Layers of Her
A NOVELLA
by
PRESCOTT LANE
Copyright © 2016 Prescott Lane
Kindle Edition
Cover design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Cover images from Stocksy, image by Mauro Grigollo
Editing by Nikki Rushbrook
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Dedicated to all the survivors and the people who love them
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
A Letter to my Readers
About the Author
PROLOGUE
CAMPBELL
Everyone’s heard of the three-date rule for sex, but I don’t think anyone’s come up with a rule for when to pull the trigger and take a life—the life of the man who ruined yours.
Gripping the cold metal handle of the gun in my purse, I watch him through the window of the New Orleans wine bar, just like I have every Thursday night. For a criminal, he sure is predictable. The first thing women are taught in self-defense class is to vary your patterns—don’t take the same way home every day, come and go at different times. But this asshole is here every Thursday night, drinking wine and listening to the live band.
And I’m here, too, leaning against the lamp post across the street, watching and waiting, alone. And he’s always alone, too. Seeing him leave with a woman would probably be the catalyst I need to put a bullet between his eyes. Secretly, I hope he’s too old now to get it up. That would be some justice. And that’s the problem with shooting him. It’s too quick. I want him to suffer.
The door to the wine bar opens, and he saunters out, giving me a clear shot, and I know I could hit him from here. I’ve pictured this moment for as long as I can remember. My fingers curl around the handle, and I take a deep breath. I’m ready. I’ve waited long enough. But suddenly it doesn’t feel right. The metal feels like a welding iron in my hand—no longer natural, like when I practice.
And just like every night before, I miss my chance.
CHAPTER ONE
STONE
A man makes his decisions based on his head, his dick, or his heart. Under ideal situations, all three are in agreement. But let’s be honest, usually one of his two heads wins. These days, I’m trying to let the head on my shoulders run the show, but certain women make that damn difficult.
And she’s one of them.
The moment she opens the door to my gym, the energy shifts. All the testosterone that had been intent on crushing the other guy narrows in on her like an arrow finding its bullseye.
Campbell May.
Her name sounds like she should be a fine lady living in one of New Orleans’ old plantation homes, but I know better. She walked into my gym about a year ago, looking as terrified as she looks right now. I wonder what she’s afraid of. Over the past year, I’ve seen what she can do. She’s not a little firecracker; she’s the whole damn arsenal.
This is not her usual class. She comes twice a week to my women’s only class. Tonight’s class is my most intense and advanced class for men. There’s not a guy in this place that weighs less than 220 pounds, and who can’t bench press at least twice that. The class wasn’t designed that way, but each section tends to develop its own personality, and this one has attracted every MMA fighter, ex-Navy SEAL, and general badass within sixty miles.
The whispering starts immediately. I’d like to tap that ass. Then there’s I could tear that pussy up! A few more snide comments follow, but one menacing look from me, and they all know to shut their damn mouths. I may have retired from fighting a few years back, but they all know who rules this place. All but one douchebag guy, that is, who keeps eye-fucking Campbell. I’ll deal with him later.
Crossing the mat, she looks at her feet, her blonde hair falling in front of her face. Damn, I hate it when women do that. Ladies, please don’t turn meek and look down. That shit went out with the Victorian era. Hold someone’s eyes instead. It makes you look confident even when you’re scared shitless. Winning a fight is about attitude as much as skill.
“Hey, Campbell, you alright?” I ask.
Her blue eyes glance up at mine. That’s much better. “Yeah, would you mind if I watch?”
I should probably give her a break. She looks like she’s had a bad night, but I’ve got rules in my gym. “You know the rules, Campbell. No bystanders. You’re here, you kick ass.”
She looks around me at the mountain of men gawking at her. “Seriously, Stone. That guy’s bicep weighs more than me,” she says, pointing at one of my students.
She’s probably right. She’s tall for woman, probably 5’7” or so, but she’s very lean. Can’t be more than a buck twenty, but rules are rules. “You can take him down if you need to.”
Her blue eyes light up. Apparently, that was all she needed—for me to believe in her. My dick comes right to attention. Part of me wishes it didn’t; I know it’s a mistake. As a rule, I don’t date the women in my classes. Hell, I don’t date at all. I’ve got responsibilities that are more important than what my cock wants. But I’m not sure how much longer that rule is going to last when it comes to Campbell.
She’s had my attention since day one. I know I spend more time with her than the other women. I try not to, but always find myself chatting her up after class and waiting a few extra minutes for her if she’s running late. Hell, I even text and check on her when she doesn’t show, which isn’t very often.
She slips off her black hoodie, revealing her tight black tank top. Like I said, she’s lean, so she doesn’t have big boobs, but between the black top and black spandex leggings, she looks like Cat Woman in the leather jumpsuit. Every delicious curve of her body is exposed, and we walk over to the mat with my eyes glued on her tight ass. Unfortunately, every other man in the room is doing the same damn thing. If it wouldn’t embarrass the hell out of her, I’d yell out, “Eyes up, assholes.”
