I mouth “thank you” to Jonah, and he grabs my arm and ushers me off the dance floor, depositing me into a seat next to Raven.
She leans into me. “Having fun?” One eyebrow lifts as she dares me to say no.
No way am I giving her the satisfaction. I rock into her shoulder and search the surrounding tables for my drink. I could’ve sworn I set it here when I went dancing. Trying to place myself, I whirl around and—ah-ha! My drink was moved to the table behind me. Warmer and a little watered down, the sweet liquid is refreshing against my dance-parched lips.
Raven yawns. “I think we’re going to take off.”
“What? Why? It’s only . . .” I do a booty tilt and pull my phone from my back pocket. “Eleven-thirty.”
“I’m a pregnant lady in a nightclub, Eve.”
I shrug. “Eh . . . good point.”
“You ready?”
This is the first time in a long time that I’ve had fun at a club. I’m not ready for it to end. “Nah, you guys go ahead. It’s a cheap cab back to my place.”
Her eyes narrow but tinge with the hint of concern. “You sure you want to stay? Blake and Layla are leaving too, so that’ll leave you with Mason and the boys.”
“No biggie. Besides”—I take one look over my shoulder at Blake and Layla, who have had their hands all over each other all night—“my guess? If Layla wasn’t already pregnant, she probably would be tonight. Being conceived in a bar is a sad story to have to tell Junior.”
As if on cue, Blake tilts in toward Layla and devours her mouth. I watch for a second, wondering what it would be like to be kissed like that again. To have someone who needs me so badly that he can’t help but touch me in public, consequences be damned.
Jonah drops into the seat next to mine, robbing me of the view.
“Yo, Slade. Where’s Rex?” I twirl my straw between my fingers. “Shouldn’t he be celebrating his own victory?”
“Didn’t want to come.” He scans the room, always looking like a watchdog. “Too tired, went home.”
That doesn’t sound like Rex at all. He’s usually the laid back one who would go along with anything the group was doing. Not to mention The Blackout is like his second home.
“That’s weird.” I take another pull from my straw.
“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s up with him, but . . .” His gaze moves toward the entrance of the club, and one of his two dimples pops. “Holy shit. He came.”
I follow his stare to find another fighter making his way toward us. I’m assuming he’s a fighter due to his size, probably a heavyweight like Jonah because he’s close to Jonah’s height, but he has Jonah beat on the width. This dude is huge!
He struts with the confidence of a prize-fighter through the room and toward us. His black pants fall perfectly down long legs and stretch taut across his thighs with each stride. I bet those thighs could throw some power behind that body in the bedroom. Wait, what? No! I want to move my eyes away, but instead they travel up to his crisp white, button-up shirt that’s tucked in against a flat stomach. It would look too dressy, almost stuffy if it weren’t for his sleeves that are rolled up in a casual sexy way. His shoulders are broad, and as his thighs do to his pants, the fabric pulls tight at his biceps. If he flexed hard enough, that thing would shred.
A warm and foreign feeling of lightheadedness floods my system. Damn, maybe I’m drunker than I thought?
As he gets closer, I blink as his face comes into view. Please be ugly; please be ugly. I squint through the club lighting to focus.
Aw, dammit. A thick square jaw leads to full lips that are held in a tight line. High cheekbones showcase a dark pair of eyes held in a permanent glare. Framing that deadly expression is chestnut hair cropped short on the sides with just enough length on the top to bury hands in and sideburns that lead into two-day-old facial hair that screams rugged and I don’t give a fuck.
“Damn.” The word falls from my lips on a whisper just as he steps up to a standing Jonah to exchange a fist bump.
“Glad you made it.” Jonah pulls Raven up, tucking her under his arm, and the familiar flare of envy fires in my chest.
Blake and Layla join the greeting committee just as Caleb and Mason seem to appear out of nowhere to do the same. Who is this guy that just his presence alone calls a crowd?
And why am I insanely irritated that no one is introducing me to this guy? Fuck it. Whatever. I have to pee.
