While K has his hands wrapped, I take a seat on a bench and open my laptop, getting ready to take notes, focusing on breathing to calm down my out of control libido. It’s important I pay attention and not spend all my time staring at K’s ass. I’ll need to reference the notes later while watching the tape to remember what my thoughts were as K made each move.
Max finishes wrapping K’s hands and fastens his thin gloves. The fighter’s fingers are now interwoven with wide bands of black leading up his wrists. His glorious, half-naked body bounces up the steps to the cage. Before he starts fighting, I greedily take in every single mark on K’s tan skin, examine every tattoo, trying to put a story behind each dark stroke of ink as I imagine tracing the lines with my tongue.
“Do you need a towel for all of your drool?” Max snaps as he drops to the bench next to me.
Shocked at his vitriol, and a little embarrassed to be caught gawking, I turn and gape at Max. “What is your problem today?”
“Nothing.” Max shifts away and focuses straight ahead. His jaw clenches as he pretends to watch Gabriel speak to K in the cage.
For god’s sake.
I am so not in the mood to deal with Max’s little hissy fit right now. Besides, I need to pay attention to every little movement K makes without distractions—lust, longing, Max—I can’t let any of them keep me from watching K fight. My job is to make sure his form is absolutely perfect so he doesn’t injure himself when he stands in the AFC octagon for a regulation fight.
K gets into his stance, Gabriel in front of him with pads on his hands and head. K’s muscles tighten and coil, his beautiful inked skin rippling over the sheer power it contains. Gabriel nods and they begin.
Oh god.
I pray I’ll be able to do my job when all I can think of is how well that body could move against mine.
* * *
Pausing the video in my office, I check the caller ID before answering my cell phone.
Mom.
I glance back at the laptop, K’s exquisite form frozen mid-downward roundhouse kick. My preference is to continue watching the delicious eye candy rather than talk to my mother. Heck, I’d rather undergo Chinese water torture than speak to her.
We don’t talk much anymore because I continually refuse my mother’s demands to speak at events or help her with SASS, the anti-school violence organization she now works for. She doesn’t, or won’t, understand my desire to live, not rehash the past over and over again. A past I can’t even remember.
In a moment of weakness, my finger slides over the screen to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Britton?”
Holding back a sigh, I already regret picking up. “Yes, Mom. It’s me.”
She huffs. “Don’t be smart with me, Britton.”
“Sorry.” I’m totally not sorry.
“Anyway,” my mom begins, the tone of her voice indicating I’m not going to like whatever she called to discuss. “Your father and I were hoping you’d come to dinner tomorrow night. It’s been forever.”
I wonder why that is, Mom?
“Dinner?”
My mom must notice my lack of enthusiasm because she jumps right on the guilt train, steering it full speed ahead to mow me down.
“Britton Shelton Reeves—” Wonderful, she’s gone and pulled out the full name. “We are your parents and want to see you. Don’t you miss us?”
I miss my parents, but not the arguing about my “poor life choices” and “unwillingness to help others” through difficult times.
“Tomorrow?” I groan.
“Yes.”
“Friday would be better.” I hedge my bets, hoping I can come up with a suitable excuse to bail out by then. “There’s a new client and it requires me staying late at work. I’m still at work now.”
My mom tsks, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “Alright, Friday. Seven o’clock. Do you need me to send Raymond to pick you up?”
Driving is something I avoid whenever possible, but I don’t want to be indebted to my parents. Maybe I’ll cab it. “No. I’m good.”
I sense my mom’s disdain through the phone, but for once, she lets it go. “Fine. See you then.” Before I can reply, she hangs up.
Tossing the phone down on the desk, I focus back on the screen and K. Even the thought of studying his gorgeous body can’t get rid of my dark mood. Irritated, I shut down the laptop and head out, my mind going over a hundred different excuses I can use to avoid what is sure to be a disastrous dinner on Friday.
I need to remember—I’m in charge of my life, not my mom, my dad, or anyone else. Me.
Killer
“Killer! You’re here early,” Roxie chirps from behind the front desk. She’s too happy all the time. It’s annoying. Especially since I know for a fact I make her uncomfortable even without the fake cheer in her voice when she speaks to me. She’s gotten a glimpse of the monster. Yet those huge eyes of hers combined with her joyful tone always succeed where others fail.
She gets me to speak.
“I have a meeting with Britt.”
“Well, she’s already here, so go on back.”