My Little Secret (The Breaking Series Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  The rest of us were taken to the back of the building. We entered without fanfare. The back hallways of the studio were hushed and cool. We stopped by Brute’s dressing room, where he was already stripping out of his jacket and sweats. A studio assistant brushed powder over his bare chest once he ripped his shirt off. His black spandex shorts said BRUTE along the waistband.

  “Almost match day,” he muttered as the assistant coated his abs.

  “Can you taste victory yet, son?” My father beamed at him in the mirror. Brute’s career was the perfect hobby for my parents in their retired years. I think they craved the win as much as Brute did.

  “Practically choking on it.” His voice grew cocky, his persona slipping into place.

  “Can’t wait to see the headlines you’ll get for this,” I offered, setting my coat and purse down.

  “Oh yeah? Who’s name you hoping to see there?”

  His words were a slap on the cheek. I turned to him, narrowing my eyes. “Stop it, Brute. You know I’m behind you 100 percent.”

  “I’d say it was a little less than 100 recently,” he countered.

  I let it slide. Let him be pissed. Maybe Hawk had been right—that anger would funnel into the fight. As long as he didn’t get unbalanced and lose his focus.

  “Don’t think about that now.” My mom’s sharp voice sliced through the room, settling the argument just like it had when we were growing up. “You need to get weighed and get ready.”

  I wandered the hallways until Brute was ready for weigh-in. Time passed in a viscous blur, as if I was trapped in gelatin, muffled against the world. Brute came out of the dressing room, glossed and bulging. We followed him to the stage, where lights flared and cameras were poised. Applause followed, and then the live filming. Hawk entered the area, and my vision locked on him.

  I couldn’t see anything else. Not the lights of the stage or the announcer’s stern face or the banners draped along the back. Only that muscly, glistening, glowering Hawk, who carried a darkness with him that made my thighs clench. Tattoos rippled over his rib cage, along the taut planes of his back. Bird feathers crested his skull. And when his dark glance came my way, I almost toppled.

  My ears rang as Hawk got on the scale, his stats announced for the world. “Six feet, one inch, one hundred and ninety-five pounds.” And an eight-inch dick. I smiled to myself.

  I crossed my arms tightly, willing myself to be less attracted to him. Because when he looked like that, it was hard enough to stay away. But now that I knew the real Hawk…

  I didn’t have a chance in Hell.

  Chapter 11

  HAWK

  The crowd thundered from inside the arena, a rush and swell of noise that I could hear even while buried in the labyrinth of hallways. My gut was a tight knot, the familiar edge of tension and excitement rushing through my veins.

  This was it. Match day. Travis squeezed my shoulders, urging me forward down the hall that led to the big event. Each step closer, I heard more chants, more shouts, more roaring from the audience. And in the swirl of it all, I wondered about Sadie.

  We hadn’t spoken much since our last night together. She’d sent me a text late last night to say good luck, and I hadn’t responded. I knew that if I did, I’d open that wormhole up again. And I couldn’t right now.

  But maybe after the fight.

  That was the deal I’d made with myself. Stay away until it’s over. But afterward? Seemed like fair game. Because three days into our separation, I already knew that keeping myself away from Sadie long term would be a losing battle.

  I clenched and unclenched my fists as we stepped into the arena. Lights arced around the stage area, energizing music filling the air. Brute and I were the headline match. Other lesser-round fights had come and gone before us, but now, we were the main event. I barely noticed the fans screaming my name or holding up signs as I walked down the black path to the octagon. Each step sent me deeper into match mode. Steady. Focused. Destined to win.

  At the side of the octagon, I waited while Travis taped up my hands. Another assistant came around, briefing me on judges. I stepped into the ring at the same time as Brute, the smell of sweat and bleach stinging my nose. The room echoed with screams and cheers.

  I stood rooted to my spot as the ref called out the rules. Brute didn’t break my gaze. He looked eerily calm, neutral like a serial killer. Way different from our last meet-up in the cage.

