Caged

by Lorelei James

  Hadn’t worked so far, so he attempted to hedge. “I don’t know what your problem is. I thought you’d be happy I got my cardio in.”

  “Nice try. Take your time working up to the real issue. I’ve got nowhere else to be today.”

  “You plan to load me up on chocolate and tampons after I share my feelings with you?” he retorted. Hadn’t these new guys gotten the memo that he—Deacon “Con Man” McConnell—did not do let’s-talk-it-out friendship crap?

  Maddox scrubbed his hands over his cheeks. “A bottle of Midol would help you immensely, dickhead.”

  Deacon wanted to laugh. Maddox didn’t take his shit, which was why they got along so well. He grabbed his water bottle and drained half of it.

  “What happened to make you punish yourself like you’re training for a marathon?”

  As much as he wanted to say, None of your fucking business, he knew if he didn’t lay it all out now, he’d get steamrolled. “An incident at a strip club.”

  Maddox’s head snapped up. “Please tell me you didn’t get into a fight.”

  “Not with guys hanging out in the club, a bouncer, or the owner.”

  “Jesus, Deacon. You got into it with a stripper?”

  Deacon dropped into the chair next to Maddox. “No.”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  Looking at his ratty-ass running shoes was easier than staring Maddox in the eye. “I couldn’t shake off my restlessness after practice yesterday. Sitting at home flipping through channels would just piss me off because I end up watching cage fights. So I went to my strip club.” He felt Maddox staring at him, so he looked up. “What?”

  “Why do you have such a hard-on for strip clubs?”

  “What’s not to like, watching hot chicks dancing around naked?” He took another sip of water. “Not all strip-club regulars are pervs who can’t get dates.”

  Maddox continued to look skeptical.

  “Some people attend plays, ballet, and opera for entertainment,” he said defensively. “To me, it’s entertaining to see beautiful women with killer bodies dancing around naked.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “It’s cheaper than a Saturday-night date to the movies with popcorn. Even after tipping out for a lap dance.”

  “Nice justification.”

  He snorted. “I’ve never fallen prey to the delusions that the hot brunette grinding on me will want to see me outside of the club.”

  “So you’ve never dated a stripper?”

  “Explain what you mean by date.”

  “Pick her up, take her to dinner, then end up banging the headboard.”

  Deacon shook his head. “I ain’t the dating kind. I’ve fucked a few strippers.”

  “I don’t get it.” Maddox held up his hands. “No judgment on your choice of amusement. But when I look at the dancers, all I see is their age. It doesn’t make me feel pervy watching them. It makes me sad. Admitting that probably makes me sound like a prude.”

  “That makes you a decent guy because you wanna save them.”

  Maddox leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Back to the story. So you went to the strip club. You’re sipping a drink, minding your own business, when . . .”

  “One of my favorite former dancers visited me in the VIP section.” Deacon scowled. “She plopped herself on my lap, stuck her tits in my face, and when I glanced up, I saw Molly.”

  “Molly. As in Molly—”

  “My former student who I’ve wanted to bang like a fucking drum since the moment I saw her? The woman you forced me to stay away from while I was training for the last fight? Yeah, that Molly.”

  Maddox whistled. “So she what? Used some of Fisher’s boxing moves on you?”

  “A punch in the nuts would’ve been easier to take than the way she looked at me.” He let his head fall forward. “You have any idea how much I hated standing her up two months ago?”

  “I’ve a good idea. I’m sorry for it now, but you won the fight. That’s what I needed from you. And what you needed for yourself. You can’t deny that you’d never been more focused.”

  Only because he’d cut himself off from everyone. He trained, ate, slept, and trained some more.

  “Being with Molly then would’ve been a distraction.”

  “She’ll be a distraction now.” The best kind of distraction—not that he’d admit that to Maddox. “But now I have a better handle on what you expect of me for fight prep. And you know that I won’t hand grenade my career because of some random chick.”

  “Molly wasn’t a random chick for you, Deacon,” Maddox pointed out. “That’s why we had to intervene.”

  He shoved aside his resentment for the Maddox-led, Ronin-executed intervention—for the good of his career. “So when I saw her at the strip club, those brown eyes snapping fire at me, all I could think about was how much I wanted her and I’d been patient with her and the situation long enough.”

