by Cindi Madsen
Happiness broke through the hangover haze and now I wanted that heart-to-heart. Liam and I used to be closer, and I didn’t like how distant things had gotten between us. “Thanks. I appreciate you having my back.”
“Anytime. I’ll talk to Dad about it, too. See if we can’t get on the same page again.” Liam started walking away, then seemed to remember he’d come over with a purpose and turned around. “About yesterday. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve been super stressed lately and I was in a pissy mood. I appreciate you taking on so much while we’re getting this mess straightened out.”
“Hey, you got my back, I got yours.”
We exchanged a smile and then Finn gave me an over-the-top grin that instinctually made me suspicious.
“The three musketeers are back together,” he said, adding a fist pump. “Just like old times. Imagine if it could be like this all the t—”
“Dude, give it a rest. Out of the long list of galleries I applied to intern with, my very favorite offered me a spot, which also happens to include being mentored by an artist I admire, and I’m not giving that up for anything—not even you. And with this pounding in my head, you’re lucky I put it that nicely.” I squinted at him. “How are you not hung over?”
“I had one shot. You were the one with the bottle.”
I pressed my fingers to my forehead. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”
“Okay. Fair warning, though, Dad texted to say he’d be here in an hour. I’m sure he’ll want to have a chat with you.”
“Well, I tried the chat thing last night, and no thanks to that.”
Finn gave a shrug as if to say he had no control, which was a total crock. He was the reason I’d even come home in the first place. He’d told me Dad was different, but I had a feeling it was more like he wished he was. I did, too, but I was done getting my hopes up.
Now I was doing my time. Like I was in prison.
The front door swung open, and Shane strolled in, head high, stride confident. His dark scruff showcased his strong jaw and the Ray Bans must’ve come in his bad boy starter kit, too, because damn. Seriously, I think I just lost an ovary.
It’s goin’ down. It’s yellin’ timber…
Okay, so maybe this was more like cushy prison with hot dudes. For all I knew there were a lot of hotties behind bars, and I was sure they had enough spare time on their hands to get as ripped as professional fighters, and was I now trying to talk myself into how great prison might be? Clearly my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
Yesterday Shane had given me good advice, even if Dad was too narcissistic for it to help much. Except I needed to switch up my thoughts, because I wasn’t supposed to be dwelling on the cocky fighter’s good traits anymore. My body already involuntarily reacted too much whenever Shane entered my orbit, and that meant I needed to be extra careful. I didn’t come home to repeat past mistakes, and I knew better than to confuse lust and attraction with genuine affection. Crazy-hot blinded you, and out-of-control passion left scars and issues. Safe, calm, and secure was where it was at.
Still, something in me reached for him.
It’s a friendly-type connection. It’s okay to be friends.
If I stopped fighting both sides of the connection coin, it’d help me to better keep myself in check. Right?
So I waited for Shane to look my way, planning on giving him a friendly wave. Like he’d said, it was pointless trying to avoid him anyway.
Or maybe not, because he certainly didn’t look my way.
And then I had to pretend I didn’t care, and that only added an irritated edge to the grouchiness my hangover had left me with.
Chapter Twelve
Shane
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me with the ponytails. As if it wasn’t hard enough to not look at Brooklyn already, and then she went and wore her hair like that.
A fist caught my chin and I stumbled back, trying to regain my bearings and stance. But before I could, Mac dove for my legs, taking me to the mat. A classic example of why you shouldn’t take your attention off your opponent for anything while in the cage. Even if the anything was fine as hell and had laughed in that way that traveled deep into your brain and settled there.
I turned my focus to the position I’d landed myself in, moving and punching until I’d closed the guard. My training kicked in, and I yanked down on his arm, tugged his neck to my chest with the other hand, and pushed my foot to his hip. Then I shot my free leg over and spun, locking him in a triangle choke.
“Stay on him, stay on him,” Blake yelled, and I squeezed tighter. When we sparred we kept our punches about 75-80 percent, although we got carried away now and then, especially after a punch or kick landed and pissed you off. But submissions were game on as long as we didn’t break limbs or deprive a guy of oxygen for too long.
Within a handful of seconds, he tapped out.
“Way to turn that takedown into a submission, Knox,” Blake said as I stood and then held out a hand to help Mac to his feet. The guy was fast and strong, but a bit green, and it was a good thing, or my distraction could’ve cost me more than a takedown.
The buzzer to signal the end of our sparring match rang, and I waited to see if Blake would have us go again or if we would switch up partners or do some drills.
Only his attention was on his daughter. Not that I had any experience with fatherly concern, but that was the vibe I got. There was another unnamed emotion in there that made me think something had happened during their dinner and it hadn’t been good.
Adam paused to talk to Brooklyn on his way out of the gym, and then I was scowling right along with her dad. She smiled at whatever he said, and a twinge of irritation went through me. He got a smile. Last week he’d also gotten a hug.
He’s been on Team Domination for six years, long enough that they’ve known each other for a while. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It definitely wasn’t nearly as reassuring as I wanted it to be.
