Use Me

by Mj Fields

  As soon as I turn the first corner and know I’m out of sight, I grab my phone from my pocket and dial Melanie.

  The second she answers, I say, “I hate you.”

  I hear what I assume is her hand covering the phone and a muffled, “That will be all, Ann.”

  “Screw that. Put me on speaker so I can tell that dear woman Ann what a bitch you are and how to never do what you suggest, like ever!”

  She laughs. “What did I do now?”

  “This... This... pushing me to write fiction!” I say it like the disease it is. “Three days in, and I’m a sexual predator on the prowl.”

  She laughs.

  “It’s not funny, Melanie. I hope you’re happy!”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, still chuckling. “Tell me all about it.”

  So, I do. I tell her every painstaking, embarrassing moment with the arrogant ox. Then I tell her, “There was some lady’s group taking a self-defense class at his gym, and before it began, they were talking about him like... like he was... I don’t know, a god.”

  “You need to sneak a picture. And for the love of the actual God, make sure the flash is off.” She busts out laughing again.

  “Have I mentioned I hate you?” I snap.

  “Yes, yes, and yes. But you are fired up.” She’s excited, while I simply want to reach through the phone and pull her hair. “I hear passion. He must be—”

  “Don’t you even dare,” I warn, knowing what’s coming.

  “Someone you’re interested in.”

  Sighing, I admit, “He is sexy, and mysterious, and—”

  “Get him.”

  “He thinks I’m nuts. Hell, I think I’m nuts. And it’s your fault!”

  “Get. Him.”

  The tension begins to ease from me in a way only the casualness I share with Melanie does.

  “You gonna bail me out when he puts me in jail?”

  She laughs again. “I didn’t say kidnap him and tie him up.”

  “How the hell do you kidnap a man three times your size?”

  “Well, heck, if you need help, I am just a plane ride away.”

  And just like that, I have my calm again. I am back on board with writing this crazy book that has turned my life upside down.

  Melanie is that friend, the one you call and she offers to help hide the body without even asking a solitary question.

  Standing in front of my hotel, I shake my head. “I got this. I’ll have your book soon.”

  Chapter Five

  Angelo

  “What the hell was that about?” Jagger asks when I walk back into the gym.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” I answer, walking past him toward my apartment door to go change.

  Once upstairs, I pull off my coffee-drenched sweats, still feeling her hand on my abs. I hardened under her touch almost immediately. She may be crazy, but she turns me on. Go figure.

  I hop in the freezing cold shower to rinse off. I don’t have time to wait for it to heat up, and right now, my lower extremity isn’t getting the memo that my brain is sending. A cold shower will do me good.

  Down, beast, I will my cock to tame.

  The next day, I wake in a fog. I needed sleep last night. She was in my head again, and I sure as hell didn’t need that. Instead of the deep slumber I have become accustomed to when I let visions of her get me off, I found myself tossing and turning.

  Tonight is fight night at Legacy. We have changed shit up a little since Shaw died. We are as close to legit as an ex-con and an underground fighter can be.

  It’s a good thing, too. If I broke parole, I would end up behind bars again, and I never want to go back to that fucking place. Being on parole is in no way a normal life, but it is a hell of a lot better than that hell hole.

  I have an assigned best friend. That’s what my parole officer calls himself. Luckily, he has given me a wide berth since Shaw died and I went into business with Jagger.

  If he shows up for a random piss test, I would pop for those pills. And that... Well, that can’t happen.

  When I walk into the gym after my run, I am still groggy, still tired, but such is the life of the damned.

  Jagger winks and nods to the right where Tatiana is with her woman’s class, and I see Legs.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble, which makes him laugh.

  “She’s a damn good-looking woman,” he mentions with a smirk.

  “Well, I’m not looking,” I snap, grabbing a protein drink from the fridge.

  “She paid for a month of classes with Tatiana, and paid for a month of training. Says she wants to learn to box.”

  “Hope you have free time; I’m booked.”

  “Said she wants you.” He hands me a clipboard with the completed enrollment form.

  She said the same damn thing to me, I think.

  “She also made it a point to tell me that she is leaving in a month and has no plans to return.”

  “Good,” I comment as I sit down.

  “You look tired, Kid,” he says, gripping my shoulder.

  I tense and have to stop myself from reacting on instinct.

  “Hands,” I remind him. One day, he will learn that I don’t like to be touched... I fucking hope. Or, I’m going to end up punching him.

  He holds them up. “My bad, man, my bad.”

  I make sure my back is to her when I’m in the ring with Tito, one of the men fighting tonight. I don’t want to see her, and I am not looking forward to the kiss-off I’m going to hand her, either.

  Why the hell can’t she just leave it alone is beyond me. Who the hell comes to a gym and spouts off some crazy proposition? She wants me for a month as a muse when she doesn’t know a damn thing about me?

  I’m the kind of man your mom warns you about. I’m a felon, a convict. I can’t vote. I can’t own a fire arm. My American, natural-born rights were stripped away from a judge and jury who deemed my actions to be criminal.

  After an hour in the cage, I nod to Tito. “Speed bags. Everything else looks great. Your form, your blocking, your stance—all looks good. Just need to be faster.”

