Raw

  The door swings open and the guys appear: Pete, Riley, Coach, and two tall, dark-haired fighters, banged-up and bloody, their T-shirts plastered to their chests. Brooke’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again as she gazes at her husband. “Did you guys fight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thought you were training?”

  I’m staring breathlessly at Maverick.

  Maverick in our hotel room.

  Maverick in exercise clothes, sweaty, and . . . Maverick.

  “Change of plans.” Remy stalks across the room and says, “Help me patch him up.”

  “Let him bleed out, that’ll take care of it,” Coach says. Pete and Riley shuffle into the penthouse behind him.

  “Patch him up so I can kick his ass again,” Remy repeats.

  He shoots Maverick a meaningful look and Maverick says, “Recess is over for you.”

  Brooke looks at me and I head to Maverick. “He can use my shower.”

  Brooke nods, and I don’t know what possessed me to speak, because Maverick looks at me. And I’m sure that by the way we’re both staring at each other, they all know we had sex, that we had sex and every day I remember it. “Come with me,” I say, my voice odd.

  He follows me to the bedroom. I shut the door, then go and open the shower and ask, “What happened?”

  “Nothing big.”

  “Remington Tate never trains with anyone. Maverick . . . it’s big.”

  He jerks off his damp T-shirt, and as he crosses the room toward the bathroom, he chucks my chin and looks at me with a half smile, his eyes absorbing me with quiet intensity. “No big deal,” he assures me, and he steps into the bathroom and the door clicks shut.

  I sigh and pick up his shirt. Maverick is the only guy I know not awed by the champion. The only person I know.

  I’m pacing minutes later when Brooke comes into my room the very moment I spot the blood on his T-shirt.

  “Are they crazy?” I ask Brooke, scowling when I show her the blood on the shirt Maverick discarded.

  “Crazy,” she confirms. “Here’s a fresh pair of clothes. They might be a little loose on him.” Maverick steps outside, his chest bare, his hips covered in a white towel, and Brooke’s eyes widen. “Then again, maybe not.” Brooke looks at him narrowly. “Yeah, not so much.”

  She sets the clothes aside, steps forward, and jabs him on the chest. “My husband’s got it in his head to help you. He rarely trusts anyone and it’s not easy to gain his respect.” Maverick is quiet. “Whatever it is you have going on, he thinks you’re an okay guy.”

  Maverick calmly speaks to Brooke but looks only at me. “Yeah, I’m an okay guy.”

  “Good.” Brooke pauses until Maverick seems to force his gaze away from me and back to her. “If my husband brought you here, with his family, you’re his friend,” she says, and her voice softens when she adds, “so I guess it’s nice to meet you, Maverick.”

  She hands me a few bottles of oils she had tucked under her arm. “Mustard oil, arnica, take your pick, all anti-inflammatory, get this on him. Racer, what are you doing up?” She plants her hands on her hips in a disappointed-mommy pose when we all spot him by the door.

  “I want Weese!” he says defiantly, running inside.

  “Reese is busy now. Let’s get you back in bed.”

  She sweeps Racer up in her arms before he can reach me, and Racer says, “Mavewick, come see my twains!”

  “Later, buddy,” Maverick says, raising his arm to fist-bump with him.

  Brooke eyes Maverick curiously, then shuts the door behind them.

  “He’s not the only one who wants Reese.”

  The dark-thunder voice that speaks rushes over my skin, and I find Maverick watching me with a wistful smile on his face.

  My eyes widen.

  And my brain leaps to picture me back in his arms, with his lips on mine, his hands on me. It takes every effort in me not to let my eyes trail over his chest, arms, every part of him.

  “I want you too.”

  Did I say that?

  Oh god, his face.

  He looks ready to lunge at me. Grab me. Hold me. Fuck me.

  “What are we going to do about that then?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” I whisper, then shake my head. “I don’t know. But I think of you.”

  “I think of you too, Reese.”

  I look at him as tingles race down my body, and we both smile. As if that’s enough for now.

  But is it really? I ache when I think of him. I don’t like thinking that I can’t be with him.

