by Olivia Chase
Our family’s work was a big part in that.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I tell him flatly. “I’ve been keeping that going for years while you were gone.” I thought I was done having to prove myself, my loyalty, to Butch. Apparently not. My brothers bailing on our family has made him paranoid, I can tell.
He grunts and looks away, wiping the paper napkin across his mouth. “Well, see that you don’t. We have shit to take care of. I’m ready to take back over…and deal with things that have been left for far too long.”
After he leaves with those foreboding words, I dump the dishes in the sink. I’ll deal with them later. For now, I need to run off this steam building in my chest. To forget about my complicated life and let myself focus on my training. The tournament officially begins tomorrow. I can’t afford to let anything distract me, even my father’s plans.
I’m going to fucking win, prove everyone wrong. And once I do, he’ll be proud. He’ll understand why I had to keep going with this.
Butch is going to do something big though, insofar as dealing with Outlaws. I can tell. I don’t know what he has planned, but I recognize that look in his eyes. Shit is going to hit the fan. He isn’t happy that we have a truce with them now. Isn’t happy that we ignored his orders to take Outlaws back in our grasp.
And I’m kind of nervous about whatever the fuck he might do. Butch has never been one to think with a cool head. Not that I can say anything—I’m a fucking hothead myself; my twin was always the one who kept me from losing my shit.
But Hudson’s gone. In San Francisco. Living with his woman. And I’m here, picking up the pieces of everything my brothers left behind.
I head out the front door and begin at a slow pace. Wind my way down the streets. About two miles away, there’s a wooded park with good paths for running. It’s usually not too busy in the mornings, and I enjoy the quiet run through nature. Gives me a chance to escape my thoughts, sink into what I’m doing without being distracted by everything else.
The air is brisk, but it invigorates my lungs, drives the negative thoughts out of my head. Butch doesn’t understand my need to compete in this tournament, but I’ll make him. He’ll see why this is a big deal for me, and for us.
My footsteps pound down the sidewalk. My lungs are huffing, my muscles working with each step. The burn feels good, feels right.
If only I could stop thinking about Phoebe.
I want to talk to her again. Soon.
I keep replaying that damn kiss, the feel of her, the fucking smell of her.
I turn into the woods. The stir of animals and insects fills my ears. The thud of my feet. The pants of my breath. The warm flush on my cheeks. I sink into the run, let my mind drift to her. I watched her as long as I could before I left to pick up Butch. She was flustered. Off center. Our interaction was more than she knew how to handle.
Why is it I love doing that to her? I barely fucking know her. But I want to.
I need her number.
Suddenly I want to be done with my run. It’s fucking hell to force myself to continue for miles. I let myself think about Phoebe’s smaller frame pressed against me. The softness of her voice. The flash of emotion in her eyes when she brought up fear. There’s something deep about her that calls to me.
Sweat slicks my skin. I push myself. I won’t make it to the top by quitting.
I finally get back home, shoving through the door. No one is here. Thank fuck. I need a moment to myself. It’s been weirder than I thought having Butch back. As hard as it’s been with my brothers gone, I’ve gotten used to my father not being around. And now his presence is everywhere.
It’s going to take a while to get used to, I remind myself. But that doesn’t mean we won’t make it work. This is his house, after all. And he’s out now. He deserves to make it his place. To fill it with his presence.
I’m antsy as I shower off and change. I know what I want to do. I want to get Phoebe’s number. I want to know her better. Need to. Let her see I’m not just some fucking meathead. She just doesn’t know me, that’s all. If she could see the real me, she would feel differently. I have to believe that.
I grab my phone and fire off a text to Diane. Hey, I think I filled something out wrong on the form. Can I get Phoebe’s number to let her know how to correct it? A total lie, but I wanted to fake a professional, work-related reason to be in touch with her. Something about Diane makes me think of a shark. Ruthless. I can appreciate that…I just need to be careful in how I handle that shit.
