“Don’t worry about it. Heavy pain meds do that for a reason, the more you let your body rest, the sooner it heals.”
“Holy shit! How did my coach just throw his voice into your mouth?” he quips good-naturedly.
“I’m going to fold your top blanket down to work on your arms and back.” I bring the covers over the lower half of his body.
His back, arms and shoulders are as perfect as his legs and ass. His muscles, even relaxed, bulge. I slide my hands over the planes of his back, from ass to neck, very gently, on either side of his spine. He has a black and white yin and yang tattooed between his shoulder blades over his spine. It’s surrounded by twelve oriental symbols or letters.
My hands glide over the art of his muscle and ink, and I feel like I’m making love to him. I pride myself on melding my body with my client’s when I work, but this is entirely different. I feel the difference in my heartbeat, my quickening breath and the sweet familiar ache between my thighs.
Smoothly, my hands and fingers work over the black tribal tattoos inked on both of his highly defined arms. His biceps clench as I reach them.
“Relax …” I barely get the word out.
“I can’t,” he says breathily. Sexily.
His forearms are beautiful, thick with corded muscle. I’ve always been an arm girl. I don’t know what it is about arms, but they turn me on more than any other body part—except for maybe eyes—and these are the finest arms I’ve ever touched.
The tats continue over both his hands and I follow them to the ends of his strong fingers. I rub each one before I flow back up to his swollen shoulders.
As I knead down and into his left ribs, I trail over the quote etched in ink there: I Am My Brother’s Keeper. I wonder at the meaning behind it.
On his right side, in cursive script, is the quote, “Do the thing you fear the most.” I read it out loud.
“Mark Twain,” he informs me.
I consider the script on his leg about fear, and I wonder what he’s striving to conquer. And if he’s beat it yet.
Moving down, my hands cup his hip. His body now glistens with the sheen of the sweet almond oil I’ve rubbed into him. I consider myself a medical paraprofessional, but my next move doesn’t feel professional at all. It feels animal and hungry. My fingertips dig into the muscles of his ass.
He moans and my eyes fall closed. I don’t speak, and I try desperately not to think as I knead and press and push. I fail. The slickness growing between my legs is reminding me that I’m human and I’m a woman. I’ve never had this reaction with a client before. But I’ve never had Josh North as a client before.
“Sweetheart, you’re killing me,” he exclaims, and I feel his hips pushing against the mattress. That can’t be easy with the fractures in his back.
I’m sure he has a hard-on, and I feel a small smile tug at the corners of my lips in satisfaction over the fact that I’m the one who gave it to him.
“I apologize,” he says. “I was given strict orders to be on my best behavior with you, but you rubbing there is not going to be conducive to that end result.”
“Your gluteus maximus is a connective muscle that needs to be included in your healing.” Oh my God, I’m dying!
The oxygen empties from his body as he strives to relax into my grip. The words that he just said finally seem to make it to the language sensors in my brain.
“Best behavior?” I pull down the curve of his ass to drift down his legs.
I love your artwork, Josh, I think in my head, as if I spoke the words out loud and as if he and I were close, intimate friends. I wonder how many of the stories in the articles about him that I devoured last night in those magazines Ay brought home are fiction. They made him out to be an indifferent, unattached and unapologetic bachelor who’s been seen in the most exclusive venues with the most popular starlets and models.
“Yeah, I … um …” he starts to say before switching gears. “Wait a minute, you said something yesterday, about Emerson and Eleanor Roosevelt, when I rudely checked out on you.”
“Nothing rude about it. I’m glad to have relaxed you so much.”
“Yeah, well you’re doing anything but now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Did you study philosophy?” he attempts to recover.
“Only a little, but I really enjoyed it,” I confess. “Did you?”
“I majored in philosophy,” he says matter-of-factly.
My hands stop as I try to compute that one.
“University of Minnesota.” He chuckles at my mute response. “No one ever believes me.”
“I believe you. I’m just surprised,” I admit.
“Did you study philosophy?” he asks again.
“I probably would’ve taken more classes on it if I’d gone to a four year university. Taking care of Charlie and studying was a real strain on both of us. Massage in the medical community has strong career potential and didn’t take four years.” I pause to think for just a second. “You’ve made some interesting career choices for a philosopher.”
“I guess I have,” he says lightly.
Fighting, fear, philosophy, I muse to myself. And just like that, Josh becomes a puzzle I’d like to solve.
Chapter Three
Josh
2005
“I’m not sharing my room with this motherfucker for anything!” Liam shouts, pointing at me. “I don’t care if he is your blood! He’s a douchebag!”
“Look who’s calling who a douchebag!” I lunge at him, and we roll across the floor in the bedroom that we’re forced to co-exist in.
Liam gets the upper hand. He’s got me by at least fifteen pounds and two years. He pins me and punches me twice across the jaw. The pain is refreshing. It makes me smile manically. I needed this. I’d been trying to be the “perfect” North to save face for my family since I got to Cade’s hell house a week ago.
