I steal a look at him. He looks gorgeous in the navy blue suit he wears. He’s wearing a white dress shirt unbuttoned to show a bit of his tanned chest beneath. His dark hair is pushed to the side and his features are sharp and beautiful.
Ronnie opens the door and takes us both in with a sweep of his bloodshot eyes. “Who the fuck is this?”
Logan doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, having to slam his shoulder into Ronnie’s as he passes, but not seeming to mind. Ronnie reaches to grab Logan’s shoulder, but Logan turns, knocking Ronnie’s hand away with his forearm. I think things are about to escalate, however after a quick staring match, Ronnie spits on the ground and brushes some imaginary dust from where Logan touched him. “Carla, Emmaline is here.”
My mom emerges from the tiny bedroom of the trailer, eyes tired and sleepy, even though it’s almost six in the afternoon. She looks sad to see me. Ronnie has been crossing new lines, and I think even my mom is starting to realize it’s too much. She may want to milk me for every penny she can get, but she still loves me and tries to protect me in her own way. I don’t forgive her selfishness, but I recognize there is a sort of love between us, and I don’t have enough of that in my life to throw it away so easily.
“This is Logan Steel,” I say a little awkwardly, looking between my sleepy mom and the clearly pissed-off face of Ronnie.
Logan stands almost an inch above Ronnie, and it looks painfully clear that he would wipe the floor with Ronnie in a fist fight. I’m still wishing with all I have that it doesn’t come to that. I know for a fact Ronnie will just take it out on my mom when we’re gone. I already see the hint of a bruise on her arm and the way her upper lip is a little swollen at one corner. I’ve tried calling the cops on him before, but my mom always claims the injuries were from accidents, so nothing ever happens. Ronnie just gives it to her that much harder the next time.
“You did this?” asks Logan as he points to my swollen cheek.
Ronnie sniffs dismissively. “No. Emmaline did that when she ran her fucking mouth.”
I’m still a little shocked to see Ronnie so openly hostile toward me. For the two years my mom has known him, he has always at least made an effort to ingratiate himself with me. Even though I knew it was always just in preparation for when I was allowed to collect my trust fund, it masked the real man beneath. The petty, angry, and abusive man standing before me.
Logan taps his chin thoughtfully. “Right. Well, here’s what is going to happen. First, I’m going to give your girlfriend my card. I’m also going to give my personal investigator this address. If I hear from either Carla or my PI that you’ve laid a hand on Emmaline, or Carla, I’ll be here within the hour. If you try to run, I’ll find you. And just so you understand what will happen when I find you--”
Logan takes a fistful of Ronnie’s wife beater at the chest and grips him. Ronnie raises both hands to try to pry himself free, but Logan is too strong. He pulls his right arm back and then seems to think for a second. “I almost forgot. Women beaters usually try not to leave visible bruises. Maybe I should show you how that feels.”
I hear the meaty impact before I even register Logan’s movement. He’s so fast. His arm blurs into Ronnie three times. Four times. Stomach, Ribs, Kidney, Stomach. Each punch is like a small explosion of force, and when Logan lets Ronnie go, he slumps to the floor, curled in on himself like a wounded animal, eyes wide with surprise.
My fists are balled at my side and I’m sucking in heavy breaths through my nose. The anger and rage toward Ronnie I’ve had to push down for what he’s done to my mom and now to me bursts out. I stomp toward him and kneel enough to punch him in the face, right below his eye. “And that’s what it feels like to get hit in the face,” I spit, standing and storming from the trailer.
A few seconds later, I feel Logan’s strong hands on my shoulders, rubbing and kneading. “You okay?’ He asks softly.
“Let’s just go,” I say.
It’s only when I’m in his car and driving away that I realize he’s not driving toward my place. “Where are we going?” I ask.
He’s staring at the road ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “I need to blow off some steam. I figured you could too.”
My throat goes dry. Blow off steam? What’s he planning?
We pull up to a place called Topspin Tennis Academy ten minutes later. I turn to him, frowning in confusion. “Tennis?” I ask.
“Yeah. Do you know how to play?”
I shake my head in disbelief. I’m still replaying the way I actually punched Ronnie in the face. I didn’t know how much I needed that. I realize Logan is still waiting for me to respond. “Yeah, actually. I was the number one on my team in high school and I used to play with a rec team in college.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Good.”
“It looks like they’re closed,” I say as we step out of the car. It’s a large, square building with an even larger building behind it. Indoor courts, I assume. Places like this are incredibly expensive to play at, let alone to enroll. But I’m guessing the price doesn’t even register on Logan’s radar.
“Good thing I have a key,” he says, dangling a set of keys in front of me. “My sister owns the place,” he says, unlocking the door and flicking the lights on.
We’re standing in the lobby. An empty reception desk and computer are to one side, and the far wall is lined with unstrung racquets, fitness clothing, shoes, racquet bags, and tennis balls.
I look down at the frumpy outfit I was wearing to wallow on the couch in when Logan came knocking at my door. If I had even the vaguest suspicion that I might see him, I probably would have spent all morning getting my makeup perfect and picking out the best outfit. It’s a testament to how preoccupied I was by Ronnie’s bullshit that I’m only now realizing how terrible I must look.
