Kicker (DS Fight Club Book 1) (6 page)

“Thank you, Tig. That was . . . wonderful.”

Tig had taken off his hat, displaying an almost white-blond crew cut as he mopped his brow with the back of his arm. He winked at Charlotte’s gawking and said, “The pleasure was all mine, Charlotte.”

“Ahem.”

“What?” she snapped. Realizing how she sounded, Charlotte’s eyes opened wide. “Oh my God, I am so sorry, Brad. That was incredibly rude.”

Brad stifled a snicker. “Yeah, I think they want us to clear out, LottieLou.”

She glared at him and then turned back to Tig, whose lip twitched with suppressed mirth. “I suppose we have to.”

“Here, put your number in my . . . dammit. I left my phone in my other pants.” Tig patted his back and front pockets.

Charlotte swallowed hard.
I will not think about what’s in those beat-up jeans. I will not think about what’s in those beat-up jeans. God, I hope he doesn’t know
what
I’m thinking about in those beat-up jeans.

But the look on Tig’s face told that
her
face betrayed every single dirty thought that was going through her head.

“Give me your phone?” he asked, and Charlotte handed it over. Tig huffed a laugh.
Of course her phone case had sparkly red cherries on it.
He put his number in her phone and handed it back with a wink.

“I’ll talk to you soon?” Charlotte nodded, dumbstruck. “Good.” He winked again and gave her hand a squeeze, nodded at Brad, and sauntered toward the door.

“It was nice seeing you again, Charlotte. Brad, congratulations.” Junior waved and followed Tig out the door.

Charlotte shook her head. “Weren’t there three of them?”

Brad barked a laugh. “Yeah, the big guy found some psychobilly girl to go home with.”

“Oh God. That crazy Amber woman?”

“Got it in one. I hope he knows what he’s getting into with that one.”

Charlotte snorted. “Well, he’s an MMA champion. He might keep her on her toes for once.”

“Or he might just learn some new submission moves.”

Charlotte brayed with laughter, and Brad threw his arm around her as they walked to Brad’s car.

“So, you knew Junior before?”

“Oh boy. Hector was the right man at the wrong time. And he’s a good really guy. I treated him . . . not well.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But he seems to be doing okay even though he’s single. I was just surprised to see him show up at rockabilly night. He’s
so
not rockabilly.”

“You think?”

“God, can you imagine if we had worked out? My parents would have shit. Between the Latino and the Jerseyboy? Holy cow.”

Charlotte laughed. “You have to admit, he’s really not your type at all. He’s very . . .”

“Oh, honey. He’s so
Papi,
and he doesn’t even know it. I guess I just needed something completely different to realize what was right. Unfortunately, Hector ended up a casualty of my casual stupidity. He totally didn’t deserve the way I treated him. I’m glad we ran into each other so I could apologize.”

“So it’s all better?”

“It’s all better.” Brad changed the subject. “So what is it with you and cowboys? You’ve always had a thing for the cowboys,” Brad mused as he drove Charlotte home. “Who was that guy you used moon over? The rodeo guy? Something Fletcher?”

“Jasper. Jasper Fletcher.”

“That boy could fill out a pair of jeans. Whew.”

“Yeah.”

She hadn’t thought about Jasper Fletcher in years.

She sighed.

They met at an equestrian competition and immediately hit it off even though Jasper had teased her unmercifully about being a prissy Saddle Seat rider. She had confessed that she really wanted to ride Western style, and Jasper had encouraged her, going as far as letting her ride one of his horses and giving her advice on appropriate show wear.

And she had won and was thrilled enough to tell her parents about it, thinking that they would be thrilled that she excelled at some aspect of equestrianism.

But, of course, they weren’t.

And just like that, Jasper had dropped her like a hot potato, stating that he had to concentrate on his riding, that he was trying to go pro and did not need the distraction of a girl. Charlotte had been heartbroken and had quit competing all together, in any discipline, and had thrown herself into her studies.

