by Loren, Roni
“I hate the idea of any press being involved,” he groused.
“I know. But this is too good an opportunity to pass up,” Rivers said.
Shaw couldn’t deny that fact, and he did trust Rivers not to purposely expose him to anything that would blow his cover. He should be relieved that Rivers had handled things and created a great promotional opportunity, but the thought of charities and press still made him itchy. “Fine.”
“Excellent.” Rivers gripped his shoulder. “And don’t worry, man. I told you I was willing to be the face of this thing, and I meant it. I’m not going to expose you to any of that. Plus, I have such a pretty face.”
Shaw grunted.
“But if we want this business to be successful,” his friend explained, “we have to jump on opportunities like this, get people excited and spreading the word. There needs to be some sizzle and pop.”
Shaw gave him a droll look. “Sizzle and pop?”
“Yes. Don’t make fun of my very technical marketing terms.” Rivers nodded toward the equipment. “Now get up on these rings and tell me if they’re going to break and kill someone.”
Shaw smirked. “Nice. I’ve been demoted to guinea pig now?”
Rivers stepped back with an unrepentant grin. “Oink oink.”
Shaw pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it at Rivers’s face. “Guinea pigs don’t oink, dumbass.”
Rivers caught the T-shirt before it hit him and flipped it over his shoulder. He folded his arms and waited. “Show me what you’ve got, big man.”
Shaw shook his head and dug a rubber band out of his pocket to pull his hair back. He didn’t have any chalk for his hands or ring grips, and cargo shorts weren’t ideal for flexibility, but he was just testing the things out, not doing a routine. He did a few quick shoulder and back stretches to make sure he was loose enough before reaching up. Rivers had set the rings lower than Olympic height so Shaw was able to jump up and grab them without assistance.
The rings felt achingly familiar in his hands as he hung from them, the scattered thoughts of the morning settling into singular focus as he adjusted his grip and made sure the whole apparatus wasn’t going to fall apart on him. Once he felt confident the rings would support him, he lifted his weight, his arms working to keep the rings as still as possible, and raised himself up until his hips were even with the rings and his arms were taut. After a few seconds, he exhaled and spread his arms out to form a T with his body, an Iron Cross.
The strength and focus required to keep his body and the rings steady in that pose were like the rush of a drug, every part of him working toward the same goal. Shaw’s muscles quivered with the effort, and he lifted himself again, tilting forward and swinging his legs behind and upward to invert the cross. He glued his gaze to a spot on the floor and tried to hold the upside-down position for as many seconds as his body would allow him. One, two, three…
“Damn,” Rivers said. “It kills me a little that we can’t market you. Former Olympic-level gymnast will personally train you on feats of strength! A photo of this alone would sell a shit-ton of memberships. Hell, I could probably fill up our rosters with all my single friends—gay or straight. We could oil you up and let them pay to ogle.”
That made Shaw choke, and it broke his concentration. His muscles gave up the good fight, and he swung down out of the inversion. He dropped to his feet on the mat beneath with a muted thump, out of breath, his muscles burning from the effort. “Stop flirting, McGowan.”
Rivers smirked and tossed Shaw’s shirt back at him. “As if you’d be so lucky. You’re not my type.”
Shaw caught the T-shirt and tugged it back on with a grin, not insulted in the least. “Too straight, huh?”
“Straight?” Rivers crossed his arms and lifted a brow. “Oh, you actually still have an orientation? I thought yours was monk.”
Shaw’s mouth flattened. “The rings work. We won’t kill anyone.”
He tried to move past his friend, but Rivers put a hand on his arm, halting him. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m not trying to be an asshole.”
“You’re not doing a very good job of it,” Shaw grumbled.
Rivers didn’t relent. “I’m just trying to wake you up a little. You’ve been here for months, and I have yet to see you do anything but go to the apartment, classes, and back here. Every time I ask you to come out with me and my friends, you have an excuse.”
Shaw had, in fact, gone to a bar last night, but Rivers wouldn’t count it even if Shaw told him. He’d gone in because he really wanted a drink, and the place was dark with loud music. Not a place to socialize. A Johnny Cash I Drink Alone kind of place. But somehow he’d ended up outside with a pretty woman, treading into way too dangerous waters.
The liquor had loosened his good sense, and he’d found himself drawn to the woman who’d sung her guts out and then run off stage, and not for the obvious reasons. The woman was a knockout with her cloud of dark curls, her black-rimmed glasses, and a pink blouse that had exposed just a hint of smooth brown skin at the open collar. She was all curves and quirky sophistication. Rivers would say nerdy hot. But Shaw didn’t think her kind of hot needed any kind of qualifier.
