Hale (The Beckett Boys, Book Seven)

by Olivia Chase

  LOL. That sounds practical. :-P

  I just think you should be prepared for any situation. Such as me needing to devour that sweet pussy again.

  Oh God. You’re killing me. How is it you can get me revved up so easily?

  “Hale, can I get a refill?” someone asks.

  Fuck. It’s hard focusing on work when all I want to do is send Phoebe dirty messages all day. And night.

  I finish with the customers and type out a quick reply. Just wait til you see how revved I get you next time.

  Promises, promises, she writes back. I hope you can deliver.

  I know that I can.

  Friday night, a busy one at the bar. Axel and I and the guys we hired are working like hell to keep up with the crowd. It’s bustling and fun, with a great energy and music thumping in the background.

  I don’t normally chat it up well with customers. I’m pretty reserved in general, unable to connect easily with people. Part of it is I still feel like I have something to prove. Like I have to be a hard-ass so people take me seriously. Growing up in a neighborhood like mine does that to a guy.

  But also, I’m just not like my brothers. They’re more outgoing, friendlier. Leaving me to run the bar and have to talk to people is an unfortunate choice, but we don’t really have many options. Our part-time help is needed in the kitchen and on the floor, serving.

  So here I am, doing my best to fake like I’m charming or some shit. In my head, I’m going over the bout from earlier today. Replaying it over and over to make sure I’m prepared for the next one.

  I’ve done good so far. Knocking the fuck out of people within the first round or two. But it’s just going to get harder, and I have to be prepared. The fuckers I’m going to be fighting soon won’t be so easy to take down.

  The guy earlier today managed to get a hit in. A small one that glanced off my jaw, but a hit nonetheless. It pissed me off. I should have dodged that shit better. But I was distracted, thinking about Phoebe watching in the audience. I can’t let her get to me. In the ring, it’s just the ring. Nothing else.

  This is what women do to you. They unravel you bit by bit.

  It’s like the old man’s voice is in my head. And then speak of the devil…

  The front door opens, and in strolls Butch, followed by a few of his old cohorts. Gang members. My stomach sinks. Since our last shakeup with a big-time mobster a few months ago, which culminated in a person being shot point-blank in the bar, we’ve been rebuilding our reputation. Trying not to draw in that kind of clientele.

  And now Butch is leading them right back in here.

  They take a seat near the back wall, and Axel rushes over to serve them. Butch is cackling, slapping his friends on the back, talking loud.

  Some of the other customers eye him and his friends with nervousness.

  Axel comes to the bar, and I school my face into a neutral expression. “They’d like a round of whatever dark beer we have on tap,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “On the house,” he adds carefully.

  Butch hasn’t shown any interest in the bar since he got home last weekend. But here he is, bringing his old gang with him. And barely talking to me and Axel at all, despite his initial comments about me and Axel helping him right things. He’s not confiding in us and is rarely home anymore. Makes me wonder what’s going on in his head.

  “Okay,” I say. “Give him what he wants. But…” Axel leans closer. “Look, I think he’s up to something shady. Just be careful.” I’m not getting a good feeling from shit.

  Axel gives a curt nod. “You got it.”

  I pour the beers, and Axel brings them over on a tray, distributes them. In between serving other customers, I keep an eye on Butch’s table. Since our talk when I picked him up from prison, we’ve barely spoken. We eat breakfast together in near silence. And then he leaves for the day, running off to do fuck-all.

  Is he suspicious of us, of our loyalties? That’s like Pop, to shut people out when he isn’t sure about them. Which makes my stomach sour, because fuck, how much more do I have to do to prove myself to him? I’ve been his muscle for years now, doing his bidding even when I didn’t necessarily agree with it. And in return, I get shut out.

  Fucking hate this.

  The night wears on, with Butch’s group growing rowdier, even harassing a couple of people at the table beside them. The other customers quietly get up and leave.

  I’m about to go talk to Butch when he stands up and comes to the bar, eyeing me.

  “Son.”

  “Pop.”

