Kicker (DS Fight Club Book 1)

by Josie Kerr

  “I bet it’s hard finding trousers that fit you, isn’t it?”

  “Jeans, not so much, at least now. When I was younger, all I wore were sweatpants or athletic shorts because it was too hard to find something both long enough and small enough in the waist.” He shoved the last of the noodles in his mouth and swallowed. “I about panicked though when C said we had to wear suits to the pre-fight conferences—and like, a suit suit, not a pair of Dockers and a sport coat.”

  “I bet you can’t just walk into the Men’s Wearhouse and pick something out, huh?”

  “No. The guy actually laughed at me and was all, ‘We don’t have pants for you, son.’ It was humiliating.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Charlotte looked at him with so much sympathy that he just had to lean across the table and kiss her, if only to get that sad look off her face.

  “Anyway, C took me to the guy that Mick gets his suits from.”

  “Mick? Like Em’s Mick?”

  Tig laughed. “Yeah, Em’s Mick. Apparently he used to be very thin, like seventy-five pounds lighter than C, but he’s stopped living off cigarettes and coffee and has fattened up a bit.”

  “He’s a big guy. Hell, they’re all big guys.”

  “Except me.” Tig fiddled with a napkin, and it was Charlotte’s turn to kiss away his discomfort.

  “You’re a perfect size,” she said. “And you eat like a big guy. When I’m ready to have you over for dinner, I’ll make sure I double everything.”

  Tig chuckled and squeezed her hand. “I take it the cooking lessons are going well?”

  “Yes, they are. I’ve caught just a couple of things on fire and only set off the smoke alarm once, so I’m calling it good.”

  He smiled at her. “Good. That’s so great. I need to give you a congratulatory kiss.”

  “Well, I’ll definitely take one of those.”

  Tig leaned over the table and pressed his lips to hers. He brought his hand up to the side of her head as she leaned into the kiss. He felt her sigh as he nudged her lips open with his tongue.

  “Charlotte . . . ,” he said on a breath.

  Charlotte pulled back and licked her lips. “Whew. I gotta get back to the office; otherwise, we’re both going to end up in my apartment, naked and sweaty.” She blew out a breath and grinned.

  “Damn.”

  Tig wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close again. “Whenever you’re ready for me to be naked and sweaty in your apartment, just say when, and I’ll be there.” He kissed her soft, long, and slow, one hand cradling the back of her neck and the other whispering the softest touches on her cheek. “Just say when, Charlotte.”

  He kissed her once more.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  Tig threw his head back and laughed at the, probably unintended, innuendo. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I have my bike, remember? Whew.” He kissed her cheek and winked. “Thank you for a lovely lunch, pretty lady. I’ll talk to you soon?”

  “Yeah, very soon. Bye, Tig.”

  “Bye, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte leaned with her elbow on the table, wistful, as she watched him walk away. He turned around and gave her a little wave before he got on his bicycle and rode away.

  Every time they got together, it was a little harder for her to say goodbye.

  She was sitting at the little table, staring out into space, when her phone’s chiming jolted her out of her daydream.

  She huffed a little laugh at Em’s message confirming that they were still on for their cooking lesson in the evening. She grinned and texted her confirmation as she walked back to her car.

  And then ran smack into someone.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry . . . Nick?”

  “Whoops! Hey there, Charlotte. I was just going to grab a bite. How are you?”

  Her father’s personal assistant smiled blandly at her. She liked him but did not trust him. He seemed to pop up unexpectedly at events that Charlotte would never guess that he was interested in—almost like he was following her or spying on her.

  “I’m fine. I was just finishing up lunch myself. I’ve got to get back to the office now. Bye, Nick, it was good to see you.”

  “Likewise. Take care, Charlotte.”

  *****

  Em was trying not to laugh, and failing, as Charlotte stood by the stove, near tears.

  “I burned water, Em. Who the hell burns water?” She slapped her hands over her face and sucked in a shuddering sob. “I’m hopeless, absolutely hopeless.”

