He holds my hand to his chest, the folded tees being the only thing keeping me from flattening my palm against the heat of his body. My stomach flutters, the vibrations stirring my blood. What is it with me? It’s like I’m bait for cocky assholes.
“You want to know what B.D. stands for?” His eyes travel from my lips to my cheeks and back. My skin warms. “Do I make you nervous, Mouse?” His eyes look deep into mine, and I’m helpless to pull them away.
I want to scream that he makes me furious, but he holds even my speech captive.
“No husband.” He takes a step back, releasing his hold.
I blink, the connection severed by the distance between our bodies and the cold indifference in his eyes.
He tilts his head, and that panty-dropping crooked smile that radiates bad-boy like nothing I’ve ever seen lights his face. “Big Dick.”
“Excuse me?” My voice screeches and echoes throughout the room. I throw back an arm to steady my weight against the wall. Why am I so wobbly?
“B.D.” He chuckles to himself, turns, and walks to the back of the locker room and out of sight.
I stand and stare. What in the fuck just happened here? My mouth is dry, and my arms are tingling, my belly still tumbling.
He caught me off guard. I didn’t have a chance to put up my barrier, to put on the full armor of my confidence and my snark. Then he got close. Those eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones. No, I’m not attracted to that jerk.
I haul what’s left in my box onto the dolly and decide that finishing the job later sounds better than throwing myself at a guy I can’t stand.
This is wrong. I’m sick. I’ve been in a horrible relationship for so long I don’t even know what healthy attraction is.
I need to make new friends, meet new people. Tonight, I’m going to the bar for Rex’s show. Anything to get my mind off Big Dick.
Five
Blake
Fast and hard, exactly how I like it. The driving beat forces back my nagging thoughts. The pressures of life dissolve with a simple power chord or double bass hit. I break down each sound, mentally assigning it into its own category. I memorize without even trying. That’s the way it’s always been. Effortless.
“Hey, B. What’s up, man?” Caleb squeezes in next to me at the bar. “Fuck, I’m late. How long have they been playing?” He tilts his head toward the stage, where Ataxia is shredding.
“’Bout thirty minutes.” I take a swig of my beer, grateful for his interruption.
“Shit. I thought I’d get here in time for the first set.” He waves over the bartender and orders himself a drink.
I’m tired. After talking to my brother the other night, I’ve gotten shit for sleep. “I’ll take a double Jack. Neat.” A few of these should help knock me out.
The bartender nods and busies himself with our order.
Sorting through all the things I’m thinking and feeling, I’ve determined the mind-fucking culprit is anger. I’m mad that my dad’s a dick. Pissed that I had to give up things that were important to me. Resentful that I spent the first fifteen years of my life protecting a woman who couldn’t keep a fucking secret. Furious that my brother’s still stuck under my dad’s thumb.
The rest of my beer goes down in one chug. Ataxia drops a key, and Rex’s voice fills the room to explain they’ll be taking a break, but will be back for a final set.
“I thought you were training.” Caleb motions to the fresh drink the bartender placed in front of me.
“I am.” What’s he, my fuckin’ keeper? “What’s it to you?”
“Seems you should probably lay off the hard stuff before your fight. Wade’s been training like a maniac, man.”
Slamming the glass on the bar, I turn to face him. First Jonah, now Caleb? “You think I don’t know that? Shit, everyone in our camp’s been reminding me.”
He’s right. But between the shit in my head and the pain in my back, I need a little liquid painkiller. The new doc has me drinking protein shakes with some super-powered, medical-grade glucosamine and popping pills with ingredients that I can’t pronounce, but it ain’t helping.
I hold my head in my hands. It’s time to go see the doc about getting some real treatment. I hate admitting to my weakness. Any guy with a pair does. But Jonah had a point. I can’t pass up a shot at the title because I’m too prideful to get help. I hate it when he’s right.
I take another hit off my drink, but it tastes bitter. I ball up my napkin and toss it into the glass, where it soaks up the remaining Jack.
Fighting is my life. I need to pull my shit together. Nothing is more important. Including the *-ass pity party I’ve been throwing myself. No time to dwell on the shit I can’t change.