Kicker (DS Fight Club Book 1) (5 page)

“You realize this isn’t a country bar, right?” Dig eyed Tig’s boots, belt buckle, and cowboy hat as they walked across the street to the bar.

“You said it was rockabilly night, right?”

“Yeah, but you’re looking really billy and not really rock.”

“Middle Georgia is not hillbilly territory. If you’re going to marginalize me, ‘cracker’ would be the correct pejorative term.”

Silence.

“I’ll be fine,” Tig said with a laugh.

Dig surveyed the patrons as they walked down the block to the end of the line. “Yeah, you will.” He whistled low. “I am liking the look of the women. . . .”

“You like the look of all the women everywhere we go.”

Tig shook his head, thinking about the woman he saw at the pub party after the fight, the woman who was with Bailey. When he got back inside the pub from talking with his mother, she was deep in conversation with Bailey and Sheila Doyle, the wife of the patriarch of the fight club, Paddy Doyle, and Tig could not figure out a way to approach the women in a subtle manner. So he did not.

And he regretted it.

“You still thinking about Pink Suit, huh?”

“What?”

Dig grinned at Tig but wondered about his friend’s about face regarding going out. Earlier, Tig had said that he was spending all weekend at his family’s farm, but that afternoon, Tig actually agreed to go out when Dig caught him rolling in, boots and jeans caked in mud. Ten minutes and the guy was ready to go, smile on his face and bouncing on the balls of his feet even with his boots on.

“Wow, this place is hopping,” Tig mused, looking around the bar at the milling crowd and pointedly not answering Dig’s question. “I’m gonna get a drink before the bar gets too backed up. You want one?”

“Sure,” Dig said and reached for his wallet, but Tig waved him off.

“You get the next round; I’m buying this one for once, okay?”

“You sure?”

“Most definitely.”

Tig leaned on the bar, held his hand up to flag the bartender, and left it up while his eyes roamed over the crowd. Guys with slicked-up pompadours and girls in dresses with full skirts were the norm, but Tig saw a few fancy western shirts and some Freddie’s of Pinewood on the dance floor where there did not seem to be a lot of dancing going on.

Tig loved to dance. His mother taught him the basics of jive and swing dancing when he was in elementary school, mainly because she loved to dance, but also as a means of burning off his excess energy that wore her out and drove his stepfather crazy. Soon, he was doing advanced moves and flips, and he and his mother were entering contests at fairs, much to his stepfather’s dismay. Tig even taught his stepbrother, older by six years, to dance.

But then Tig discovered judo, and Floyd seemed to be relieved. Still, the dancing helped with all his martial arts and then with the cheerleading, another activity that Floyd frowned upon, but Tig did not care by that point because cheering let him bounce and tumble and had the added bonus of putting him in contact with girls.

Girls.

Girls, not women. Girls that were happy to roll around in the barn or under the bleachers or in the back of Tig’s little truck. Girls that married first-string football players or ended up as college women who married lawyers and accountants, not struggling peanut farmers or wannabe MMA fighters.

Tig shook his head, determined not to stay in it all night. Tonight, he was going to do something for himself and only himself. He might have ended up punching his frustration out the last night, but he was damned if he was going to do that a second night.

Tig got their beers—PBR, cold and cheap and just right—and made his way back to Dig, who was eyeing a woman in a tight skirt and a pair of flat shoes. He handed a beer to Dig, saying “I thought you didn’t dance.”

Dig snorted. “I don’t.”

“Well you might as well kiss your chances with that one goodbye; she’s here to dance.”

“How can you tell?”

“Flat shoes, though I have no idea how she’s going to be able to dance in that tight skirt.”

“So, what you’re saying is that I need to aim for someone like that?” Dig gestured with his beer. Tig took one look at the woman in question and nodded. “Yep. High heels, tight skirt. She’s not here to dance. Hell, she must have gotten dropped off because there’s no way she made it up that hill in those heels. She’s just here to look good.”

And boy did she ever look good—at least from the back. She was wearing what his mother called a wiggle dress, the hem narrower than the hips, which made the wearer keep their legs close together and causing them to wiggle when they walked. Those heels would just accentuate that wiggle.

Maybe Tig would ask her to dance if there was a slow song—that is, if Dig did not stake his claim.

The band took the stage and blasted into “Rocket 88,” which surprised, delighted, and impressed Tig.

“Looks like you misjudged that one,” Dig leaned over to tell Tig in his ear. “Flats isn’t moving, and Tight Skirt is getting her groove, or whatever you call that, on.”

And Tight Skirt was indeed getting her jive on. The skirt allowed a lot more movement than Tig imagined because Skirt was doing an advanced East Coast Swing with a big guy that was throwing her around like a rag doll.

Damn.