I buddy her up with one tough son of a bitch, a retired Marine who’s old enough to be her father. Three daughters of his own, I know he’ll take good care of my lady.
Shit, she’s not my lady.
Out of the corner of my eye, I keep watch on Campbell all night. Whatever happened tonight, whatever problem she walked in with, seems to vanish with each punch she throws. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to contain the huge damn grin on my face.
“I’d like to pin her down and . . .” the douchebag with the stalker eyes begins, and I groan inside. I thought I put an end to that shit at the outset, but there’s always one dickwad that doesn’t listen. That’s why I don’t mix classes. I start to say something when Campbell’s head whips around.
“Even if you could pin me down,” she says, “you wouldn’t know what to do with me.”
Holy hell! She just unleashed a firestorm in my gym. The guys all hoot and h
oller, clearly liking Campbell’s style. I do, too. I also like that the douchebag is fuming. He needed to be slapped down. I decide to pile on. “Pack your shit and get out of my gym,” I tell him. “We don’t treat women like meat here.”
The douchebag holds up his hands. “Come on, sir, we’re just having a little fun.”
“I don’t think Campbell’s having any fun,” I say. “Besides, I’m more worried about her kicking your ass.”
That really gets the guys going. “Fine, let her spar with me,” the douchebag says.
Now, I’d never put a woman up against a guy like this. Of course, in my self-defense classes, I have men act as assailants, and the woman defend themselves, but those are level-headed guys, not hotheads.
Campbell steps to my side. “Fine, let’s do this.”
The guys really start hooting and hollering now.
“I’m not about to . . .” I say.
She cuts me off. “You don’t think I can do it?”
Odds are not in her favor. This guy outweighs her by over a hundred pounds, is at least six inches taller than she is, and is mean as hell. Even if she can take him down, it’s not worth it. Some fights are better left unfought. “It’s not about that.”
“I need to prove to myself I can do this,” she whispers.
Fuck me, I understand that and know exactly where she’s coming from. Growing up without much, I understand the need to constantly prove yourself to everyone—and mostly to yourself. I turn back to the douchebag and say, “You better put on protective gear if I’m going to unleash her on you.”
Campbell releases a deep breath next to me and starts moving her head side-to-side, just like a boxer in the ring before a match. She’s my best student, but she’s still a woman playing a man’s game. Yeah, yeah, I’m all for feminism, but I’m a realist, too. Placing my hands on her tiny shoulders, I say, “I’ll be right here. I’ll rip his . . .”
“No,” she says, looking around me at him. She’s trying to hide it, but I sense she’s scared out of her mind. Then she looks up at me. “Any advice?”
“I’m not going to lie or feed you some bullshit,” I say.
“Tell me the truth.”
“He’s got you beat on strength and size.”
“Obviously,” she says with a shitload of sassiness.
“But he’s dumb as fuck, so out-think him.” She holds my eyes, her blue eyes darkening. Maybe she’s got this. I turn to the douchebag. “No protective pads?” He laughs me off. I step within an inch of his face, letting my presence tower over him. I don’t say a damn word to him, but he gets the message. If he hurts her, he’ll bleed for it.
They line up on the mat, my whole class surrounding them, not a single person rooting for the douchebag. It looks like David and Goliath, only David doesn’t have a slingshot this time. I start the match, and he gets Campbell in a headlock in less than a second. The asshole is laughing as she struggles, but I know he’s not holding her nearly as tight as he could. He could easily snap her neck. Still, the panic in her eyes is shooting right at me.
“Think, babe,” I yell out.
I’m not sure if it’s my command or my term of endearment, but she raises her leg and stomps on the douchebag’s toe like a sledgehammer. On reflex, he releases her, and quick as a jackrabbit, she turns and knees him in the nuts, sending him howling to the mat, writhing in pain.
I told the stupid bastard to wear pads.
All the other men in the class surround her, and she’s so small I can barely see her.
“You just got your ass whipped by a girl,” one guy laughs out.
She parts the crowd, and her eyes go right to me and the big-ass, proud-as-shit grin on my face. She holds her hand up for a high-five. Jesus H. Christ! Is this little league? I won’t leave her hanging, though, so I slap her hand.
“All right, hit the showers,” I say, breaking up the party, and notice the douchebag is still holding his nuts and twisting on the mat.
Ever the class act, Campbell helps her victim to his feet, and he can’t help but smile at her. The other guys continue to rag him as they file out of the gym towards the locker room, leaving Campbell and me alone.
This is the real danger.
“That means you, too,” I tell her, hating the thought of even one drop of that douchebag’s sweat lingering on her. “Hit the shower.”