  The tension between us is thick. Then he breaks out his easy smile, like there isn’t something more going on. Like things haven’t changed since he’s gotten home. He moves behind the bar and claps me on the back. “Fine place you’re running here. Looking good. Nice crowd.”

  I give a short nod. “We work hard.”

  “I can tell.” He moves to the register and eyes it, then pushes a button. It opens with a ding. He digs his hand in to grab the twenties and fifties.

  It’s all I can do to stop myself from growling at him. But Butch obviously sees this as his place, given that we “failed” to secure Outlaws for him. He’s showing ownership now, making sure Axel and I understand who’s in charge. It’s a familiar move, one I’ve seen him do on a hundred other people. Just not on us.

  He pushes the drawer closed and shoves the wad of cash in his pocket. “That’s not a problem son, is it? Taking money from our own bar?”

  “No,” I grind out. Not that he fucking knows anything about what we’re doing. The hard work we put in balancing the budget, making sure our earnings are sufficient. No, Butch could give two shits about all of that.

  A flare of guilt hits my chest hard. This is my father. And here I am, being disloyal toward the man. Of course this is his place, just as much as it’s ours. It’s our family bar. Not my place, our place. And I’d do well to remember that. The fuck has gotten into me?

  If Butch is feeling suspicious, I have to do better proving I’m worth trusting. Of course he doesn’t know where my loyalty lies…he’s been in prison for years, a cutthroat place where you can’t rely on anyone but yourself.

  “Hey, need another round?” I ask him.

  He eyes me for a moment, then grins. “Yeah. Good brew selection, by the way. You’ve done a great job running the joint.” He squeezes my shoulder, then goes back to his table.

  Butch has never been one for affection. These compliments are the scraps we get to show that he cares. I know he isn’t happy I’m boxing, which is why I just don’t bring it up. But I can show him I’m still loyal to the Becketts. I’m not going to forget my roots…or let anything distract me from what really matters.

  I hang my speed bag and begin my slow repetition of punches, gradually gaining in speed. It’s early morning, and I had a late night at the bar, but training is training. And my new coach is meeting me at the gym today to start coaching me. I want to prove to him that I’m serious about winning. About being a professional.

  Once I’m done, I hit the jump rope, working on agility. My body is warming up into the workout, and I lose myself in the feeling of the familiar rhythms. There’s nothing like escaping into this—emptying my mind, training my body to react quickly, intelligently.

  “Hale,” a booming voice says as Al “Big Buck” Brown crosses the floor toward me. He’s bald with a scruffy white beard, still brawny from his days when he was a world boxing champ.

  I’m lucky to have scored him. Diane really did me a big favor.

  I drop the jump rope and reach over to shake his hand. “Glad to see you, man. Looking forward to training with you.” During my free time, I watched as many videos of Al’s fights as I could find. Studying his techniques, trying to prepare myself as best as I can. I haven’t worked with a real coach before.

  Never imagined I’d get one of his caliber.

  “Okay. I wanna watch you continue your warm-up,” Al says.

 
I try to ignore him as I pick the jump rope up and finish that portion of my workout. While I’m moving, he offers little tips and tricks on how I can be more agile, which I implement. I find that I can bounce faster and get the rope going with a little more speed than I could before.

  “Excellent. You learn fast.” Al scratches his beard and scrutinizes me. “Okay, let’s get you in the ring with someone. I got a guy to fight you, Brett. But here’s the trick. I don’t want you to immediately knock him out. I want to see you actually spar. Let me see your fighting style. Because someday, you’re gonna need it. Not every opponent can be taken down in a KO in the first round.”

  I nod and get my gloves on. The guy I’m practicing against is pretty close to my weight class, though slightly bigger and taller than me. We bump gloves, and then retreat to our corners.

  And then we start.

  I do as Al instructed. Instead of going for a KO, I bob and weave, trying to show him what kind of punches I can land on Brett. He’s not too bad—he’s slick, quick at avoiding me. It’s a bit frustrating, but I remind myself I have to stay cool.