Adam waved at her and then pushed out the front door, and Brooklyn’s gaze slowly drifted in our direction. While I tried to be subtle about my staring, Blake didn’t. Her jaw locked and she quickly looked back down, confirming my theory about their dinner.
Blake let out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Avoiding her was impossible, but last night I’d resolved to pull back, to not go out of my way to talk to her. The tension in her features made me want to find an excuse to do exactly that, and to see if I could find a way to cheer her up. Frankly, I’d wanted to go talk to her since the moment I stepped foot inside the gym. Since her brothers had been flanking her, it’d made it easier to stick to my goals. Without them there, they were getting fuzzy, the many reasons I’d decided to renew my resistance efforts hard to recall.
Half a day, and I already craved my next hit.
On autopilot, my eyes drifted back to her. I took in the purple-streaked ponytails that were in need of a good tug, her pretty face, and the way she wrapped her lips around the straw of her drink sent my mind diving deeper into the gutter.
When I heard the loud throat clearing, I jerked my attention back to the cage.
Shit. Blake Roth glared at me like a bug he was about to squash with his shoe. Excuses tumbled through my head, but not a single one of them would do anything but make me sound guilty as hell, so I charged on with another subject entirely. I lifted my fists and bounced on the balls of my feet. “We going again?”
My opponent gave me wide eyes that screamed, Shut up, bro. I’m about to pass out.
“Mac, go hit the weights. Knox, I think we better work on your blocking. You let that hook get you, and in the cage, that could mean lights out.”
Mr. “Bring the Wroth” himself put on gloves, and while I could hold my own, I didn’t want to square off with a guy who’d fought almost as long as I’d been alive. Even with the extra fifteen or so pounds I’d have to lose before a fight, he still had at least forty on me, and
well, he’d caught me ogling his daughter.
For the next thirty minutes, I didn’t look at anything besides his gloves coming at me, over and over. And over.
Until I was sure that I’d never forget why I’d resolved to keep a certain amount of distance between myself and his daughter.
…
By the time I made my way out of the locker room, my limbs practically dragged behind me, each step taking more effort than usual. Before today I’d thought Liam was the sadist of the Roth clan, but after my time in the cage with Blake, he won, hands down—which was where my hands were staying, because I didn’t think I could lift my arms anymore. He’d never said a word about Brooklyn, either. Just instructed me on my blocks, and every time my hands slipped an inch or I couldn’t get my arms back up fast enough, he took advantage.
Since I was only defending, I didn’t throw a single punch or kick, and while I’d like to say that if it’d been a real fight, it would’ve been close, I wasn’t sure. My reflexes were slower than they used to be, and I needed to get faster all around, repeating those movements until my muscle memory did half the work for me.
I also needed a set opponent so I could prepare better for the way he fought.
I needed a lot of things to get to where I wanted to be.
More than anything, I needed focus. One fixed goal—landing a big fight that I could prepare for and then win so I could get the next fight and the one after that—and everything I did should move me toward that.
Walking past the front desk as fast as possible would make me a hypocrite after what I’d said yesterday about avoidance, but I was all set to do it anyway. It made it easier to be strong and walk on by when Brooklyn wasn’t seated behind it.
The door to Blake’s office swung open, fast enough I had to jump back, and the blonde I’d been trying to avoid burst out of it. “I’m your daughter, not an asset—that’s why.”
She pulled up short when she saw me, then she turned and headed toward the exit, and I wished for invisibility. I didn’t want Blake to know that I’d seen the fight and incur the fallout or wrath, especially after he’d caught me staring at Brooklyn earlier. I didn’t want to get into family drama—or any drama, for that matter. I didn’t have time and my goals were finally back on track.
Making a hasty exit became my next goal, so I took my chances, darting past his office and pushing out the backdoor.
Brooklyn stood off to the side, the afternoon rays of sun giving her hair a glowing effect and highlighting the pretty features that drew me in even as I told myself to walk on by with nothing more than a “later” thrown over my shoulder.
This morning she’d looked a little tired, but the expression on her face now conveyed raw hurt. The shininess in her eyes led me to believe she’d been crying, and she blinked a couple of times, clearly trying to compose herself.
Usually the sight of tears sent me sprinting in the other direction. In my younger years, it annoyed me how often people cried over tiny, inconsequential things. I managed to suck it up and hold it together whenever I got shuffled to another home where I wasn’t wanted, so why did they get to cry over things that’d work themselves out in a day or two?
No one wanted to be consoled by that guy. I’d lost some of my jaded edges and had become a pinch more sympathetic, but I still didn’t know what to say besides “suck it up,” and that usually only made people more upset. Especially girls. But I couldn’t just leave her crying in the parking lot. And as I took in how upset she looked, I felt way more than a pinch of sympathy.
“You okay?” I asked.
Her gaze remained fixed on the ground. “Sure.”
I wanted to cup her chin and force those blue eyes to look at me. To keep myself from doing exactly that, I crossed my arms, only remembering once they were in place that moving them hurt like a bitch. “Not buying it.”
