by Meg Watson
“Oh, yeah, he’s something else,” Orion purred proudly. Auger ignored him and gritted his teeth. He was determined to keep on track.
Get in, get out, he repeated to himself.
Winsor took another half step. Auger wrinkled his nose and tipped forward ever so slightly, the threat plain in his posture. In his electrified state, he could smell the warm, starchy aroma of Winsor’s pressed shirt collar where it met his neck.
Auger assumed Winsor either didn’t know that he was making a primal, physical threat by being so close, or he didn’t care. Or else… he liked it.
“He’ll take the sponsorship,” Winsor said confidently. Auger flinched.
“No, thank you,” he repeated, his voice inadvertently plunging to a growl.
Orion rolled his eyes, suddenly desperate. “It’s twenty thousand,” he said incredulously, as though Auger didn’t understand what they were talking about.
“Jesus... Aug,” Auger heard Bryce breathe beside him, pleading.
Auger looked at Orion slowly, letting his gaze drop to his feet and back up again. Though Orion was big, he was soft and lazy. He shifted his weight from foot to foot in purple suede loafers. He seemed to crumple slightly under the Alpha male’s scrutiny.
“I’m just here for one night,” Auger said finally, through clenched teeth. “I am honored by your offer, Mr. Cooke, but I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
Orion glared at him dangerously, but he couldn’t feel anything but amusement. Who did he think he was dealing with?
“You’re turning me down?” Winsor said, laughter coloring the edges of his voice.
Auger nodded.
“Well, I really don’t think you know what you’re missing,” Winsor said slowly, his eyes twinkling. He looked like a cat with a toy just out of reach. Auger knew that look, but he didn’t feel like mentally wrestling with some spoiled rich kid who thought he was a new game to play.
Get in, tap out.
Auger forced himself to stare over Winsor’s shoulder as though he had better things on his mind. But he had to admit to himself: some part of him was excited. He knew that the chase was on. If he could tell anything about this Richie Rich jackass, it was that he didn’t give up easily.
He pushed that thought down and tried to settle his nerves, center himself and get ready for the bout.
Get in, tap out. Get in, tap out.
Get in, tap out.
“Should I back Twister then?” Winsor crooned.
Auger swallowed hard and let his weight sink, finding his feet. He knew Twister didn’t have a chance. Every part of him hummed with strength and confidence.
“You do what you want,” he said finally.
Orion huffed disgustedly and tried to guide Winsor toward Jimmie and Nickie at the end of the row. Winsor stared at Auger for an uncomfortable few more moments as though he had already bought the fight, then let Orion lead him to the end of the row.
“Mr. Cooke,” Orion said through his gritted teeth as he walked away sullenly, “he will come around. He will.”
Not tonight, Auger thought with a smile.
CHAPTER 3
Winsor
Despite everything, Winsor Cooke always enjoyed the fights. It was a fine tradition, he believed, to have all this spectacle organized around the simple sport of two men contesting through strength. No tricks, no sleight of hand, no broadcast equipment between the spectators and the athletes: just two men at a time, beating each other until one was the winner and the other was not.
It was raw. Honest. Brutality at its most refined. Elegant at times, horrifying at others. Sometimes both at once.
Orion had never impressed the billionaire as a superior businessman, but he had to admit that Orion had assembled exactly the right crew for the occasion. Starting the exhibition with the heavyweights wasn’t the right choice, but it probably wouldn’t matter too much. They should have been saved for the main event, the finale.
The guests were going to enjoy the lightweights tussling in their foppish trunks. The light heavyweights looked evenly matched, and that was pushing the betting to outrageous volumes as people shouted back and forth about their favorites. But the heavyweights… yes. That was impressive.
Odin v. Twister? It sounded like an epic match.
Even though Odin seemed to be a bit of an idiot, Winsor was looking forward to seeing Twister getting his steroid-swollen ego knocked around. A lot of money was going to be lost on that bout tonight, he knew. Some of the guests were betting on the wrong guy. His money was on the overgrown Viking farm boy, even if he was too stupid to accept the sponsorship.
After leaving Orion at the line he headed for the bar. The guests parted and he gestured for a soda water just in time for the bartender to have it ready. He turned to his reserved table, expecting to find it ready as well, but it wasn’t. Someone was there.
Blonde, tall, thick. She looked like the farm boy’s cousin.
“Mind if I join you?”
Callie glanced around, startled. Then she scowled prettily, her full lips pursing out in a kissable bud.
“This table is reserved,” she pointed out, gesturing at the card that read Winsor Cooke next to the flickering votive.
“Ah, so it is. I’m sure he won’t mind,” he nodded and slid in next to her. She turned half away but cut her eyes back several times, measuring whether she could be more insistent and get him to abandon the seat.
Winsor didn’t conceal his appreciation and let his eyes stroke long lines from her flanks to her bare shoulders. “That’s a striking gown,” he purred.
She flinched back and snorted disgustedly through her nose, tossing her straw-colored hair over one shoulder. Winsor had an immediate and precise image of holding her by her hair until she stopped thrashing and learned to like it.
