A Moment of Weakness

by Brooklyn Skye

  Jesus, man. You’re acting hornier than a rabid fifteen-year-old.

  Laurel stiffened under the weight of his arm, her shoulders rolling back as she glanced up to meet his eyes. Was she scared of him because of what he’d told her about his side job? Worried about his touch because technically he was her boss? Or uncomfortable because he was her best friend’s older brother? “Not school,” she said, her hand twitching against her side as if she’d thought to take his hand but instead thought better of it. “Growing up in a house with both parents as teachers, it’s pretty much all I heard whenever I caused trouble.”

  He raised a brow and laughed. “You, cause trouble? That would be as believable as my sister shopping at Goodwill.”

  Even under the yellow glow of the afternoon sun, her face flushed red. A naughty side to his sweet, reserved nanny? And there went the control he’d just gained over the swelling in his pants.

  “What about you?” she asked quickly, obviously in an attempt to flip the focus off her. He wanted to know more, to ask what kind of trouble she’d gotten into. What kind of childhood she’d had, and what it was like to have two normal parents who’d loved and raised her with the best of intentions. Anyone with teachers as parents and the hope of teaching kids in her future had to have been raised with all that, right?

  Squinting against the sun, she smiled at him. Up ahead, Shae stooped to pick a ladybug off an overgrown rose bush. “I’m curious how you were in school,” she added.

  Troublemaker.

  Unruly and disruptive.

  What other names had he heard teachers call him back then?

  “Just be glad,” he said, drawing her in tighter against him, “as a future teacher, I’m well past my childhood.”

  Laurel wrinkled her nose. “That bad?”

  “I was pretty uncontrollable.” To put it nicely.

  “What’s the worst thing you did?”

  At which school? Over the years, he’d been moved from school to school because of his behavior. “Mostly fights,” he said, peering down to gauge her reaction. He wasn’t that person anymore—with zero ruling over his temper. He still fought, but those parameters were set, he liked to think, and he was in much more control. “But there was this one time in high school I pissed off the principal pretty bad.”

  Laurel’s head jerked back. “Uh oh. What’d you do?”

  “Other than being disruptive, disrespectful, defiant, and disobedient toward staff at all times?” He chuckled lightly. Christ, he’d been such an asshole student back then. “One time in history, the teacher failed me for having too many absences. So, naturally, I made a sculpture out of textbooks in the classroom and then called the teacher a philistine for knocking it down.”

  “Oh my god.” She giggled. “During class?”

  He nodded. “Security brought me to the principal, and instead of just ’fessing up and complying with my detention sentence, I repeatedly answered his questions about why I did it with smartass remarks.”

  “Like?”

  “Like…” Geez, he hadn’t thought about those years in ages. What was it he’d said to Principal Buckskin? “‘I can’t tell you why I stole the key to the book cabinet, as it would go against my religion to prove the existence of the holy motherfucker upstairs’.”

  Her hand slapped over her mouth, and she laughed louder. “You didn’t!”

  He cringed. “I did.”

  “What did your parents say?”

  Parents.

  Father.

  Fuck, why had he led the conversation there? His stomach churned, legs grew restless. He drew back his arm and slowed his steps, all too aware of the way Laurel was looking at him. Her searching eyes and the divot materializing between them.

  If he gave her this, would she stop prying? Stop trying to know about that part he was trying to forget?

  “It was just my dad,” he said lowly, stiffening his muscles so she wouldn’t feel him flinch. “And he literally beat the shit out of me. Said if I was going to get kicked out of school, it’d better be for fighting and not messing with the principal’s head.”

  Laurel’s hand rested on his arm and she spun, at the same time tugging him to a stop. And it wasn’t until she smoothed her fingers gently over his forehead and down his jaw that he realized he’d been gritting his teeth. Talk of his father always seemed to do that.

  “Why would he want you to fight?” she asked, her voice soft, a strange blend of curiosity and concern.

