legs to keep the tempo, arms pumping opposite every stride.

  My pulse pounded my eardrums.

  My lungs scorched with every breath.

  My legs just…stopped…at the beginning of the second turn.

  I doubled over, hands on knees, gasping for air. Dots appeared at the edges of my vision.

  “Easy there, Flash. Stand straight. Hands behind your head with your chin up; you’ll breathe easier.” He clamped a strong grip on my forearms then lifted them.

  Suddenly we were in each other’s space. Him lifting my arms up above my head. “Breathe,” he commanded in a low tone.