by Josie Kerr
“You love the music.”
“I do, yeah. Can’t sing or play an instrument, but I love music.”
“You dance well.”
She flushed prettily. “You’re not bad yourself. You’ve got some smooth moves.”
Nolan chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve always been pretty spry for a fat dude.”
Bridget stared out the window, her eyes unfocused. “Why do you do that? Undermine the work that you’ve done?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t realize that I’m doing it.” Nolan shrugged.
“Well, stop it. It makes me sad and mad, and you do not wanna see me sad or mad.” She wagged a finger at him. “Trust me.”
“Uh-oh, looks like some trouble’s brewing,” Nolan murmured as traffic slowed to a crawl. Hopefully nothing too bad.
He and Bridget drove in silence as the line of cars inched along until they finally saw a tow truck hauling a smashed car away.
Bridget clucked her tongue. “I swear, the gahkablahkas are worse than the accidents,” she mused with a disapproving shake of her head.
“Come again?”
“What?”
“What did you say was worse than the accidents?”
“What? Oh, the gahkablahkas.”
“What the hell is a gockleblocka?”
Bridget cackled. “Not a gockleblahka, a gahkablahka. You know, someone who’s craning their neck around, looking and jamming up the road?”
“Uh.” Nolan was still confused. “I mean, I get it, but I don’t know those words.”
“You know, gahka.” She bugged her eyes out and craned her neck around comically. “ ‘Oh, let me see what’s going on here,’ you know?”
Nolan burst out laughing so hard he almost had to pull over. Bridget narrowed her eyes at him, and when he glanced over at her, he started laughing harder.
“What the fuck is so funny?”
Finally Nolan got himself under control. “Oh my Lord, ‘gawker.’ You were saying ‘gawker,’ ” he wheezed.
“Yeah, that’s what I said—gahka.”
“And the other word is ‘blocker,’ right?”
“Well, yeah.” She was looking at him like he was an idiot.
“Gawkerblocker.”
“Yeah, gahkablahka.”
“Oh my Lord, Bridget, you just made my night.”
“Hmph.” She tried to pout, but Nolan could see her lip twitching in a grin until she chuckled.
“That’s what it’s called—a gahkablahka. Sheesh.”
Nolan parallel parked in front of Bridget’s house and put the car in park.
“You wanna come in for a drink? Just one quick one?”
Bridget leaned against the door, her elbow resting on the window ledge, just looking at him with the most inscrutable expression on her gorgeous face.
“Sure. Just a quick one.”
Nolan, get your mind out of the gutter.
Bridget popped out of the car before Nolan could open her door for her, but he quickly caught up with her, and they walked up the short sidewalk to her house. Nolan watched Bridget closely as she unlocked her front door. The hand that held the key slightly trembled, and he wondered what that was about.
She headed straight back to the small kitchen, where she pulled two lowball glasses from the cabinet and poured two fingers of whiskey into each. She handed Nolan a glass.
“Sláinte,” she said, clinking Nolan’s glass.
“Sláinte.”
“You wanna sit down?”
“Sure.”
He followed her into the living room, where they eased back onto the couch, him beside her. She wiggled a little closer to him, bumping his shoulder with hers. Nolan could smell the light citrus scent of her shampoo or body wash or something, and he couldn’t help but inhale her scent a little deeper.
“Are you sniffing me?” Bridget whispered.
“Maybe.” He took another whiff. “Okay, yes. You smell really good.”
Their faces were very close together, maybe too close. Nolan looked at Bridget, really looked at her. She blinked at him, and he grinned before pressing the softest of kisses against her lips. She tasted of whiskey.
“Oh,” Bridget breathed into him.
He kissed her once more before cupping her face in his hand. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “But I couldn’t resist.”
“Do it again.”
He did.
“Again.”
“Bridget . . .”
“Again, Nolan.”
Nolan slanted his mouth over hers and pushed her back into the couch. He could feel her pulse thrumming under his thumb that rested on the base of her throat. He tasted the seam of her lips with his tongue, and with a little moan, she opened her mouth to let him explore. Bridget sighed as he deepened the kiss, melting against him, so when he lay back on the couch, she followed without hesitation.