  The announcer’s baritone rang through the arena, mentioning sponsors and the specs of this fight. I caught only fragments. Bitter rivalry and long-overdue matchup. The crowd pulsed around me, but my vision shrank to encompass my opponent and nothing else. The ref stepped aside. Lights dimmed slightly. And then the bell.

  I slipped into a mode that I don’t even know how to access outside the octagon. Something flip-flopping between instinct and restraint, a rage teetering on control, a mischief that had blossomed into attack. My skin prickled. I would follow Brute’s lead.

  His eyes went dark, and then he launched, lunging at me in a way that was less MMA and more angry. He pinned me to the side of the octagon, the cage biting into my back, and we grappled for control, forearms gnashing, knees jutting, necks craning to gain the upper hand.

  We thudded to the ground on our sides. The floor play continued, fervent and jacked, as if the whole thing depended on this round alone. We grappled until the bell rang. The round was over.

  But Brute didn’t let up. He fought me and wrestled me until the ref came over to pull him off. I hopped to my feet, chest heaving, heading for coach with my palms behind my head.

  “What the fuck was that?” Travis spat when I got near. “The bell means it’s over.” He was shouting over my shoulder now. “Tell that Brute to obey the rules!”

  “He’s pissed.” I tipped my head back as Travis squirted water in my mouth. “Pissed because I’m sleeping with his sister.”

  “Jesus.” Travis fumbled to get some gel from his box, which he rubbed over a bruise on my face. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.” Then the bell rang, sending electricity streaking through my veins. I could react to that noise anywhere, even in a coffin underground. I hopped from foot to foot, relishing the swirl of energy inside me. There was nothing purer than an intense, technical fight.

  Round two bled into three and then four. Brute and I fought steadily through each, the punch and pummel of flesh against bone lulling me into a space that I could only access under the glitz and blare of a televised fight. But by the fourth round some of that venom had drained. We were getting tired. Punches weren’t spitfire anymore; his grappling lacked staying power.

  In round five, I gave it all I could. Every last ounce of me came out in the octagon, wringing the last drops out of a rag, and Brute seemed to do the same. We pummeled, pushed, and pounced our way through the ring. By the time the last bell rang, I couldn’t see out of one eye and my left hip was thrown.

  On the sidelines, I leaned against the cage, waiting for the judges to tally their scores. I didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t subdued Brute once; there was no clear winner to any round.

  And then the announcer came into the ring, microphone to his mouth, a scorecard in his hand.

  “And the decision is…Unanimous draw from the judges.” He showed us each the card—I had to squint to see—and each judge had ruled the same. A fucking draw.

  The words clanked angrily in my head. I couldn’t even understand them really; I’d never heard them after one of my fights. Brute spat and stormed away. Music swelled in the arena; Travis led me out of the octagon. Voices chattered at my sides but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it anymore.

  I’d never fought to a unanimous draw in my life. Hell, draws were rare as it was in the sport. Were we so exactly equal in the fight tonight?

  Travis urged me down the pathway, yammering away about practices after the holidays and new approaches and fending off that right hook. Something about a rematch. I blinked, my head starting a dull thro
b.

  “Rematch?” I shouted, looking back at him. Fans were screaming so loud I couldn’t even see straight.

  He nodded. “It’s the only way. This fight has to be settled, man.”

  We pushed through the swinging doors leading back to the prep rooms. Inside the relative quiet, I exhaled slowly, rotating my right arm in a slow circle.

  “Take some time to rest up,” he went on. “Enjoy the holidays with your family. We’ll be back at it soon.”

  Travis left to meet with reporters, and I stared at my bloodied reflection in the mirror. Cheek swollen, right eye blackened, cuts along my collarbone and forehead. I snatched up a wet wipe, touching up some of the wounds, barely able to lift my arm. That fight had wrung the energy out of me. I felt disjointed and lost.

  And the only person I wanted was Sadie.