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude but—”
“I’m just trying to have a drink with the most beautiful woman here,” he said, holding her eyes. She faltered, looking around nervously as though maybe he was talking about someone else. Her long hands plucked at the tablecloth.
“Where are you from?” he asked, curious.
“Here,” she replied with a pout.
“No,” he shook his head, chuckling. She cringed at his obvious dismissal. “I don’t think so. Where are you from?”
Her eyes narrowed and she stared him up and down. Quirking one eyebrow, he stood up from his chair and snapped his lapels to give her a better look. Handmade suit: check. Diamond cufflinks the size of Yahtzee dice: check. Somewhere around the Italian spectator shoes, a light went on in her eyes.
“You know what, this is is a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. Excuse me,” she muttered, leaning away.
He caught her elbow in his palm. Her skin was soft and thick like velvet. A gentle pull and she was closer and he could smell her hair: something simple, store-bought.
“Seriously,” he growled hungrily, “where did you come from?”
Her eyes flickered up to meet his and she stared at him, half-frightened, half-outraged. He could see her pulse fluttering between her collarbones. It would be such a simple thing to just lean down… He doubted she would resist for long…
But then she was gone, somehow slipping out of his hand and then remaining there, just out of reach. He resisted the immediate urge to drag her back and simply smiled.
Oh this. This is going to be fun.
“We’re from Millslake,” she said with her gaze averted, eyebrows raised pridefully.
“We?” he repeated.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the ring, pointing with her chin. He followed the gesture and saw Odin standing there like he owned the place. His arms crossed heavily over his broad chest as he stonily ignoring Orion pacing back and forth.
“Ah. Your boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back, suddenly glaring at him with bright, flashing green eyes. “No, not my boyfriend. He’s a jackass.”
Winsor raised his eyebrows as though he was i
n on the joke. After a moment she softened, letting her shoulders go down. A small, embarrassed smile played at the corners of her lips.
“Some of the best fighters are… intense personalities,” he suggested.
She nodded, a few strands of golden hair floating around her face. “Oh he’s an intense personality.”
“But is he a good fighter?” he asked, edging closer to her again. She backed away but not nearly as far as before.
“He’s… very strong. Personality and otherwise.”
Winsor breathed slowly, knowing she could feel the air. Her shoulders arched just slightly.
“Excellent,” he agreed, nodding. “I like to think that my sponsorship was well-placed.”
Her mouth opened in a pretty oval that would perfectly fit two of his fingers.
Or my cock, if I pushed.
“No,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t…”
“Orion said it was all taken care of,” he said, acting as though he didn’t understand. The emotions that flitted across her features animated her from within. He felt like with a little practice, he would be able to read her like a movie screen.
“Aug— Odin doesn’t… Well he doesn’t want to feel like he owes anybody. I can’t believe he would—”
“Of course he would,” Winsor answered dismissively, watching her. For just a moment, he thought he saw confusion and then something else. Disappointment? “Everyone has a price.”
She nodded slowly, as though calculating a long list of debts and assets.
“Well, he is worth every penny, I am sure,” she said with a resolved sigh. “And down there is Bryce, my brother.”
“A family business. I approve.”
She shook her head. Her lips opened and closed again.
Jesus, it’s like she’s begging me to do it.
“This isn’t our business,” she shot back finally. “It’s just… temporary.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said with a shrug. “They’re not the first foundlings Orion has hosted in the big city.”
“Foundlings?” she repeated, her eyes suddenly alight again. “Excuse me?”
He breathed her in luxuriously. If she was going to be this easy to rile up, they were going to have so much fun. She glared at him, panting deeply, her heavy, ample tits heaving under the silvery fabric of her plunging neckline. It would be so easy to just reach out and...
The lights went out suddenly and a single spotlight flashed on in the middle of the roped-off ring. The crowd went silent and turned to the ring expectantly. A man in a tuxedo and combover held a cordless microphone to his lips.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer intoned dramatically. Winsor couldn’t help but smirk at the theatrics. “Mister Winsor Cooke would like to welcome you all personally to the first of our series of athletic expositions featuring the Starrrrrrrs of Ooooooorion! You are encouraged in the strongest terms to place your bets with our ringmen, as all proceeds naturally go to charity....”
The crowd applauded politely and Winsor stood, raising a hand, thanking them en masse for the cash they were about to fling at his family’s Foundation. The blonde shrank back, gasping.
“You’re… You’re really—” she muttered, looking charmingly horrified.
“Hush,” he said with a finger to his lips. “It’s about to start.”
“Mr. Cooke,” she said in a rush, leaning forward, “I am so sorry. I had no idea—”
“Call me Win,” he said simply, holding out his hand. Normally he wouldn’t shake hands with a woman, but he wanted to feel her skin again, badly. “And your name?”
She shook her head frantically, her hand hovering in the air for a moment and then retreating.
“No, I’m sorry, really,” she whispered, dragging a large placard from under the table.
“Stay.”
Her lips made the word soundlessly, No, and she backed away, taking the card with her. Part of him was incensed that she was not doing as him said, and part of him was delighted in advance at all the fun it was going to be to drag her back.