  Al begins to shout out instructions to me on how to keep on top of Brett and not let him get the upper hand. How to press him to the ropes and land better blows that will tire him out.

  It’s a good workout. He and I both fight hard, and by the end, we’re sucking in quick breaths, both of us dripping in sweat. I grab a towel and swipe it across my face and neck.

  “Not bad, kid,” Al says. “You have raw talent. I think with some practice and focus, we can make you even stronger. I can see why Diane took such an interest in you. She sees it, too.”

  I step out of the ring and sit on a nearby bench, sucking down water from a bottle. “Don’t wanna let you guys down.”

  “You won’t. But listen.” Al plops down beside me and eyes me. I drop the bottle, because his face is serious. “We should talk about what it means to go for professional. There are perils that come with the game.”

  My stomach sinks in disappointment. “I know.” Fuck, I was hoping this wouldn’t be a don’t-do-it kind of discussion. I already know there are downsides to the fame, risks that come along with being in the big leagues.

  “No, you don’t.” Al shifts. “Look, I was in the game. On top for a while. It was heady, a rush you don’t know what to do with. Money will come flowing. You’ll be sought after by big-name fighters who want to prove themselves against you.” He pauses. “But listen to me. A lot of people will try to leech off you, a talented young fighter. You gotta protect yourself. Having me is a good start. I’ll help. But you should also get an accountant and a lawyer. And if you win this tournament, you’ll have a promoter who will get you out there for those big bouts. You hearin’ what I’m sayin’? I’ve seen many guys who get chewed up and spit out by the machine. Or get a bunch of cash and fucking blow it, then end up bankrupt. Don’t be like them.”

  This reminds me all too well about how we almost lost the bar. My twin Hudson had put an unofficial loan out on Butch’s house with a mobster to get enough capital to start Fugitives. When the guy decided he wanted more than his fair share, and we said no, he took out a customer in there, and we almost lost it all. All that profit we’d been making, gone.

  We hadn’t saved shit.

  I learned my lesson from that. I look Al in the eyes. “I get it. I’ll be careful.”

  Al nods. “Okay. Good. One more thing. The tournament might be going pretty easy so far, but we’re gonna work on getting you past the KO, because the next opponents are gonna be much harder. You gotta work on scoring points, too. There’s one guy in particular I want you to prepare for. Gunner Lewis.”

  I’ve heard of him. A tough guy who has a reputation for fighting a little dirty. Not that I’m afraid of the rough stuff. Just something I’m going to have to be aware of. “I know who he is.”

  “Well, he knows who you are too now, and I guarantee you he’s going to go aggressively after you.” Al sighs. “Fight some of those too, in my day. The guys who don’t fight clean, who will throw low blows on purpose, hit you on the back of the head, try and wear you down with wrestling and stupid crap when the ref isn’t looking. Gotta watch for that shit. He’ll be bad about it. But I’m gonna help you work on your responsiveness. You’re a little slow.”

  I blink slowly. “That’s…the first time I’ve heard that.”

  Al gives me a wide grin, showing off his gapped teeth. “Oh, ego boy isn’t used to being told he has flaws, is he? I’m not gonna blow sunshine up your ass. That’s what Diane is for. I’m gonna help you be a fighter, one who can defeat dirty dick motherfuckers like Gunner. Check your ego at the door, Hale, if you wanna work with me. We don’t have time for that shit.”

  A hot response is on the tip of my tongue, and it takes all my energy to swallow it down. I don’t like him prodding me. Making me feel less than. But I know he’s trying to get a rise, to see what I’ll do. So I just stare, silent.

  Al nods. “Good. Now let’s get back in the ring. We got more to go over, and time’s wastin’.”

  “You know, when you said dress comfortably, I didn’t know you meant this.” Phoebe clings to my hand as we make another loop around the ice rink. “In fact, I’d never guess you to be the kind of guy who’d come here.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” I say with a grin. I spin around backward and hold her hands. “Come on, be brave. You’re doing well.”

  “I’ve literally never been on ice skates before,” she says with a frown. “How is it you’re able to skate backward?”

