Long Shot: An MMA Stepbrother Romance

by Whitlow, Lexi

  I take Josh by the arm and guide him down the line of tape I’ve put in the hallway. Despite the exercises, his balance is completely off. With the bruised ribs and the shoulder like it is, I’m not terribly fucking surprised.

  “Thank you, Nat. I know this is a big ask. There ain’t no way I’d be ready to train in the gym.”

  “Speaking of which, where does Frank think you are?”

  “He knows I’m recovering. Maybe he thinks I’m staying with Ash. He’d already be working me if I were around, probably shoot me up with HGH, maybe get me lined up to throw a fight in the next week or so.”

  “I still don’t know how you got fucked up so bad,” I say. The heat radiates from his body, and he grips my arm hard as he stumbles. As per usual, he’s prancing around my fucking house completely shirtless. As his fingers tighten around my forearm, warmth runs through me, almost like a current of electricity. I glance up at him as we walk down the line in the hallway. He gives me that grin—the one lights a fire in the pit of my stomach every time I see it. I step away from him, and he lets go of my arm. Immediately, he leans against the wall.

  “He had me fighting up a class. Guy was middleweight, insanely violent. I choked him out in the last round.”

  “With a fucking dislocated shoulder.”

  “Adrenaline,” he says, as if that explains anything. My stomach drops as I think of him in the cage, blood running down his face, down his torso. Josh stumbles at the last bit of the line, leaning hard to his left and almost pulling me down with him.

  If he favors his left side like this during the fight, the other fighter will know right away.

  “Again,” I say. “This time without me.” I turn him around at the end of the line and let go of him.

  “This is pansy bullshit, Nat. Give me some real balance exercises. I can hold a book on top of my head while I do this or something.”

  “It’s physical therapy. Go on. Try it. It’s harder than it looks when you’ve got one arm and three hundred old injuries hindering your balance. Doesn’t your trainer know anything?”

  “He knows plenty. But he doesn’t make me walk down a line of tape like a cop with a drunken teenager.”

  “Try. It.” Slowly, Josh steps away from the wall. He straightens his body, cringing as the sling pulls against his shoulder. He lifts one foot and holds it up for a moment, then puts it down on the floor, gently. He wobbles and pitches forward before catching himself on the wall with his hand.

  “Fuck.”

  “Faster, Josh. Let’s hurry this up. I don’t have all day.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed here if this is the kind of treatment I get during my recovery.” He cuts his eyes at me. They flash green, and for a moment, my stomach flips. This is always how he’s affected me, since the moment we met when we were fifteen. Maybe I’m the idiot that shouldn’t have let him stay here.

  I shouldn’t have. He knows it, I know it.

  “I agree, hot shot. Isn’t that what they call you?”

  “It’s ‘Long Shot,’ Natty.” He tries walking the line again and makes it to five steps before he tumbles against the wall again.

  “Why? Because it’s a long shot that you’ll win this fucking fight?”

  “I’m known for winning fights that no one else will take. Against the meanest and the dirtiest fighters. And there are a few other reasons I’m a Long Shot. Though if we’re being entirely accurate, I’d add in ‘thick’ too.”

  I blush hard and take a step back, hitting the wall behind me. There’s not a lot of space between me and Josh in this hallway, and it feels like it’s closing in on me, closing in on both of us. His gaze meets mine, knowing and unflinching.

  Has he heard me? Did he hear me? I gulp, and my mouth goes dry. Last night, I saw him stretched out on the couch… and in my room, with the lights off… I can’t help it—he’s always draped over a piece of my furniture, half-naked, practically rippling his abs in my direction. How could I not—

  “I... uh... you...” I stutter.

  “Just kidding,” he says and takes his place at the beginning of the line of tape. He tentatively steps forward and doesn’t stumble. “Or am I?” I try to back further against the wall, and I wish it would open up and swallow me whole. The flush on my body isn’t fading. It’s evidence of my embarrassment, and, by the lasting smirk on his face, I can tell that he probably likes it. He’s always loved doing this shit to me.

  “Great job,” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat. I cough. This time, he navigates the line with greater ease and only a few stops and starts. His movements, even with his injuries, are languid, fluid, sexual. Arousal courses through my body, and I feel wired, my hair standing on end. It might be better if I looked away from him, but now all I can think about is what he said. Since high school, I’ve heard of Josh’s legendary cock, and I’ve imagined it a thousand times since then. Regardless of the pain he’s caused me, I wanted him before I wanted any other man—and far more than I’ve wanted anyone since them.