  “So you and Remy are getting along, huh?” I ask.

  He clenches his jaw and frowns. “We’re competitors, not buds.” He lowers himself down on the edge of my bed and leans forward, elbows to his knees, and the towel parts to reveal his thigh.

  “But here you are,” I say. “Remy brought you here and you let yourself be brought.”

  He turns to look at me with a new twinkle in his eye, and then looks down meaningfully at the bed we’re, as of this second, now both sitting on. “Here I am.”

  In. My. Room.

  “The boys say that Riptide wants his last fight to be worth it,” I say, pretending to be busy now studying the massage oil labels.

  He frowns thoughtfully, and I lift my eyebrows.

  “You didn’t know it’s his last season?” I ask.

  “No.” He flexes his fingers, frowning. “All the more reason I’ll be the challenger at the final this year.”

  I roll my eyes, but god, he’s amusing sometimes. I love that he speaks without a hint of boastfulness, only fact. There’s a slight frown on his face, and I can almost hear his brain working thoughtfully in the silence. “So pick one.” I show him both oils.

  “I don’t need that.”

  “Yes, you do,” I counter.

  “I don’t.” He gets to his feet, keeps his back to me as he flips open the towel and lets it drop. My eyes widen at the glimpse of his perfectly muscled ass and long, muscled legs as he jumps into a pair of jeans. Then he grabs the T-shirt and slips his arms inside and jerks it over his head, his tattoo rippling with the move. The gray T-shirt falls to cover his abs as he turns.

  And I lift my eyes to his.

  “You don’t want me to touch you,” I murmur, heartbroken. “That’s why you don’t want these. Isn’t it?”

  “I only want your touch if I can touch you back.”

  We stare at each other, his eyes challenging me.

  I inhale deeply, then blurt out, “If you give me one minute to get this on your shoulders and torso, I’ll give you a minute too, if you keep it G rated.”

  He laughs softly. “G rated is not half of what you’ll be doing to me; you’ll be touching my chest.”

  “So?”

  He raises his brows.

  “I’ll even let you go first. Come on, let me patch you up,” I continue.

  He suddenly nods. “I go first?”

  I clutch the oils convulsively in my fists as my world starts to spin.

  Maverick approaches.

  Oh god.

  I’m holding my breath when Maverick raises his hand to my hair.

  It’s just hair, I tell myself, but the way he rubs a few strands of my hair between two fingertips, looking at them as if they’re gold threads, makes my knees weak.

  And I realize I always wear it back, except for rare occasions. Or bedtime. Like now.

  He strokes the strands, from the roots to the tips, sliding his two fingers downward, and I feel the touch in the marrow of my bones. His eyes flick upward, and he looks into my eyes, penetratingly so, as he raises his hand to stroke his fingers gently down my face. As his three longest fingers feather down my cheek, his curled pinky finger traces the shell of my ear.

  My body becomes lava.

  He cups my cheeks gently in his palms, and his thumbs brush my cheekbones and eyelids.

  Raw need. That’s what I see in his eyes.

  That’s what I feel. r />
  And I see something tender and warm. In those platinum eyes. For me?

  “You have the world’s prettiest face,” he says. “On the prettiest body. With the prettiest smile. And a voice I think of when it’s all quiet.”

  He flexes his jaw and eases back, then he rips off his T-shirt and sits down on the edge of the bed, inhaling deeply. When Maverick whispers, like he just did, that dark-thunder voice of his ripples through me as if he speaks from somewhere deep inside me.

  God. I’m patching him up, and he’s wrecking me.

  Trembling, I uncurl my fingers from around the oil bottles. Which I’d seemed to be grasping like my life depended on it. I try to keep things businesslike as I pour a little mustard oil into my palm and then I set my fingers on his shoulders.

  His tattoo stares back at me.

  The phoenix is so close I can almost breathe it in. I am breathing it in. Because the phoenix is him. And he smells like the shampoo in my bathroom and the very soap on my skin, but warmer and earthier.

  I stroke my fingertip over the phoenix head. I want to kiss it.

  I do kiss it.

  I lean over, my lips brushing over the head so lovingly I hardly touch his skin.

