“Yeah… well, you know… I mean.” Her fluster is something I’ve come to love. Not that she’s uncomfortable, but Tempest loves putting her foot in her mouth. Well, she must, because she does it quite often and it’s hilarious.
I laugh before saying, “I kinda picture you as a take-it-slow kind of girl.”
“Don’t make this dirty,” she huffs, still punching the air and ducking her imaginary opponent.
“Move your feet, speedy,” I command, turning my head so she can’t see my ridiculous smile.
We continue on with the workout, switching from shadow-boxing to some Tai Chi. I’ve found it’s a crucial part of the class for Tempest. Once we’re finished with the Tai Chi she always looks so calm and at peace with herself.
I love it.
Helping her find her inner strength is empowering. I’ve always loved teaching people, but teaching Tempest is opening my mind up to a whole new realm of possibilities.
“I need to shower,” Tempest says, smoothing her hand over her sweaty ponytail. Have I mentioned how tempting she is when she’s all hot and sweaty? And dare I say she smells even better, which makes my mind go to filthy, dirty places… all involving Tempest and sweat… and being naked.
“You can shower upstairs if you want.”
What the fuck, Cage?
I have no idea why I just said that, but then again, I have no idea why I say half the things I do when she’s around. They just fucking fly out of my mouth without permission.
We’re friends and I’d offer that to any of my other friends, even if they weren’t gorgeous and funny and fun to be around. But the look she’s giving me isn’t friendly. It’s not unfriendly. But it’s definitely more. I feel it all the way down to my cock.
Clearing my throat, I try to fix the situation. “Or I can just swing by and pick you up, or you can drive. Whatever… I’m just along for the ride.” Now I’m the one rambling on like a fool. Tempest’s lips curve slightly up and then she licks them, making them stand out even more.
“How about you pick me up… since I’m on the way out of town,” she offers.
“Sounds good.” I nod, stopping myself from saying “it’s a date.” How fucking stupid can I be in one day? I guess we’re getting ready to find out.
Chapter 17
Tempest
Opening the front door of my house, I exhale and close my eyes.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to the empty quiet. “That was a close one.”
Maintaining that friend status between Cage and I has been a struggle. I hate to admit it, even to myself, and of course I’d never admit it to anyone else… especially him. But there’s just this… I don’t know, a pull? Electricity? Heat? Something intangible, but it’s there. I feel it every time I’m around him, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it or tune it out, I can’t.
So, him asking to tag along to Knoxville, although I love the thought of spending more time with him, it’s a horrible idea. But how could I say no? I mean, that’s what friends are for. If I would’ve turned him down, it would’ve made all of this even worse.
“Suck it up, Tempest,” I tell myself. “You can do this.” Pushing off the door, I make my way to the downstairs bathroom and turn on the shower.
It’s just one hour there and one hour back. I’ll be in my session while he does his errands. No biggie. I can do this.
After a quick shower, I walk into the spare bedroom and pull out an old T-shirt and jeans, my most comfortable options, and hesitate, looking at a few of the nicer selections hanging in the closet. Nope. Not going to do that.
“You are not dressing for impressing,” I mutter to myself, throwing on a basic set of bra and panties… white, virginal… I might not be a virgin, but I swear my hymen has probably reattached itself by this point, so I might as well roll with it. Besides, it’ll be a good reminder to myself to not let my mind wander.
Because it will try.
It will try it’s damndest to imagine Cage and myself in compromising positions. I already know this, because I have to shut that shit down every time we’re around each other.
And I’m already anticipating how bad this is going to be. Having been in a truck cab with Cage a time or two, I know his scent—woodsy, manly, clean… confident and a bit mysterious—floods the small space. Up until now, I’ve only had to deal with it in small spurts, but two hours on the road will test the Jesus in me.