She glances towards the door, but doesn’t move a muscle. The women’s locker room is right across from the men’s, and since she’s the only woman here, I guess she’s uncomfortable. “The guys won’t bother you,” I say, but she doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll stand outside.”
“Thanks, Stone,” she says, walking that way.
What is it about a woman’s ass? Yeah, yeah, I know I shouldn’t be looking—she’s my student—but since I’m keeping my hands to myself, I think I’m allowed a little peek. Problem is, my dick is rock hard, and my brain is devising ways to get her naked and underneath me.
But I don’t have time for a woman like Campbell. She’s the kind of woman you take the time to savor, enjoy. The most I have time for right now is a quick, hardcore fuck. But here’s a dirty little secret that guys won’t admit about one-night stands—the high wears off pretty damn quick, and your dick ends up hungrier than ever before.
Leaning against the wall outside the locker room, I take my place as Campbell grabs her bag and disappears inside. Most of the guys clear out pretty quickly, but there’s a few stragglers. I’d hoped they’d leave quickly, so I’d have a few minutes alone with Campbell, but no such luck. When the door to the women’s locker room opens, a couple guys are still hanging around, shooting the shit. I see her shoulders tense as she seeks me out, and she flashes me the biggest smile when she finds me standing sentry beside the door.
“Sir, is it true that you’re going back in the cage in a couple weeks?” one of the stragglers asks. My eyes glued on Campbell, I only give the guy a nod. He senses I’ve got other stuff on my mind, so he and his buddies turn towards the door, debating my chances in the cage as they walk out.
“The cage?” she asks.
“One more,” I say.
“You can’t go back in the cage. You’re too old,” she says, her face turning red. “I mean, for the cage. You’re not old old.”
She’s actually right. MMA fighters usually have, at most, a nine or ten-year career depending on their skill, background and injuries, and most don’t do so well after their early thirties, period. I’m thirty-five. But to hell with all that, I have to go back in.
One last time.
“I thought you said you won enough to afford the gym, and you were done with all that.”
“Thought I was.” The gym was my ticket out. Back when I was fighting, MMA wasn’t the big moneymaker it is today. This place cost a lot of blood and sweat, and business is good. I’ve got a couple guys that help me out with classes, but otherwise, it’s just me.
She gives me a little huff, crossing her arms. “You don’t talk much.”
“I’ve heard that before.” She’s right again, but I talk more to her than most people. She and I are from completely different worlds. She’s from a place of words and feelings. I trade in the currency of fists.
“I was curious about something,” she says. “I noticed all the guys tonight called you sir, but in the ladies’ classes, you have us call you Stone or Mr. Delhomme. I was wondering why.”
“It’s a certain level of respect I expect from them.”
“Why don’t you demand the same from the women?”
“Sir” carries with it a certain connotation, especially female to male. In my classes, I want the women to feel strong and badass, so having them call me “sir” would accomplish the opposite of what I’m trying to teach. “Would you like to call me sir? How about master?” I ask, my voice low, hungry, and dripping with innuendo.
Her eyes darken again, and I’d bet money her thighs just clenched together. “No, I’m not submissive by nature.”
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br /> “And I wouldn’t want you to be,” I say, stepping closer to her, pleased she got my meaning. “I’m trying to instill dominance in the women I teach.”
She steps towards the door. “I better get going.”
I curse under my breath. Blew that! “Campbell, you alright? You just seem off, showing up on the wrong night. I mean, it’s fine with me. I was just wondering if you’re okay.”
“I’m a little sore,” she says, shaking out her leg, totally dodging me. “It’s nothing.”
I curl my fingers around the strap on her bag, taking it from her. “Come back inside. We didn’t really stretch.” I don’t turn the overhead lights back on, instead letting the lights from the hallway illuminate the area. Dropping her bag to the mat, I motion with my hand. “Lay flat on your back.”
Her eyes dart to the door. “I’m fine, really.”
I take one step in her direction, and she takes two towards the door, like a scared kitten. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“Do you want me to stretch you out or not?” I’m not sure where her hesitation is coming from. We’ve done these partner stretches a hundred times in class.
Smiling, she shakes her head at herself and starts towards me. “Sure.”
She lays down on the mat, giving me a little glimpse at what she’d look like underneath me. It would be too easy to pin her down and kiss her until she’s begging me to rip her clothes off. But instead, I talk her through a series of stretches. She pretty much knows the drill. Bending one knee, she pulls it to her chest. I put her foot on my chest and push slightly, increasing the stretch, keeping one hand on her ankle while the other rests on her knee. That’s it—no higher, no rubbing—nothing.
“Straighten,” I say, but damn if my voice doesn’t come out hoarse and fucking needy. Too bad I can’t bang her until she screams so loud she’s hoarse. She straightens her leg, her foot slightly over my shoulder. Pushing forward, she groans a little. God, I’d love to have her like this, both her legs resting on my chest as I pound into her tight little . . .
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