“Charlotte, honey? What’s wrong?” Brad looked at her with concern.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Well, you should be. You and that little cowboy tore the floor up tonight.”

Charlotte smiled. “He’s not that little, really, just . . . tight.”

“I bet he’s strong as hell.”

“Yep.” She sighed. “Just drop me off, Brad. You don’t have to bother coming up.”

“Charlotte . . .”

“I’m sure. If you come up, we’ll have a nightcap, and then we’ll start watching a movie, and then it’ll be six in the morning and I’ll be crabby, and you’ll be cranky, and that won’t be any good for anyone. Besides, there’s a security guard to make sure I get up to my apartment okay.”

“True,” Brad said as he sidled next to the curb in front of Charlotte’s apartment building. “You sure you’re okay, honey?”

“I’m fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Thanks for making me go out.”

“You’re welcome.” Charlotte got out of the car, and as she was walking in the door, she heard Brad back up and yell out the window, “You better call that little cowboy. He likes you.”

She turned around and laughed. “I will, Brad. Be safe going home.”

Charlotte waved at the security guard and got in the elevator to ride up to her floor. She leaned back against the wall, thumbed through her phone to Tig’s contact, and laughed when she realized he had taken a picture and put it in his contact—the cowboy hat, one cornflower-blue eye, and a light blond eyebrow peeking at her from the small window of the photo.

She was tempted to call him right then, beg him to come over, and see how strong those arms really were.

But she did not.

Instead she went into her dark apartment and went to bed without washing off her makeup, only to dream about birthday cakes and cowboys doing the lindy hop.

Oh,
hell
no. I am not spending
every
Sunday with these jokers, especially if Brad’s not here to join me in mocking them.

Charlotte had put on a suit—a peacock-blue one that her mother hated because it was very retro and had a kick pleat in the back—and trotted to the country club like a good little girl, even if she was exhausted from not sleeping soundly.

But she was here, just like she promised and was expected to be.

“Why, hello, Mr. Walters, how
are
you?” she gushed, not hiding her insincerity and knowing that no one would notice except Brad, who wasn’t even going to be here because he had put his foot down and told his father “no more.”

Of course, he had offered to be there, but only if his husband could attend, and Charlotte’s father had thrown a fit. What surprised Charlotte was that Brad’s father had told David Markham to stuff it, that if his son and his son’s partner weren’t welcome, then he was taking that as meaning that he wasn’t welcome either. Boy, she wished that she was a fly on the wall for
that
conversation.

She half listened to the man prattle on, while trying to decide if she should risk sneaking into the bar and doing some shots. She had just decided that she could make it through the afternoon without any liquid courage when she felt a hand on her rump.

Charlotte snapped her head around and ground out, “Excuse me? You do not touch me, especially on the ass.”

Walters scoffed. “Now, honey, don’t get all bent out of shape. I was just being friendly.”

“No, you weren’t. You were being a letch because you think you can get away with it.”

“David said your attitude had been a bit . . . challenging . . . since you’d taken that start-up job. I guess he wasn’t exaggerating.”

“My attitude is absolutely fine, Mr. Walters. Tell Judy hello for me,” she said sweetly, and she spun on her heel and went in search for a Bloody Mary, hold the tomato juice.

She had just downed a double shot of house vodka when she heard her father call her name. She turned around, not bothering to school her expression into something that her father would find more palatable.

“Now what? Oh. Hello.”

Her father stood across from her, his mouth puckered with displeasure, with a handsome man beside him. She could see her father inhale, trying to maintain his composure, and she smiled blandly, knowing she was being a passive-aggressive brat, but really not caring.

“Charlotte, I’d like to introduce you to Brian Weathers. Brian went to UGA, too.”

“Oh, what year did you graduate?” she asked, not very interested.

“Undergrad 1997, law school 2001.” Brian Weathers smiled a toothy smile at her, and she had to stop herself from visibly recoiling.
Ugh. Talk about predatory.
Instead she merely nodded and continued to smile blandly at him.

