Best Friends Forever_A Marriage Pact Romance

by Jess Bentley

  Burke Powell had broken a sweat, was loose and in his athletic prime at twenty-six. If he won his next fight, he seemed likely to get a shot at the UFC heavyweight world championship belt before the end of the year.

  Mick had just gotten out of an air-conditioned car, performed only some light stretching, and his thirty-nine-year-old body bore the wear and tear of a lifetime of rugby, military training, and real-life combat.

  He also gave up two inches of height and thirty-five pounds of muscle.

  Within thirty seconds, Burke Powell knew he was in trouble.

  The two men circled each other under the watchful eye of Roberto Luiz, but as soon as they came together in a clinch, Mick dropped to a knee, shot in to grab Powell’s left leg, and sent him sprawling to the floor. With blinding speed, he swung his body up and around Powell’s defenses, hooking an arm around his throat and both legs around the larger man’s right shoulder.

  Powell found himself tapping the mat frantically to stop Mick from dislocating his shoulder.

  Luiz brought both men back to their feet, and Powell slapped himself across the face with each hand.

  “Lucky,” he muttered under his breath.

  Mick showed no emotion, standing ready to begin again.

  The second time the two fighters clinched, Mick let himself be taken down with a hip toss, but when he hit the mat he pulled Powell’s arm close to his body, swiveling his hips and locking in a painful arm bar on his standing opponent. From flat on his back. The Bruiser tapped out again.

  Powell stormed off the mat and slapped a full water bottle from atop a set of lockers near the trash can.

  “Can’t wait to tell my ‘old lady’ how I got to train with a real-life UFC fighter!” Mick mocked his cocky opponent.

  Powell glared at him. “Fuck you. What kind of shit is this, Roberto? Who is this guy, some kind of jiu-jitsu world champion ringer or something?”

  “He’s just some old guy, remember? Mick, what color belt do you have?”

  “Belt? Black. Absolutely. Got it at Brooks Brothers. Came with the last set of suits I bought.”

  “You two are hilarious. This is a set-up,” Powell complained. “Whatever. But I started my career in kickboxing. Come down to ’Berto’s gym some time and I’ll wipe the floor with you in the ring.”

  “Bad idea, brother,” Roberto interjected. “Mick’s hands are better than his grappling.”

  “How about we just train, mate? I need a workout,” Mick said, walking over and extending a hand.

  Powell shook it reluctantly, and the three men began what wound up being a grueling two-hour session, all three of them flat on their backs, shirtless and sweating, gasping for air by the end.

  When they finally staggered to get towels and water, Powell expressed his new-found respect for Mick. “Dude. I need to work like this again, soon. What’s your schedule like?”

  “Sorry, mate, I just drop in on Roberto now and then,” Mick explained. “I don’t train regularly anymore.”

  “Training camp starts in two weeks for my next fight in California. In Big Bear. Can you come down for a weekend or something?”

  “We’ll see. I’m off for a week back home, in the U.K., leaving tonight. In just a few hours. After that, I’d have to look at my schedule. Get with Roberto, he’ll hit me up, maybe we can do something.”

  Mick thanked Roberto for the workout and put on a dry, sleeveless t-shirt. He figured he had enough time to drive home, throw some green stuff in his blender for a smoothie, have a quick shower, and head for the airport.

  Just before getting on the freeway, he pulled into a gas station to grab a drink. He waved a red Camry in right before him and returned a courtesy wave from the blonde behind the steering wheel.

  Chapter 13

  Ayla had been battling exhaustion since somewhere around Barstow.

  She hated the taste of coffee, especially the putrid gas station stuff, but she’d forced herself to keep drinking it as she kept her car pointed toward Las Vegas.

  The last mountain range before the Nevada state border was summited by Ayla’s car under protest. It knocked, pinged, and limped to the top, the A/C barely functioning.

  Preston did his best not to complain, but it was hot.

  “When we get to that Sinclair station around the corner from home, we’ll stop and you can get a slushie, okay?”

  Preston agreed, giving an exaggerated nod.

