Trigger (Pericolo #3)

by Kirsty-Anne Still

  And here I thought most women fell for the asshole.

  “Ladies shouldn’t walk away when being spoken to. It’s very impolite and unladylike.”

  My comment causes her to stop, and as she turns, her face is thunderously beautiful. I can see the anger lace every hue in her eyes, her pupils dilate as I cause a fury to course through her and her cheeks flush strikingly.

  “I’m not like most ladies,” she argues, her voice stern.

  I chuckle, rubbing my jaw. “No, you most definitely aren’t.” A small step forward occupies my agreement, closing the gap. “Now, do I get a name?” I extend a hand, my palm ready to greet her with a courteous welcome. “I’ll behave if it’ll stop you from running away again.”

  I watch that blush return and her eyes twinkle.

  “Who said I wanted you to behave?” she asks with a tease dripping into her every word. “You just caught me a little off guard.” She still doesn’t reach for my hand or tell me her damn name. “I’ll give you my name if you quit trying to be a hero and start being a bit more of a gentleman.”

  “Deal,” I say, shaking my hand to remind her I’m still waiting for a formal introduction.

  “Ryleigh,” she finally tells me, relenting a little too quickly for my liking.

  As she places her hand against mine, I tighten my grip a little and pull her closer to me. I lean in, my cheek to hers, my lips to her ear, as I whisper, “Would a gentleman refrain from wanting to take you into the nearest room and bend you over the first available surface just to get a piece of you? If not, I’m clearly not your gentleman, cara.”

  Snatching her hand away, she takes a small, inconsequential step back.

  “You are one of a kind.” I see a darkness spiral in her eyes, but it’s not a deterrent for me. “Do you think because you run this place that you’re suddenly granted a free pass into any one of our panties?”

  “Well no, because Jackson’s not my type and he’s always getting his panties in a twist over one thing or another,” I remark, trying to evoke a little laughter from her. I watch her lips twitch but know full well she’s trying to remain strong and grounded before me. She’s not willing to give in to me easily. “I’m not one to follow a girl. You should count yourself lucky, cara.”

  “It’s Ryleigh,” she retorts, correcting my deliberate use of a nickname. “I really don’t need you giving me a fucking pet name five minutes after meeting me.”

  “You can give me one,” I muse, offering her a choice. I even throw in a cheeky grin to show I’m a friendly fucker when I want to be – or just to elaborate that I’m a right sarcastic fuck when I want to be. “Even the playing field?”

  “How about asshole?” she asks, crossing her arms across her chest. My pants grow a little tighter as I watch her ample breasts press together, offering themselves to me. “Does that work, asshole?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, albeit strained. I retrain my gaze, lifting it to meet her unimpressed grimace. “I think asshole is fair.”

  I watch her roll her eyes, and while it ticks my nerves, I find it incredibly hot. I’m a little worried that if we don’t stop this back and forth, I might ejaculate in my pants, and I don’t have time to get home to find a change of clothing.

  “So, asshole, how about you let me get back to work and I’ll see you the same time next shift when you sit in that booth and hide away. You make a much better silent partner.”

  “Oh no,” I reply sweetly, closing the minimal gap so I can place a hand on her chin and force her to look at me. “I think I’ll be a much more vocal partner in my club now that I know the type of women my brother employs.”

  She shakes me off.

  “Then I’m fucking glad I’m moving to work elsewhere,” she tells me, and I’m slightly wounded. “A man like you will move on soon, I’m sure. You don’t seem like a one-woman man, boss. I’m sure I’ll be yesterday’s news the moment I walk away.”

  “Mmm, I’m not quite sure, Ryleigh. You’re pretty much in my head every clear moment I get.” I smirk, feeling a little bashful. “Every spare second I get I imagine you up on that stage, performing for only me. I don’t think you’re a passing matter for me anymore.”

  She suddenly bursts into hysterics. This beautiful woman mocks me with a delightful cackle as she struggles to take in what I’m saying as gospel truth.