“Grab whatever you want and get changed,” he says, moving to a rack of clothes and grabbing himself a black dry-fit shirt and a pair of gray shorts.
“You’re not going to play in your suit?” I ask with a smirk.
He laughs. “I wasn’t planning on it. But if that would turn you on…”
I bite my lip, smiling as I run my finger along the expensive clothes. I can’t remember the last time I paid more than five dollars for a blouse, and even that is splurging for me. I’ve been putting everything into bills for so long that I’ve never really had a chance to treat myself to anything. Some of these tops are seventy dollars, and one of the tennis dresses is even marked at a hundred and twenty.
Logan notices the look on my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay my sister for whatever we take. I’m serious, treat yourself. Take as much as you like for later. We can drop it by your place tonight.”
I finally decide on an outfit that costs just over a hundred and fifty dollars including the shoes. Whether he said not to worry, I couldn’t bring myself to get anything too expensive. “Is there a changing room?” I ask.
He steps toward me, stripping his suit jacket without breaking eye contact. I take an involuntary step back, a blush rising to my cheeks instantly. “What?” he asks, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “You won’t change in front of me?”
I try to calm my breathing. I feel silly trying to explain it. Even in my head, it sounds dumb. All I can do is shake my head and look down, searching for the right words.
“Hey,” he says, moving in close. He hooks his index finger under my chin and forces my face up so I’m looking at him. “What’s going on in here?” he taps the side of my head softly, letting his finger linger and push a lock of hair behind my ear.
I flinch away from his touch, hating the hurt look that springs up on his face. “It’s just.” I groan in frustration, searching the ceiling for the words I’m trying to find. “I’m still getting used to the thing we have going on at Club Crave. I never knew how much I wanted or needed something like what we’ve… started. At the club,” I add meaningfully.
He frowns. “I see. And you may n
ot need something like that outside the club?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t. I shake my head, looking down again. “I’m sorry. Here, I’ll just leave these things and call for an Uber or something.”
He steps close again and I’m painfully aware that his dress shirt is completely open, revealing smooth slabs of muscle. “Whatever you want,” he says softly. “If you want to keep it in the club, we can do that. I need it, too. What we have there. And if it has to stay there, then so be it.”
His eyes search mine. I close my eyes for a long moment, trying to organize my thoughts, but failing. “Thank you. I think… I still want to kick your ass on the court though. Maybe after tonight we can try to simplify things. Keep it at the club.”
He bites his lip. “My sister owns a tennis academy and you think you’ll beat me?”
I test the strings on the racquet he let me pick out from the store demos. They are a little tighter than I prefer, but a stiffer string bed is always helpful when hitting against men. It makes blocking heavy serves easier, but somehow I can’t picture a man like Logan actually being a challenging match. Tennis is a game of finesse that takes years and years of practice. Athleticism can only take you so far. He will probably hit every other ball as hard as he can and send it sailing.
Logan manages to make the simple black shirt and shorts he wears look ridiculously good. His broad chest presses against the thin fabric and the raised points of his nipples are just barely visible. If I was less competitive, I would be tempted to throw aside my reservations about our relationship outside the club and jump over the net right now to get my hands on him. Stepping on the court has all my old instincts firing. It’s for the best, because I’m still sorting through the mess that has become my life.
Why couldn’t I just go along with it for tonight? What’s so hard about changing in front of him? I know the answer though, even if I don’t want to admit it. I was afraid he would want to have sex. Regular, vanilla sex. And I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get off for him. What would he think of me then?
I suck in a frustrated breath and refocus on the game. Hitting some tennis balls as hard as I can may be exactly the thing I need to clear my mind.
The academy is divided into four sub-buildings, each made up of four indoor courts separated by tall nets. There are viewing booths jutting from the high walls. It’s an amazing facility, and must be worth a lot of money, but it doesn’t really surprise me that Logan’s sister would be successful too.
“Want to warm up?” asks Logan.
“I’m good now,” I say.
He laughs. “Have it your way. You want to serve?”
“You can start,” I say. The fastest way to judge his level of play is to see his serve. It’s the stroke that takes longest to master, and nine times out of ten, I could always tell how tough my opponent was going to be overall from their serve alone.
He pockets a ball and bounces another, shifting his feet into the proper stance. I take an aggressive position two steps inside the baseline on the assumption that his serve won’t be too impressive. He taps the ball against the court twice with his racquet and starts his motion. Arms down together, up together, perfect trophy pose, and…
Crack!
The ball explodes off his racquet from the peak of his toss, streaking toward me almost too fast to track. From how close I’m standing, I barely have time to get my racquet up in time to deflect the ball defensively. It bounces off my racquet and lands nowhere near the lines.
Holy shit.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of complementing the serve, even though I have to imagine it was at least a hundred and twenty or a hundred and thirty miles per hour. It was easily the fastest serve I’ve ever returned, and I didn’t even let him warm up. I move to the ad side of the court and this time line up four long steps behind the baseline.
