Remy (12 page)

For a moment I’m not sure I heard right.

She’s telling me I can’t kiss my mouth . . . my woman . . .

She’s telling me I either fuck her and take her all, or I take nothing.

If she were any other woman in the world, I’d have fucked her the night I met her. Maybe I’d have fucked her another time. Then I’d have forgotten her. But she is Brooke Dumas and I am not messing it up with her if it kills me.

“All right,” I say, smiling like I don’t feel as if I’d just swallowed down my own cock.

Suddenly, I can’t have her on my lap. Her bottom lush and juicy and mine—but unavailable. Fuck me. Setting her aside, I reach for my iPod and look for something. Metallica. Marilyn Manson. Something crazy that will shut the fuck up all the protests sputtering in my head and the sensation in my chest of having lost some unknown battle before I even fought it.

I booked a suite for Brooke and Diane, and one of the ladies doesn’t like it.

My lady, to be exact.

I was caked with sweat and still panting from my workout when she massaged the back of my neck, leaning close enough to whisper in my ear, “Mind telling me why Diane and I are together in a suite, Remy?”

She turned my neck to one side, then the other, her fingers light on my jaw, but I still refused to answer.

“You can’t do this, Remington.”

Biting back a laugh, I turned and touched two fingers to her lips, holding her gaze for a long heartbeat. “Stop me. I dare you,” I told her, then I grabbed my towel and walked away to my suite to drown all my frustrations in a cold shower.

Now I’m in the LA Underground locker rooms, sitting on a bench at the end while Coach wraps my hands, some song in my ears, when I see Pete in my peripherals wave someone over.

I see Brooke heading over to me, at Pete’s insistence, and I immediately hook my finger on my headphone cord and pull them down.

Brooke holds my gaze as she quietly leans over and pauses my iPod, then she walks behind me to seize my shoulders and starts working on my knots.

The instant I feel her fingers on my bare flesh, I groan and feel my body both tense with arousal and relax from the knowledge she’s with me.

I haven’t kissed her in what feels like a year.

I miss her in my bed.

I miss the way she moans and the way her soft, silky mouth swells under mine.

I miss her touch; I want it badly.

“Deeper,” I command her, and she goes in deeper with her fingers, using her thumb to roll over one of the larger knots. Relaxing my neck, I let my head hang and drag in a deep breath as she presses down until the knot disintegrates, and I groan from the pleasure of feeling the heat spread into my tissue.

“Good luck,” she whispers into my ear before she draws back, and my skin feels taut as a drum cover.

I stand and look at her, and I don’t know why she’s so determined to make me fuck her that she keeps her kisses away from me until I do, but I’m going to make her cave in to me before I cave in to her.

I’m not fucking her yet, no matter how ready I am to kill for it.

I’m not touching that sweet pussy until it’s ready to be taken home—permanently.

Behind me, Riley comes with my robe, and I spread out my arms and ram them into the sleeves while I keep my eyes on her.

“Riptide!” I hear the call, and I bounce in place for a second, then trot out into the arena.

I take my ring like I always do, but tonight’s not a normal one. Tonight, I fight—

“Benny, the Black Scoooooorpion!”

I see him charge out of the walkway on the other side. That ugly black tat on his face, he storms out to the general booing of the crowd, but grins nevertheless.

Remembering the club incident, where he dared speak of my girl’s pussy, I remind myself I owe him a beating. The moment he takes the ring, he comes up to center, and so do I, fixing my gaze on his yellow eyes.

His rage and my rage combine to create a powerful effect on the air.

“Fucking pussy needs a woman to defend him now?” he says, spitting on the mat.

I laugh softly. “The bad news is, not even a woman can defend
you
from
me
now.”

We tap knuckles, and the fighting bell rings.

We wait it out, both of us inspecting the other, and I want my little firecracker to see this.

I want her to see me beat the living daylights out of this dipshit.

Flicking my eyes to the side, I notice Brooke’s chair is empty.

Scowling, I scan the arena and duck when Scorpion swings, then I come back and punch him, fast and hard, on the jaw.

