by Teagan Kade
As for Max, his friend Sam in Vegas gave him the keys to his old gym along with the deeds to ten other properties dotted around the city. He gave Max literally everything he owned in his will, right down to his stuffed parrot, which always struck Max as kind of funny given how long it had been since they’d seen each other.
I never met Sam apart from our brief encounter at the cage fight, but Max tells me you wouldn’t have known he was loaded by the way he dressed or acted. He managed to keep his portfolio of properties a secret right up until his death, happy to hand them over to the neighborhood scallywag he remembered so well under the condition he hang onto the gym and make something of it.
Max was reluctant to go back to Vegas initially, given our run-in with Bobby, but he did, using his newly acquired windfall to buy me an apartment in New York and renovate the gym, naming it Sam’s in honor of the man who refused to let it go to the casino giants.
There was trouble, of course, people trying to muscle Max into selling, handing the gym over, but he wouldn’t do it. His roots in that neighborhood go deep. He had people watching his back, but still he wouldn’t let me come out to see him, deeming it too dangerous.
And then Bobby ‘The Nail’ Cervantes disappeared, just like that. Some say it was the Mexicans, others the Russians, but soon afterwards his empire descended into chaos. The great Cervantes crime family was no more.
It was during this lull in the power struggle for Vegas I finally boarded a plane back to the city of sin. Max showed me the gym. He was so proud. There was a framed picture of Sam on one wall, another of Max and his father below. I gave him hell about his bowl cut back then, to which he promptly pinched my ass, daring me to step into the ring.
Membership was free for locals, which meant the place was bustling with kids and youth skipping and sparring and pretending they were in Rocky V. I have to admit, it was impressive—really impressive. I could tell Max was getting such a kick out of it, and although I missed him terribly, I knew this was right.
Some say a long-distance relationship is doomed, but we made it work, skipping back and forth when we had time, sexing ourselves silly before the inevitable countdown started over again. They were so passionate, those encounters. I was almost a little shocked at myself at the nymphomaniac I’d become after three weeks with only my iVibe to keep me company.
Max wasn’t the greatest at phone sex to begin with, but he came around. These days he can say one word and I’ll be insta-wet with anticipation, dreaming about his cock sliding into me again.
Noel wasn’t so easy. She was mad at me for months, refused to take my calls. I understood it, what I’d put her through, so when she did show up at my place one pastel-colored morning, I was surprised. She talked and I listened. I suppose we always knew we’d forgive each other eventually.
I explained the situation and introduced her to Lucy. You should have seen the look on Noel’s face when she stepped into Lucy’s studio for the first time—the dictionary definition of ‘kid in a candy store.’ Noel even had Lucy help her out with a collection, Lucy’s twenty-five-million Twitter followers ensuring it was an immediate sell-out.
Noel and I even made a collection together based on the tattoo design I used for the festival. I even used some of Max’s old sketches. It was another hit. Lucy said we should do a show together, happy to bankroll it, but Noel wanted it to be my show and mine alone. I campaigned bitterly against it, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s just the way she is, always thinking of others.
And voila, here I am.
My PA returns. I hear the music volume increase in the auditorium, hear the bustle and chatter of seats being filled.
I shake out my hands, breathe deep. Here we go.
Models start to line up, ready to take the stage.
My runway director holds up her hand, her fingers counting down in time with the digital clock to her left. She looks to me and winks, tapping the first model on the shoulder. “And go.”
MAX
We’re late to dinner. I shouldn’t have slipped into the shower with Dawn while she was getting ready, but it’s been three weeks since I’ve seen her.
I’ve been so busy with the gym, Dawn with her spring collections given her recent show was such a success. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder… and my cock grow harder.
Dinner was wonderful, but when Dawn steps out onto the balcony of the Ghost Bar on the fifty-fifth floor of the Palms Ivory Tower, I’m blown away.
Honestly, given the see-through floor, I want to get off this thing as soon as possible, back to hard, safe ground. But George, the owner, promised us five minutes alone out here. It was too good to pass up. He’s a big boxing fan, saw me take down O’Neil in that infamous YouTube clip. I’ve had countless offers since to go into fighting, but I passed them all up. Those days are done.
Dawn leans on the railing and pulls me over. She looks incredible in a silky silver dress, but it’s her eyes that shine the brightest, even brighter than the city lights below. “We finally had a proper date.”
“Did I do okay?” I ask.
She places her hand on my chest. “You did more than okay, and boy am I going to make sure you know it when we get back to the suite.”
I turn into her slightly to hide my erection and run my hand up her side, the fabric of her dress starting to bunch in my hand.
She looks around. “Why are we the only ones out here?”
I look across to the people gathered inside, the staff standing by the door making sure we have the deck to ourselves. I look down at her nipples stiff against the front of her dress. I can’t wait to take them in my mouth. “Too cold out, maybe?”
