Now we’re in Dallas, five days after I gave him my V card. I’m trying to focus on the fact that Miles texted to let me know he, Gabe, and Avery are coming to the semifinals. But the Avenger is causing a stir.
I heard the team discussing how he knocked out a few difficult opponents and ended up one away from fighting Remy again on the last fight. It’s like he’s a legend simply by trying to avenge the Scorpion alone. He’s a contender. He’s getting respect, admiration, and a lot of fear.
I couldn’t bear to listen.
The thought of Maverick fighting Remy, who’s part of my family, is starting to be painful. So instead, as the team talked, I focused on Racer’s trains, the perfect therapy if you ask me.
I’m at a Dallas gym. Today my conversation with myself has been focusing on how great it is that he’s not here so I can actually feel calm as I exercise and also stay focused on supporting Team Remy. I’m glad when I head over to day care, ready to clear my mind with some good old Racer fun, when I get a text from Brooke.
Take the day R and I are taking Racer to the zoo
You sure?
Yes, picking him up right now
OK HAVE FUN!
Ending up standing in the middle of the sidewalk halfway to the day care, I suddenly don’t know what to do with the rest of my day.
For some reason I find myself traveling the exact same path I came from. I push open the gym doors, greet the receptionist, and am aware of my heart starting to flip-flop in my chest as I slip inside. I pass the treadmills, bicycles, the weight section, heading toward the mats at the end and the boxing bags. I scan the area where I’d find him. There are several guys at the bags now. None of them are as big, or mysterious. Or hot.
He’s gone from my life.
Maybe he doesn’t want to see me ever again. I’m a Dumas, after all.
He’s probably training somewhere with Oz.
I wait a couple minutes more before realizing I’m just acting stupid, holding out for him like this when he’s clearly not showing.
I stride outside, then stare at the buildings across the street. The heat has been painful these past few days, but there’s a breeze today, a partly cloudy sky.
Not ready to go back to the hotel yet, I wander to the park until I see a big shady patch of grass under one tree. In every park we go to, I find the perfect tree and this becomes my and Racer’s perfect spot. I head there with my book and Racer’s snacks and spread out my blanket, sit down, and pick up where I last stopped reading.
“Hey.”
I hear his voice clearly, exquisitely clearly, and raise my gaze up dark torn jeans and a gray T-shirt straining at the shoulders with the lean muscles beneath.
Our eyes connect and my brain flashes to him holding me. Am I hurting you . . ?
His tattoo rippling . . .
His eyes flashing with passion . . .
He shoves his hands into his pockets and just looks at me. And those eyes are looking at me with caution and wariness now.
Maverick is gauging me.
“How long do you have until you need to get back?” he asks, scanning my face as if for the answer.
I don’t even know if my voice will work when I open my mouth. “A few hours. Mom and Dad took Racer to the zoo.”
He unwinds and drops down beside me, lies on his back, and then stares at the tree branches and part of the sky. “I’ve been hitting a park every day. Didn’t know which one I’d find you in.”
“You have?”
He’s staring at the sky, jaw tight. “Yeah. I didn’t want to ask Tate.”
“He wouldn’t have told you if you’d asked. And I might have been hiding as I . . . processed.”
“Processed what?”
I set my book aside, my eyes gobbling him up like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then I glance at the blanket. “How intense it was.”
He shuts his eyes, exhaling and clenching his fingers.
“Do you want my number?”
He sits up and props his elbows on his knees. He nods. “I don’t have my phone on me.”
I search Racer’s bag for one of my lipsticks and then I look at Maverick for permission.
He looks back at me, watching as I curl my hand around his wrist. It’s thick and strong. I press the tip of the lipstick to his arm and write my number down. In coral lipstick, on his forearm. And it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever done.
He watches me tuck the lipstick back into the bag, then remains without touching me for a moment.
He stares down at his arm. Then he turns his face away, exhales, and turns back to me. “Reese,” he whispers mournfully. “I lost control that night.” He looks at my mouth, as if he wants it. And I want him to take it.
I shouldn’t want him to but I do.
“I liked it,” I say. And I liked sleeping in your arms, if only for a second.
I hold my breath, realizing what I just admitted—no, Reese, take it back!—and I don’t move when he reaches out.
“Me too,” he says.
And god, I want Maverick’s lips again.
Hot and strong, waking me up from whatever sleep spell I’ve been in.
It won’t go anywhere, Reese!
He slips his hand under my hair and his fingertips caress my scalp. “You totally bailed on me.”
“You knew I had to leave.”
“Yeah, I knew, but you have a blanking effect on my head. I’m sure you know this because you’re smiling that crooked smile of yours right now.”
“Crooked?!”
He smiles a little, cups the back of my neck, and draws me closer as he lies back on the blanket.
“Maverick . . . what happened . . .” I begin.
He pulls me a little closer. I put my hands on his chest to push myself back but end up just leaving them there, feeling the flat planes of his chest underneath as he murmurs, “What happened what?”
“What?”
“Are you going to tell me how mind-blowing it was or are you going to let me kiss you?”
One more kiss . . . oh god, I’m going to hell. I’m the worst person I know. The most reckless. The most intoxicated by Maverick Cage.