Then I see her.

She’s calling out to a girl heading to the exit with one of Scorpion’s minions, while another of those motherfuckers holds her—Brooke—by the arms.

My blood runs cold, then hot in fury. I slam my fist into Scorpion’s jaw, shove him aside, grab the nearest rope and leap out of the ring onto the cement floor, leaving Scorpion spitting blood on the mat. The arena erupts with shouts and screams and the announcer yells through the speakers, “The victor, Scorpion! Scooooooorpiooooooon! Remington Tate has been disqualified from this round!
Dis-qualified!
”

I reach Brooke as she struggles to break free, and she looks tiny and feisty in that motherfucker’s grip, making me livid. I grab the hands on her arms and thrust them back, delivering him a look that promises he will
die
because of me, then I yank her into my arms and forget about everything but that she’s safely nestled against me.

Still, she fights me.

“No. No! Remy, let me go, I need to follow her.” She twists in my grip and lightly hits my pecs, her expression twisting in pain. “Let go, Remy, let go,
please.
”

I clench her tighter against me and walk her to the exit, because I don’t think she realizes what’s going on. “Not now, Little Firecracker,” I softly warn her. She stops squirming and peeks over my arm at the angry faces of some of Riptide’s fans, and I use my shoulders to shove through the crowd as they start getting vicious.

Her eyes widen in horror as the crowd starts clawing angrily into the air, then she curls into me and lets me guide her out to the car.

“Fucking shit!” Coach thunders as the limo pulls into traffic.

“You’re down to third. Third. Possibly fourth,” Pete glumly tells me, handing me the T-shirt and sweatpants I wear after matches.

“You had this one down, Rem. You were training so fucking well you would have had his ass on a stick, man.”

“I’ve got it, Coach, just relax.” I shove into my casual clothes as quickly as I can, then I reach out and pin Brooke to my side, my blood still pumping hot as lava.

Rubbing my hand down her arm, I notice she won’t take her eyes off the window as if searching for that woman.

“You’re in the worst placement you’ve been in years, man, your concentration is shit!”

“Pete, I’ve fucking got it—I’m not screwing this up,” I assure him, rubbing Brooke’s arm faster so she knows it will be all right.

“I think Brooke should stay in the hotel next fight,” Riley mutters.

I burst out laughing. “Brooke comes with
me
,” I snap, shaking my head in disbelief at them.

“Rem . . .” Pete tries to reason.

I clench my jaw and shoot him a warning glare, not in the mood for this bullshit. We ride the elevator in tense silence, and I’m getting worked up by Brooke’s unease. The need to protect her from whatever it is that’s made her this uneasy is eating at my gut.

The doors roll open on her floor, and she gets out like a whirlwind I’m determined to calm the fuck down. The guys yell back at me and demand we have some words, making me snap, “Pete, we’re talking about this later, just cool your nuts, all three of you.”

“Get back here, Rem, we need to talk to you!”

“Talk to the wall!”

The door to her room is about to slam shut when I reach it and push it open to follow her inside. “You all right?” I demand.

The door shuts behind me, and she faces me with bewildered gold eyes and the face of my fucking dreams, and suddenly I feel as impotent and useful as a damn table, standing here while whatever it is tears my woman apart.

I’m not going to fucking let it.

Life can throw the curveballs at me, but not at her. I’ll catch them for her and I’ll throw them back. She’ll be untouchable if I can help it. She’ll be untouchable to everything and everyone but
me.

She has to stop fucking risking herself!

As she eyes me, I hear her sharp inhale as she signals at the door behind me. “Go talk to them, Remy.”

My voice is rougher than usual, even to me. “I want to talk to you first.”

I start pacing for a moment, dragging my hand through my hair all the way down to the back of my neck. Then I drop my arm with a sigh because I’m at a loss for words here. “Brooke, I can’t fight and keep an eye out for you.”

“Remy, I had it
covered
,” she cries.

“My fucking ass, you had it covered!”