Dawn’s eyebrows knit. “Seriously? It’s perfect out here.”
“Maybe I wanted some room.”
“For what?” she laughs.
I get down on one knee and take her hand. “For this.”
Her mouth drops and she stares down at me, looking over to the crowd pressed against the glass inside eager to watch me make a fool of myself.
I take out the chestnut box that has been burning a hole in my jacket pocket all night.
“Max?” Dawn queries.
“Dawn Anna Hayes,” I begin, the words I’ve practiced for so long running through my head. “I feel like everything in my life has led me to you—my choices, my heartbreaks, my regrets. Everything. But when we’re together, my past seems worth it, because if I had done one thing differently, I might never have met you.”
I open the box, the ring glinting in the moonlight. A tear falls upon stone.
“I got that off Pinterest,” I confess. “But I mean every word.”
“What are you doing on Pinterest?” she laughs, crying with joy.
I shake my head. “Getting sidetracked by cute cat pictures, apparently, and recipes for cupcakes, people make really good cupcakes on there, but I’m serious, Dawn. Sometimes the bad things that happen in our lives put us directly on the path to the very best, and that’s you. You’re the best thing to happen to me—period. So,” I pause, waiting.
“Say it,” she smiles.
“Dawn ‘Knock Out’ Hayes, will you marry me?”
Epilogue II
DAWN
ANOTHER YEAR LATER
I can’t believe it’s been two years since I met Max on that fateful night in Brooklyn. A lot’s happened since then. This has happened.
The surprising benefit of being pregnant is my new cleavage. Max’s hands glide back up my dress from behind to weigh and knead my heavy breasts. I close my eyes and mew against his face. “You should shave.”
“And you should stop being so sexy,” comes his husky reply.
I reach back and find his cock rock hard through his suit trousers. “You’re going to make me too horny.”
He kisses down the soft sweep of my neck across my bare shoulder. “Is that a problem?”
I laugh. “My fiancé walking into the biggest fashion awards show in the state with a gi
ant hard-on? Yeah, I guess that’s a problem.”
“You don’t want those other girls to see what they’re missing out on?”
“I own your cock, mister. It’s my property.”
He looks down. “News to me, and it.”
I turn and we embrace. I drive my tongue deep into his mouth, enjoying its warm and welcoming embrace. I break away and watch myself in his fire-opal eyes. In them I see all our memories, the wild escapades we got up to, the near-death situations that seem so long ago now.
Honestly, I don’t know how we got through it. The police were looking for me. We made it through airports and casinos. We stole a car, drove another into a house for crying out loud. I think back to those times and my heart still stops. And let’s not start with the tiny daffodil he tattooed on my ass…
I’ll admit such excitement has been lacking somewhat of late with our new arrival and the hectic way it has upturned our lives, but we’re still as hot for each other as that first night at the Wild Horse.
Max works a hand down into the dampening crotch of my panties. “You’re wet.”
“You’re surprised?”
My cell buzzes across the vanity. I reach it just before it slides off the edge.
Max’s working my clit through my panties. I try to slap him away as I answer in a breathy, “Hello?”
It’s Noel, wishing me well. I can hear her new man in the background trying to lure her back to bed. She tells me he’s the carbon copy of Ben Stiller. She actually met the real thing at one of my shows a few months back, could barely speak she was so star-struck.
I thank her and hang up, smiling with the cell in my hand.
“Who was it?” Max asks, reaching between my legs again.
I swat it away. “You want to do it right here backstage, where anyone could see us, in public?”
He laughs against my ear. “Clearly, you’ve forgotten about our quickie at the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
He is, of course, referring to the Eiffel Tower at Paris Las Vegas. I’ve never gotten off so quick in my life when we heard that gaggle of German tourists approaching.
“And then there was time in the back of the cab in New York, the studio, that movie… what was it called?”
“Wonder Woman.”
“That you were.”
I push him away. “Stop it, you. You’ve made your point, but you and your throbbing manhood can wait until later, got it?”
He does look good in a suit. The bowtie’s a bit much, but it still takes everything I have not to sweep us under the curtain and go hell for leather. If there’s anything that being pregnant has done, it’s made me ultra-horny. I don’t think a second passes by where I’m not dreaming about doing it.
Yep. Sprinkle sandwiches and sex at all hours of the day. That is what I will take away from this pregnancy thing.
And that’s when it happens.
“Argh,” he grunts, looking down at his shoes between us. “I think someone spilled their champagne on my shoes out there.”
I lift his chin up. “Honey, that ain’t champagne.”
Whoever said giving birth was a beautiful, transcendent experience clearly hasn’t had to push a pumpkin out of their vagina while a throng of people in scrubs look up your baby chute.