Bridget broke the kiss first and tucked her head under Nolan’s chin. He lay almost completely still, one hand on her hip and the other playing with the ends of her hair. That luscious citrus scent filled his nose again, and he inhaled deeply once more before kissing her hair and pulling her close to him.
“I should probably get going.” Nolan gave Bridget a light squeeze. “Bridget?”
He lifted his head to peer at her and discovered she was sound asleep. Nolan chuckled softly and pressed his lips to her forehead. Bridget pursed her lips in an adorable frown and nuzzled deeper against Nolan’s chest.
“Oh, Bridg. Darlin’, what is happening here?” he murmured, but she didn’t answer and didn’t wake up, so he lay there, enjoying the quiet warmth of her companionship. It’d been a long, long time since he’d been this close to a woman. He missed it.
He knew he should go, though he didn’t want to. What he really wanted to do was strip them both down and get skin to skin with Bridget, and not even in a sexual way. He just wanted more of the togetherness, the intimacy.
Nolan groaned when she shifted, her breasts pressing against him. Feeling the taut bead of her nipples—had he done that to her?—translated into a heaviness in his balls and a stiffening of his cock. It had been a few years since he’d had any sort of sex that involved another person, by his own choice, and he didn’t know if the stirring of feelings was due to proximity or something else, something deeper. He suspected the latter might be the case, and hell if he knew what to think about that.
“Where’s the blanket? Kev, gimme some covers,” Bridget mumbled in her sleep. Yeah, hearing her voice her ex’s name killed that semi. Nolan shook his head to clear it and slid off the couch, being careful not to wake the slumbering woman.
“Mmm, thanks, baby,” was what he heard when he tucked a throw around her before slipping out of the small Craftsman bungalow to head home.
Chapter Eighteen
Bridget woke up disoriented and stiff, the sun streaming through the windows and the phone beep-beep-beeping on the coffee table. She hated falling asleep on the couch because it reminded her of long nights waiting up for Kevin to come home.
“Jaysus, shut the fuck up,” she told the alarm that screamed in her ear. She fumbled off the alarm and flopped back on the couch. She put her hands to her lips and giggled.
Nolan kissed me last night. And I liked it. A lot.
And he might have touched her butt a little. That was A-OK with her, too.
She lay on the couch, grinning like an idiot, until her phone beeped again. She grabbed her phone to turn the alarm off and caught a glimpse of the time.
“Holy crap! Shit! Shit, shit, shit.” She sprang up from the couch and pulled off her date clothes as she sprinted to the bedroom. “Fuck!”
She brushed her teeth and cleaned the smeared eye makeup away from her eyes so that she didn’t look as much like a raccoon, and then she scrambled into a fresh tank top and a pair of track pants before grabbing her gym bag and rushing across the street to the fight club.
; She was just skidding around the corner when she saw Junior and Paddy coming out of Junior’s office, their heads bent low in conversation.
“Good, you’re here. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to track you down.” Paddy motioned her to fall in beside them. “Colin’s not joining us as the babby and his missus are poorly. I figure we can handle anything that fuck Raptor can throw at us, right?”
“Sure,” Bridget huffed. “Sorry I was almost late.”
Bridget, Paddy, and Junior arrived at the front of the fight club to see Nanda talking to two men whom she did not recognize. One of the men grinned and stuck his hand out to Paddy.
“Paddy Doyle, good to see you.” Matt shook Paddy’s hand and then turned and greeted Junior and Bridget. “Paddy, Junior, this is my matchmaker, Tommy Thomas.”
Tommy stepped forward and said, “Nice to meet you after all these months of talking on the phone.” He shook Paddy’s and Junior’s hands, and then he turned to Bridget. “And you must be Bridget Doherty. Tommy Thomas.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She shook his hand and suppressed the urge to snicker.
“Yeah, my parents were assholes,” Tommy said by way of explanation.
Paddy clapped his hands together. “Okay, let’s get this started, shall we?”