  “Charlotte, honey, you did not burn the water. You simply scorched the pan, and there’s not a cook on the planet that hasn’t done that.”

  Em pulled the other woman’s hands away from her face and gave them a squeeze.

  “Besides, that was mostly my fault. We shouldn’t have gotten into the wine so early on during meal prep. This is just a tiny setback. You’ve been doing really well, Charlotte.”

  “I did remember to put the marinade in a glass bowl,” Charlotte sniffed.

  “Yes, you did. Half the time I don’t remember to do that.” Charlotte leveled a look at Em’s fib, and she grinned. “Okay, every once in a while I won’t, and dinner will be ruined.”

  “It does smell really good, doesn’t it? I mean, over the smell of scorched Revere Ware.” Charlotte sniffed the air. The scent of roast beef made her mouth water.

  “It does. You did a great job, honey. And we’ll do the mashed potatoes another day. Tig’s going to be so impressed.”

  “You know I’m not doing this just for him, right? I had resolved to do this—actually cook, not just warm stuff up in the microwave—before I ever laid eyes on the man. It was part of the ‘Charlotte Louisa Needs to Grow the Hell Up’ resolutions that I do every year. I was just lucky to get a new friend that is an awesome cook.” Charlotte swiped at an unexpected tear.

  “Oh, sweetie.” Em hugged Charlotte. “It’ll be fine.”

  “So what do I do for a side? How do you know what to pair with what?” Charlotte could feel anxiety bubbling to the surface. She mentally chastised herself, which only served to intensify the panic.

  “Take a deep breath, Charlotte.” Em waited while Charlotte did as she asked. “Okay, better? Now what do you think you should prepare?”

  “I usually have french fries with roast, honestly. I know that’s lame.”

  Em blew a raspberry at her. “Do you do anything to them?”

  “Well . . . I sometimes do this thing that I saw on one of those cooking shows. . . .”

  “Show me.”

  Charlotte spread the frozen french fries on a cookie sheet and misted them with olive oil before sprinkling garlic salt, onion salt, black pepper, and oregano. She popped them in the oven and set the timer.

  “Okay, I am totally stealing that from you, Charlotte. I never thought about coating frozen fries with oil, but it makes so much sense. I bet they’re really crispy when they come out, huh?”

  “Yeah, they are. They taste just like restaurant fries.”

  Charlotte could not help but grin at Em’s supposed awe over the french fries, but she would definitely take it.

  “Do you have any of that roasted garlic left?”

  “Yes, I made way too much of it.” Charlotte pulled a ramekin from the refrigerator. “I was going to try to make compound butter this weekend with it.”

  “You are getting fancy-fancy, Miss Charlotte,” Em said with a laugh. “Let’s use some of it to jazz up that ketchup.”

  Twenty minutes later, Em and Charlotte sat down to a dinner of seasoned fries with garlic ketchup, Crock-Pot roast beef, and soft yeast rolls.

  Em hummed with pleasure. “Charlotte, this is a grade A meal. No one could say they weren’t impressed with it. So yum.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Totally yum.” Em did a little dance in her chair. “I can’t wait to try some of this out with Mick and Emily.” She took a sip of wine. “So. The big question: what are you going
to prepare for Mr. Mashburn, and when?”

  “Well, I was thinking that beer-can chicken thing and tomorrow night since it’s a Friday and a long weekend.”

  “Excellent—plenty of time to have after-dinner celebrations.” Em winked at Charlotte. “I always say, ‘The way to into a man’s pants is through his stomach.’ Wait. That sounded so much cleverer in my head than the way it came out.”

  Charlotte blushed but mentally added condoms to her shopping list.

  “Ooh, you are planning some shenanigans, Charlotte Markham. Tig isn’t going to know what hit him tomorrow night. Good for you.”

  “Now you see why I never come over for card games? I know I broadcast every single thing that’s going through my head on my face.”

  “That’s not such a bad thing. Keeps you honest. The world could use a lot more honesty.”

  “Yeah.”