I’m pushing and I’m thinking about everything I’ve hated about being pregnant—the lack of ankles, forced to adopt the swagger of a penguin in leg irons, the All You Can Eat night belly. I’m cursing it all — cursing anyone in sight, actually, Max included — squeezing Max’s giant hand so hard I’m sure I can hear his bones breaking. And then, finally, he’s out.
When they place him in my arms, when his impossibly soft cheek is pressed against my skin, I forget all the negatives of the last nine months. I look at Max, smiling like he’s just won the Super Bowl. I look between him and what we’ve made and I’m insanely, bring-on-the-waterworks happy.
As carefully as I can, I hand the bundle over to Max. He cradles his son awkwardly, like a bowl of noodles he’s about to spill. The baby grips his thumb, and Max, the toughest, hardest guy I know, is crying. I’m crying, the midwife’s crying — probably with relief it’s over — everyone’s crying. They’re going to have to mop the floor after we leave.
There are two boys in my life and I couldn’t be happier. I see Max, a man changed — the most honest, loving, generous man I know, my husband and light, my life. I see our baby boy, already so curious about the world, so full of promise.
If you had told me back in that alleyway two years ago that we would be here, now, doing this, I wouldn’t have believed you, but sometimes reality’s crazy like that.
I’m debt-free.
I have two, count them, boys in my life.
I’m scared.
I’m excited.
But most importantly, I’m alive—alive like never before.
Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Teagan Kade
August Dimuro
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade & August Dimuro
Copyright
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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To Dane. Keep the hits coming, big fella.
Shaun
All I wanted was to relax. It had been a long week, and my coach, Hammer, pushed me hard. Of course, there was a reason his nickname was Hammer. He knew how to get under my skin and bully me into getting what he wanted out in the ring. He’d tell me I’d gone soft. Too much booze and not enough sleep due to my ‘extracurricular’ activities.
But seriously, what else was a pro athlete supposed to do in his down time? I sure as fuck wasn’t going to take up knitting.
Meeting up with Jake and a couple of my other buddies sounded like a fair enough compromise. Like a dutiful son, I promised Hammer I wouldn’t stay out too late. There was an upcoming fight that would likely get a lot of press, and I wanted to be in top form. It would be my first big fight since Rio, and the pressure was on.
As I entered the bar, I spotted Jake at the long bench taking up the back half of the room talking to a pretty redhead. I wasn’t interested in female company tonight, but that wouldn’t stop any number of women from trying to get my attention. I felt the stares even as I made my way over to my friend. It’s been like that ever since the Olympics. I’d gotten used to it and wasn’t surprised when I saw several cell phones turned toward me.
The stares I could handle, but the constant recording and dissemination of every other aspect of my life was something I didn’t think I would ever get used to. Or be okay with.
I knew that by the time I got to Jake my picture would be splashed across Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook feeds worldwide. Nigel told me I should be happy somebody still gave a shit who I was at all. It was a classic case of ‘what have you done for me lately,’ and he never missed an opportunity to tell me my sponsors were getting restless. Almost a year since I took home the gold, and I was acutely aware my star didn’t shine quite as brightly anymore.
It was too bad all the press I seemed to
get these days had nothing to do with how good I was with my hands in the ring. Not at all. The paparazzi seemed far more interested in the bar brawls and the string of hook-ups with nameless, faceless women—another reason I usually kept a low profile these days.
“Shaun!” Jake caught sight of me. He slapped me on the shoulder, but his eyes never left the redhead’s ample chest.
“See? I told you I knew him,” he told her. “Shaun Nichols. Olympic gold medalist and my high-school buddy. God, we used to get up to some shit when we were kids. Once I was grounded for a whole month because I took the blame for one of Shaun’s infamous pranks.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. The pranks we played were never my idea. That said, I had gotten in my fair share of trouble back then. My parents were delighted when I started to spend more time at the gym than running around with the boys. It was more than annoying how some of my friends like Jake used our friendship to get into women’s pants. The sad thing was, it worked.
“I’m Sheryl,” the redhead said, extending her hand to me even as she pushed her chest upward in my direction. I had zero interest in Sheryl, but I was a red-blooded man. She had a nice rack, but given the plunging neckline of her dress, it was a definite possibility her tits might fall out before the evening was over. No doubt Jake would be more than happy to catch them.
“Nice to meet you, Sheryl,” I said, shaking her hand and averting my eyes from her cleavage. I turned to Jake. “I called ahead and got us one of the VIP tables. The rest of the guys must be running late.”
“That’s my superstar,” Jake said, nodding his head, turning his attention back to the fire crotch. “You wanna go VIP, sweetheart?”
“Sure,” she said, a coy tone even as she took a sip off her cocktail. The way she used her tongue to play with the straw as she batted her eyelashes in my direction told me that Sheryl had already lost interest in Jake. She had a new target. Poor fucker. But I had no interest in Sheryl.