  “What?” I ask somewhat irate.

  “Sorry if I call bullshit, but bullshit!” she tells me, sarcasm lacing her tone vehemently as it strikes me with every syllable. “I hardly know you, but I already think you’re some hotshot who’s too good for a place like this, so you keep yourself well hidden. I think you have your choice of women, but unlike Jackson, you are afraid to settle while women fall at your feet. I think you’re a rich kid who still has the mentality of a man privileged enough to get everything he wants, including any woman who so much as breathes the same air as you do. You think you have a God-given right to walk in and out of people’s lives as you please just so you can get what you want when you want. I’ve known you no more than twenty minutes and I already think you leave a trail of broken hearts in your wake, break every promise you make, and still act like a spoiled brat. I’ve heard stories about you, but my mind can make up what sort of man you really are.”

  “You shouldn’t assume anything about me,” I reply, my tone lowering as I listen to all of her sweet assumptions. “I’m way worse than your imagination will ever make you believe I am.”

  “I’m sure you are!” she exclaims, assuming I mean that I’m more spoiled, much richer, and more chauvinistic than she thinks.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I utter, my tone warning her that she’s testing me. “I’m your worst nightmare, cara.”

  She shakes her head. “Trust me, I’ve seen my worst nightmare, and you’re much too meek and mild. You’re also much too polite. So trust me, you’re not my worst nightmare!”

  I chortle, rolling my eyes at her every last word. “Trust me, every little idea you have in your head about me is a lie.”

  “You ready to go?”

  I can feel myself tensing up, but the moment I hear Jackson’s voice, my muscles start to unfreeze and I fall away from my close proximity with Ryleigh. Everything that just happened falls away and I remind myself that my life is not one made for her. Sure, she has the stamina, and she projects strength with no shame, but even she wouldn’t survive my lifestyle.

  So, I revert to my cold, offish persona.

  “Yeah, think I need this tonight to cool off,” I say, leaving Ryleigh without a good-bye.

  I know where we’re going, and sweet good-byes are a gentle work up for it.

  “You’re leaving? Just like that?” She suddenly speaks up, uttering as we begin to leave.

  “I can’t stay here. I have other jobs to contend with,” I tell her. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back for that repeat performance tomorrow. Show me a little more of your ass and I might give you a pay rise.”

  ***

  “You punch like a girl,” the fucker before me jokes, mocking me before a screaming crowd.

  And all it does is rile me up.

  Since we left the club, I’ve been thinking about Ryleigh. For no particular reason, but for the blatant fact, I’ve met her. For months, I’ve watched her dance around the lights, lure men in, and captivate me as if I were her sole audience. But having taken that step into her life means she’s on my mind. I’m even more captivated now than I ever was before. The thought alone sends me into a frenzy and as I land punch after punch onto my opponent’s ugly fucking mug, I find myself not calming down.

  I want to remove her from my mind and remind myself that I am not a man who gives in easily to a woman.

  Ryleigh has me wound up to the hilt, and I cannot get her out of my head. She was more than I had ever expected she would be. And that is a potent thing to be in my life. I’m trained to read someone within a few minutes of meeting them, and after watching Ryleigh for as long as I ha
ve, I still don’t know any more about her than I did.

  As the fucker before me falls back at my attack of well-placed punches, I see a slight movement that catches my attention. I take my eyes from my point of focus for two seconds to narrow my gaze upon the motion beyond the crowd – Ryleigh.

  As her eyes latch upon mine, I see how worried her beautiful brown eyes are now. Even under the dim lighting, I know she realizes her mistake in following Jackson and me here. Looking more frightened that I’ve caught sight of her, she starts to look around for a quick exit.

  I watch her battle the hordes of men around her; she’s like bait among them. I think now she slowly realizes that fact, but that’s my error. Taking my eyes off my opponent means he has the upper hand. It’s not until I’m flat on my back seeing fucking stars do I realize this girl from my club is going to be my fucking downfall if I’m not careful.

