Take Me On

She chokes on her chicken patty and downs her water. “We are not having sex.”


“We could,” I say, then grin at her.

She coughs into her hand and I laugh. I laugh harder when her foot connects with my leg.

“What do you say?” I lean back and rest my arm on the back of the chair next to me. “Eight-thirty or nine?”

She sighs as if this is a huge concession. “Eight-thirty.”

“You don’t like it, do you?”

“What?”

“Accepting help.”

The fork impales the chicken again. “You honestly make it impossible to like you.”

The bell rings and I catch Haley’s tray before she has a chance to lift it. “But you do.”

A tiny smile forms and she quickly hides it.

“And after today’s conversation you’ll also be thinking about the two of us in bed.”

She straightens. “That is not going to happen.”

“The daydreaming?”

“Yes!”

“Then you’re good on the actual sex?”

A fire ignites in her eyes. “I could drop-kick you now.”

I bite back any response because the truth is, even with me being heavier in muscle and several inches taller than her, the aftermath of Conner says she could. On occasion, even I know when to stop, but damn, teasing her is fun.

Haley pauses beside me as I dump the trash and deposit the tray. In classic pissed-off girl stance, she folds her arms over her chest and pouts that beautiful bottom lip.

I should tell her I’m sorry and that I’m a jerk. That’s what boyfriends do, but I’ve never been boyfriend material and Haley and I aren’t actually dating. I give into the temptation and rub her silky hair between my thumb and forefinger.

She stares up at me with those hypnotic eyes. There’s an attraction she can try to deny, but it won’t make the tension crackling between us any less true. I would easily renounce my trust fund to fist my hand in her hair and kiss those perfect lips. God, this girl turns me on.

Knowing there are teachers and principals and students waiting for me to screw it up and kiss her in public, I flick her hair over her shoulder and run my hand down her arm. “That’s all right. You don’t have to think about it, but I’ll dream about it for the both of us.”





Haley

My grandfather thinks he’s being crafty, but the old man is obvious. Paperwork at nine at night on a Friday? He barely tolerates paperwork during the day. John stays somewhat busy as he clicks buttons on a laptop, but every thirty seconds his eyes flash to me and West.

We walked in a few minutes ago and by the way West has spun his hat backward, I can tell he needs time to soak in his evening home for the next two months. Maybe now West will see how serious this is and he’ll learn how to back down from a fight.

I sidle closer to John’s office and when he does his next scan, I catch his eye. “Do you need something?”

His jaw clenches. “He’s cocky.”

I agree, but I’m not sure girlfriends are supposed to admit such things to their grandfathers because I should be so puppy and rainbows in love I wouldn’t notice. “I’m glad you can judge sound moral character in less than a minute.”

“The way he walks—he’s cocky.”

“Name one guy who trains here who isn’t.”

John looks past me to West. With a gym bag slung over his shoulder, West curls his fingers through the caged-in Octagon and grips the metal.

The ring engages his entire attention and it should. This isn’t a game or a television show where the good guy always wins. This is reality and the moment he steps into that cage with someone waiting for him on the other side, he can die. I hope I’ll never see his blood on the caged-in floor.

“Welterweight?” John asks.

West still hasn’t moved and there’s tons I need to explain to him. “That’s my guess. I’ll find out when I weigh him.”

“He doesn’t look big enough for a middleweight, even if he gained muscle.”

I know and I rest my temple against the doorframe. Both Conner and Matt are welterweights, meaning they weigh 170 pounds or less. Part of me is pinning my hopes that West greatly exceeds weight and can’t fight them, but even if he did they’d get a middleweight fighter from Black Fire to take their place. I’m not sure I can train West in enough time to defend himself in the welterweight division, much less middleweight.

“He’ll have to cut before he fights,” John says.

“Yeah,” I answer absently. Cutting weight before a fight is rough, necessary at times, but rough. John relaxes back in his seat and appraises me. For once every muscle isn’t tight, preparing to strangle me for my past decisions. Somehow, despite the fact he hates me, the two of us have fallen into an easy conversation.

I miss easy. I miss John. “Matt and I didn’t end well.”