My phone buzzes immediately. Of course. Diane rattles off a number.
It’s so fucking hard to make myself wait. I’m aroused all day at the thought of Phoebe. I can’t wait to text her, to talk privately with her. But at the same time, I’m unnerved by how much space this girl is taking up in my head. This is some kind of stupid crush…haven’t experienced this since high school.
I help Butch with the neighborhood issue with Bart, who is being bullied by a group of young thugs. No problem—a couple of slaps and some hard words of warning gets those fuckers to back off.
They weren’t serious people—just some knuckleheads who need to be reminded that the Becketts run shit around this neck of the woods.
I drop by the bar and run the afternoon shift. All the while, I’m conscientious of my phone in my pocket. My wanting to text Phoebe.
My stiff goddamn cock.
Has she thought about me at all? Am I just fucking stupid for wasting this much time thinking about her?
I get through my shift. Head home. Strip and drop into bed, feet tired. Grab my phone and finally, finally let myself text the number I’ve been thinking about all day. It’s Hale Beckett. You busy? Fuck, I don’t know what else to say. I just hit send.
My phone doesn’t get a reply for several minutes. Then there’s the telltale vibration of a response. No, did you need to ask me something?
Yes. What are you doing?
A pause. Then the dots that indicate a response being typed. Drinking wine and prepping for the madness of tomorrow. Before I can reply, she’s typing more. I’m…surprised to hear from you.
I can’t stop myself from writing back immediately.
Are you? Despite that fucking hot kiss we shared?
No reply for a minute. Then two minutes. Shit. Did I scare her off? I’m questioning the wisdom of opening that can of worms when I finally see her writing back.
You’re a wicked flirt, aren’t you. Lol. I don’t even know how to talk with someone like you.
I grin. You can start by saying hi and that you’re attracted to me. So at least I know I’m not the only one here.
You…really are?
She doubts it? How could she possibly? She’s fucking gorgeous. To put it bluntly? Fuck yes.
I’m…okay, I’m blushing over here. lol
Tell me you’ve thought about me too. I have to know. I have to know I’m not the only one who’s been tortured by that brief moment of a kiss. I know she pushed me away, but I think it’s because she was scared, not because she wasn’t aroused.
Yes. I have. She follows it up with a blushing emoticon.
Victory swells in me, hard and fast and glorious. I want to taste more of you, Phoebe. I want to show you another side to me.
There’s a pause. God, I don’t even know what to say to that. You’re so bold. I… I am rather…well, let’s just say I spent the last few years focusing on school, not on dating. I’m a bit out of my league here. I don’t even know how to flirt.
Her innocence just attracts me more. I try to imagine what’s she’s doing right now. Is she lying in bed like I am? My cock is stirring at the thought of her spread out wide, seeing that pussy displayed before me. I want to touch her so badly. Need to.
I know how soft her skin is, like silk.
Is it possible I might be the first to touch her that way? The thought makes all the blood rush south, and my dick is throbbing now. Exploring her tastes, being the first to possess her…
/> Where are you right now? I ask.
I’m in bed. There’s a smiley face after this. The innocence in this statement has my pulse throbbing. I want to see what her bed looks like. What her hair is like splayed across a pillow. What she smells like when she’s aroused.
Send me a pic, I find myself writing.
You’re awful bossy. Lol. I shouldn’t send you a pic. This is insane. We’re working together. I’m supposed to be professional here. If I weren’t drinking wine, I probably wouldn’t even be having this convo.
I reply, And somehow I think you enjoy it, wine or no. I think you want it, even, though you’re too afraid to admit it.
A pause. Okay. Fine. But you first.
Ah, a challenge. I like it. If she wants a pic of me, I’ll provide. I take a photo of myself with one arm behind my head, chest exposed, then fire it off. Your turn, sweetness, I write back.
Minutes tick by. Is she going to do it?