  The two women finished their meal and then chatted about the menu for Tig’s dinner as they cleaned up the kitchen. When all was spic-and-span and leftovers were divvied up, Em hugged Charlotte tightly before she left, whispering, “Have fun tomorrow,” in her ear.

  Charlotte shut the door to her apartment and leaned her face against the cool surface.

  “Okay, Charlotte, you can totally do this,” she said out loud to her empty apartment.

  She blew out a breath and reached down to scratch her leg.

  “But first, you have got to shave your legs. Good grief.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you got some in the past week or so.” Dig squinted at Tig, who wiggled his eyebrows at the much bigger fighter, but did not reveal anything. Not that there was anything to reveal. “Little Miss Pink Suit? Really?”

  “We had dinner over at her place. We’ve gone to lunch a few times. . . .”

  “That’s why you took out of here like a rocket yesterday, huh?”

  “Maybe.” Tig winked.

  Dig laughed at Tig’s coyness. Whatever was happening with that prissy woman, Tig seemed to be happy.

  Tig’s phone buzzed with a text, and he hurriedly swiped the lock screen off.

  “Whoa, look at him go. She must be sending dirty pictures. . . .”

  “Fuck you, Dig,” Tig said with a good-natured laugh, but that got him thinking about the possibility of receiving dirty pictures from Charlotte. Damn. He might just have to figure out how to broach this subject. Hmm . . .

  And his grin froze on his face. “Goddammit,” he muttered. Not at all who he wanted to hear from. He read the text message from his mother, telling him to check his email.

  He was reading his mother’s electronic babble about the state of the peanut fields and other farm concerns when his father called him. Dig laughed at Tig’s pained expression, and Tig flipped his friend off even as he answered the phone.

  “Hey, Neil. What’s up?”

  Tig listened to his father talk about horses that were ready to be worked and concerns about his mother and her stress levels.

  Tig scrubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath before promising that he would be down that weekend to check on, well, everything: horses, pecans, peanuts, and parents. Tig hung up the phone and flopped down on his back on a mat while Dig laughed at him.

  “Fuck you, man. I swear I talk to them more now than I did when I was living in the same county. Damn.” He laughed. He knew he was lucky to have as good of a relationship with his parents, all things considered, but damn, he wanted to see Charlotte this weekend and maybe, just maybe, take things a little further than feeling her up in the kitchen, though he’d settle for that right about now. Hell, he just wanted to sniff whatever that scent was that she wore. He loved that. He wanted to bathe in her scent, wanted to submerge himself in it, to taste and consume it.

  His phone rang again, and Dig guffawed loudly, not even trying to be discreet.

  “Goddammit. What?” Tig almost yelled. “Oh, man. Oh, no, sweetheart. You didn’t catch me at a bad time. Actually, you caught me at a great time because I was just getting really tired of talking to people that I didn’t want to talk to. Hold on, baby.”

  “‘Baby’? Really? You have got it bad, Mashburn.”

  “Dig, go and fuck off somewhere else, okay? Give me some privacy.”

  Dig snorted and with a muttered retort about this being a public workout room, wandered off down the hall.

  “Okay, Charlotte, what’s up?”

  Tig began grinning as soon she uttered the stammered invitation to come over for dinner, a dinner that she was going to cook, all by herself. He hated the uncertainty she had in her voice, but he loved the excitement that he heard as well.

  “I’d love to, baby. What time? What do you want me to bring?”

  They negotiated for a few moments, but she finally relented to letting him bring dessert, and after they hung up, Tig made a note to include a box of condoms, along with a cake, on his shopping list.

  He lay on his back on the mat, looking at the exposed guts of the gym ceiling and grinning like an idiot. Then he rolled backward into a plank and hopped up, whistling as he left the room.

  Charlotte held her breath while she carefully placed the roasting pan into the oven. Tonight was the culmination of all her hard work with Em: Tig was coming over for dinner, a dinner she had prepared all by herself.

  The phone rang, again, just as she put on the potatoes to boil, and she ignored it just as she had been doing for the previous three hours.