But despite all that, the thing that had drawn him to her was the way she’d sung on stage. She hadn’t opened her eyes the whole time, but once she’d gotten started, it was like she’d opened a vein and let it bleed onto the floor in front of them. Her voice hadn’t been classically pretty. It’d been powerful and raw, with sandpaper rubbing the high notes. He’d felt each word of her song like she’d shoved the music directly into his chest, sending some sort of adrenaline straight into his system. He’d been sweating a little by the end. So when she’d stumbled by him, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out. He’d wanted to help her, but more than that, he wanted to know why she was running.
But he should’ve minded his own business. In those brief moments outside the bar, she’d nudged a part of him he’d thought he’d long cut the wires to—that part that said he should smile at her, flirt, and get her story. The part that said he could want the normal things a man could want.
What a fucking lie that was.
“I don’t do clubs,” he said to Rivers, shutting down the memory of last night, of him walking away from her like some coward who couldn’t even manage to tell her good night.
“Fine, go to a movie then. A bar. Whatever. You don’t need to do the monk thing anymore. I get why you shut yourself off from the social scene, but this is a big town. You have a new name. You don’t look like the guy from the news stories anymore. Go out, have fun, take a roll in someone’s bed.”
“Riv,” Shaw warned.
His friend raised his palms. “All I’m saying is don’t rule out a simple hookup. It’s unhealthy not to get laid at least every now and then.” He gave Shaw an up-and-down look. “I don’t know if it’s wise to test out that use-it-or-lose it theory, you know? What if you actually can lose it?”
Shaw’s fingers curled into his palms. “I’m going to make some calls to price out adding another AC unit.”
“Shaw.”
Shaw ignored him and kept walking. Use it or lose it. Right. Like his damn dick was going to fall off if he didn’t have sex. Ridiculous.
The thought sent a shudder through him anyway. He tried to shake off his irritation as he made his way to the office. Rivers meant well. The guy thought he was helping, but these types of discussions were off the table. Rivers didn’t get it.
Shaw had tried that road and had ended up getting serious with someone. The one woman he’d dated after the Long Acre shooting had acted as his confidant, had gotten him to open up about all the shit he was going through. Then, when things didn’t work out between them, she’d sold her information to the press.
An unnamed source close to the shooter’s brother, former Olympic hopeful Shaw Miller, says he’s drinking too much, angry, and a loner. Studies show that mental health issues run in families. Joseph Miller,
the mastermind behind the Long Acre shooting, was reportedly suffering from…
After reading the article, Shaw had thrown his laptop against the wall. He hadn’t read a news story about himself or touched another woman since.
Sex was amazing. He missed it at an almost primal level. But no matter how good it could be, it wasn’t worth risking feeling that exposed again, that…violated.
Rivers didn’t get it. He couldn’t.
No one could know what it felt like to be stripped down and no longer seen as an actual person but only as a news headline, a sensational sound bite to be sold and collectively hated. To be shamed. A name to be thrown around the dinner table and judged.
Mass murderer’s brother.
Fallen Olympic hopeful.
Shaw Miller was now just a name on endless web pages. A cautionary tale. A common enemy.
He didn’t get to meet a pretty woman at a bar and ask her out. He didn’t get to want the things normal people wanted. That life had been stolen the day his brother had ended all those others.
The One You Fight For
On sale January 2019
Click here!
Acknowledgments
I love having the chance to tell the stories of the Long Acre characters, so I want to thank the people who make it possible for me to do that.
To my family, for putting up with writer insanity—because there’s a lot of that going on around here. I love you guys.
To my editor, Cat Clyne, for her insight, enthusiasm, and all those smiley faces in my edits. Thank you for loving these characters as much as I do.
To my agent, Sara Megibow, for her unwavering support, encouragement, and expertise. I’m glad I have you in my corner.
To the entire Sourcebooks team for championing these books, giving them beautiful covers, and for being so great to work with.
And as always, to my readers. I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you for continuing to read my books. You keep reading, and I’ll keep working hard to give you the best stories that I can. Deal?
About the Author
Roni Loren is a two-time RITA Award winner and a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author.
She wrote her first romance novel at age fifteen, when she discovered writing about boys was way easier than actually talking to them. Since then, her flirting skills haven’t improved, but she likes to think her storytelling ability has.
She holds a master’s degree in social work and spent years as a mental health counselor, but now she writes full-time from her cozy office in Dallas, Texas, where she puts her characters on the therapy couch instead.
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