I’m waiting, I write. I want to see that beautiful face…and as much as you’re willing to show me. I’d love a sexy picture of you to fall asleep to tonight. It’s dangerously close to feeling emotional, but I send it anyway. She intrigues me.
An image comes through, finally. Her, clearly naked, the sheets draped around her torso in a suggestive manner that cups her firm breasts and makes my mouth water. The camera is angled just above her head, with her smiling shyly at me. Her lips are lightly tinged red from her wine, and she has this wicked smile on her face that makes my pulse pound.
Fuck. Fuck. She’s intoxicating. Emotions are running rampant through me.
Gorgeous, I write. You’re stunning. Thank you.
Please don’t share that with anyone else.
I frown. What kind of fuckwad does she think I am? Of course not. I respect your privacy. And I appreciate you sending this.
I just…don’t want to be a joke or something.
The honest admission jars me. So fucking beautiful and vulnerable. And so scared. I’m determined more than ever to get her to go out with me. One date. I can prove myself to her, help her see she can trust me.
You’re not a joke, sweetness, I write.
A minute passes. Then, Well. You’d better get to sleep. Busy day tomorrow.
Topic change. But I understand. Besides, she’s right. I’m in my first official bout, and I can’t afford to be off my game. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try not to dream too much about me…
LOL. You’re…confident, I’ll give you that.
Sleep well. I rest my phone on my bedside table, not allowing myself to look at that fucking picture she sent me. The one that is going to haunt my dreams tonight.
Phoebe
On my drive to the arena, I take a deep swig of the coffee in my cup holder. My head is a little off from the wine I drank last night. All my fault, of course. I couldn’t stop thinking about Hale, so I figured a little wine would take the edge off.
Then he messaged me, out of the blue.
And ridiculously enough, I messaged back. Buzzed, feeling bold. And when he asked for a pic, I sent one of me naked, only covered in a thin sheet. Oh God.
My cheeks burn and I try to ignore that hard flutter in my stomach. I can’t believe I did that. Who am I? So risqué for me…I never would have done that with any of the guys who tried to date me in college.
But none of them attracted me the way he does. Hell, none of those others even got as far as kissing. They didn’t make me feel anything.
Hale, he makes me feel too much. He’s all muscle and bravado, and I shouldn’t let myself get drawn into that…it’s like an abyss.
If I fall over into that darkness, who knows where I’ll land?
Or if I ever will?
I get to the arena, coffee in hand, to find Diane barking orders at people and pointing them toward various areas.
When she sees me, she huffs a sigh. “Finally. Thanks for showing up.”
“I’m five minutes early,” I say, trying not to sound snarky. But between the edge of my hangover and her snippiness, I’m not in the mood.
“And I’ve been here for an hour already, getting shit done.” She rolls her eyes. “Just go in the office and take care of what’s left on the desk.” She gives me a list of tasks that will keep me busy for hours. Far too busy to think about Hale.
And then she adds, “Hale Beckett is coming in early. I’ve contacted a coach I think will be good for him. Make sure if you see him that you have him come right to me. We’ve got to get started on our mentorship with Mister Beckett immediately.”
Well, there goes the avoidance idea. I give her a curt nod and walk away. I can’t very well tell her that my plan was to dodge Hale as much as possible, due to my brazen action last night of sending him a pic. I can’t believe I did that.
What will this mean? Maybe it isn’t even a big deal for him. A man like him probably gets dozens of pictures from women…naked, maybe doing dirty things he asks them to… I shake off the mental image, flustered and frustrated with myself for feeling so. It doesn’t matter. He and I would be wrong together, anyway. So why do I care if he’s talking to other girls? No skin off my nose.
I make myself focus on my tasks. I’m not going to go out of my way to look for Hale. What would I say to him, anyway? Oh hey, thanks for sending me the sexiest damn picture I’ve ever seen in my life…and by the way, I’ve been having dirty thoughts about you since you kissed me?
Right. Then dig me a grave right after, because I would die.