After I’m dressed, I pull my damp hair into a high bun and secure it with a few bobby pins. Pinching my cheeks for a little color, I give myself a look in the mirror and think about applying makeup, but again, I’m not trying to impress anyone. The people at the anger management session have seen me in all states. It’s a come-as-you-are environment. So, if I made an effort today, it would only be for Cage’s benefit.
Turning, I go to walk out of the bathroom, catching the light switch on my way out, but then pause and reach back over the counter for my lip gloss. Swiping it across my lips, I give them a smack and toss it back.
There. That’s fine. I mean, I can’t go with dry lips. That’s more of a necessity than a frivolity.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door and my heart leaps up into my throat.
“Hey,” I say, albeit a tad breathless, but I think I cover well as I reach around the door to grab my bag. “You didn’t have to come to the door.”
Cage’s smile is slow and easy and it makes my insides turn to mush.
Dear, Lord, give me strength.
“It’s rude to honk,” he says, stepping aside and waiting while I lock the door.
“I give you permission to honk next time,” I tell him with a laugh, tossing my keys in my bag and following him to the truck. When he opens my door for me, I get a ridiculous flutter in my stomach.
He smirks, quirking an eyebrow at me, as if to challenge me.
Say something about opening your door, Tempest. I dare you.
So, I don’t. I smile and say thank you as I climb inside. Being a little on the shorter side, it’s a bit of work getting into big trucks like this, but I make it. Besides, all of this kickboxing I’ve been doing paired with my occasional runs, I’ve never felt better. Hanging around Cage makes me a better version of myself. He makes me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time, and I’m not just talking about the butterflies and tingles. It’s more than that. I feel stronger and more confident.
And I swear he looks at me sometimes like I’m appetizing.
I’ve tried to convince myself it’s my imagination, my own desires being projected onto him, but every once in a while, there’s heat in his stare and if I were to meet it for too long, I’d be burned alive from the inside out. Which is why I don’t. I never allow myself to hold his gaze when he looks at me like that. I shut it down and walk away.
It’s actually one of the coping mechanisms Lana has been teaching us.
When all else fails, walk away. Remove yourself from the situation.
“So, we turn left at the stop sign?” Cage asks and I realize I’ve been deep in my thoughts for a couple minutes.
“Sorry,” I say, reaching over and buckling up. “Yeah, just make a left.” Guiding him out of town, we make small talk about the weather and how beautiful it is this time of year, until we hit the highway.
When Cage sets the cruise, I relax back into my seat, trying to not let the intensity of his scent and closeness get to me. Needing something to focus on, I decide now is a good time to get to know Cage Erickson a little better. I mean, if he’s going to be my date to the reunion in a few weeks, we need to cover some basics, right?
“How do you know Hank?” I ask, starting with something I’ve wondered since I met him and never got a chance to ask.
I hear him sigh, but it’s not in annoyance, it’s more of a where-do-I-start kind of sigh.
“That good, huh?” I tease, chancing a glance his way and seeing his lips pull up in a smile.
“Well, it’s pretty cut and dry,” he starts. “We were both enroll
ed at Harvard—”
“What?” I ask, cutting him off, thinking he’s pulling my leg. He and Hank are the last two people I’d picture going to Harvard.
Cage’s laugh fills the truck and I almost regret thinking conversation would be a good distraction. His laugh is almost as intoxicating as his smell. “It’s true,” he continues. “We were both just starting our freshman year when we met and hit it off… found some sort of common ground between the two of us, even though we’re as different as night and day. I think Hank enjoyed the business side of fighting as much as I enjoyed the fighting.”
This time, his chuckle is reminiscent and maybe even a little sad.
“You miss fighting,” I tell him. It’s not a question. I can hear it in his voice.
He sighs again, shifting in his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. “Yeah, I miss it.”
That’s obviously still a sore subject, so I go back to the Harvard thing. “So, are you a Harvard graduate?”
“No,” he says with another laugh. “Let’s just say me and college didn’t really agree.”