She sniffed. “Not selling it.” I continued to stare until she cracked and shrugged one shoulder. “It’s whatever. Disappointing but not a surprise. Or it shouldn’t be.” Her voice wavered and she pressed her mouth into a tight line. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
I glanced from her to my bike, contemplating what I should do: tell her good-bye and then hop on and ride away; and what I wanted to do: whatever it took to make the sorrow go away. Part of me wished I was as big of an asshole as I used to be. That I could ride off and say no one gave a shit about me and I didn’t give a shit about anyone.
But I had a mom who’d blown holes in that old code, and even though I’d only known Brooklyn for a little over a week, I cared enough that I couldn’t just walk away without it leaving my gut in a knotted mess. More than that, I needed to find a way to put a smile back on her face.
“Come on, then. We’re going for a ride.” I grabbed my helmet and extended it to her. “I’m not going to be persuaded by your eyebrow crinkle, either. You’re climbing on behind me, so deal with it.”
“All the guys in my life are so damn demanding,” she huffed, but she took the helmet. Then she glanced toward the gym. “Actually, I was planning on doing more work once I cooled off. I still have so much to do and—”
“Less talking, more hopping on my bike.” I took the helmet I’d just given her out of her hands and put it over her head. I straddled my motorcycle and fired up the engine. Since this was one of my epically bad ideas, I silently urged her to hurry. The last thing I needed was for her dad or one of her brothers to see her on the back of my motorcycle. “Let’s go, bruiser. I don’t got all day.”
I couldn’t see it through the shield of my helmet, but I knew the eyebrow crinkle was back in full force. Finally she climbed on behind me. “Hold on,” I said, and she scooted closer and wrapped her arms around my waist.
I gave myself one quick second to soak in the feel of her curves pressing into my back and the whiff of light, floral perfume that made me think of the night I’d had her pinned against the mat. Then I punched it, grinning when she hugged me even tighter.
Just like that, my goals went hazy again.
Chapter Thirteen
Brooklyn
Shane wove around vehicles so quickly I didn’t have a single chance to ease my grip on him. Safety first and all, and if that meant I could feel the way his body moved with the motorcycle, then that could hardly be held against me.
The ocean air washed over us, and as I sucked in a deep breath of it, everything else faded away.
I almost tapped Shane on the shoulder to ask where we were going a few times, but I’d have to scream in order to be heard, and right now, I honestly didn’t care. I needed to get away, and after this morning’s subsequent hangover, I’d decided against using alcohol to deal with it.
We ended up in front of one of those squat, hut-type buildings that sold authentic Mexican food. Shane climbed off then gripped my hips and helped me off the motorcycle. I reached up and removed the helmet, sure I had mashed hair, but I didn’t care. Probably because I was too focused on Shane’s hands and the way my pulse skittered through my body.
Time to employ my self-control. We’re friends, we’re friends… “I’m off and on solid ground. You can let go now.”
His eyes met mine and swallowing became impossible. “Right. I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself. You sure you want to stick with that rule?”
I licked my lips. “I’m sure.”
“What’s the policy on hair?” He reached up and tugged one of my ponytails, sending tingles racing across my scalp. “You don’t expect me to resist these, do you?”
“I do,” I said, fighting the urge to tell him that I liked a little hair pulling. Definitely not a friends thing to say, and even thinking the too-flirty reply opened up the guilt floodgates. What was I thinking hopping on the back of his motorcycle like that? I’m putting myself in the exact position I swore I wouldn’t.
His hand drifted down to my shoulder. “Uh-oh. I’m losing you.”
I took a step back and rubbed the spot on my neck where I cou
ld still feel the ghost of his touch. “I assume we’re here for food?”
He seemed to shake himself out of wherever his thoughts had been headed. “Yeah. Josefina’s is the best Mexican food in the city.”
“Well, it’s been a while, and I’ve never eaten here, but I’m partial to a place in La Mesa.”
“I guarantee this is better.”
The lady at the cash register beamed at us as we approached. “Mijo! It’s about time you came to see me!”
Correction, she beamed at Shane. She even came out from behind the counter and hugged him before casting a big smile at me.
“This is Brooklyn,” he said. “Brooklyn, Josefina. Her son’s been one of my best friends since high school, so she puts up with me.”
She clucked her tongue and waved off his words. “Oh, you. You’re such a good boy.” She pinned him with a look. “You make sure my Hector is being a good boy, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come on, then. I get you food.”
Shane nudged me. “Did you hear that? I’m a good boy.”
“And I thought you said she knew you.”
At his dropped-jaw expression, I laughed. Relief flickered through his expression, I assumed because he’d concluded the waterworks were officially over. It was funny how afraid most boys were of tears. Of course it’d be a lot funnier right now if it didn’t mean he’d witnessed my minor breakdown.
We ordered food, and I was talked into getting something different from my usual shredded beef burrito—apparently it was a requirement to have the enchiladas so I could experience Josefina’s signature red chile sauce. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I took my first bite. Instead of holding back, I let out a moan as the spicy food hit my tongue. “Okay, I’ll give you one. This is amazing. All I need is a Mountain Dew and this would be the perfect meal.”