  When I climb out, she is standing there, waiting.

  I grab the clipboard off the bench and read over her information.

  “Tatum Longley,” I read out loud. Her body stiffens when I look up. “I have no interest in training a woman, especially not one who is going to be fighting. I have men who need my help.”

  “Kid,” she begins, pointing to Jagger, who smirks. Fucker told her my nickname. “He said your name is Kid. I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

  When I don’t say anything, she sits down on the bench next to me.

  “I’m embarrassed by what I said. Well, how I said it.”

  “As well you should be,” I tell her, not sure what the woman expects from me, but knowing she damn sure won’t get it.

  Then her scent hits me, and I’m embarrassed by how it affects me. It’s not one I’m used to. It’s not simply floral or citrus, but this blend that bursts inside my nostrils.

  I’m not used to being around women outside the gym. The thing I learned the quickest in prison was to shut down all emotions. Everything about Legs makes me see, feel, and want. I don’t know a time in my life I wanted someone the way I want her.

  She stands up, her face flushed. I can’t help wondering if the rest of her body is the same pink.

  “You didn’t look like the judgmental type when I saw you. Now I know better.” With that, she turns and storms out of the gym.

  I should feel bad that I upset her. She’s a fucking girl. Only, I don’t. I feel relief.

  Before turning out the lights and heading to my apartment, I notice a bag in the corner. Someone must have left it after the fights.

  When I look inside for an ID, I see books, keys, and a journal, but no wallet.

  I’m tired as hell and want to go shower, come, and sleep, but I know I can’t. I need to hang out for a few minutes. Whoeve
r left this bag will more than likely be back.

  I open the journal to see if it has a name, a number, something.

  It doesn’t. Instead, I find a handwritten script of what seems to be a story.

  The first time I saw him, I knew he would rock my world. He stood a foot taller than me, and when I dared to look up, I could see need in his eyes. It mirrored the need I felt in my soul.

  It had been years since a man had affected me the way he did. Years since I wanted anyone the way I suddenly wanted him.

  My heart told me no, my head told me no, but the most private parts of my body screamed the opposite.

  I lay in bed that night, thinking about him and how his rough, callused hands would feel as they glided down my body. How my breath would be lost as his long, thick fingers rubbed my inner thighs, causing my body to come to life after its long and painful winter.

  Thinking of him, I slid my hand under my silk panties and used my finger to rub my sensitive, swollen clit, imagining it was his tongue. When I pushed my finger inside, I imagined it was his thick, hard cock.

  Never able to bring myself to orgasm before, I wasn’t expecting it to happen at all. I was astonished when just the picture of him in my mind caused my walls to contract and my orgasm to ripple through my body like an earthquake.

  When I couldn’t come anymore, I rolled to my side, hugged my pillow, and pretended it was him. Something else I had missed—being held at night and made to feel so safe in the arms of a man, even one who was a complete stranger.

  I fell asleep feeling safe, sated, and wanted for the first time in years.

  Because of him.

  A loud knock on the glass causes me to jump, and when I look up, she is staring at me.

  When I stand, her eyes cast down to my erection caused by her words, her desires. Then I walk to the door and stare at her. She stares back.

  Rain is pouring down on her, and she shivers. I don’t dare open the door.

  “Can I get my bag?” she yells through the glass.

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “Come back tomorrow,” I repeat.

  I see hurt in her eyes. I don’t want to see that, so I turn away and walk to the desk.

  Fuck! I slam my fist on the desk.

  Changing my mind, I turn around. I don’t want her to come back tomorrow. I don’t fucking need her, too. What I need, what she needs, is to stay the hell away.

  However, when I walk to the door, she is gone.

  I look at the clock and realize it’s almost eleven at night. She is walking the fucking streets of Detroit alone at this time of night?

  Guilt and anger collide as I head out to find her.

  Three blocks away, I see her make her way into a bar. I stand outside of it, watching her do shots through the window. I see the type of men that are drawn to her. None look like the type in her book.

  She’s ignoring them all. No connection, no sudden reaction like she described. They look like they want to fuck her. Just like I want to, though I won’t.

  The thought of it makes me jealous. I don’t like jealous. I also don’t like the fact that I am standing outside in the rain, looking at the fucking woman I want. At the same time, I am judging her because she wants it, too. Every second with her is a tornado of confliction. It makes my head and cock throb in pain.

  Who the fuck am I to judge?

  I walk inside the bar. The seats beside her are occupied with men who have been there way too fucking long. She isn’t even looking at them, seeming unaffected at the lines they shoot at her that are all lame.

  She doesn’t notice me, and I make no move to let her know I am here. I simply order a double Manhattan and down it. Then I order another.

  Not one to drink, the effects are nearly immediate. I probably shouldn’t have ordered a double. Hell, I shouldn’t even be here now.

  When she stands, I wait for her to walk out the door. Then I watch as one of the men follow. I get up and follow him.

  Outside the bar, I stay back to see if she decides it is him she is going to use as her muse. When he grabs her elbow, she pulls away, and he tries again, that’s when I feel my hands tremble.