  He hisses out a breath, turns around, grabs my head as if to bring me close for a kiss, then lets go and stands, exhaling. “You’re playing with me.”

  “No! No. I’m sorry.” I’m so embarrassed, I clutch my stomach and get oil on my shirt, then I pull my arms away and curl my fingers into my palms, struggling not to bury my face in my hands. “I don’t know why I feel the way I do when I’m with you.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

  The silence is everywhere.

  He exhales and comes back to sit again, his broad back to me. He curls his hands over his knees and turns to look at me, shoulders tense.

  I look at him and although my brain understands why, my body can’t seem to grasp why he’s not closer to me.

  Maverick, kiss me.

  Tell me not to be afraid and just kiss me.

  But I am afraid. And if he kisses me, I have to push him away because this can’t be.

  Exhaling, I pour more oil and I force myself to smooth it all over his back. His flesh ripples and tightens beneath my fingers, and I can feel him in every pore of my body. I’m still eyeing the tattoo of the phoenix and the scorpion.

  “This tattoo . . .” I trail off, dragging my hands over his back.

  “I got it the day I turned twenty-one.”

  His neck is thick; he’s staring down at the carpet now, resting on his elbows as I rub.

  “When I stopped waiting for him to come get me. To say he fucked up, that he chooses my mother and me. When I found out what people saw him as, I made a new me. Not with his help, but despite him. Rising now. He’s a part of me I won’t deny, but there are other parts of me too. Better ones.”

  He looks at me with half-closed lids, and his voice drops. “I’m not him, Reese.”

  He stares back at the wall, then he reaches to stop my hand, and an electric little singe runs up my arm as he turns to look at me again. “You’re trembling. Are you afraid of me?”

  I shake my head. “I’m afraid of myself. When I’m with you.”

  His eyes shine a little, and his smile comes out. “I like the way you are when you’re with me.”

  “Because it’s the only Reese you know, I’m usually calmer and less impulsive.”

  His eyes sparkle in pleasure over my confession, and he leans forward as if to take my lips. I set a hand on his torso, shake my head. “Maverick . . . you make me too reckless.”

  “I know,” he says, and then he dives his head and presses his lips to my neck.

  I put my hands on his shoulders to stop him, but when his hand roams intimately over my back as he draws me close to him so gently, I moan softly and sink my nails into his skin.

  He moves his mouth up my throat, testing me first, and when I open my lips recklessly, he starts devouring their softness. His kiss sends spirals of heat through me.

  It’s a quick kiss. A stolen kiss. Nowhere near what I want. Nowhere as deep as I want. Or as endless as I need.

  And it still shakes me to my core.

  I’m unhappy and empty and lonely when he eases back. He looks into my eyes for a long minute. “I like your pajamas.”

  My ears get hot.

  His smile starts to fade. He cups the back of my head. My heart leaps again and pounds like mad.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  And I’m going to let him.

  My usual Maverick palpitations are overboard right now. I set my hands on his shoulders, and this time, start to pull him a little closer.

  I stiffen when there’s a knock on the door and start to ease backward on the bed. But Maverick calmly uses his hand to pull me back to where he wants me as he ducks his head, crushes my mouth with his hot, hungry, strong lips, and his tongue flashes inside, stealing my soul when he takes this one more stolen kiss. . . .

  Then he stands, shoving his hands into his pockets as he faces the door. Blocking me from view as it cracks open.

  Brooke peers inside. “Food’s on the table.”

  She’s gone as quickly as she peered in.

  Maverick drags his hand over the back of his head in restlessness, then he cuts me a look that’s dark and frustrated, as if he’s sorry for the interruption.

  I shouldn’t be, even though I also am.

  My mouth. My mouth feels tingly.

  Keeping a healthy distance between us, I follow him out to the living room and dining area. Brooke and I have already had dinner, but the guys are obviously ravenous and I notice there’s a place set for Maverick too.

  Maverick waits for me to sit, then he drops down across from Remy and they quietly eat their meal.

  “They’re like a married couple. Can’t believe how serious they are,” Pete says.