She jerks in surprise, and my fingers curl into fists as the need to drive my hands into that dark hair and crush her against me starts to slowly and painfully consume me. Suddenly, her eyes flash in fury. “Why is everyone looking at me like it’s my fault? You’re supposed to be fighting
Scorpion
!”

A dark scowl settles on my face. “And you’re supposed to be in your goddamned seat on the front fucking row to my left!”

“What difference does it make? You’ve been fighting for years without having me in the audience! What does it even matter where I’m at?” She glares at me and dares me to tell her all the shit I feel for her, and the lack of words in me only frustrates the hell out of me. “I’m not even a fling, Remington! I’m your
employee
. And in less than two months, I won’t even be that, I’ll be
nothing
to you. Nothing.”

God, is that what she thinks?

Does she think I haven’t taken her because . . . what? She’s a toy to me? I’m fucked-up and imperfect, but I’m human and I want things. And what I. Want. Is.
Her.

I want her too much to fuck it up.

I exhale through my nose and ask, “Who was that girl you were chasing?”

She drops her voice to a whisper. “My sister.”

A silence stretches between us as I register that her sister apparently is
friends with
Scorpion’s crew. “What’s your sister doing with Scorpion’s goonie?”

“Maybe she’s wondering the same about me,” she says with a bitter laugh.

I laugh right along with her, my laugh a thousand times more bitter than hers. “Don’t mistake me for a fuckup like him. I may be fucked-up but that guy eats virgins and spits them out like vomit.”

Brooke starts pacing, her face scrunched up in worry for a moment, then she closes her eyes sadly. “Oh, god. She looked awful.
Awful
,” she whispers.

That’s it.

That’s fucking it.

Brooke won’t be suffering like this over anyone.

Not in front of me.

I’m not a person who can stand and talk about stuff when there’s something to be done.

Quietly, I open the door, but before I leave, I look at her pretty face, all its color lost, and I have to say something. I’m no good at this, but I make an effort and gruffly tell her, “You’re not nothing. To me.”

Shutting the door behind me, I head straight for the elevator.

It’s not difficult to find a man who tattoos a fucking insect on his face.

Plus the fighters always stay in one of the hotels close to the Underground location.

Feeling bloodthirsty, I curl my hands into fists as I cross the lobby and head out into the night. A huge crowd litters the hotel driveway.

“Riptide!”
they scream.

Camera flashes explode all over the place.

“Ohmigod!” A woman starts crying while members of the hotel staff struggle to keep the crowd at bay.

I’ve successfully shoved through one side of the crowd while a good dozen hands rub my ass and my chest muscles when I hear, “That’s her. Her fault he was disqualified tonight!”

Turning in confusion, I see something white flying in the air and smashing straight on Brooke.

Another white ball follows the first.

Simmering with rage, I clamp my jaw and stomp my way back to her as the fucking crazy people keep throwing shit at her.

Brooke has ducked and run to one of the parking valets, who sees me come up and says something to her.

Another egg crashes into her shoulder as I reach her, and I swear I feel like the fucking Hulk. I’m so damn mad, I feel fucking green!

“Whore!”
they shout.
“Bitch!”

Using my back as a shield, I catch an egg on my trapezius as I lift her up in my arms and swing around to face these fucking lunatics.

“It’s because of this woman I’m still fighting!” I shout at them, feeling angry, feeling betrayed by them.

A sudden silence falls across the crowd, and I’m not done yet—motherfuckers!

“Next time I’m in the ring, I’m going to fucking
win
for her, and I want all of you who hurt her tonight to bring her a red rose as an apology and tell her it’s from me!” I demand.

After a second, they get it.

They fucking get it. . . .

And they start screaming and clapping as I take her back inside.

Breathing through my nose, I’m trying to calm down when Brooke starts laughing in my arms, her eyes shining in disbelief as she looks up at me.

I frown in confusion and press the elevator button a dozen consecutive times.

“And they say Justin Bieber’s fans are crazy,” she gasps.

My voice is raspy and rough as I brush off some eggshells from her shoulder. “I apologize on their behalf. I disappointed them today.”