Most the kids here hate each other vehemently. Some of them are from rival inner-city gangs, others are just passing through until they’re assigned to the next foster home; some are runaways, others are unwanted, homeless delinquents, a few others are “weekenders”—kids who are kicked out of their homes when Mommy wants to bring home a boyfriend for the weekend and doesn’t want her baggage to be seen.
It fucking sucks for all of us, but I don’t give a shit about their problems, I’ve got my own.
Liam, my roommate, is all into this girl who’s been here for a while, and he didn’t like that I was talking to her. He warned me, but that only made me laugh as I put my arm around her to get him more worked up. And now, here we are.
I can taste the blood and salt from my lip, and it feeds my frenzy like a shark. I knee Liam in the back and throw him off of me. I turn, get to my feet and swing at him hard and fast, so many times I lose count.
Cade pulls me off of him. Wrong move. I turn my fury against my uncle.
I don’t connect once; he blocks my every swing. The frustration makes me see red.
“When you fight angry, boy, you’ll lose every time,” he instructs calmly, like he isn’t involved in an all-out fist fight with someone way younger than he is.
Out of my peripheral I see Liam kneeling on the floor next to the wall, trying to get back up.
“Fuck you!” I rage at my uncle.
“You could put all of this energy into the bags,” he reminds me.
“I’m not going to your fucking gym! I’m leaving! I hate it here!” His stupid training center is set up to help troubled teens like me to “release the negative energy they’re holding and channel it positively.” Fuck that! Makes me want to puke! I’d heard the lecture all week from him, his wife and his crony followers like Liam here, for whom the training center was the sun of the freaking universe.
We’re still in the bedroom, but the other kids are trying to jam themselves in to watch us. Fucking perfect! I can’t get a punch in, and all of them are going to see it. I’ll lose the little clout I’ve built and will
get treated like a fucking pariah.
In an instant my uncle wheels me around and twists my arm up behind my back. The pain is unbearable. “That’s enough of that.”
“Oh, come on!” some kids protest.
“They were pretty equally matched,” my uncle states.
“Bullshit,” I bark.
Liam spits a mouthful of blood at me. “Fuck you!”
“If either of you want a rematch, it’ll have to be in the ring.” Cade walks me out of the room.
I’m at his mercy as he puts me in the isolation room for the night. It’s the only room in the house with a lock on the outside of the door and bars on the triple pane window. “Cool off, Josh.”
*****
Present
“Does Sophie wear a ring?” I ask.
McGee takes one stern look at me. “Don’t even think about it!”
“That’s rich,” Caruso chuckles from the other side of the room over his Fight mag.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I lie. “If Silva’s having a meeting with her to see if she’ll come on as a full-time member of the training team, I’m just wondering if she has a significant other to consider in her decision.” I have to figure out who this guy named Charlie is.
“Bullshit some other bullshitter.” McGee is emptying a gym bag of my clothes into the hospital drawers.
“I’ve hardly even seen her face.” I’ve seen her plenty in my little mirror.
“Doesn’t matter, asshat, she’s had her hands all over you,” Caruso laughs.
“Now, that’s true.” I smile at the recollection of those soft, adept hands.
“Okay, Mr. North.” Two nurses and the doctor file into the room. “We’re going to get you up today and turn you over.” The lead nurse smiles kindly as she tugs at the sheets over me. “Won’t that be a relief to get back to normal again?”
Only if Sophie accepts Silva’s offer.
I’m poked, prodded and mucked with for an hour before the staff feels confident in my progress. After turning me over onto my back and letting me recline naturally in the bed, they bombard me with warnings and cautions to not be so reckless and to be careful ’cause another bad injury could end both of my careers.
I get it. Christ! Enough already.
Just as they’re walking out, Silva comes walking in.
“How did the meeting go?” I ask too eagerly. In the past week I’ve been trying to analyze my affections toward Sophie. I won’t deny that part of (okay, a lot of) the energy is carnal. I want to be inside her in a very, very bad way. Caruso’s absolutely correct in his assessment; Sophie’s hands have been over every inch of me—except for the screaming, growling, growing inches between my legs. Not to mention the fact that I haven’t even been able to relieve myself at all! Talk about agony.
“Are you listening to me, North?” Silva’s gruff, impatient voice breaks through my thoughts.
“Sure.”
“Brilliant,” he chides. “Try again. Focus this time. Sophie won’t accept the position.”
Disappointment floods my veins. Shit. “Why not?”
“She doesn’t want to lose her new position at the hospital.”
“Why would she have to choose between the two?” I try.
“She’d be able to stay on here when you’re training here in Williston, but when we’re out of town she’d be required to come with us and she doesn’t want to get replaced,” Silva explains.
“She’s probably read up on you,” McGee jokes, but it rubs me the wrong way.
“Did she talk about her husband?” I growl more than I mean to.
“No. She didn’t even mention being married.” My statement appears to make Silva think. “You know, we can easily find another massage therapist who’d take the ridiculous salary I offered.”