Thank my lucky stars, I eventually see that Hale and Diane already found each other. They’re huddled together, Diane’s hand possessively on his large shoulder. She waves to a man, whom I assume is the coach she had in mind. They talk for a moment, Hale’s face looking calm and courteous as he nods over whatever they’re saying, and then the man leaves them again.
I want to be happy for Hale, but instead, I feel uneasy. Uncomfortable. Despite my short tenure working with Diane, I’ve seen how she can turn on people when they displease her or stop being useful. One of the reasons why I try not to piss her off. I desperately need the experience she can give me, despite my frustrations.
Diane sees me and waves me over. I reluctantly step toward them. “I assume you and Hale got the stuff with his paperwork squared away?” she asks me.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. But Hale levels me a look, a small spark in his eyes, and then I understand. He tricked her into getting my number. Somehow, this makes me even more nervous…and also makes my pussy tighten.
He hunted me down to talk to me.
“Good to see you again, Phoebe,” he says with what sounds close to a sensual purr. He has to know what he’s doing to me.
I clear my throat and look at Diane, trying not to act like he is impacting me. “Um. Yes. We got everything straightened out.”
“Good!” she claps her hands. Her phone rings, and she glances at the screen. “Shit. I gotta take this call. Don’t go anywhere—I’ll be right back.” She walks away, pressing the phone to her ear, already sniping at whoever is on the other line.
Leaving me and him alone.
That hot flush that started in my lower belly works its way up my torso to my throat. I swallow and try to think of something to say. Shit.
Hale steps up to me, and with a hand on my chin, he forces my face up to look at him. One brow is quirked. “Surely you’re not still shy around me, not after last night.”
He makes it sound like we did something tawdry. My face burns. “I… I’m not shy around you. I just had some wine, and—”
“And you let yourself finally acknowledge that you’re interested in me?” he finishes.
I can’t help but laugh, pulling back from his touch. It does too much to me, makes it hard to think. “You’re…”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘amazing,’” he says without a hint of embarrassment about his ego.
“I was going to say insane,” I reply tartly.
“And yet you still
sent me that sexy picture.” Another step, putting us just inches apart. “I want a chance, Phoebe. A date.”
I swallow and look up into those eyes that see right through me.
“We…shouldn’t,” I say weakly. My body is alive, aware of every inch of him. The wide shoulders, lean waist, muscled torso and arms and legs and that sexy mouth that could destroy me…
“When I win this next fight, I want a chance to prove to you that I’m a nice guy. To take you on a real date.”
Oh God. I’m so tempted to say yes, despite knowing it’s insane and not smart. But the heat in his eyes is doing funny things to my insides. I force my chin up. “What happens if you lose?” I make myself say, just to put him in his place.
He tilts his head, thinking. “Okay. If I lose, I’ll comp you and a friend for a full meal at my bar, Fugitives.”
I blink. “You own a business?”
That makes him give me his telltale cocky smirk. “I’m not just some street thug, you know.”
I flush and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, mortified. That’s exactly what I thought of him as—a thug, someone who only used his fists. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “My brother and I co-own the place. I think you’d like it.”
I have to admit. I’m intrigued. Hale isn’t just some brawler. He has more going on upstairs than meets the eye. I bite my lower lip. “Well, I do enjoy dinner…”
“Then say yes,” he presses. His hand reaches out to stroke my hip ever so lightly, nothing more than a brush of skin, but enough to make me vibrate, make me want to lean against him and ask for more.
I have to get myself together. This is too much. Am I ready to get entangled with someone like him? But how can I resist? Before I can overthink it, I find myself saying coyly, “Throw in drinks, and I’ll consider it.”
His replying eyebrow raise makes my chest tighten in an uncomfortable way. I love seeing him look at me like that. Love knowing I did that to him. He doesn’t say anything, just gives me a slow, knowing nod that steals my breath.
It’s like our dirty secret.