Tig looked over to say something to Dig but discovered his friend over by Flats, leaning over and flexing his arm on the bar. Tig shook his head, and Dig subtly winked at him as Flats laid her hand on his flexed bicep.

Double damn.

Tig sighed and took a big pull on his beer. The crowd had obscured his view of Tight Skirt, which made him both happy and sad. Happy that he would not be tortured with the vision of her curvy hips undulating under that tight skirt, and sad that he had maybe missed his opportunity to ask her to dance.

“Looks like we’re tied nothing to nothing, Tiggyman.”

Tig looked at Dig in confusion. “What happened?”

“She was looking for a third. . . .”

“What the hell, man? You were just talking about being up for that.”

“To join her and her boyfriend.”

Tig laughed long and loud. “Oh boy, I guess not. Sorry, buddy.”

Dig shrugged. “There’s a lot of other women here.”

“Yep, there are.”

But Tig still had his gaze glued to the woman in the tight red dress. No, not tight. Tight implied the dress was too small, and this dress fit the woman’s ample curves like a glove. Tig let out a little whimper when the she turned her back to him so he could see the way her rump moved in the dress and the fact that her stockings were seamed.

Holy fuck, this woman was sexy
.

“What in the hell have you gotten me into, Dig?” Tig’s head snapped around at Junior’s voice, and he bleated out a laugh.

“Junior. Welcome to the South, baby,” Tig laughed and then laughed harder at Junior’s obvious horror at both the now lukewarm PBR that Dig shoved into his hand and the music that filled the bar.

“Dig, this is the last time I let you talk me into going someplace at the last minute,” Junior grumbled. “Christ, I’m old enough to be most of these idiots’ father.”

Junior took a drink and gagged. “I’ve got to get something else,” he said and headed to the bar.

“Man, it’s going to take him forever.” Dig shook his head.

“Are you kidding? He’ll be back in ten minutes. He’ll turn on the
El Galán
charm and get served in no time.”

And sure enough, Junior was back with a mixed drink in less than seven minutes.

Junior and Dig had a yelled conversation over the band, but Tig continued watching Tight Skirt until Junior tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You realize that’s Bailey’s friend, right?”

“What?”

“The woman in the red dress? That’s the woman that was at Foley’s last night.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sure it is. Her hair is just different, and she has her going-out face on.”

Tig looked hard at the woman, and, sure enough, Junior was right: it was her.

“Okay, Mashburn, you
have
to talk to her tonight. No farting around, talking to your Mama.”

Tig perked but then slumped. The woman and man were like a well-oiled machine with their dancing. They had obviously been partners for years.

Junior read his mind. “Tig, the dude she’s dancing with? Gay.”

“How do you know?”

Junior shot Tig a withering look.

Tig swallowed hard. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

And then the music stopped, and the band took a break.

Charlotte stood at the bar for a moment, running the cold bottle of water over her neck and cheeks, not caring at this point what the moisture was doing to her makeup.

She gulped half the bottle down, blew out a breath, and turned around to return to Brad, who had managed to snag one of the few tables in the bar.

And ran face first into the hard chest of a Stetson-wearing fighter.

He caught her when she almost lost her balance, his hands firm on her upper arms, and when Charlotte looked up at his face, he treated her to a charmingly crooked smile.

“Oh. Hi.”

“Hey there,” he said, still grinning. “You in a hurry?”

“I was just headed back to join my friend. . . .” Charlotte motioned her head toward the table. The cowboy’s grin faded as he glanced over at the table.

“Oh, sweet Mary,” she heard him mutter under his breath. “He cannot fucking help himself, can he?”

Charlotte looked at the fighter and then looked back at the table to see Brad sitting stiffly as a man with a shaved head—Junior, she thought, was his name—leaned against the table.

“You know Brad?”

“No, I don’t, but I’m thinking that Junior might.”

“Oh boy,” Charlotte muttered.
This night just got very interesting.
She cleared her throat and made her way purposefully across the room, the wiry fighter trailing behind her.

“Hey, Brad,” Charlotte said brightly. “Here’s your water.” She looked at Junior, who still leaned against the table, but now wore a thoughtful expression. “Junior, right? You work with Bailey’s . . . Colin.”

Junior laughed and grasped Charlotte’s outstretched hand. “Yeah, I’m Colin’s trainer, or was, when he was still an active fighter. Nice to see you again, Charlotte. And I see you ran into Tig.” The big bald man grinned over Charlotte’s head at the fighter standing behind her.

Tig. His name was Tig.

“Hello, Tig.”

“Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah.”

Tig grinned that goofy, sexy, crooked grin again, and Charlotte wondered how old he was. When she first saw him at Foley’s, she thought he was very young, maybe in his early twenties at the oldest; now, she wasn’t so sure.