It’s pure impulse. I’m burning and aching and I want to be close. Closer than close. I want to be his tattoo and the woman in his bed and the thing in his thoughts he can’t quite force out and this girl, with him, kissing in the park.
“What happened . . .” I begin, was wonderful and impulsive and frightening and reckless, and I lean over, and I press my lips to his tentatively. He cups the back of my head, his tongue sliding into my mouth.
He groans softly and pulls me above him, grabs my ass. And I love his hands, squeezing, as our tongues start sparring, and I know I can’t keep doing this, that this won’t go anywhere, and it just makes me hungrier, my fingers fisting his shirt, my tongue pushing his, a moan leaving me.
His tongue, slow and leisurely, tastes me. There’s a dog barking nearby, and people passing by the walkway, and when I make an effort to pull away, Maverick just holds my head and angles his, devouring me harder.
His hand slips under the back of my T-shirt. His fingers skim my skin, they’re hot, calloused, and so perfect, I’m a whole shiver.
He rolls us around and sets me down on the grass, kissing me some more and slipping his hand down to encompass my waist, his thumb stroking my abdomen. “Reese.” He breathes against my skin.
I blink up at the sky, then let my eyelids flutter shut as the feel of his lips trailing my neck overcomes reason.
“I don’t take what you gave to me lightly. I don’t want you to think that I did.”
“I wanted to.”
“And I want you.” Maverick’s voice is extremely thick right now. “The guy back home. He kiss you like that?”
“No.”
And he just grins. He looks down at me.
“But . . .” I sit up then. Reese, stop this. “But we can’t . . . you know. Do that again.”
His eyes darken. ?
??I think we should do it more often.” He stares at me, waiting for me to say something, and I can only swallow nervously.
He signals to my book. “What are you reading?” He puts his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen them but somehow melt inside.
“A book.”
“Really?” He lifts his brows, and I laugh and tentatively tuck a loose strand that came undone from my ponytail behind my ear.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” I say.
“All lies.” He cracks a smile.
“You’re kicking ass.”
His expression loses its humor, and he stares straight ahead, thoughtful. “I’m going to kick Tate’s ass, Reese.”
I sit up, staring away. “I don’t like to think about it.”
“You root for him out of principle, I don’t expect you to root for me.”
I stay silent.
“I need to do this for me,” he explains with a fierce and determined gleam in his eyes.
“Maverick . . .” I wrap my arms around myself. It’s not easy for me to find someone I connect with. I haven’t ever felt the kind of connection to a stranger that I felt when I started interacting with Maverick “the Avenger” Cage. “That night with you meant more to me than you’ll ever know,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have kissed you just now. I’m trying to find myself, and I can’t do that if I’m lost in you.”
He takes my chin and the touch triggers heat all over me. “I won’t let you get lost,” he promises.
“The Tates are my family. I don’t think we should do what we did again. And Miles is coming to town next month.”
“Miles, that’s his name?”
I nod and glance helplessly at him.
The liquid look in his gaze starts to harden right before my eyes. “Yeah, I get it. He’s not my father’s son.” He grits his jaw, his eyes dark, then we stare at each other. He starts to stand, but then, as if by impulse, his hand engulfs my cheek as he grabs my face and kisses me, almost punishing and hot. I stay there, melted, as he gets to his feet and walks away.
I exhale and shut my eyes and touch my lips.
It’s over. We won’t do it again. Right? Did he agree or not?
Yes, because he was angry.
I’m sure we will be civil but . . . apart. And I can’t stand it. And suddenly I can’t remember why we can’t, why it’s wrong.
Or why I wrote my phone number on his arm.
TWENTY-TWO
NO MORE
Maverick
I ran eight MILES, and it’s midnight now.
Miles. Miles. Miles.
I stare at myself in the mirror in the hotel bathroom, looking deep into my eyes. And I smash my fist into the glass.
TWENTY-THREE
BROKEN KNUCKLES
Maverick
The next day we’re training, Oz and I. We’re training in a storage unit he got us for the day. The door’s wide open, and he hung the bags from the iron beams in the ceiling. I’m using my left, over and over. Hitting. Listening to the sounds. Smack, thud, thud, smack, poof.
“Whoa, stop, stop. Where’s your right?” Oz demands when he shakes himself out of a nap. The guy brought a fold-out chair and has just sat there for hours after we gobbled down two pizzas, one each. I might have had a few extra slices of his.
“I’m trying to strengthen my left,” I lie.
He scowls at me. “You got a great left. Your left is almost as good as your right.”
“Keyword ‘almost,’ ” I point out. I aim for the bag.
“You hurt your right?” He comes over and grabs my right and I pull it free before he can pull off my glove.
“I fucked up, all right,” I growl. “It’ll be back to normal in no time.”
“You fucked your right. During the season. When?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“When?”
“Last night. I broke something.”
“You broke YOUR KNUCKLES, THAT’S WHAT! You fuck your right on a temper tantrum? What the fuck? Am I gonna have another Scorpion on my hands? Huh?” He pushes me, and I let him, just stand there and let him have his tantrum. He gives up and stalks back to his chair.