  “My secrets.” I wink at her and squeeze her hands tighter. “Just pretend you’re marching. Left, right, left right…”

  She starts following my instructions, clinging to me like we’re on the Titanic. Her face is etched with doubt, but as she moves, she gradually gains confidence. “Okay…this is working.”

  “I told you.” I move closer to her until we’re only a foot or two apart, enjoying the pink in her cheeks from the brisk air. People are flying around us, but I don’t fucking care. I’m just relishing the time with her. “I once dated a girl who was big into ice skating. She made me come here a lot. I picked up a few tricks.”

  “Ah, your dirty secret is out now,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “I knew it had to be something like that.”

  I give a mock bashful shrug. “Hey, even meatheads like to please women sometimes.”

  She frowns. “You’re not a meathead.” After stumbling for a second, she rights herself, smiling at me. “I didn’t fall!” The pleased flush on her face makes my heart stutter. I decide right here and now that I want to put that look on her face as much as I can. I want her smiling and happy for me.

  I spin back around and lace my fingers in hers. There’s something so right about us being close like this. I feel lighter than I have in years, like all the tension I’ve been carrying has faded away. Phoebe takes pleasure in small, simple things. The clear blue sky on a sunny day. An ice cream cone. Hell, even just seeing a little kid laughing. She intoxicates me.

  We do a few more laps until she says her ankles are hurting, and then I lead her off the ice onto the benches outside the rink.

  Phoebe grimaces and rubs her ankles. “I’m so out of shape. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Hey, skating uses a set of muscles most people aren’t used to working,” I tell her soothingly. “Don’t feel bad. Not to mention you’re using borrowed skates that aren’t broken in for your feet.” I whip mine off and then kneel down between her legs and cup one calf, clad in dark gray leggings.

  She sucks in a breath and stares at me.

  I slide that hand down and then begin to untie her lace, sliding the skate off, then massage her ankle and instep. Her groan of pleasure, combined with the sensual way her lips part, is enough to make me half hard. “Sweetness, you should stop that before I decide to do something wicked to you.”

  She’s growing feistier; I can tell by the way she eyes me, licking her upper lip. �
��Is that right?”

  And fuck me if that look doesn’t make me grow full-on hard. I rip the other skate off her. “Get your shoes on,” I practically growl.

  Phoebe blinks in surprise, but obeys, and I take our skates and almost throw them at the attendant. Then I grip her hand and lead her to the car.

  I need her. Right fucking now. My blood is roaring in my veins. Touching her is never enough. I crave more.

  “My place or yours?” I ask her after I slip behind the wheel. I look at her, hard. “I need to make you come again. So tell me where I’m going.”

  Phoebe draws in a shaky breath. “My apartment is good.” Since I picked her up there, I already have the address, so I gun it, keeping one hand clutched on her thigh and the other on the steering wheel. I don’t want to lose connection with her for even a second. Don’t want to stop touching her.

  My dick is pressing against the zipper, and I try my best to ignore it. Doesn’t help that I can feel her thigh muscles flexing in response to my tight grip on her leg. Hear the soft pants of her breath. See her breasts rise and fall, her nipples poking through her thin shirt. Fuck, I want to taste her again. It’s been days.

  I pull into her parking lot, and tug her out of the car, and lead her to her apartment door. Once she keys it open, I shove it closed behind me, lock it, then pounce on her. Possess her mouth.

  Phoebe opens for me, sighing into my mouth, becoming molten liquid from my touch. My fingers are roaming everywhere, stripping off clothes as fast as I can. I need to touch her naked skin. Now. My brain is screaming at me to pleasure her.

  Her shirt and bra go flying, and I lean down and suckle one nipple into my mouth. Phoebe arches against my lips, digging her fingers into my hair. Fuck yes.

  I let my teeth nibble her a bit, biting her nipple, the underside of her breast. Move to the other and feel the nipple swell for me, the breast grow swollen and hot. I can smell her arousal, which makes me so fucking turned on I could scream.

  “Yes,” she breathes, her head dipped back as she takes my pleasure.