I shove up from my seat and move around the group, disappearing into the belly of the club and toward the restrooms. Every step I take intensifies my pout. I don’t know why I care. I mean sure he’s handsome in a way that makes Justin Timberlake look like a girl, but I’m off men forever, especially superhot ones that don’t simply walk into a room. That guy prowled. He looks like the kind of man who, when faced with something he wants, doesn’t ask. He takes. A warm rush of excitement turns in my belly.
“No, no, no!” I slap myself in the face and push through the door to the ladies’ room. “Asexual. I’m asexual.”
I have to be. Because being attracted to a man seems to scramble my brain cells and leave me stupid with zero sense of self-preservation. Bad things happen to a woman when she lets go and gives her heart the freedom to roam.
Not me. Not anymore. I’m locking it away where no one can touch it.
I throw back my shoulders in resolve even as the tiny voice in my head says I don’t stand a chance.
~*~
Cameron
One drink and I’m leaving.
After the fight, the press conference and subsequent questioning sucked up every ounce of my good mood, not that there was much there to begin with. Gibbs might be gone, but that doesn’t keep reporters from drudging up the shit he caused and forcing me into a tight spot during questioning. I have to paint on the face of a CEO, when inside I’m a fighter who’s forced to sit around and listen to one too many mamma jokes.
The last place I want to be is a fucking nightclub, and if it weren’t for the scribbling in my notebook, I would’ve forgotten to come. For the first time in a long time, I’m cursing an event I remembered and pissed I didn’t forget.
I haven’t been in a place like this since I was . . . well, since I was the age of the people I’m surrounded by. Back then, I thought I was hot shit, but now I feel like someone’s dad who was sent along as a chaperone.
“Cam, here ya go.” Mason brings me a beer from the bar.
“Thanks, man.” I try to force a peaceful expression, but it doesn’t come easily, so I give up and move to conversation. “Blake, great job tonight.” I hold up my beer and tap bottles with the fighter. “You stayed on your feet. Textbook KO. Proud of you.”
“Thanks. I know you doubted me, but that’s cool.” He takes a swig of his beer. “I had enough confidence for the both of us.”
“Caleb, you’re up next.” I nod to the country boy. “You ready for a fight?”
“Like you have to ask.” He shakes his head, grinning.
This is a good group of fighters. They’re talented and hungry, and outside of Blake’s justifiable attitude toward UFL upper management, if we could infect some of the other fighters with this drive, we might have a chance of saving the organization.
“Yeah, well—”
“Excuse me.” A woman bumps me from behind. “Coming through.” She pushes past me to reach for the table and snags a half-empty drink. She holds the watered down concoction up and locks eyes with me with a sneer. “Don’t mind me.”
Did she just roll her eyes?
“I wouldn’t want to crash in on the hero worship.” She brings the drink to her lips.
“You sure that’s yours?” I motion to the cocktail glass.
She cocks a hip and stirs what’s left of her drink into a whirling pale purple vortex. “What kind of question is that? It’s in my hand, isn’t it?”
My eyes dart to Jonah, who appears to find something funny. I swing my gaze back to the woman, and something about the way she’s
scowling makes me curious to how far I could push her.
“You left your drink alone on a table?”
“I do it all the time.” She dips her head to take a sip.
My hand shoots out and grabs the glass from her. “No.”
Her jaw falls open, and her eyes grow wide before they narrow. “Hey! That’s my dri—”
“You can’t drink this.” I hand the glass over to a passing cocktail waitress to take away.
“What the fuck?” Her glare follows the cocktail server until she’s out of view, and then she swings it back to me. “Who the fuck are you?”
It’s ridiculous, but even while this girl looks at me, probably wishing I were dead and yelling fuck in my face, I can’t help but think she’s a funny little thing.
“Oh.” Raven moves to stand between us, and something tells me she’s doing it to protect me. “Eve, this is Cameron Kyle, Jonah’s new boss.”
Apparently Jonah’s wife has some sway over this Eve girl as her expression relaxes a bit.