“But you must be smart… and you had to have some amazing grades, not to mention test scores,” I ramble. “I went to culinary school, so I wouldn’t know too much about that. But my cousin, Cole, he got into The University of Tennessee and he had to have a twenty-four on his ACT. I can’t imagine what you had to have to get accepted to Harvard…” I drift off, my mind whirling with this piece of information and my eyes drift back to Cage, mesmerized by his strong jawline.
Since he’s been in Green Valley, he’s started to grow a beard, but you can still make out the lines. On some men, a beard ends up being camouflage, covering up their features, but on Cage, it sets them off, making his full lips look fuller and his blue eyes bluer.
Damn it, Tempest.
When Cage takes his eyes off the road for a split second and catches me ogling, I snap my head back around and avert my gaze out the window, waiting for him to say something… anything to distract me.
Deep breaths.
Distract me, please.
“I scored a thirty-six on my ACT, four-point-two GPA, Valedictorian, and I wowed them with my extracurriculars. I was a first-degree black belt in Taekwondo by the time I was fifteen and was teaching at the dojo by the time I was a senior. Add on top of that countless hours of community service and a self-defense course at my local high school… and you’ve got yourself a Harvard acceptance letter.”
I chuckle, partly because he just wowed the pants off of me… literally and figuratively… and partly because what do I say to that? “So, you’re not just a pretty face?”
“Pretty?” he scoffs and it’s not just because he’s trying to be modest. I can tell there’s genuine disbelief in his tone and I’m shocked. Surely he knows. Surely women throw themselves at him. Which brings me to my next question.
“Is there someone special… back in Dallas?”
He laughs lightly, following it up with a sigh as he runs a hand over his face and through this dark-blond hair… which has also grown since I first met him. And for the second time since we started this journey, I wonder if I’ve touched on a sore subject… or maybe there is a someone?
That thought makes my stomach tighten, but not in the delicious way it does when Cage looks at me with his blue eyes ablaze. This feeling resembles jealousy.
What the…?
“No,” Cage finally says. “No one special… unless you consider my four brothers special,” he adds. “Some people do.” This time when he laughs, it’s back to the deep rumble that goes straight to my core. “And my parents… but the closest I had to a girlfriend or a wife was the ring. I was married to it—ate, slept, drank, and breathed it.”
Interesting. “So, fighting wasn’t just a hobby for you?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “No, not just a hobby… it’s what I left Harvard for… all I ever wanted to do. I knew I was born to be a fighter the second I stepped into a ring at the age of seven. My dad put an old pair of gloves on me and I was at home.” He looks over at me and our eyes meet briefly and it’s one of those exchanges where the information is on a cellular level and it goes straight to your soul. “My dad said it was equally his worst mistake and proudest moment. He saw it too… told my mom I’d be better than him.”
“He was a fighter too?”
Cage nods, licking his lips and making me do the same. “He was a professional boxer… fought WBA bouts back in the 80’s and went up against some of the greats.”
“Wow.”
I see his shrug out of the corner of my eye and smile. He doesn’t think he’s pretty and obviously doesn’t want me to think any different about him due to his intelligence or success… or the success of his father.
As we drive down the road, I decide that his modesty is my new favorite trait. After we sit in silence for a few moments, I can’t help but continue to ask more questions. “Four brothers, huh?”
“Yeah,” he replies.
“Are you the oldest?”
He shakes his head. “No, Viggo is a year-and-a-half older than me… then me, Vali, Ozzi, and Gunnar.”
“Interesting names,” I say, liking that they’re different.
“Scandinavian,” he says. “My dad’s grandparents immigrated here from Finland.”
“Vikings,” I say, fighting back a smile, because now that I think about it, that’s exactly what Cage reminds me of. “A few years ago, I was obsessed with that HBO show.” Cage grunts and I look over to see him… blushing? Is he…? “Are you blushing?”
“No,” Cage says incredulously.