And the group made their way to the DS Fight Club conference room to discuss the details of Bridget’s next fight.
After three hours of meetings, two separate conference calls, and one shouting match between Jett Raptor and Paddy, Bridget was finally officially on board for a catchweight match on the local card scheduled for ten weeks out. Junior and Paddy looked expectantly at her as she sat, still somewhat stunned, in a leather club chair in Paddy’s office.
“Well, girlie, what say you?” Paddy threw up his hands and shook his head. “You canna be that shocked.”
“Well, no, not really, but yes, kinda, yeah?” Bridget stammered, flustered and somewhat dazed. “This is really happening, isn’t it? I mean, C told me to be ready to go on Monday, but I . . . really didn’t think it would happen, you know? I don’t have that kind of luck.”
“Looks like C knew what he was talking about, huh?” Junior grinned at her. “And it’s more than luck, all right? I’ll tell you now that it’s done—C’s been talking to Tommy since you first decided to come on, since the rumors of this women’s featherweight class started up.”
“Hell, I dinna even know that.” Paddy scratched his chin, a thoughtful look on his face. “Colin’s a tight-lipped bastard when he wants to be. Wonder if he has any other surprises?”
“Well . . . what did you think about Tommy?” Junior leaned back in his chair. Bridget narrowed her eyes at him. He was up to something.
Paddy shrugged. “Seems to be a good fellow. The fighters he’s putting together make sense. Yeah. Why?”
“What about you, Bridg?” Junior turned to Bridget, and she was suddenly tongue-tied.
“Uh.” Junior quirked an eyebrow at her. “I think he’s great . . .” Bridget stalled, attempting to collect her thoughts so she didn’t sound like a blathering, scattered idiot.
“But?”
“Does he remind you of someone? I don’t know—there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on. Nothing sinister or anything, but there’s something . . .”
Junior snorted. “It’s probably that Raptor stink. He worked with Raptor for years. Apparently, he was one of Raptor’s charity cases, like Pierce was, like Tig was. Notice how none of the smaller bookings made any sense starting about eighteen months or so ago?”
Bridget leaned in, her elbows on her knees. She’d only been at DS Fight Club about six months, but she’d been watching regionals, and things had gotten weird in the past two years. And Jett Raptor seemed to always be in the thick of things. She’d assumed the change in consistency was due to Raptor’s partner, Bruce Pryde, abandoning him for his biggest rival, DS Fight Club, but if Tig, Dig, Pierce, and Pryde had all moved to DS Fight Club and Tommy had gone to Southland Promotions . . .
She whistled long and low. “Holy shit. Raptor’s team . . .”
“Is basically gutted.”
“I just assumed the team was turning to crap because Pryde abandoned ship and he was the only decent trainer there.” Her back hit the leather of the chair with a thump. “No wonder he fucking hates C.”
“Nah, he hates C for a lot of reasons. These are just the latest.”
Paddy rolled his eyes. “We’re going to try to get Tommy to come on board. He needs to be in a fight club, not a promotion company. He’s good. He’d look out for our fighters. Part of Raptor’s issue is that he caused most of this. He canned Tig and Tommy. It was Raptor who was such a raving arsehole that Bruce left. He has no one to blame but himself.”
“And I bet that gets all the fuck over him.” Bridget shook her head. This fight was going to be ugly, no doubt about it, even without the personal baggage that she brought to the octagon.
But she was ready. From the moment they sat down at the conference table, Bridget’s excitement grew. The negotiations seemed to falter during the second conference call, and by the time Paddy threw his fit, Bridget was ready to scream and throw things, teeming with frustration to just let her fucking fight, let her meet Hanna Kowalczyk in the cage and thoroughly humiliate her, break her.
“Whoa, there, Birdie.” Junior huffed a nervous laugh, and Bridget chuckled when she realized that her expression must have made her look like a lunatic. “Training starts Monday. I, uh, think you need to go out tonight and blow off some steam. Maybe a girls’ night out or something.”
“Did I hear Bridget needs a GNO?” Nanda appeared in the door.
“Uh . . . um . . . ,” Bridget stammered.