  Micah shrugged, swallowing against the pressure building in his chest. God, how he hated with a passion talking about that part of his life. “Boozing and brawling,” he ground out. “It was his way of life.”

  Short and sweet. No further explanation needed.

  A moment of silence fell between them, Laurel’s eyes and fingertips scanning every inch of his face. The inspection unnerved him, but it was nothing compared to the way his world jolted to the side when she stood on her tiptoes, whispered, “I’m so sorry,” and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

  Chapter Nine

  “You want the good or bad news first?” Ryan said, slamming a stack of paper folders onto the bar next to where Micah picked at the remains of his burger and fries. If he’d had the choice, he’d have gone home for dinner—Laurel’s home cooking was far better than fast food—but there was too much to do if he was going to be taking off early again tonight.

  “Considering you just met with Jackson and we desperately need that Bud account to continue, I’ll take the good.”

  Ryan lowered onto the stool next to him and snatched a fry, shoving it into his mouth. A piece of the innards clung to his bushy beard, and Micah just shook his head. How long was Ryan going to keep growing that thing? It had been a bet more than six months ago that he wouldn’t be able to handle it, and Ryan hadn’t picked up a razor since. “Well, because we’ve been with his company for a year now, we’ve got a track record. And as I’ve been in charge of the ordering, that track record is virtually spotless.”

  “Virtually?”

  Ryan shrugged and stole another fry. “There may have been one mishap.”

  “Showing up to the cock-fight-slash-meeting with a six-year-old you were supposed to be babysitting?” Micah teased and shoved the unfolded wrapper with his leftovers Ryan’s way. Fucking Ryan and his insane ideas…

  A lightness bloomed in Micah’s chest knowing he had Laurel to watch Shae now. Someone with a heart of gold and the intentions of a nun—when it came to kids at least.

  “No, that meeting proved we had a solid relationship with our supplier, thank you very much. Anyway”—he averted his eyes to the food, which Micah knew was his way of hiding something—“they’re willing to give us a more attractive pricing and better payment terms—no more cash only—so we can invest less capital in the inventory.”

  No more cash only; that was good news. “All right, so what’s the bad news?”

  Ryan finished off the fries and crumpled the wrapper. “He said we’re already acting like old bar owners, getting comfortable with our regular customers, that we’re missing the opportunity with new customers.” He twisted on the stool, throwing his feet onto the ground. “They’re our next meal ticket. The only way to keep a neighborhood pub in business.”

  Micah lifted a brow. “What does he want us to do? Lure in uppity subbies with the promise of a cold Bud and some fancy projector screen playing black-and-white movies? Have you seen the neighborhood we’re in?”

  “No black and whites,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “I was thinking something a little less classy.”

  “Like?” Jesus, what did his friend have in mind? If it was anything like his ideas back when they were kids, Micah knew he was in for a shit show.

  “Turn this place into a night club on Saturdays. Hire a DJ, clear the tables in the middle for a dance floor, get one of those ridiculous globe lights to hang up.” Ryan grinned. “It could make us a lot of money, bringing in the crowds like that.”

  �
�If anyone showed up…”

  “They would if we promoted it right.”

  Just then the door to the bar creaked open, silhouetting a slim body in the evening sun. A woman, obviously, with long hair flowing over her bare shoulders. Both Ryan and Micah squinted into the brightness flooding the room, dust motes drifting over the empty tables.

  “Tell me,” Ryan spouted to the woman, “would you be more interested in this place if you could get a little bump-and-grind action? Meet some nice guys? Maybe go home with one?”

  The woman giggled and swung the door wider. A mini silhouette popped into the room. “Bump and grind? Uncle Ryan, you have a tractor? I’ve always wanted to ride one!”

  Fuck. Shae.

  Micah punched Ryan’s arm and stood. “You talk to everyone’s nanny that way?” Then he looked to Laurel, who he could see now that the door was closed and the sun wasn’t blinding him. Tight jeans and an even tighter T-shirt, looking casually adorable and nothing like the type of girls who would be found bumping and grinding in a bar. “My friend evidently missed the manners train growing up.”