  Stop, Nat, just stop. He’s only using you as a distraction. Inadvertently, I lick my lips. His gaze meets mine and then travels down to my mouth.

  I clear my throat, trying to regain some composure. “Great. Let’s do some arm exercises next. If you’re going to be a dipshit and start training for real next week, we’ve got to get your strength back up.”

  “Who are you? My coach? I liked you better when you didn’t curse so much.” He leans against the wall and gives me the cocky grin that’s always undone me, from the moment I met him when I was fifteen.

  “You were the one who taught me to swear, Josh McRae. And you were the one who gave me a reason to swear.” My stomach flips as I step closer to Josh. I hold out my arm to him, but he stays where he is.

  “Are these exercises enough to get me ramped up for training?”

  “They’ll have to be. You’ve dislocated before right? And I’m sure you were an idiot and got right back in the cage?”

  “It was my right side last time, so it was even worse. Didn’t have the bruised ribs at the same time, though.” He steps over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. My lips part slightly, and I take a breath. His scent fills the air around me, strong and clean and masculine. It makes me giddy, and I find I can’t remember the exercise I was going to ask him to do next.

  Long and thick, I think. God, what is wrong with me? I’m thinking about cock while I administer medical care. I look at the tattoos covering his arms and shoulders. There’s one tiny tattoo that sticks out—a date in small script lettering, less than an inch tall. I brush my fingers over his skin where the tattoo sits.

  “What’s this? July 20, 2012?”

  “First AA meeting,” he says in a tone that tells me he doesn’t want to discuss it. “Weren’t you supposed to do some exercises with my arm?”

  “Mmm,” I nod, still looking at the tribal swirls and the scars that cross above his defined pectoral muscles. Even after a week of limited activity, he looks like a man who stays in the gym all day, all the time. Back when I saw him last, he was scrawnier, the bags under his eyes darker and deeper. “First, we’ll take your sling off.” I reach up and gently unhook the sling. “Hold your arm in place, Josh.”

  “I thought you said I could only take it off when I shower.”

  “When you shower, and when I say so.” I take the sling down over his arm and toss it down to the end of the hallway. I brush my fingertips over his bicep, and he shivers. I can see the goosebumps forming on his arms.

  “You’re giving me commands now, Nat? And I thought I was supposed to be the domineering one.” I open my mouth to comment, but I can’t think of anything that’s not dirty or at the very least, inappropriately flirtatious. Taking his forearm in my hands, I bring it forward, extending it a few degrees at a time. He takes a sharp breath and lets out a sigh. “God,” he says, his voice raspy.

  “I know it’s tender. The shoulder, I mean.”

  “How
do you know it’s not because you’re touching me? It might be, Nat. You never know.”

  Warmth pools between my legs. But there’s a flicker of anger there too, my body torn between arousal and annoyance. “Cut it out, Josh. See how I’m extending your arm? That’s as far as you need to extend it right now. But if you do this a few times a day—only with me, I don’t want you hurting yourself—you’ll build up to throwing a few punches in a week’s time.”

  He looks at me, his eyes wandering down to my breasts. “Cut what out?”

  “Flirting with me. We’ve been doing just fine the past week, without you getting things all complicated.” I extend his arm again and roll his fingers into a fist. “You can make fists while the sling is still on,” I continue, as if we’re not having an entirely different conversation on the side. “That’ll help get the blood flowing in your arm, speed up the healing process.”

  “Nat, you haven’t even been around. Today’s the first time I’ve even seen you for more than five minutes.” He shoots me that cocky grin again. “And besides, you’re the sexiest girl in the room.” I pull away from Josh, and he nearly falls against me. “Hey, what was that for?” He quickly recovers his balance, and it makes me wonder if the whole stumbling thing was a show before. Shit, I have no idea what to believe now that he’s in my house after so much damn time between us.

  “Is that it? You can’t see the girls at the fight club, so you’re turning your eyes to me instead?” My words come out sharper than I intend, with vitriol hidden just beneath the surface. I wonder, not for the first time, if I should have tried to process Josh’s presence here. Or if I should have him here at all.

  “Natty, that ain’t—”

  “It sure sounded like that.” I cross my arms. The anger and desire blend together in my body, hurt and pain rising and cresting along with it. I want to go to him, pull him into me—and I want to hit him, to yank his shoulder right back out of its stupid socket. Hot tears prick at my eyes, and I wonder if he notices, or if he cares.

  “I didn’t intend it. It was a joke.” He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. Anger flares again—he’s got no right to be frustrated with me.