I nod. “Nice to mee—”
“You owe me a drink.”
“Saved your life. Way I see it you owe me a drink.”
Her shoulders pull back a fraction, accentuating her curves, of which she got more than her fair share. A hot pink top hugs her body to her waist where the hem meets a pair of blue jeans so tight it’s impossible not to imagine her naked. As hot as her body is, that’s not the most eye-catching thing about this girl. It’s her face, round and angelic, framed in golden blond hair with a thick curtain of bangs that touches her eyelashes, but nothing about the way she’s looking at me is angelic. She’s walking the thin line of becoming enraged. I can’t tell through the music, but if I had to go off expression alone, I’d bet money she’s growling.
“Puleaze.” She cocks a hip. “Saved my life?”
I shrug and pull my gaze away from her. Staring too long could give her the wrong idea. “How long was your drink sitting on the table?”
Her eyebrows drop low over her big blue eyes. Aw hell, I’m staring again. “What does that have to do—?”
“Did you even buy that drink yourself or did some guy bring it to you?”
“I’m a woman.” Her sweet face contorts with disgust. “I never buy my own drinks.”
“Yes.” I take her in again from hips to face. “I see that, but being a woman doesn’t mean you act like an idiot.”
She gasps, and someone nearby giggles while most of the guys cough on their laughter.
“Desperate dude wants to get laid”—I motion to her—“and sees a hot chick.”
Her mask of irritation gives way to a blush.
“She leaves her drink on the table.” I throw back a gulp of beer. “You connect the dots.”
“He’s right, Eve.” Jonah’s smiling.
She pins him with a glare. “Hey! I left my drink with you guys.” Her accusing finger points back and forth between everyone.
“So you get drugged, dragged, and bagged, and it’s their fault?” She can’t be that stupid. We’re in Vegas. This kind of shit is on the news every day. She’s not answering my question, but nothing about her silence says she’s conceding. “You’re smart; you buy your own drinks from now on.”
Her glare gets impossibly tighter. “I am smart.” She pushes the words through clenched teeth.
“Accepting a drink from a stranger then leaving it lying around? Smart is debatable.” I take a swig of my beer and realize on some level that I’m a fucking asshole. People skills aren’t my thing, and my inability to think before I speak ticks people off more often than not. Especially women.
I expect to look down at the fragile little doll to find her tearing up, lip quivering, the usual shit I see on a woman’s face after they’ve ventured into a conversation with me, but when I drop my chin to look, I find something entirely different. Sure, her expression is still tight with a fuck-off-and-die scowl, but there’s something else there that stirs my blood. A longing behind her glare that makes my chest thump and my fingertips itch to get at her.
“As pleasant as it was to meet you, I’m in need of a drink.” She throws a heavy section of her long blond hair over her shoulder and stomps off toward the bar. With her distance, I’m able to shake the fog that had my slacks growing tight. “Interesting girl.”
“Don’t be too hard on her, Cam.” Blake grins and leans against a barstool. “She’s in an . . . experimental phase.”
Everyone shares a small laugh and secret looks. What am I missing?
“I don’t get it.”
“To put it bluntly?” Blake shrugs. “She thinks she’s gay.”
“Huh.” No fucking way.
Three
Eve
This is exactly why I hate men. They breeze in all blah, blah, blah, throwing out compliments like hot chick, all brooding glare and crazy hot body.
So what’s a girl to do? She falls all over herself in an effort to get close. Close enough to touch him, to feel the heat of his body against hers, the weight of him on top of her. She says and does all the right things, hoping that he’ll just hold her while she sleeps, whisper that he loves her, and promise never to leave. And she’s so buzzed off all he’s offering that she actually believes for once—for once in a fucking lifetime of promises—this one’ll keep his word.
What a crock of shit!