  Laurel smiled brightly, not thrown one bit by Ryan’s inappropriate interrogation. “Sounds like your sister.”

  “Sorry,” Ryan rushed out, clearing the trash from the bar. “Didn’t realize you were someone Micah knew.”

  “It’s okay,” Laurel said, adjusting the small purse strap across her chest. The leather band fit between her breasts, pushing in the thin cotton material. An unspoiled view to what lay beneath. “At least you didn’t hit me with an inappropriate pick-up line. That might have been awkward.”

  Ryan nodded, his eyes caressing the show Laurel’s purse strap was putting on, and a stab of something hot pierced through Micah’s chest. Quickly, he reached for the purse. “Let me take that for you.”

  “Thanks. Am I staying?” She held up a small square of paper—the note Micah had left on the counter in the apartment earlier that morning: Meet me at The Alibi at 5:00. Bring Shae. He wasn’t sure what he was doing; he only knew these tickets had fallen into his lap, and the thought of taking anyone other than Laurel and Shae repelled him.

  “Actually, no.” He tucked the purse under his arm, not paying attention at all to the scrutiny he could feel Ryan giving him. “The game starts in an hour, but it’ll take a little while to get there. Especially with commuter traffic.”

  “Game?” All three of them—Ryan, Shae, and his delectable nanny—said at once.

  “Dude,” Ryan spouted. “You’re taking off? Again? Just when we were about to plan an event for this weekend?”

  Shae tugged on his hand. “What kind of game, Daddy?”

  “Off-season hockey training,” he told her then looked at Ryan. “Free tickets. You wouldn’t have passed them up, either. I’ll be in tomorrow to help you plan your stupid bump-and-grind experience.”

  “Experience?” Ryan smiled and punched Micah’s arm. “That’s it! It’s going to be an experience. The Experience. Something people will never forget. Something that’ll keep bringing ’em back.” He started for the back office. “I’ll work on the flyers. Tomorrow you can team up with Trey to build a new drink list.”

  Micah shrugged. Whatever his friend wanted…

  Laurel glanced up at him, her head tilted to the side, and frowned. “Hockey game? Aren’t those freezing inside?” She pinched the hem of her thin T-shirt and stretched it out. “There’s a sweater in the car for Shae, but I don’t have anything warmer than this.”

  Why hadn’t he thought of that? And how hard would it have been to add to the note: dress warm? Micah glanced to his long-sleeved shirt—not exactly something he could offer her—when he suddenly remembered. “I’ve got an extra sweatshirt back in my office.”

  Big, black, and bulky with the words THE ALIBI written in blood red across the chest. And Lord did it smell like Micah. The spicy scent that set her nerves aflame every time she smelled it.

  Discreetly, Laurel lowered her nose to the material and inhaled. Masochistic, she knew. She couldn’t have her boss—again—without the risk of him coming to his senses and firing her for inappropriate work behavior, and yet she couldn’t stop drowning herself in his scent. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like if she did. Her hands on him, his on her. All over and searching to give her a beyond-belief orgas—

  Another body hit the Plexiglas in front of them, and Laurel jumped with a screech. “Jesus, do the players have to keep doing that?”

  Micah and Shae, sitting on the freezing-cold bench beside her, laughed. “I take it this is your first hockey game?”

  The crowd cheered. Micah grinned. Yeah, that gorgeous smile was doing nothing to help get rid of the absurd thoughts about him. She nodded, feeling her cheeks warm with the admission, “I’ve watched one on TV once.”

  He patted her knee and said to his daughter, “Looks like we need to get Laurel out more often.”

  Two more players rammed the clear barrier and then started to fight. Armed with sticks in their hands, they pushed and shoved and swung their arms until a referee skated over to break them up. Roars from the spectators grew louder, barking the words, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  Laurel held very still, noticing Micah’s hand hadn’t yet moved from her leg. Close to her knee, but enough pressure to feel the heat from it seeping through her jeans. Move your hand up my leg, Micah. No, don’t move your hand up my leg. Jeez, why am I thinking about him moving his hand up my leg? She pointed to the ice. “Do they always fight like that?”