  Somehow, Ayla coaxed her car the rest of the way up I-15 and down the 215 until she reached their exit. The gas station was on the left side of the street, and she pulled into the center turn lane looking for a hole in the traffic so she could produce the promised slushie for her son.

  Cars backed up at the light going the other direction, but a small gap appeared and a guy in a black Navigator waved her over. She waved back and pulled in.

  “Let’s get some of this trash cleaned up,” Ayla urged Preston. “It’s a mess back here, bubba!”

  As the two of them shoveled fast food wrappers and empty water bottles into a bag, Ayla glanced up and across the backseat to watch the driver of the black SUV walk into the store. His walk was unhurried, graceful and confident. He was tall and dark. She had to assume handsome, since she could only see the back of his head. His arms bulged and rippled in all the right places, and Ayla’s pulse quickened.

  Once she was satisfied that Preston’s pigsty was clean, she pushed the bag down into the trash barrel by the door and walked into the store, stopping to let the cold air conditioning work its magic.

  Preston was a bundle of energy after spending the entire afternoon in the backseat, and he burst through the doors and skipped down the candy aisle.

  “Walk!” Ayla commanded, and Preston’s pace slowed, albeit almost imperceptibly.

  Ayla stretched and waltzed over to where Preston had disappeared down the candy aisle and toward the coolers where the soda and sports drinks were displayed.

  She arrived at the intersection of the aisles just in time to see a running Preston collide with someone and bounce backwards.

  Her son had turned the corner at full speed, and the poor guy he crashed into was minding his own business, having just pulled two Gatorades from the cooler.

  Preston started to fall, Ayla started to shout, and the man her son had bumped into juggled his two bottles and shot a hand out to grab Preston’s forearm and stop his momentum, suspending him inches from crashing to the floor.

  “There’s a good lad,” he said, as Ayla rushed up from behind. “You alright, mate?”

  Words tripped over themselves coming out of Ayla’s mouth. She wanted to thank the man, apologize, and scold Preston for his carelessness, all at once.

  “Preston! Thank you, I’m so sorry, I told him to slow down, he never list—”

  Ayla’s voice caught in her throat.

  Preston looked up at the man he’d run into like he was seeing a superhero. As Ayla suspected, he was handsome as well as being tall, dark, and muscle-bound.

  He was Mick Merryweather.

  Mick straightened up to his full 6-foot-3 and loosened his grip on the boys’ arm. Preston looked at his mommy and at the stranger he’d crashed into. Then back at his mother. He expected his mother to scold him, but she wasn’t saying anything. The two grownups stood there with their mouths moving, but no sounds were coming out. Preston was puzzled by their behavior, and he shuffled sideways until he was next to his mom. He reached up and placed his hand in hers.

  Preston’s hand felt real enough, but Ayla gave it a squeeze just to make sure; to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. It was him.

  She’d certainly dreamt of him enough to know exactly what he looked like, and to recall his voice. His hair was shot through with salt here and there now, but otherwise, he looked just the same – the same as that miraculous night he took her on that garage roof beneath the stars, amid all the neon the Las Vegas Strip had to offer…

  Ayla’s pulse raced and she fought back a tremble, for Preston’s sa
ke. This was the day she’d longed for and fantasized about for so long, and especially in the past few days, but the shock of suddenly being face to face with him was almost too much. What would she say? What would she do? Would he even remember her?

  What would he say? What would he do? Would she even remember him?

  Mick Merryweather had been minding his own business, grabbing two bottles of Gatorade to replace everything he’d left on the mat at The Sweat Factory, when an exuberant little boy had turned the corner too quickly and collided with him. He’d bounced off and fallen back, and it was only through some sort of reflex that Mick had been able to shift one of the bottles into the crook of his elbow and snatch the boy out of the air before he tumbled to the floor. It seemed the sort of thing his own father would have done, catching him or his brother when one of them fell while trying to leap from the kitchen counter to the sofa in the next room. Mick and Frank had been hellions, more often than not sporting black eyes and split lips. It was only due, on more than one occasion, to their father’s protective instincts that they escaped permanent injury.