  I let my head drop to the desk, squeezing my eyes shut. How had we reached a draw? It was as bad as losing. And yeah, I needed to fucking reclaim my honor. To show Brute that he wasn’t as good as me, he was worse than me. I groaned, muscles stiffening already. Getting the shit kicked out you was as cleansing as it was irritating.

  I measured my breaths for a long while, letting the dregs of the fight settle somewhere deep inside. I was off the hook, but only for a little while. Practice would start up again once Christmas was over. I had maybe three weeks to chill, and then it was back to work. Training, training, training, and then the rematch. They wouldn’t wait much longer than a month for that.

  I lifted my head slowly, dizziness threatening. I groped for my phone on the desktop and pulled open the thread with Sadie.

  I’d have to face her brother again…but to hell with it. I couldn’t talk myself out of this again.

  I tapped out the message as fast as I could, didn’t even think twice about sending it.

  “I need to see you.”

  Chapter 12

  SADIE

  Hawk’s text lodged itself in my heart like a spear launched from afar. Between the fight wrapping up and my family’s fast exodus out of the arena and to the airport, I didn’t have the heart to write back to him to tell him meeting up was impossible.

  We always bolted after the matches. It was Brute’s MO. After two weeks in whatever match location, he was ready for his own bed. We had a red-eye to New York, arriving the following morning. I didn’t write back until I was buckled in my seat on the airplane. And it actually hurt to write the words.

  “We’re already on our way back to NYC. I wish more than anything I could see you right now. At least hug you and tell you what a great job you did.”

  His response came before the attendants barked at everyone to put their phones in airplane mode. “Leaving already? Breaking my heart Sadie. I’m dying to kiss you one last time.”

  I grinned. “We already had the last kiss remember? This is breaking the rules now.”

  “I smashed those rules up in the octagon tonight. Now we do what we want.”

  That text thundered through me for the entire flight home, even when I’d drifted to sleep. I saw Hawk with my eyes closed, thought about him when I was awake. He put words to the thing that I was afraid to admit. God dammit, I wanted to see him. So much it was stupid.

  The fight didn’t change anything, not really. If anything, it made it more complicated. Now I’d be saddled with just a little bit more promotion against Hawk, since they’d be fighting the rematch in January. But maybe there were ways around that. Especially if this thing with Hawk got…serious. Or something.

  We greeted NYC the next morning bleary-eyed and zombie-like. We all hugged and said our goodbyes at baggage claim, everyone taking a different taxi to our various locations. My apartment was in Brooklyn, a studio that boasted a kick-ass rooftop garden and weekly cookouts in the summer. Brute didn’t live too far from me—on energy-filled days I could walk to his place instead of taking the subway. Our parents lived on the Upper West Side in a swank condo that increased so much in value each year I was afraid to ask what people were offering.

  In the taxi back to my place, I couldn’t think of anything other than Hawk. We texted a bit that morning—I told him I’d made it back, he asked me if I’d dreamt of him, I’d told him yes, for roughly a year—and then I passed out until the afternoon. When I woke up, more texts from Hawk waited for me. I greeted them with glee.

  We texted like this the entire day…and then the entire week…and then we started the multiple-times-daily calls. Days blurred together in a giddy haze. I met up with friends, who wondered about my glow. I told only my closest friends about the secretive thing blooming between Hawk and me. I didn’t see my brother much, so it was easy to hide it. But Christmas was coming, and I doubted I’d be able to keep it hidden. Because one this was certain: I was done lying about it.

  Every year we met at my parent’s condo, and this year was no exception. It was family time on steroids: Christmas sweaters, tree-shaped cookies, sappy music. In particularly inspired years, we would color-coordinate with each other in advance. Mom took pictures that served as cards later on in the year. The trademark white tree took up a full fifth of the living room, bursting with huge bulbs and multi-colored lights. Presents littered the base of it; the entire house smelled of turkey. It was great to be home.

  “Brutie.” My brother and I grinned when we saw each other. He had a floppy red Santa hat tugged down over his head, which was stubbly with new growth.