  Riley looks at me and grins. “No wonder they like each other. They communicate by not communicating at all.”

  And while the men enjoy their dinner, I look at everyone at the table except Maverick. Even though I can feel Maverick looking just at me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CLEANING UP OZ

  Maverick

  After last evening with the Tates, with good food and good company, I couldn’t sleep. To see what Reese is accustomed to. How big fighters do it. Today I hit the grocery store, and once I’ve set the bags on Oz’s and my small kitchenette, I stalk to the couch with a trash bag. Oz is watching TV, bottles littered everywhere, bags of open chips scattered on the coffee table before him.

  I swipe an arm over the table and send everything crashing into the trash bag.

  “What are you doing?” He lowers the bottle he was about to take a sip from.

  I go and pluck it from his fingers and toss it into the trash, cutting him with a look. “It’s over, Oz.”

  “What’s over?”

  “Your fucking pity party. It’s over. We want to be pros? We act like them.” I take out water bottles from the bag of groceries I brought in.

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  He laughs, stomps to the minibar, and pulls out a small bottle. He takes a rebellious swig and plops before the TV again.

  “We’re going to AA.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He takes another rebellious swig. I dial the hotel staff and, minutes later, they’re retrieving the minibar keys.

  “You little asshole! You’re just a kid! You think you can come here . . . just because you’re buds with Tate now, you think you’re the shit?”

  “I know I’m better than what you’ve been giving me. And you’re better than what you’re giving yourself. Hell, I’m better than what I’ve been giving myself. It’s changing, Oz. We’re not going to be the underdogs for long. We’re eating like champions and we’re acting like them.”

  “You won’t last three minutes in the ring with Tate in the f
inal. Nobody does.”

  “I’m not nobody.” I toss his new bottle into the bag too. “Go clean up, get in the shower, sober up. We’re going to AA or I’ll carry you there. This has gone on long enough.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  WE ARRIVE LATE to the meeting. Rows of occupied chairs face a little podium where a guy is telling his story to the rest of those attending. I stop to pick up a booklet titled 12 STEPS and settle with Oz in the back row.

  When the guy leaves the podium, I say, “Go up, Oz. Take a page from his book and go up there, make a promise to yourself.”

  Oz is already restless without the booze. “You’re a fucking asshole, Maverick.”

  “But I’m all you’ve got. Here.” I pass him the booklet, and he grabs it and looks ready to combust. And that’s when I hear a familiar voice through the speakers, and I lift my head.

  “I’m Reese and I’ve been sober for a year.”

  Everyone nods in respect.

  And I sit here, like a moron, staring at her like I’ve never seen her in my life.

  “I’m shy in nature. Not very verbose and—” She stops talking when she spots me, her eyes flaring wide in a mix of surprise and concern and relief.

  And I sit here, still a moron, ready to hang on to every word that comes out of that mouth while something like the scorpion on my back pricks me in the heart.

  “I . . .” she struggles to continue, tearing her eyes free, “. . . didn’t have a lot of friends. My father taught in army school, so we traveled a lot. New schools every four years. It made lasting relationships difficult; impossible for me, really.” She pauses and swallows.

  Reese Dumas.

  Untouchable no matter how many times I’ve touched her.

  A perfect body that makes my hands itch with the urge to run them over that figure, an old soda-bottle figure, tiny waist, perfect breasts, perfect ass.

  I can’t fucking take my eyes off her.

  “When I arrived at my last home at fifteen, I felt like I didn’t have anyone on the planet. I was too shy to reach out, even to those who were nice to me. I heard about the school parties, but I spent my nights at home. One New Year’s Eve, I had a glass of champagne and felt a little woozy. I ended up going to my first party, and I was invited to the next. I liked how free I felt, how fearless. It gave me courage to go out. Make friends. I got drunk the next weekend too. I talked more; I was fun; I wanted to be accepted, to connect. I was too closed off on my own. With alcohol, I made new friends, was invited to go out. I thought I was accepted, but when I was sober, I could see I was a diversion. And thinking my friends didn’t really like or know me made me want to drink more to make that go away.” She exhales.