I slide through the crowd and redirect my path from the bar to the dance floor, determined to regain my good mood. The DJ spins some sick remix of Wiz Khalifa’s “Work Hard, Play Hard.” It hits hard and the bass causes the air in the room to vibrate, exactly what I need. I move to the music, faking it at first until I really start to feel it. Bodies bump and glide against mine until I’m hypersensitive to every touch and my blood drums through my veins as if to the beat. The friction of bodies against my skin bathes my arms in goose bumps and unleashes a sensual heat throughout my torso. I’d blame it on the alcohol, but I know better.
My libido has been hibernating since Vince, but it’s wide freakin’ awake now thanks to the pushy and condescending UFL boss-dude. My mind conjures up his image against my will: the way his huge body towers over mine while he’s telling me what I can and can’t do. A shiver of excitement races up my spine for no good reason at all. And so it begins . . .
Fucking hell! It’s hot in here. Having totally lost my mojo on the dance floor, I push through dancing bodies to the bar. Snagging an empty barstool, I grab a cocktail napkin and dab the sweat from my chest and neck.
“What do you need?” The bartender leans over the bar, ear aimed at me.
“Something strong and icy.” I fan myself with the soggy napkin.
He nods and gets busy making me a drink. I scan my surroundings to make sure Cameron—ugh, even his name is hot—doesn’t catch me buying my own drink. I know men like him. They thrive on power, and seeing me do exactly what he suggested I do would be like bowing down and admitting failure. Ain’t happenin’.
“That’ll be eighteen.” The bartender drops a huge pint glass filled with what looks like iced tea in front of me. Wait, eighteen dollars?
“There better be gold flakes in that ice, compadre.” This is another reason I never buy my own drinks. They’re flippin’ expensive.
He rolls his eyes. “You said strong, sweetheart. Long Island ain’t cheap.” He offers his hand, palm up.
I hand over a good quarter of my grocery money and glare at the bartender who, by the look of his grin, finds this mildly entertaining. Whatever.
Hoping the food-for-a-day priced cocktail is worth it, I take a sip of my fancy tea. My throat flames and my stomach warms. “Holy shit!” How could something that looks so innocent be so damn dangerous? It tastes like gasoline. I mix it up and try again. It’s a little better. A few more sips into my drink my lips go numb. Mission accomplished. Hopefully my head will be next.
Someone from behind presses in to get to the bar. “Negra Modelo. No lime.”
That voice. My head whips to the side, my
back goes ramrod straight, and I glare. “You.”
He frowns back. “Don’t you mean thank you.”
“Are you following me?”
The corner of his mouth moves in a way that makes my stomach dip, and my hands grip the bar to keep from toppling toward him.
“No.” He drops some cash on the bar just as the bartender delivers his beer, and then Cameron brings the bottle to his lips.
Damn, his hands are huge. I wonder what it would feel like to have those hands on my body, touching, protecting, possessing. A shiver of need runs up my spine, and I go back to my atomic tea. Gulp after gulp, I swallow straight booze, holding my breath like a kid with cough syrup. This guy is a dick. A huge one. Does he have a huge—no! No, no. I shake my head, wanting to kick my own ass for being such a slut, even if only in my head.
“Which lucky stiff bought you that, doll?” He nods to my drink.
Doll? That was sorta sweet, but I hold my scowl and refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing I bought my own drink. “It was the guy down there.” I tilt my head to motion down the bar. “The one with the red shirt on.”
He turns and spots the random dude I just pointed out about four stools down, and then turns back to me. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hm.” I take a long pull from my tea and stifle the urge to recoil from the liquid fire.
“Hope his girlfriend doesn’t mind him buyin’ drinks for other women.” I hear the chuckle he tries to hide in his bottle as he takes a sip of his beer.
Leaning forward, I peer down the bar and—shit, he’s right—the guy in the red shirt has a beautiful brunette on his lap and his hands all over her.
I shrug and drop my lips back to my drink to hide my hot cheeks.
“You know.” He leans down to speak into my ear, and the spicy sweet scent of his aftershave filters to my nose. “It’s pretty fucked up to let guys buy you drinks, especially if you’re not interested in men.”
Fighting the Fall Page 3