Her father excused himself, leaving Charlotte and Brian looking at each other. Charlotte started counting, and she got twenty-five Mississippis before he began regaling her with tales of his travels. She briefly paid attention when he started talking about horses, but she realized he wasn’t a serious rider, just another overgrown frat boy who enjoyed a day at the track.

His derisive scoff got her attention. “Excuse me, Brian? I missed that.”

“I heard you were a stuck-up little twitch, but I didn’t imagine that you would be so blatant about it.”

“Okay, Brian, let me ask you something. What did he promise you? An internship? Maybe even a job? What?”

“Who’s ‘he’? Your father?” Charlotte nodded. “He didn’t promise me anything. . . .”

Charlotte laughed. “God, you’re not really even a very good liar. Well, whatever he promised you, it’s not going to happen. I don’t need a pity relationship because I’ve had plenty of those. And honestly, it wouldn’t be worth it on either of our parts, so why don’t we just say that there was no spark and leave it be. If you really want to work for my father, I’ll put in a good word for you, but honestly, I wouldn’t go near his business with a ten-foot pole. Not on your life.”

Brian blinked at her and then grinned. “Oh, thank God. My dad’s the one pushing this, and I have no desire to work for your dad. I’ve already take a position in Dallas, but my father is convinced that they’re not going to pay me enough.”

Charlotte laughed, and the two of them spent the rest of the brunch chatting, with Brian even showing her photos of his girlfriend, the reason he was wanting to return to Texas. At the end of the day, Brian shook Charlotte’s hand, and they wished each other good luck.

David Markham spent the afternoon watching his daughter from across the room, and when Charlotte approached him after the brunch, a thoughtful look on her face, he was in fact interested to see what she was going to say.

“David, he’d be a nightmare as an employee. Not a bad employee in general, but a bad fit for your company. He’s not nearly ruthless enough.”

“My thoughts exactly, Charlotte. Good. Your instincts are improving.”

“So this was a test?”

“Call it what you want. I guess this is about done for today. I’ll see you next Sunday, and try not to be late this time.”

He patted Charlotte’s head, much like he would a nice dog that he wasn’t familiar with, looked pleased with himself, and meandered over to the maître d’ to settle his bill.

“God, you’re an asshole,” Charlotte muttered. “Ugh.”

She did not wait for her father, nor did she tell him goodbye. She walked out of the hotel, retrieved her car from the valet, and drove directly to her favorite barbeque joint where she ordered a rib sandwich, rum baked beans, and a piece of sweet potato pie, all washed down with a sweet tea with lemon.

“Man, this beats brunch food anytime,” she murmured to herself. “Oh, so, so good.”

While she sat outside on the porch, finishing her tea, her mind wandered back to Tig. She wondered what he was doing, how he spent his Sundays.

Charlotte let out a snort, imagining him in the middle of all those assholes. She did not imagine the fighter would have much use for the stuffed shirts that populated David’s so-called “meet and greets”; he seemed much too laid back for that.

Brad: You called that little cowboy yet? ;)

Charlotte huffed a laugh when she read Brad’s text, but she did not answer him, mainly because she had not, in fact, called the little cowboy—but she did not really know why.

Was she afraid that he was just being nice? No, he did not have to take a picture or give her his phone number.

Or was there something else? Was she afraid that something would develop between the two of them, and then once Tig met her family, he would not want to see her anymore? That had happened with Jasper Fletcher, the other cowboy—and the only man that Charlotte had ever allowed herself to fall anywhere close to in love with.

She heaved a big sigh and gathered up her trash.
Two days, Charlotte. If you’re still thinking about him this much in two days, call him. If not, then it’s a sign that you’re not really interested.

Two days would be Tuesday—plenty of time to make plans and not have them be “last minute,” but not too much time to obsess about all the small details.

With a smart nod of her head and the straightening of her back, Charlotte threw her trash away and marched out to her car, hoping that her confident walk would turn into actual confidence.