  “Little sis.” He smashed me into a big hug. Maybe he’d forgotten about how pissed he’d been at me two weeks ago. I could only hope.

  We lounged on couches until more family showed up: uncles and aunts, cousins, a few family friends. Dinner was served, as delicious as it was ostentatious. As everyone sat rubbing bellies and refilling wine, uncle Don turned talk to Brute’s career.

  “Man. What a fight that last one was, huh?” He swirled his wine in his glass, eyes glinting at Brute. “You came out strong.”

  Brute flexed a little, casting his gaze down at the table. “Yeah. Those judges had it in for me. Who gets a unanimous draw?”

  “You both fought so hard,” I said, sipping at my wine, loving the lick of tipsiness. My phone had been buzzing in my pocket with new texts from Hawk, but I couldn’t look. Not yet.

  “But Brute better than that other one.” Don waved his hand dismissively. Brute shot me a look.

  “What do you think, Sadie?” Brute’s voice came out edged with tension. Looking right at me.

  I cleared my throat. All eyes turned to me. “Yeah.”

  My parents shared a glance. So Brute hadn’t forgotten so quickly.

  Tension sizzled over the table, but the rest of the family was joyfully unaware. Conversation went to the coverage, the payout, how it felt to be a status symbol. Later, as I helped to clean up the dishes, Brute cornered me in the kitchen.

  “So you never answered my question.”

  I stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge my response. He’d drunk, probably more than he was used to. But sincerity shone through his voice.

  “About what?”

  “About who fought better—me or Hawk.”

  I sighed. “Why does it matter? I’m not a judge. My opinion has no bearing on this.”

  “Yes, it does.” Brute slammed his palm against the countertop. “You’ve always been in my corner. And now you’re not.”

  “I have been in your corner since the day I was born,” I challenged him, stepping closer. “So don’t even act like this. I’ve done nothing but support you.”

  “Who fought better?”

  I sent him a flat look. “You did.”

  “Bullshit.” He huffed, taking a few steps back.

  “I tell you what you want to hear, and it’s still not enough. Brute, what do you want?” I scrubbed angrily at a plate.

  “That motherfucker has got you too,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Fucking Hawk.” His voice dripped with condescension. “He took Mandy first, and now he’s coming
for you. Are you two still talking?”

  I nearly dropped the plate I was rinsing. “Wait, what?”

  “Just tell me if you are.”

  I blinked, turning to him. “What do you mean he’s coming for me?”

  Brute leaned forward, his nostrils flaring. “This guy is an egomaniac. He always has to be the best. And after he beat me the last time we matched up, he had to take it one step further.”

  “Mandy?” I hadn’t uttered the name for a year. Brute’s last serious girlfriend. She’d disappeared one day without a trace. Brute mourned her for months, but never really talked about it with me.

  “Yeah. Mandy left because of that asshole. Went straight for her, even though she was with me. He couldn’t be happy just winning. Oh, no. He had to take the woman I loved, too.”

  I set down the sponge, the pieces slowly, arduously, fitting together. “Did he know—?”

  “He knew.” Brute leaned against the countertop, running his hand over his forehead. “And he knows who you are, too. It’s no coincidence he struck again before match time. Asshole did it so he could brag afterward.”

  I furrowed my brow, letting Brute’s side settle in. That couldn’t be true. Most of all because Hawk hadn’t known who I was. Unless…he had? I couldn’t believe that.

  “Well, I can personally attest that when I met Hawk, it was purely on accident, and I did not tell him you were my brother,” I said, picking up another dish to wash. “So I don’t think he had it in for you this time.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Brute sent me a heavy look. “And I’ll be damned if he steals you away from me too.”

  There was tenderness behind the anger, which made the little sister in me want to hug him. But at the same time, I was locked up with confusion. I needed more information.

  “Brute, you’re never gonna lose me,” I said softly, looking over at him. He didn’t look convinced.

  “Are you still talking to him?”