“Yes, she does. Good. That’s decided. Get out. I got my own stuff to blow.” Junior waved them out of the office. “Go.”
“I’m not even going to make a com—” Nanda started, but then the door slammed shut in her face.
Paddy walked down the hall, cackling at Nanda’s shocked expression.
“Rude. What the hell is his problem?” Nanda snorted, and then with a dismissive shrug, turned to Bridget. “What say you, Birdie girl? Foley’s again?”
“You know what? Let’s go to Pickett & Spence for a change.”
“That swanky hipster place?”
“Yeah. Uh, Nolan’s brother is the bartender there. He’s mixed up some great cocktails. And this is my next to last night, so I’m having dessert. They have insane cakes.”
“Sold. I’ll make calls. You be ready to rock at eight o’clock sharp.” Nanda’s head jerked up suddenly. “Oh, excuse me? Mr. I’m Too Good to Wipe the Bench Off? Yeah, you, Peach Tank Top, I’m talking to you. See that stack of towels right there by you?” Nanda stalked off to deal with errant gym patrons, and Bridget blew all her breath out. Yes, a girls’ night out, a good camp, and a fight: that’s everything she ever hoped for.
Chapter Nineteen
“Oh my gosh, this cake is to die for. Can we buy a whole one?” Charlotte practically danced around in her seat. “Where is that bartender? I want to confirm what this wine is, too.”
Bridget grinned at her training partner’s perfectly made-up and coiffed wife. “So you’re enjoying this?”
“I’d been meaning to come here before Miss Potpie made her appearance, but we never got around to it. This is perfect. Wine and chocolate and little spicy nibbles—I love it. Now that I’m not nursing Jeanette, I can have all this yummy stuff. Ooh! Thank you!” Charlotte did a little clap as Cal swooped in to refill her wineglass.
“Would you like me to bring another bottle? Another whiskey for you, Bridget?” Cal, who earlier had seemed less than pleased when the ladies of DS Fight Club burst into the bar of Pickett & Spence, was now all genuine smiles as he suggested appetizers, dessert, and wine pairings.
“I’m not a big sweets eater, but this? Is fabulous.” Nanda’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Holy. Who the hell is this baker?”
“Y
ou didn’t tell them, did you?” Four sets of eyes swiveled to Cal, who grinned at Bridget. “Nolan made these cakes.”
“Nolan? The Nolan whom C just got to make up a bunch of healthy meal prep plans made this?”
“Watch it with that fork, lady,” Annie said and then laughed, dodging Nanda’s wild gesturing. “The Nolan whom I saw you smooching on in your kitchen?”
Cal quirked an eyebrow at Bridget, who felt her face grow warm.
Annie shrugged. “The windows on that side of the house are lined up. It’s kinda hard not to see in them.”
“Tell me about it,” Bridget mumbled into her wineglass.
“Oh my God.” Annie’s eyes popped wide. “Did you see . . . ?”
“Y’all make good use of that dining room table.” Bridget winked as the other girls hooted at Annie, who was grinning as widely as she was blushing. “But I’ve got to know—is that your name on his ass?”
“Oh Lordy, I don’t think I’m old enough to eavesdrop on this conversation. Y’all need refills, just holler at me.” Cal snorted and shook his head as he hurried away from the girls’ table.
Annie flushed an even darker red. “Maybe.” Then she snorted. “Oh my God, yes, it is. He got my name tattooed on his butt because he said I owned his ass.” She covered her face and squealed with laughter. “Damon would absolutely die if y’all knew that!”
“He doesn’t really like wearing clothes, does he?” Bridget mused as she swirled her whiskey around in her glass.
Annie laid her forehead on the table. “No, he doesn’t. He comes home and showers and then doesn’t put anything back on if he doesn’t have to.”
“And you like it that way, don’t you?” Nanda said with glee.
Annie nodded her head, laughing. “Yes, yes, I do.”
Charlotte burst out with her distinctive laugh. “Oh my Lord, I am never gonna be able to look Pierce in the eye again. Of course, Trevor’s the exact opposite.”
“The hat stays on?” Annie asked.