  “You didn’t tell her that?”

  Deacon looked at Maddox sharply. “Of course I did.”

  “What exactly did you say to her?”

  “That her and me were gonna happen.”

  Maddox groaned. “Then you grabbed her by the hair, threw her over your shoulder, and stomped out?”

  “The bouncer was watching me or I would have.”

  “Been a while since you’ve been in a relationship, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long?”

  Fuck if he wanted to tell him, but he admitted, “Since I was fifteen.”

  Maddox shook his head. “I’d laugh and call bullshit, but I don’t think you’re kidding, D.”

  “I’m not. After my last . . .” Hold on. Should you share the ugly part of your past with the guy who’s helping you build a future?

  No.

  Deacon shrugged. “I’ve stuck to sex without entanglements. I don’t even understand why it feels different with Molly. I sure as fuck don’t know what to do about it now that I’ve royally screwed up again.”

  “Tell her that.”

  “Show up on her doorstep and blurt out what an idiot I am?” he said, a little horrified by that thought.

  “You really are clueless.”

  “That’s helpful, fuckhead.”

  “Maybe something will come to you while you’re groveling. But make no mistake—that’s what it’ll take.”

  “I figured.”

  “What if she won’t forgive you?” Maddox asked.

  Deacon shot Maddox a dark look. “I’m blaming you. Then I’ll grovel and promise her that it’ll be the last time my trainer interferes with my love life.”

  “Love life, eh?” Maddox nudged Deacon’s shoulder. “Speaking of . . . Now that you’ve poured your heart out to me”—Deacon snorted—“it’s time for you to return the favor.”

  “I’ll definitely need to be punching shit while you’re jawing on about it.”

  Maddox smiled. “That I can help with.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MONDAYS were always busy at Hardwick Designs. But Molly thrived on it. She remembered the lean times—which hadn’t been that long ago.

  Since she’d taken over as office manager, she’d freed up her boss, Amery, to work more on the creative side of the graphic-arts business. And Molly had streamlined their operations so Amery could spend more time with her husband, Ronin.

  Part of the streamlining process had been hiring Presley Quinn—aka PQ, or Elvis—a kick-ass artist and one of the most out-of-the-box thinkers Molly had ever met. But Presley, for all her tats, piercings, funky clothes, and offbeat lifestyle, had no problem with taking direction and was very much a team player. After interviewing a dozen potential employees, Molly knew how rare that trait was in creative types. The irony was they’d met in Deacon’s kickboxing class at Black Arts, so they’d become friends first before Molly had approached Amery on the subject of hiring Presley. So far everything had worked out better than either she or Amery had imag
ined.

  In addition to hiring Presley, Molly had convinced their friend, and Amery’s former coworker, Chaz Graylind, to work for Hardwick Designs. Chaz had some professional highs, followed by lows, and having a steady paycheck appealed to him. Plus, he’d proven in the last year that he had Amery’s back, after a personal issue caused her to question their friendship and his loyalty. The bonus was since they were all adrift from their families in some form, they’d formed their own family.

  So after spending most of the day on the phone, Molly was happy when things wound down around four o’clock. Presley had a roller derby bout, so she left early. At five, Chaz breezed by, kissing her cheek, expressing regrets she couldn’t come along to happy hour. But she couldn’t wait to finish out her day in blessed quiet.

  Lost in spreadsheets, she glanced up from her computer screen an hour later, when the front door chimed. Chaz must’ve forgotten to lock it.

  She wheeled her chair around and headed to the reception area. Whoever had stumbled in could just deal with her bare feet, because those killer pumps were not going back on.

  “Sorry. We’re closed—” was all she managed when she saw Deacon standing in the center of the room, shrinking the space with his presence.

  Her intent to order him out of the building vanished when his smoldering gaze rolled over her and he said, “Looking good, babe,” in that sexy southern drawl.

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk.”

  “I said everything I needed to say Saturday night.”

  “Fine. Then you’ll listen.” His long strides erased the distance between them. He grabbed her hand and towed her around the corner. Then he backed her against the brick wall.

  And she let him, which annoyed her.

  “Don’t know if I oughta be worried or excited by the way you’re looking at me.”