“You might as well not go to the fight without your right,” he growls.
“I’m not missing a fight.”
“You should’ve thoughta that before busting your knuckles. This because of Tate? A girl?”
I hit the bag, then lower my arms and stare at the ground, inhaling deeply.
“Her name’s Reese,” I say, under my breath, frowning up at the heavy bag. “Reese Dumas.”
He swears under his breath. Then he pulls out the flask. “Stay away, Maverick.”
“How about you stay away from that flask, Oz?”
“I can’t.”
“So we understand each other.” I get into position and start hitting. “I’m not quitting her.” Then I test my right and jab the bag, and pain shoots up my arm. I yank my glove off.
I stare morosely at my hand, testing my fingers and curling them in.
“Members of the Tate team,” Oz says, leaning forward in his seat, “even if they’re not blood related, they’re closer than if they were. She’s not going to want to even look at you, Maverick.”
I toss my right glove aside and keep hitting with my left. I don’t think we should do what we did again . . . the Tates are my family . . . Miles is coming . . .
“I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself for a damn Wendy!”
I stop. Then slide my gaze to Oz and narrow my eyes. “She’s no Wendy.”
The frustration’s building. I go back to hitting and I’m hitting the bag hard.
“Heard you trained with him,” Oz says.
“Yeah. Would’ve told you if you’d been half-awake.” I don’t stop hitting.
“This means you won’t need me now, huh.”
“No. Just means I get more chances to find out how to beat him.”
“He’s getting the same chance to be sure how to beat you,” he growls.
He swigs and stares mournfully out the storage unit door and I stare at the heavy bag and keep on hitting until my muscles burn out, and then I keep going.
TWENTY-FOUR
PATCHING UP MAVERICK
Reese
My mom’s been calling, but I haven’t picked up the phone. I’m afraid she’ll hear my voice and she knows me too well, she will know there’s something haunting my thoughts.
I finally cave in when Brooke knocks on my door. “Your mom called me. She’s worried.”
I was packing things into my suitcase, since we leave to the next location tomorrow—Atlanta. Racer is in a deep sleep in his room, all packed and ready, except for a little red train he likes to tuck under his pillow at night. “What did you tell her?”
“That everything’s fine. Isn’t it?”
I nod.
Brooke hesitates for a moment, then gives me a really warm smile. “Reese, I’m here if you want to talk.”
All my life I’ve wanted to have someone to talk to other than my parents and now that I have her, I’m not sure that I can talk to her about what I most need to. “I’m good,” I assure her.
She smiles again.
“I’ll call her,” I add.
“Great,” she says, relieved, and gives me a thumbs-up before she leaves. I decide to call and soothe my mother’s fears. “Mom, how are you?”
“Worried.”
I sigh. “Don’t be; I’m fine.”
“You promise? Tell me you’re making good choices, Reese. And that you’re staying strong? We can come get you.”
“NO! MOM!” I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to go back home, where I’m always the old Reese, where I can’t grow and learn and discover and experience. “Mom, I’M GREAT HERE. I’m . . . just in a blossoming process and I need time solo, okay.”
“Butterfly?” she asks hopefully.
“No,” I say with a wan smile, “still a caterpillar.”
&nbs
p; “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
I tell her about Racer and my diet and the Tates, how great they are, and the team, and that Miles is coming over.
“Oh, this makes me happy! Don’t forget to call every night or two, three at most. Okay, caterpillar?”
“Okay, Mom.”
I know she cares, but when she doubts me, I feel hopeless, like I’ll never be able to gain her trust again even though I have been slowly earning mine.
When I hang up, I make a note on my phone—CALL MOTHER.
Brooke peers into my room.
“Your mom’s happy now? She was pretty worried.”
I nod. “I guess it’s her favorite thing to do.”
“Well, you’re her only daughter. This is why I absolutely want Racer to have a sibling. It’s healthy to have a mother’s obsession distributed.”
I laugh, then stare wistfully at her. Wondering if I can ask her more about Maverick. I know Remy has been training with him. And every day it’s torture not to ask.
“Is it the boy back home?” she asks me, as if reading my mind.
I open my mouth, wanting a friend, a female friend, but what do I say? Maverick Cage? I am obsessed. We had sex. I think of him, often. And I think of him as my friend even when I don’t speak to him for days. I just don’t understand it myself. I’m afraid to say it out loud. I’m afraid to make another big mistake, something that can hurt my family again.
So I just smile at Brooke and let her think that it is the boy back home. When in fact it’s the son of the Black Scorpion.
♥ ♥ ♥
WE’RE IN ATLANTA, staying at a nice hotel in the heart of the city. Brooke and I are having dinner. I haven’t seen Maverick since the park. Eight days plus a lot of long little minutes and seconds. He’s been training with Remy, and Brooke hasn’t really seen Remy either.
We’ve both brushed our teeth and slipped on our pajamas. Brooke wears T-shirts with little shorts to sleep, and I’m wearing my soft cotton lounge pants in light blue, like my eyes, and the matching top. We rejoin in the living room to read and talk when we hear low male voices—and what sounds a lot like cursing—outside.