  “I don’t have time to deal with you tonight, David,” Charlotte muttered to herself. “I’ve got to feed a fighter with a huge appetite.”

  She set the timer, poured herself a glass of wine and sat down to rest for a few moments until the potatoes were ready. She had new respect for people who worked in kitchens. She could not imagine doing this day in and day out for hours at a time.

  She was just warming milk and butter in a saucepan when her father burst into the apartment.

  “Charlotte, why the hell aren’t you answering the phone?” he barked at her, startling Charlotte enough that she jerked the saucepan off the stove and splashed lukewarm sauce all over the front of her shirt. She shot him a hostile look but did not say anything, just proceeded to wipe off the front of her T-shirt and face.

  David Markham stomped into the kitchen and jerked Charlotte’s arm. “Charlotte, answer me,” he demanded.

  Charlotte looked at her father’s hand on her arm and then looked at him with an expression he had never, ever seen her wear.

  “Excuse me? You don’t get to grab at me like that, ever,” Charlotte said, wrenching her arm out of David’s grip.

  “And you, missy, you don’t make me come to your apartment to make sure you’re not dead.”

  Charlotte scoffed. “Please, it’s been what, eighteen hours since I last spoke with you? I go weeks without talking to either of you if it suits you. You’re just mad because I’ve been ignoring you.”

  When her father’s mouth dropped open with shock, it dawned on her how she had just spoken to him, and she realized that she just might not care if he was offended.

  David took a deep breath and seemed to regain his normal, cool composure.

  “I wanted to go over what’s going to happen on Sunday,”

  Charlotte snorted. “Please. How long have I been going to these things? I’ll put on a suit and my best face, and I’ll smile and nod and talk to dirty old men about their investments while their wives pinch the waiters and get drunk, just like I have for the past eighteen years.”

  “Charlotte Louisa Markham, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but . . . what on earth is that stench?”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.” Charlotte snatched the now smoking pot of potatoes off the stovetop. “They’re ruined.”

  “Charlotte, are you even listening to me?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m trying to cook dinner.”

  David stopped and looked at his daughter. “Why on earth are you doing that?”

  “I’m learni
ng how to cook. I need to do something well besides what I do for a living.”

  “Why?”

  “Just because I do, David. And now it’s ruined.”

  “Just order in then.”

  “But I was supposed to have someone over. . . .”

  David waved her off. “If it was that important, you’d have Chef come and prepare everything early. This is no way to impress anybody.”

  “You just don’t get it. I wanted to make dinner myself. It’s the process that’s important, David.”

  “Well, apparently you can’t cook, so just get over it and move on. I just wanted to make sure that you were going to be there on Sunday, and on time.”

  “Yes, David. I will be sure to be there at least twenty minutes early, appropriately dressed and with my best princess smile on my face,” Charlotte spat.

  “Good. I’m glad that you aren’t being difficult about this,” David said, completely oblivious to Charlotte’s mood. He smiled at her and then patted her arm. “I’ll see you on Sunday, then.”

  Charlotte stood in the kitchen in shock as she watched her father leave the apartment. She eyed the wine but then shook her head. It would not do any good to be drunk before Tig arrived. She scraped the scorched potatoes into the trash can, and after she surveyed the damage to the sauce pan, threw that in as well.

  The timer went off for the oven and Charlotte inhaled deeply, then blew out the air. “Now it’s time for the moment of truth, Charlotte,” she said. “Let’s take a look.”

  She peeked in the oven, barely opening the door. It smelled good at least. She took another deep breath, pulled the chicken out, and almost cried. The front half of the bird was not brown at all, and the top and back were burnt almost to the point of looking like charcoal.

  And, of course, Tig rang the doorbell at that exact moment.

  Charlotte looked forlornly at the chicken and then went to greet Tig.

  When she opened the door, Tig greeted her with a big bouquet of mixed flowers and an even bigger smile. Charlotte immediately burst into tears.

  “Charlotte, darlin’, what’s wrong?” Tig said gently as he stepped into the apartment.