  I just lost my first match and all over a fucking girl.

  A girl, no less, who doesn’t know what she’s in for now that we’ve formally met.

  I force myself up, recovering as quickly as I can possibly manage. I spit my mouth guard out and look up at the fucker who’s smirking triumphantly. I take a quick look and see that Ryleigh is hovering by the door. I know she’s going to disappear if I’m not quick with my winning feat.

  Enraged by my own obsessive nature, I begin to bounce from foot to foot, ignore the throb racing up and down my jaw, and narrow a death glare upon my opponent. He got me once, but he won’t get me again.

  “It’s time to dance,” I warn him, soliciting my harshest glare.

  We do a manic dance around the cage waiting for the other to make their first move, and as he strikes his first punch, I strike at his kidney, forcing pain to cripple him. I throw an uppercut straight into the bottom of his jaw ramming his teeth into one another. I thought that would do it, but he remains standing – in pain, but still fucking standing!

  All I have to do is get him down for the count so I can see what the fuck that bitch was thinking even coming here.

  That’s all I’m thinking about as I land one final blow – what made her fucking follow me?

  4RYLEIGH

  I don’t think I’ve ever run this fast before.

  Between the punches and the screaming crowd, the man I’ve obsessed about for months, and being caught in the middle of a tense war, I felt suffocated. As if what I had walked into was far too much for me to cope with, so I allowed my fight or flight to take over and I ran.

  Yet the frenzy that caught me off guard has me entirely caught up as I break into the fresh air.

  I don’t know what freaked me out more – seeing a man I had lusted for in the shadows fight like a barbaric monster, or realizing my assumptions of him had been wrong. Fuck, I was shocked that a place like this existed and I had opted to come here.

  It was at that moment I wished I hadn’t been foolish enough to follow a man who, for all intents and purposes, was a stranger to me. He’s involved in a world far too dangerous for me to speculate, and apparently, one that involves demons I wasn’t ready to invite into my empty existence.

  I was a naïve little girl to think I was doing something clever by following Dante.

  I’m an impulsive woman and saw my opportunity. I got dressed as quickly as I could after Dante left and fled the club in exactly the same manner. I saw him and Jackson having a heated argument and took the moment to leap into my car and be ready to follow. I just wanted to know more. I wanted to know whatever it was that changed Dante's entire persona at the drop of a dime.

  And as I watch his toned, yet horrifically scarred body become smothered with sweat and blood, I realize Dante was right; my imagination would never conjure up the correct assumption of what this man truly was.

  He called me a survivor, but looking at him, for even a second, tells me he's survived many more battles than I ever will. How does a man brave the world when his body is a minefield of healed battle wounds? I thought my scars were awful, but it’s not even remotely close.

  “You don’t get to fucking walk out of here, cara!”

  As that nickname burns the air, I take a deep breath, my feet still moving, and try to tell them to start running. Anticipation fires up within me as I wait to see the man who I just watched fight another with vicious intent. For now, I keep walking, attempting to escape the aggressiveness that is chasing me.

  It’s daunting, the blackness stalking my every ghost step. He’ll catch me, but I’m foolish enough to believe I can outrun Dante.

  Every story I had heard about the great Dante Valentino never indicated he was a cage fighter. I’d heard the stories that he stood his ground, that he never allowed people to walk over him, but this, what I just saw, was downright illegal activity. What makes it worse was that Jackson stood cheering him on!

  I feel like every aspect of my life is bound by lies, held together preciously by dishonest characters.

  “Nu-uh, you don’t get to fucking allow yourself to snoop into my private life like that and run, especially when you just nearly cost me fifteen grand.” It’s with the force of his hand around my forearm that he stops me, turning me to face him, and I meet an enraged Dante. He’s in nothing but his black satin shorts, blood and sweat smeared over his skin. “What did you think you were pulling with that little stunt?”