  “Is that what I am to you? Please, tell me. You came in here for my help, I risked my job—”

  “That was your choice,” he interrupts.

  “Dammit! You think I was going to let you suffer? You’re not that stupid. Of course I was going to help you. But Josh, I spent the last three years not even knowing if you were alive. I finally found out you were still at Franks after calling them ten or twenty times. I guess someone told the front desk not to tell me anything, but one day I got a young guy who was nice enough to tell me that you weren’t dead on the beach somewhere.” All the words come tumbling out at once. “I didn’t come—because I knew for sure you didn’t want to see me—”

  “Natty—”

  “Stop fucking calling me that! I’m Natalie at work, and as your doctor, you can fucking call me Natalie. Or Dr. Shaw, whichever you prefer.” I realize I’ve stepped almost a foot closer to Josh, and that I’ve been waving my hands around like an Italian grandmother. I take a deep breath and huff before I turn away and head for my bedroom. There’s a stumbling lunge behind me and Josh catches me by the arm with his right hand. His grip is strong, and he’s able to yank me around so I’m facing him again.

  If you meet his eyes, it’s all over, Nat. You’ll get deep into his mess, all over again.

  Josh takes my other arm with his left hand, even though he shouldn’t be using the damn thing at all. “Natalie, look at me.” He moves his right hand up to my chin and tilts it up so I’m looking right into his hazel green gaze. “First of all, you can’t wander away from a fighter in the middle of a fight.”

  “Dammit, Josh, let me go.” I could pull away from him—the man’s shoulder is obliterated. But his hand holds my chin, and now searing heat has replaced the warmth between my legs.

  “My loud mouth is my biggest flaw, Natalie—”

  “Really? I thought you had a lot of other flaws besides that one.”

  “I do, Nat. But that one is the worst, because it gets me in trouble with people I care about. You’ve gotta know that I care about you. Do you know that?”

  “I didn’t know you cared about anyone but yourself.” My words are meant to bite, but they don’t come out that way. Instead, my voice is breathy, sexy—everything I don’t intend.

  “I do. I care about you. I never stopped for a moment. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re the most beautiful woman I know. Not pretty. Not cute. Beautiful. And fucking sexy too.”

  “Then why did you leave me, Josh? Why?” My voice cracks, even though I don’t want it to, even though I don’t mean to say any of this shit. I should walk away. I should go to my room and ride it out like a storm, but I can’t turn away. His words are pretty, but his past actions still sing louder. It occurs to me then that the AA chip barely means a thing since I didn’t have a fucking clue he was doing it.

  “Natalie, I’m sorry. I couldn’t come back here—”

  “You ‘couldn’t?’”

  “No, Nat, I couldn’t. Let me tell you what I did.” I try to pull away this time, my heart pounding. I’m not even sure I want to know what he did.

  “I went to the beach—”

  “That’s just like you, leaving me behind for something better—”

  “Natty, let me finish. Natalie. I went to the beach, and I drank all night. I was piss-fucking drunk. I went and I trained that whole next day until I was exhausted, and I fought that night, and I beat down a sixteen year-old runaway in the cage because Frank told me to. That’s not a man you would’ve wanted to be with—”

  “How could you know that?”

  “That’s not a man you would’ve wanted,” he said again, shaking his head. “I knew then—that night—that you didn’t need another anchor tying you to this island. I could barely believe it when you came back. That’s another issue, but I’m not about to criticize you—”

  “Free rent,” I say and shrug. “No one wants this fucking place—it’s beat up and in the wrong part of town. It made sense for me—”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re back, but I keep wondering what the hell you’re doing here, why you slipped back into this life.”

  “It ain’t none of your business, really.” The island country accent slips back into my voice, and I can see him smiling.

  “It is. I gave you up that night because I thought you’d leave for good, that you’d have no reason to come back again.”

  “So you’re saying you left that night so I wouldn’t stay here? So I’d get on out of here and stay away because of you? I’m sorry, but that wasn’t your choice.” I push Josh in the middle of the chest, just like I did the night he left. Quick, always quicker than I am, he leans against the wall and catches my wrists. “Let me go, Josh.”

  “You can go at any time, but I’m back here now, and I’m wondering why you’re still upset with me. If you hate me—like you should—you wouldn’t have taken me in,” he says. He slips his right arm around my waist and grips my wrist with his left hand. Even at half-strength, even injured, he’s still a lot fucking stronger than I am, and that sends another message of heat, a lightning bolt of desire, straight through my body.