Charlotte heard someone clear his throat and saw Tig roll his eyes. “And that’s Dig,” he said.

“Hey,” the very muscular, bearded fighter said with a broad grin on his face.

“Tig . . . and Dig?” Charlotte said with amusement as she looked between the two men.

Those two might have rhyming names, but they could not have been more different. They both towered over her, which, at barely five feet tall, was not hard at all, but where Tig was towheaded, lean, and wiry, Dig was dark haired, bulky, and thickly muscled.

Junior barked a laugh. “They’re not quite Mutt and Jeff, but close enough.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet all of you.” Charlotte spoke to all of them, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of Tig.

They stood there, looking at each other and grinning, and the band started back up. Tig leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“Please give me a dance, Charlotte. You’ve got some moves, woman.”

Charlotte smiled shyly at him but reached for his hand.

Tig surprised her by spinning her onto the dance floor and launching into an East Coast Swing, complete with eggbeater and hammerlock moves. Charlotte laughed with glee and let Tig spin her around the dance floor.

*****

“So, Tig, huh?

“Yes, ma’am.” He waited a few beats while he twirled her around, and then said, “There’s not many appropriate nicknames for Antigone.”

“Your legal name is Antigone?” Charlotte’s brow furrowed and Tig threw his head back and laughed.

“No, that’s not my given name. The name on my birth certificate is Trevor, but no one calls me that except my mama.”

Charlotte swatted him lightly. “
You
are a goof.”

Tig spun her again and when he had her back in his arms, he held her a little bit firmer, a little bit closer to him, and Charlotte did not mind at all.

“I prefer to think of myself as a goober.”

“So why ‘Tig’?”

Tig cleared his throat and licked his lips. “Because I have a tendency to bounce.”

Charlotte frowned again, and Tig’s face softened as he touched a piece of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. That small change of expression made him seem much younger, but his light blue eyes still seemed to belong on a much older man.

“How old are you?” she blurted.

Tig looked uncomfortable. “How old do you think I am?”

“I honestly have no idea. When I first saw you, I thought you were really young, like barely out of high school.”

“Well, thank you for the ego boost, sweetheart,” he grinned. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“Oh.”
Oh God.

“And how old are
you
, Miss Charlotte?”

Charlotte squirmed a bit in his embrace, prompting Tig to loosen his hold on her just a bit.

“Oh, no, don’t let me go.” Charlotte’s eyes widened at her blurted confession. Tig huffed a small laugh, but pulled her closer again. “I’m thirty-five, almost thirty-six, by the way.”

“How almost?”

“Like within twelve hours almost. Tomorrow’s my birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday, Charlotte,” Tig whispered in her ear as he dipped her low, one strong arm holding her securely behind her back, the other hand hovering above her thigh as if he wanted to grab at it.

He did not, but he did squeeze her the tiniest bit as he pulled her back to standing. Tig spun her again as the song ended, and Charlotte used her birthday wish for at least one more slow song.

She got her wish as the strains of Buddy Holly began playing over the sound system. Tig held Charlotte firmly but gently in his arms and Charlotte had an insane urge to pull him down to her and kiss him for all she was worth.

That lopsided grin appeared on his lips again, and he asked, “What in the world are you thinking?”

Charlotte flushed and cursed her lack of poker face, which made Tig smile even wider as he waltzed with her around the dance floor.

“Winnie the Pooh. That’s where I got my nickname. When I was little and driving my mama nuts, she enrolled me in a tumbling class because I was always climbing on shit and rolling around. One day during class, I was watching some of the older kids, and got it in my head that I could do an aerial from the top of a big balance beam.”

“An aerial? Like one of those cartwheels with no hands?” Charlotte interrupted.

“Exactly. And from the full size beam, which is four feet off the floor.”

“Oh my Lord, Tig.”

“Yeah. Of course, it wasn’t successful, and I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck. Afterwards, the coach compared me to Tigger–you know, ‘top made of rubber, bottom made of springs’–because essentially bounced off my head and landed on my feet and was off again. The name just stuck.”

“I bet you were constantly almost giving your mother a heart attack, weren’t you?”

Tig shrugged a shoulder, but his little grin told Charlotte the truth.

He cocked his head to the side and looked like he was getting ready to ask her something when the band returned to the stage and started in with another fast paced song. Tig quirked an eyebrow at Charlotte and she grinned and grasped his hand.

The two of them danced until the band finished for the night and then continued when a DJ took over, only stopping once to each down a bottle of water before beginning again. At one point, the two garnered such attention as to have a dancers’ circle form around them and a round of applause when the song finished.

And when the lights came on at the end of the evening, they stood and looked at each other, both breathing heavily and grinning.