  “Those are the enforcers. Or goons. And fighting in hockey is part of the code. Officials permit it, one, because they say it helps deter other types of rough play and allows teams to protect their star players, and, two, because it’s a considerable draw for the sport. Fans love it.”

  Including his six-year-old, she thought as she noticed Shae’s undivided attention on the players separating from the fight.

  Micah narrowed his stare on her. “You’re judging me for bringing her here, aren’t you?”

  She was, but her intentions weren’t to make him feel bad about it. “I just think there might be less violent sports that would be better for her to watch.”

  Suddenly, Shae leaned across her dad, cocked her head to the side, and said bluntly, “Fighting is bad. Daddy told me that after we went to watch the chickens fight.”

  Chickens fight? “You mean—”

  “Not me,” Micah spouted quickly. “Ryan. And I already told him what a shithead he was for taking her.”

  Laurel scolded him with her eyes for cussing in front of Shae, then absently nodded. All this fighting… It brought up the memory of what he’d told her about his other job. Fighting people to pay money.

  Carefully, she leaned closer to him and whispered, “Don’t you worry that you’ll run into the wrong kind of people when you’re…working?”

  Through the material of his shirt, his arm muscles stiffened. “People like…?”

  “Them.” She pointed to a group of men at the curve of the stadium. Sitting front row like her and her companions, but looking more out of place than anyone else with their black leather jackets and cigarettes tucked behind their ears. Tattoos littered their necks and shaved scalps and… “Dangerous people?” Even she could hear the tightness in her voice.

  Was she worried about him? Did she care enough about him to even be worried?

  The constricting in her chest answered that question for her. She swallowed against it and added, “It just seems so risky. Jumping into something with someone you know nothing about.” She lowered her voice and peeked at Shae to make sure she didn’t have prying ears. “How do you know the people don’t have…guns?”

  Their eyes met. His didn’t move an inch. “I don’t,” was all he said, but with a punch of finality. Boozing and brawling—it was what he’d said his father did. And while Micah wasn’t a drunk like April had said their father was, the tendency to fight might have had something to do with the way he’d been raised. Th
e thought sent an achy wave outward from her heart, all the way to the top of her head and the tips of her toes.

  “You don’t have to do it, you know. Work with those people? I’m sure there are other ways to make money.”

  “Says the girl who couldn’t find a real summer job and is instead babysitting for her best friend’s brother.” He rolled his eyes. “The money pays for Shae’s school and your salary and I can’t afford to lose either right now. Besides, I already told you I don’t have a choice. I’m stuck.”

  Or…it was all he knew. Was what he was comfortable doing. Easy fight; easy money. Psychology 101, Laurel. That same feeling when she saw a child in need of help hit her. Hard. Micah was no different. And she wanted desperately to fix him.

  Micah pulled the covers over Shae’s sleeping body and tucked in the edges of the blanket. Laurel, standing in the doorway of the dark room, didn’t feel like she was required for the bedtime routine but couldn’t pull herself from the doorway either. Micah was trying with Shae, given his circumstances, and that was the difference between him and most men who were raised in ugly conditions like his.

  She stepped back as he exited then quietly shut the door.

  “Long night.” A thin smile stretched his lips. “Are you tired?”

  “No.” She returned his smile, stepping into his space. Just an inch, but enough to hint to what she might be up to. She tilted her head up. “I was thinking a glass of wine. Want to join me?”

  His eyes caressed her from head to toe. She’d since removed the bar sweatshirt, and the sight of Micah’s eyes on her chest had her nipples hardening instantly. “Yeah,” he said lowly, “a nightcap would be good.”

  Oh, she was thinking more than a nightcap, but if she told him her plan, he may not want to stay up with her. Then again, he was a guy, and guys liked to—