“That’s game,” he says ten minutes later. “My win.”
I’m dripping in sweat and my legs already feel weak. I haven’t played that hard in a long time. I have to imagine his tennis game is a lot like the way he handles his business. He goes big on every shot. The serves are big, his groundstrokes are big, and he never once hit a slice or a drop shot. Everything was full power, punishing, and fast. I was only able to claw my way to deuce by changing the dynamic. I played as defensive as possible, forcing him to keep taking high-risk shots and letting him beat himself.
Logan sinks down dejectedly beside me. He’s sweating a little, but I notice with embarrassment that he’s not sweating nearly as much as I am.
“You play just like my sister, but it took her a lot longer to figure out she could try to beat me like that.”
I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face. “Did you play in college?” I ask.
“I didn’t go to college,” he says.
“Really?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Money was tight and I figured I could get more out of the little I had by investing it in my business.”
I look down thoughtfully. Damn. I wish I had the guts Logan does. I’ve risked a lot for my business, but he just plows forward toward what he wants and never even thinks about looking back. I envy that. When I take risks, I dwell on them and worry constantly.
“So it’s zero to one,” I say, “for now.”
He smirks. “Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be two to one, then three to one…”
I slap his arm, turning so he doesn’t seem my grin as I walk to my side of the court. The longer we play, the less small talk there is. It seems Logan is just as competitive as I am. Soon we’re both just giving the game all we have, grunting as we pound groundstroke after groundstroke over the net, running down shots that should be impossible. Our only words are to call balls out or state the score before serving. We stop even taking breaks, choosing instead to keep grinding out point after point.
There’s something about giving everything I have against him that feels therapeutic. It’s silly to think, but somehow struggling against him on the court feels like more than just trying to win a game. It’s like I’m trying to prove something, even if I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. Maybe in some convoluted way I’m trying to make this tennis match about he and I. Maybe I’m trying to prove I’m worthy to be with him as more than his submissive in some dark sex club. Whatever it is, my mind is focused and I don’t give much more thought to why. All I want to do is win.
The set comes down to a break point. If I can win this last game while he’s serving, I’ll win the set. But his serves have only been getting harder as the set has dragged on. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, and the black dry-fit shirt is hugging every curve and line of his muscles. He looks sinfully good, but I can’t focus on that. His eyes are hard, and for whatever his reasons are, he wants to win just as badly as I do. I briefly think about how silly this is. Two adults locked in a tennis match in a deserted tennis facility after hours, taking the game as seriously as if it was the Wimbledon cup.
He serves an absolute thunderbolt at me. I only have time to block the shot, bracing the racquet with both hands to keep it from flying out of my grip. I manage to put the smallest amount of backspin on the ball. The backspin makes my return shot drag through the air slowly, quickly losing height and sinking like a rock. It just barely skids over the net and Logan has to sprint forward to get it. To my surprise, he lunges forward, laying himself out completely, arm outstretched toward the ball. The rim of his racquet catches it, popping the ball back over the net with almost no power. I’m forced to sprint to the net too, but his shot bounces high enough to give me time to set up.
Logan gets his feet, planting his feet wide and at the ready to block my shot. I set up for a big forehand only a few steps from the net. Logan is right on the net, and I know the easiest shot for me is to aim for his hip, so without thinking, I do. I whip my arm through the ball, crushing it toward him. He moves his hand to block, but we’re so close there’s no time for him to react. The ball thuds
into his upper thigh and bounces to the ground.
“I win,” I whisper, all the intensity and focus draining from me in an instant when I see the look on his face.
He drops his racquet, looking slowly down at where I hit him with the ball. When he raises his face back to mine, his features are full of fury. He stalks around the net, coming toward me with purpose. I swallow hard, taking a step back.
“Logan, I’m sorry. I got carried away.”
“Sir,” he says, voice deadly calm.
I realize what he wants. Even though my body craves his punishment and his discipline, I’m acutely aware of where we are. It’s one thing to surrender my trust to him in Club Crave, where I know there are bodyguards within earshot if I ever need help. Trusting him in a place like this would be… reckless. One look at the barely contained rage in his eyes tells me all I need to know. I can’t do this. Not here.
“Logan, I…”
He advances on me and his jaw flexes as he grabs me by the upper arm, tight.
“You’re hurting me, please--”
Something in my voice gets through to him and he lets go like he was burned. The rage in his face drains and is replaced by disgust. He looks down at his hand and shakes his head. “Fuck.” He strips the tennis ball from his pocket and throws it as hard as he can in anger and then walks toward the exit. He kicks over a water cooler on his way out, threading both his hands through the back of his hair.
I’m left standing there sweating and holding my racquet, not knowing what to do. After a few minutes, I tentatively follow after him to the main entrance of the building. I find him at the front counter, hands planted wide as he leans, head hanging. He looks up when I step in.
“Here,” says Logan, tossing me car keys. “You can take my car home and I’ll have someone pick it up later this week. I’ll have a driver come get me.”
I catch the keys, looking down at them. “You don’t have to do that. I can still ride with you.”
Knocked Up by the Dom Page 22