  Her face heated. “Go with worried and go away, Deacon.”

  He didn’t laugh. Point for him.

  Even being mad at him didn’t lessen her attraction to him, which also annoyed her.

  “I was a dickhead to you Saturday night. I’m sorry.”

  She said, “That’s it?” with cool detachment.

  Deacon shook his head. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

  When a few moments passed and he didn’t tack on anything else, she said, “Can you get on with it?”

  “Can you give me a goddamn minute? I can’t think when you’re glaring at me. Jesus, woman. You’re intimidating as fuck.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What? Me?”

  “Yes, you. You are smart and clever and you can just say what you mean the first time. I had this whole speech prepared, and then I get here and I see you and it’s just . . . gone.” The tension in his body and the fact he couldn’t meet her eyes indicated his distress.

  Cut him some slack.

  Molly couldn’t believe she was about to do this. “The best way to remember your speech is to recall the high points.”

  His gaze snapped back to hers. “The what?”

  “High points. The most important thing you wanted to say.”

  “I already did that when I said I was sorry.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And I was a dickhead.”

  “And . . . ?” she prompted more firmly.

  “And I want to start over with you.”

  “You had the chance to start over and you blew it when you stood me up.”

  “You never let me explain.”

  “You never tried,” she retorted. “You showed up at my house three times when I missed kickboxing class. But after you stood me up, all I rated was a lousy text message?”

  “Technically, I didn’t stand you up.”

  “Yes, you did. And it’s too late for excuses.” She ducked under his arm and pointed to the front door. “Go.”

  “Not an excuse but an explanation. See . . . I was there that day, the day of our date, sitting in the parking lot, watching you.” He described her outfit in detail, along with her facial expressions. “I was a fucking coward, staying in the car instead of coming in and telling you the truth.”

  “Oh, that you suddenly remembered you weren’t attracted to me because I’m not a hot-bodied stripper?”

  “Not. Even. Fucking. Close.” Deacon took a step forward with each terse word. “Maddox overheard our entire conversation in the dojo when I asked you out.”

  Molly put her hands on his chest, stopping his advancement.

  “He reminded me I needed to focus on my fight. When I told him my life off the mat wasn’t his fucking business, he made it his business.” The muscle in his jaw flexed. “He went to Ronin. They pulled me from teaching to concentrate fully on MMA training. I was pissed as hell.” He paused to inhale a deep breath. “Mostly because they were right.”

  “And?”

  His blue eyes shimmered with regret. “And after the fight was over, I figured I’d grovel, but you’d already moved on. I worried I’d lost out on you to that pussy banker.”

  Molly stared at him. This wasn’t the overly confident Deacon she knew. This man had vulnerability in his eyes as if he expected rejection. “It’s your career, Deacon. I could’ve handled you needing to focus on training. I would’ve been disappointed, but not angry and hurt.”

  “Would you’ve gone out with Jake?”

  Why did that bother him? “Would you have expected me to wait around until you were through with your fight?”

  “Probably not.” He curled his hand around her face. “I can’t change the past, babe. I can apologize for it. Which I’ve done. I can ask you to forgive me for hurting you, which I’m doin’ now. And I can admit I want us to happen.” He offered a wry smile. “I did a shit job trying to get that across to you Saturday night.”

  With Deacon close enough she could feel his body vibrating from nerves, she had a spark of hope this could be the beginning, not the end.

  You’re such a sickening optimist.

  No. You’re just a fool.

  A fool about to take a big chance.

  “Say something,” he urged.

  “I only went on three dates with Jake and I didn’t sleep with him,” she blurted out.

  Deacon eased back to look at her. “It kills me to ask this, but why not?”

  “Because Jake didn’t do it for me. Like Fisher doesn’t do it for me. It’d be easier if . . .”

  “If what?”

  If other men did it for me, but they don’t. Not by half.

  She’d tried, dammit. Telling herself over and over that other men besides Deacon were hot. Other men sported amazing bodies. Other men were inked with cool tats. Other men broadcast that don’t-fuck-with-me vibe. Other men spoke with a sexy voice that hit the mark between rough as gravel and smooth as whiskey.

  But when all of those attributes belonged to one man and that man owned them without apology?

  Goodbye, other men.

  “Molly. Tell me.”