As if on cue, Sophie comes striding in. I can’t stop the smile that spreads wide over my face. I’ve only ever seen her in a 5x5 inch mirror, upside down. She’s more than beautiful, she’s gorgeous. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a long ponytail that bounces as she walks. Her soft curves are masked by the light pink hospital scrubs she’s wearing, and I wonder what she’d look like naked. She has a look of steel in her eyes, but her face softens when she sees me sitting up in the bed. I can’t help but smile more at the idea that maybe I’ve got some pull on her too.
“I’m glad to see you sitting up.” Her hand gestures toward me.
“What do you think of that?” I say. “Doc says I’ll be walking and fighting in no time.” I jab soft fists into the air.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the offer Mr. Silva presented me with.” It’s not a question, as she moves right to business.
“We have discussed it,” I concede. “Didn’t you approve of the salary that was offered?”
“I can’t jeopardize my position here at the hospital. I have school loans to pay off and a family to support,” she says, looking resolved.
“I can understand that,” I say before hitting the subject head-on. “I’m sure your husband doesn’t want you to travel around with The Jackhammer either.”
“What?” Her eyes are instantly on alert.
“Husband?” I reiterate.
“Who mentioned a husband?” Her back straightens as she bristles.
“I just figured …” Her stance is throwing me off. “You said you take care of Charlie.”
“Charlie?” At this, she throws her head back and lets out a long laugh.
She’s so damn cute, I don’t care that she’s laughing at me. In fact, I’m thinking of how I can make her laugh again—husband or not.
“Charlie is my daughter,” she says. “I’m not married. I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
Sophie’s cheeks are a pretty shade of red from laughing, and she seems to blush even further after offering me that extra information about not having a boyfriend. And now I have my answer—she’s fair game.
“Listen, a woman who’s part of your entourage would certainly gain a reputation …” She hesitates. “A reputation just like yours.” She lets each word hang in the air before saying the next.
Interesting how I’ve always worn that reputation like a badge of honor—except, maybe in front of my mother—and now this woman I hardly know has me wanting to erase it and render my slate clean.
“Whatever Silva offered you, I’ll double it.”
Silva’s mouth hits the floor and Sophie’s eyes widen.
“I would have strict conditions,” Sophie says slowly, and I think the hope must be visible in my eyes.
“What are your conditions?” I wager cockily, knowing I’ll meet them, whatever they are.
She looks between me and Silva, then to McGee and Caruso, and back to me again.
“Hey, guys, could you give us a few minutes of privacy?” I ask. I can tell they don’t like the request, but I don’t give a shit.
“Please, go ahead,” I tell her once we’re alone. I’m enjoying her game.
She steps closer to me and shores up the distance between us. She opens her sweet mouth to say something, closes it again, rethinks, and then finally says, “I always have my own hotel room on overnights.”
“Done,” I say.
“Not finished. I stay out of the press. I don’t want mine or Charlie’s names mentioned, and no photos can be leaked to the public. Ever,” she says with steel in her voice and fire in her eyes. Apparently she’s serious about her privacy. That or very camera shy. “And I’ll never be ringside,” she demands.
“All right, no special features, no photos or press conferences, no ringside. We can easily cover you up with a sports cap, big sunglasses and a scarf if we have to. No problem.”
She studies me warily. “Double his original salary offer?”
“Absolutely.”
“Mr. Silva said the duration of the commitment would be three months.”
I nod. I’d take three months.
“And I have the right to terminate, with full pay for the time I’ve w
orked, for any reason.”
“Definitely.”
Suspiciously, she adds, “And you’ll continue to provide Charlie’s health insurance.”
“Of course,” I say seriously. “Yours too.”
I can see the cogs coming together and the wheels turning in her mind. I’ve got her right where I want her. I know she’s about to say yes!
“No.” She shakes her head. “I can’t take the position.”
“Why?” I ask, incredulous.
“I can’t leave Charlie for all the overnights this is going to require. She’s only three years old. I’d need a nanny to come with us.”
“Is that all?” I let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll even cover the nanny’s expenses as part of your employee package.”
“Yeah,”—she laughs a little—“about your package … having a young, impressionable little girl on board with a bunch of men means she’s going to require some sheltering. And that would mean you’d have to tone down your friendships. No stewardess-pole-dancing-sex-scenes on the plane like in Iron Man.”
I had been taking a sip of water. It came spitting out from between my lips. “You think I do that?” I wipe my chin.
“I know you do that,” she accuses confidently. “I read all about it in Sports Illustrated.”
Fucking magazine articles. “I guarantee that won’t happen while the two of you are part of my team.”
Sophie nods slowly. “I know this is probably very forward of me and you’re probably wishing you hadn’t offered me the position by now …”
She has no idea how many positions I’d like to offer her.
“There can’t be … any kind of … sexual interplay … between you and me.”
Hell, maybe she does.
She continues, “I know we’ve had some sexual tension between us, but we can’t act on it. I need to give Charlie stability and live the right example. I don’t want to have to explain why Mommy and her boss sleep in the same bed.”
I feel my eyebrows lift. “Do you think I’m only offering you this job because I want to get into your pants?”
Dare Page 3