  The red filter of rage clouds my eyes as I fight it down. I can’t let it consume me, yet I can’t stand here and watch it happen.

  I put two fingers in my mouth and give a loud whistle.

  The fucking bar rat looks back, and then scurries away, while she sighs and looks down as I walk toward her.

  “Your bag,” I say, holding it out to her.

  Immediately, she begins to shake as if she is afraid. Seconds later, I see tears.

  “Don’t do that to me,” I warn. I hate seeing women cry.

  She turns and begins walking away as I hold the black leather tote in my hand.

  “Damn it, woman.” I walk after her. “I have your bag.”

  She stops and wipes her eyes. Then she turns around, sighs, and holds out her hand. “I won’t bother you anymore.” When she looks in her bag, relief crosses her face. “It’s all there.”

  I shake my head, not sure what she expected. I’m a criminal, not a thief.

  “Thanks. You’re a true gentleman.” She then turns and begins walking away again.

  “You have no idea who I am,” I call behind her. Gentleman is the last thing anyone should call me. Regardless, I have no clue why those words came out of my mouth, but they damn sure did.

  She stops again and looks over her shoulder. “And you have no idea who I am or what courage it took for me to even—” She shakes her head before continuing, “Thanks for the bag.”

  I let her walk away, but I don’t turn around. Instead, I follow her.

  Three blocks away, she looks back, and I stop.

  “What do you want?” she asks.

  “To know that you aren’t walking the damn streets alone; to know that man, or whomever else you’ve turned on, isn’t waiting to take you in the fucking alley. Do you have any idea what could happen to you? Do you have a fucking clue!”

  My anger is getting the best of me. Watching her ass sway seductively as she walks ahead of me, and the words—those fucking words she wrote—have me in a much different type of rage. I’m ready to combust.

  This is a rage I have never experienced.

  I close my eyes, not wanting to see sadness, or anger, or lust, or... her. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to give a damn if she is walking the streets. Giving a damn made me lose control back then. I won’t lose my power over my emotions again.

  “I’m here.” She points at the hotel she’s standing in front of. “Would you like me to get you a cab?”

  “I’d like you to get your ass inside and go to sleep. I’d like that a whole hell of a lot.”

  She doesn’t move, so I do, grabbing her elbow and walking her through the door and toward the elevator, where I hit the button to take her up.

  “What floor?” I ask as I shove her inside.

  “Eighteen,” she answers, and I hit the corresponding button.

  The door closes quickly, and I am forced to stay on the damn thing.

  I stand with my back toward her, facing the door and focusing on it and not her shaky breath, her sweet scent, her fucking teeth chattering, and the fact I’m in a fucking elevator. I feel anxiety rise inside of me. Albeit dull from the drinks I had, I know it’s there. I decide the stairs are a far better idea than getting into this fucking thing again.

  The metal box stops every fucking second or third floor, and it’s midnight. Why the hell aren’t these people in bed? And why the hell are they going up?

  As it fills up, I am forced back until I’m finally standing in front of her in the corner. Our proximity is too damn much. So is the closed-in area and the ten people shoved into a tin box smaller than a cell.

  When we finally stop at the eighteenth floor, I have to push to get through the crowded elevator to get her out and onto her floor, to safety.

  When I turn
to look at her, she looks away. “Thank you.”

  “What room is yours?” I ask.

  “Eighteen twenty-four. I’m capable.” She shoves her hand into her pocket, and then sighs before looking in the black bag.

  When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, her body trembles slightly in a silent sob. “I lost my key card.”

  “You sure?” I start to reach for the bag to look for myself, but she steps back.

  “You should go.” Her face heats with embarrassment as she begins walking toward the elevator.

  I see a card sticking out of her pocket. “Check your back pocket, Tatum.”

  Chapter Six

  Tatum

  I spent the entire day drinking away my sorrows, my insecurities, and my reserve. Now I am face to face with them, with him. I shouldn’t be so contorted over him. This isn’t what coming to Detroit was about.

  I had it all once before. Then it was gone. Every moment he comes around, my muse, something changes in me. Suddenly, writing this romance isn’t about my job, a story, or even the city of Detroit. It’s all twisted between Johnathon and Annie, and me and the man in front of me.

  The way his raw, gruff voice says my name is purely sexual. The confidence in the way he carries himself, the way he focuses in the cage, while he runs, and on... me is sexy.

  The fact that a woman like me—self-sufficient, educated, lets nothing stop her—is tipped upside down and turned inside out by a man they call Kid is unexplainable, illogical, and unmistakably sexual.

  It takes me a moment to reach into my back pocket and grab the key card. When I turn around, he is looking at me like he wants to say something, yet he doesn’t. Again, he watches me, studies me like a puzzle he can’t seem to put together.

  I have never been an insecure woman, not until now. Not until I stand at his feet and at his grandeur. He makes me feel like I should bow down to him. Hell, I want to be on my knees for him, something I have never wanted before.

  “I’m not crazy,” I whisper to myself, to him.

  He takes the key from my hand and starts stalking toward my room.

  Confused, I catch up to him as he stands at the door. He looks at the key, then the door, and then sticks it in and tries to open it.