  “I don’t know,” I manage, finding my mouth becoming unbearably dry.

  What sort of response was that? I don’t know what is it about this man that has my mind seemingly short wiring itself. My intrigue was far too much for me to cope with, and now, the moment between us was monumental.

  “Don’t play me for a fucking foolish man, Ryleigh!” he bellows, his throat constricting with his anger. “I might not know you very well, but I know you’re not stupid.” He leers at me, not caring for Jackson running toward us, or the fact that onlookers are watching us. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, his hand tightening ever so slightly around my arm.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” I reply quickly, my tone a step away from sounding as if I’m in total despair.

  I told him I wasn’t a damsel in distress, so now is not the time to start sounding like one. I hate that the first time he stood before me, I stood gawping at him, and now the second, I’ve become a compulsive liar.

  “That’s not what I fucking asked, little girl!” he bellows, his grip on me tightening. “What are you doing here?”

  “I-I.” I begin to stutter. “I was invited!”

  Even I fail to believe my lie but what else do I say? I came here, without an invitation, and walked straight into something that I wasn’t supposed to see. How do I confront why I’m really here when I don’t even know why I followed him? Curiosity got me this far, it’ll be sure to kill me.

  “Didn’t realize Jackson employed liars!” he scoffs, and he has every right to – I’m a terrible liar. “Now, what bright spark of an idea told you to follow me? My business has nothing to do with you, Ryleigh, much like yours doesn’t have anything to do with me!”

  I wait with bated breath, taking each one with precious care, and I decide now is the time I breathe the truth. It’s time I strike back, take hold of my strength, and refuse to present myself as a lost cause.

  “I made a reckless move and trust me, I regret being here,” I tell him, my voice suddenly growing in octave and strength. “I regret seeing you like... this.”

  I allow my gaze to drop, really taking in the marring of his body, the ones slashed with bruises, blood, and sweat. I trace across his tattoos, noticing names and random elements embellished into his skin. It leaves my skin tingling as my curiosity as to how they all made a permanent place in his life grows with a fever pitch.

  “What I do here is part of my life,” he says, offering me very little insight. “It’s a part of me.”

  Now I look him in the eyes, preparing for what's to come at my request.

  “What are you?”

  “Something you wouldn’t like,�
�� he replies. He says the words in a monotonous tone; there’s no longing or added emotion as if he holds any sentiment to what he is. It seems pretty cutthroat. “I am not a man who a woman like you should ever show interest in.”

  “Too late,” I admit within a whisper.

  I watch his eyes close as if I’ve physically pained him somehow. I take a moment to allow my eyes to roam over every contour of his face, allow myself to revel in his delicious handsomeness before I know I’m cast out from ever witnessing it again. He may be harmed, marred by punches to his face, but there’s something arousing about having him before me in nothing but shorts, smothered in a medley of sweat and blood. I shouldn’t find this sight sexual, but it’s just another angle to Dante that drew me here.

  I don’t know what you’re meddling with by even talking to me,” he utters, his eyes slowly opening to look at me. “I am not a nice man, Ryleigh. I’m not remotely close to a good man, and I won’t ever be that sort of character. It’s not in me.” His words sound almost venomous to him, a struggle in his tone as he confesses a weak admission of his true character. “What you witnessed back there is only a small taste of what I’m capable of.”

  I sense the danger lacing his words, but I don’t cower. If anything, the longer I’m around him, the more I want to know. I can’t quite make out something about Dante, and the more I think about it, the stronger my curiosity to get lost in his world grows. It’s a potent feeling that serves its duty by giving me a sense of sadistic purpose.

  Trust me to feel like this over a man who is clearly going to discard me within a few seconds. If my track record serves right, I should’ve guessed this long ago. I should’ve known that I was going to end up here.

  “Who are those people in there?” I ask, unknowing where that question came from. I guess I’m trying to bide some time and not allow him to leave me just yet.