  If, however, Mick had surprised himself with his heroism— hell, he even sounded just like his father when he spoke to the boy (‘There’s a good lad…’ How many times had Harry Merryweather said that to Frank or Mick?)— he was downright shocked when he saw the boy’s mother.

  It was her. There was no mistaking it. Sure, the last time— well, the only time, he’d seen her— she’d been dressed to the nines, with perfect hair and makeup, and now she was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, with her hair piled up on top of her head. But he’d recognize her anywhere.

  She’d spent enough time in his dreams, and in his fantasies, that he’d memorized all the curves of her wicked body and contours of her angelic face.

  It was her. Now the only problem was whether or not she remembered him. Or if she did, if she’d even care.

  She evidently had a son, so that meant she probably had a man… but he might never get another chance. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

  “Hi. I… this is awkward. I don’t know if you remember me, but I think, no— I’m sorry, I’m sure of it,” Mick muttered, trying to control his breathing and calm himself. “Yes, we met once before. You’re Mick. Mick Merryweather.” He extended his hand. “And I am?”

  Ayla laughed softly. “I think you’re Mick Merryweather. Right?” Did he actually seem nervous? She couldn’t imagine a man like him being nervous about anything.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Mick replied. “Sorry.” He held up a bottle of purple Gatorade to his brow. “I’ve just come from a workout. I must be delirious. Yes, my name is Mick. It would be lovely to know yours. Oh, and his,” Mick motioned to Preston. “This strapping young man who almost knocked me down. Do you play rugby? That was quite a tackle!”

  Preston smiled and shook his head, pulling Ayla’s arm around his head so that he could burrow into the protective cocoon of her aura.

  “His name is Preston. I’m Ayla. Murray.” She reached out and shook Mick’s proffered hand. “And yes, we have ‘met’ before. A few years ago.”

  The handshake lingered, neither Ayla nor Mick wanting to break it, but likewise not knowing how to proceed.

  Mick broke the silence first. “I hope this isn’t too forward, but would you like to get a cup of coffee or something? I mean if you aren’t,” Mick nodded toward Preston and then held up his left hand to display his bare ring finger.

  It took Ayla a moment to get Mick’s hint. Her mind was still racing a billion miles per hour, and touching his hand again after all these years had sent a jolt directly to the part of her body that remembered Mick best.

  Their handshake reluctantly ended, and they moved up into the candy aisle to make way for some softball players who’d come in to get Gatorades of their own.

  “Yes. I think that would be wonderful,” Ayla responded. She didn’t want to seem desperate, but she wasn’t about to let the opportunity to reunite with Mick slip through her fingers.

  Mick had to see her again. Just being near her made his cock twitch in the sweaty, painful cup he’d worn for his workout. He feared what a full erection might feel like in such confinement.

  “Can I give you my number? Or have yours?” Mick asked. “I’m on my way home to shower and change and I have a flight leaving in a few hours to visit my mum in England. But I’d love to see you just as soon as I get back.”

  Ayla feared that Mick was coming up with an excuse not to have to see her again. He had to know Preston was his. He looked just like him. And Ayla admitted to not being married. Her son was the right age to have been the fruit borne of their union. She had to somehow ensure (God, he was handsome!) that Mick would see her again. But how?

  “Here, I’ll give you my number,” Ayla said, pulling out her phone. “And you text me from your phone so I have yours?”

  “Absolutely,” Mick replied, setting his bottles down on a nearby shelf. “Go ahead.”

  Ayla read off her number, Mick received it and sent her a text back so she’d have his.

  “When you get back from Sheffield, hopefully we can get together,” Ayla said with a smile.

  Mick returned the smile, but then his expression changed.

  He’d never mentioned where in England he was going. And it would be an awfully lucky guess to pull ‘Sheffield’ out of thin air. He didn’t necessarily want to confront Ayla on it. Not just yet, anyway. If things went the direction he hoped they’d go, he’d get an answer one way or another. The fact that she had a son didn’t make her any less attractive to him. A bit complicated, perhaps, but she certainly seemed like a prize that would be well worth enduring a healthy dose of “complicated” to obtain.