Kicking and screaming, I should hope.
CHAPTER 4
Callie
The announcer held the ropes apart for her as she came to the ring in the darkened room, her legs all wobbly and quaking. It was all she could do to not just run away home.
She hitched up her dress over her knee and carefully stepped into the ring, striking a pose with her weight on her hip and a big fat smile on her face.
And the lights snapped back on. Showtime. She smiled out her big Hollywood-style grin and flung her arms over her head, hoisting the card in the air as the crowd clapped and the bellman sounded the first round.
Holding her breath, half-blind from the lights and the noise, she walked as slowly as she could in a sort of square with the Round 1 card over her head. At the back of the ring she looked out over the fighters. Bryce clapped sweetly and a couple of the other guys gave her nods. Auger just smirked and she fought the overwhelming urge to bring her arms back down and fling the card at his smug, irritating face.
Fucking jerk. Does he even have a concept of honor anywhere in that thick head?
She turned away quickly, eager to just do her thing and then get the hell out. When she made the final steps to the front of the ring again she blasted her fake grin over the crowd, glad it was over.
As she swept the crowd she caught his eye again, utterly by mistake. All the breath whooshed out of her at once. For a second she just stood there, not sure how to leave, not sure how to stay.
Winsor Cooke.
She swallowed over a tongue that had suddenly turned to sandpaper. He made Auger look like Prince Charming. He was standing next to his chair, clapping slowly like she had just made some kind impressive performance.
He’s making fun of me, knowing I have to stand here and take it.
Her body froze in place and her mind raced forward like a colt out of the barn. She strained to keep the smile on her aching cheeks as her mind made a quick list of his attributes: his smoothly shaved, square jaw, fragrant with something expensive, the perfect fringe of black hair escaping the glossy sweep that tucked behind his ears, his thick neck, and the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
With a jerky motion, she forced her arms down and her head to turn away. She needed to look anywhere else but at him. The announcer leaned toward her as though she was maybe a little nuts, maybe in need of a gentle push out of the spotlight. She just shrugged at him inanely like tra-la-la, I meant to do that and finally let her arms down, her shoulders creaking from the strain. He gave her a puzzled glance and held the ropes apart.
Dropping the card next to the bellman, Callie wobbled out of the ring and yanked her borrowed, too-tight dress over her hips before standing up straight. Winsor Cooke held out an elbow. How did he even get there so fast?
“Come and watch the match with me,” he said, his voice all commanding and smooth. He had the tone of someone who really didn’t expect to hear the word No... like, ever.
“I can’t,” she mumbled, looking around for someone to help. Bryce was busy with Trent and Auger was stretching. He would be in the ring in seconds and she had to get out of there, fast.
“You can,” he said and his hand slipped under her elbow again. She sucked in her breath as his skin slid against her skin. Something about the firm way he held her sent shivers through her bones.
The first time, she thought it had been a mistake, a coincidence. Now she knew it was something else. Something in his touch sparked some deep, damp part of her. But lust or hate? She wasn’t entirely sure. Could it be both?
“I should really, uh…” she whispered, but her voice caught in her throat. He just shook his head and smirked, then pulled her back toward his table. Before she knew it she was walking alongside him, headed for the card with his name on it while every pair of eyes in the place looked her up and down. Their apparent shock and disdain convinced her: she was not going to run away.
Three willowy women in nearly identical cocktail dresses with nearly identical golden hairdos sniffed surprise in her direction. She held her head higher.
Yes, you bunch of entitled snobs. Me. I’m walking with this rich jerk right here. Me. Suck it.
Winsor stepped smoothly toward the chair and pulled it out. Callie held her breath and tried to arrange her lips into a smile while aiming her backside into the seat. Silently she prayed the dress would continue to mostly cover her and not split into ribbons when she sat.
“Did I mention how much I like your gown?” he said, his breath passing over the back of her neck as he took a seat next to her.
“Thank you,” she muttered as her skin prickled.
And you will probably never see it or me again, because once Tammie sees how I stretched out her favorite dress she is going to kill me.
She pressed her toes up, hoping to make her thighs somehow a little smaller. A waiter placed a glass of wine in front of her as Winsor nodded.
“I don’t really like wine,” she admitted sheepishly.
“Of course you do,” he responded, dismissing her objection with a casual wave of his fingers.
Of course I do? Are you kidding me?
“Listen, Mr. Cooke—”
“Win,” he interrupted.
She stumbled mentally, the lecture she had prepared stalling on her tongue. “Excuse me?”
“I already asked you to call me Win,” he said in a quieter voice and turned to her in his chair. Somehow his voice got clearer, stronger, the more he lowered it. A waft of something expensive washed through her sinuses and she stopped, startled. Dumbstruck. His hazel eyes glimmered faintly.
“Win—” she started again, but with less gusto.
Jesus, Callie, get a grip!
“And what can I call you?” he continued, his voice all smooth.
The lecture started and stopped again. Started and stopped, then crumbled into ash like a spent log in a fire.