I laugh, turning in my seat. “You’re totally blushing.”
“I am not,” he argues, sounding more like a petulant child than a big, bad Viking and it makes me laugh. “What’s wrong with me calling you a Viking?”
“Nothing… and I’m not blushing.”
Biting back another laugh, I watch his profile for a few moments before pulling my eyes off him and turning back around in my seat. But I can’t stop thinking about him… and eventually ask another question. “How did they all get cool Viking names and you got Cage?”
He cuts his eyes at me and I’m afraid I’ve offended him, so I backtrack. “Not that Cage isn’t a cool name… I love it, but it’s not Viggo… or Vali.”
“Cage is my middle name,” he mutters, barely audible.
I get that this isn’t something he wants to talk about, but I can’t help prying. “So, what’s your first name? I mean, you’re talking to Tempest Cassidy… the Sundance Kid,” I offer, hoping my own cross to bear will make him comfortable enough to share his.
“Leif,” he says and I’m confused.
“That’s an awesome name… I love it,” I tell him.
“Leif Erickson,” he says and then it finally clicks.
I bite back the laugh and clear my throat. “So you’re… named after a famous explorer… that’s… really… cool.” I stumble over my words, but I mean them. It’s also funny as shit, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. Coming from the daughter of Butch Cassidy, I know what it’s like to be teased about a name. So, I can only imagine the jokes Cage… I mean, Leif… got when he was younger.
“I’ve always gone by Cage,” he says, a bit of hardness to his tone. “My brothers and the neighborhood kids had already made fun of me for it before I ever made it to first grade. I’d already decided I was going to be Cage… and that was that. But,” he continues, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. “Once I started fighting bigger bouts and earning a name for myself, everyone started referring to me as The Fighting Viking.” He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “My brothers always tease me that they’re going to let it slip one of these days, but so far, it’s been kept under wraps.”
The Fighting Viking.
Is it wrong that I want him to conquer me?
Yes, Tempest. It’s wrong. He’s your friend… let’s keep it together.
“You�
�ll take a right up here… and then the church is on the right,” I tell him.
When he pulls up at the curb, he goes to turn the truck off, but I stop him. “You don’t have to stay… just go ahead and do your errands. I’ll be done in an hour.”
“You sure?”
I nod, reaching for the handle. “Positive.” Opening the door, I can’t help myself as I climb out and turn back to him. “Don’t get lost, Leif.”
The smile that splits my face makes my cheeks hurt. Cage rolls his eyes and shakes his head, already regretting confiding in me, I’m sure. But I wear the smile all the way into the church and into the session, earning a few looks from everyone around the circle.
Chapter 18
Cage
Watching Tempest walk into the church has me reflecting about the saying that goes “I hate to see you leave but I love to watch you go.” I’d never given it much thought before but I get it now. And the view I have makes me want to get it now with Tempest.
Being surrounded by her sweet scent on the drive to Knoxville was killing me in the best way. I’m becoming addicted to being close to Tempest and I’m not sure how much longer I can resist. I would never force myself on her or make her feel obligated in any way; I just want to tell her how I feel and see what happens. Of course, I want more than that, but she can’t play the game if she doesn’t even know the ball’s in her court.
Damn, why do all sports make me think of having sex with Tempest?
Maybe I just have too much time on my hands. Now that I’m not training full-time and fighting, I have more time to think of other things, namely The Duchess of Muffins.
Maybe I’ve never met anyone like her before and it’s totally natural for her to take up so much space in my brain. I mean, she’s fucking fascinating. I don’t understand how no one else can see that but, at the same time, I’m glad because that means I get her all to myself.
If she’ll have me, of course.
This trip to Knoxville came at the perfect time. Not only do I get to spend extra time with Tempest, but I can pick up some more supplies for the studio. Some things, such as wrapping tape and protective equipment, I don’t mind ordering online, but for others, I prefer a more hands-on approach.
Stud Muffin Page 15