  Ayla squeezed Preston’s hand. She wanted to die. She’d slipped and mentioned his hometown, with no good explanation, except that in a roundabout way she’d been stalking him.

  “I… we came in to buy Preston a slushie. Maybe if you have a minute I can get that and he can drink it while we talk outside or somewhere a little more private?”

  Mick felt uneasy about the whole Sheffield thing, but he wanted everything to proceed. To work.

  He didn’t want it to be weird for Ayla’s son, though.

  “Sure. Yes, of course, have him pick out whatever he wants and just put it with my stuff, okay?”

  Preston picked out a cherry cola slushie, masterfully mixing the two flavors just so. He set it proudly on the counter next to Mick’s Gatorades and Ayla’s bottle of lemonade. Mick peeled a twenty-dollar bill of a roll of cash to pay for it. Ayla at that moment had four dollars in cash to her name.

  They strolled outside, with Mick stealing glances at Ayla’s ass swaying to and fro as she slowly sashayed along. He’d loved her walk, and it hadn’t changed a bit.

  “There’s a park just a couple blocks away,” Ayla offered. “I don’t know if you have time, we could talk there. They have a splash pad; Preston will be happy to get wet.”

  Mick checked his phone. “Sure, I can make that work.” Sitting at a park, or anywhere, with Ayla Murray (He loved her name) definitely beat hanging out in an airport waiting to be called to queue up for his flight. He could still make it. This opportunity was too much to pass up. “I’ll follow you.”

  As soon as she got in the car, Ayla fired off a text to Desiree, in all caps. “I AM WITH MICK. OMG OMG OMG!!!”

  Desiree’s reply was instant. “Drinking and driving is a no no, girl!”

  “Seriously! Come to Mojave Pointe Park, by the splash pad. Bring a towel for Preston?”

  “Try to stop me!”

  “Mommy, do you know that big guy? He looks like a wrestler or something. Are we really going to the park?” Preston’s questions were rapid-fire, as was his custom.

  “He’s an… old friend,” Ayla explained. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “Oh, okay. Is he coming to the park with us?”

  “Yes, just for a little bit. I have to talk to him about s
ome stuff. Desiree is coming to watch you, okay? Your suit is packed; you can just get wet in your clothes.”

  “Awesome,” Preston replied.

  They pulled into the park, and Preston kicked off his shoes, peeled off his shirt, handed Ayla his slushie, and ran for the fountains.

  Ayla waved to Mick as he pulled in and she sauntered over to a picnic table shaded by a tree within shouting distance of the water feature, where Preston had already found two boys near his age to play with.

  Mick had guzzled his purple Gatorade on the drive to the park. He carried his green one along, wishing he had something stronger to calm his nerves.

  “Is this okay?” Ayla asked, setting down her things on the table.

  “You’re the expert, Ayla. I don’t have any kids,” Mick said, sitting down. “It’s sad, I drive through here quite often and I never knew there was a park here. It’s nice.”

  Ayla wanted to correct him, to tell him he did “have a kid,” but she remained silent on the matter.

  “It’s one pf Preston’s favorite places,” Ayla said, watching him chase one of his new friends through the grass by the fountain.

  “He looks like fun. A handful, I’m sure, but I bet it’s a great age. Is he what, seven?”

  “Just turned six, actually.”

  “And it’s just the two of you?” Mick asked. Ayla watched Desiree get out of her car and walk toward the fountains. Desiree was tall and pretty, and Ayla was used to guys hitting on her friend whenever they went out in public together. In fact, on more than one occasion, dads who’d brought their kids to play at Mojave Pointe Park had tried to leave with Desiree’s number.

  Ayla watched Mick’s face to see if he’d turn and stare at Desiree like so many guys did, but he was too busy hanging on every musical note that masqueraded as Ayla’s voice left her throat to notice the beautiful, statuesque black woman strolling across the park.