Uncaged (An MMA Stepbrother Romance) (21 page)

And I’m thinking to myself,
I hope she notices
.

“God, you can feel the bass even in
here
,” she says. She’s got her patched messenger bag over one shoulder, and is fiddling with the zip nervously.

I meet her eyes in our reflection, but she looks away. I wish she wouldn’t, because looking into her eyes is like opening a channel of energy; it zaps me, makes my heart beat fast, makes me anticipate. Usually I can tell what I’m anticipating, but not with her.

She’s different.

She’s not just falling into my arms. She’s not pressing herself up against me in the lift, grinding her hips against my groin. She’s not biting at my lower lip or sucking on my ear lobe or whispering the things she wants me to do to her in bed. She’s not breathing onto my face, or doing her best to look seductive.

She’s just standing there, closed-off, shoulders drooped, and unenthusiastic. She won’t meet my eyes. She acts like she doesn’t like me, that she doesn’t like what she sees.

It’s clear that isn’t true.

Penelope is nervous, uncomfortable. This is not just her first fight, but her first club. I’d also bet money she’s never been with a boy before.

Odd for a tattoo artist, going by the stereotypes. But then again, she doesn’t seem to fit any. I wonder idly what she’d have to say on that topic.

The elevator doors open, the booming bass greets us, and the flashing lights strobe over us.

She’s out of her element, instantly and impossibly
more
uncomfortable. She stiffens up. She grips her bag. She picks at the skin of her thumb with her forefinger.

I’m a fighter. I notice people’s hands.

As she steps out of the lift, I place my hand on the small of her back, curl my fingers around her hip. That makes her feel better, I can sense it, but already her eyes are wandering to the dance floor. The girls dancing are sexy, confident, and know how to work their bodies. They’re barely wearing anything at all. Their skin shines.

Her eyes flash to the bar, and she sees half a dozen guys doing shots; they’re loud, boisterous, shouting ‘bro’ at each other and pumping fists and slapping asses. They’re barking and woofing, and Penelope… she is wilting.

Then she turns around, and doesn’t meet my eyes.

“I need to—”

“There’s a balcony on the thirtieth floor of this building,” I say. “It’s private, but I know the security guard and he’ll let us out there.”

She looks into my eyes.

“Tell me what you’d like to drink, and we can go up there, sit down, just you and me. Get away from the music, the crowd.”

After a moment’s consideration, she nods. “Do they have any champagne?”

I grin. “Let me check.”

I walk up to the bar and order a bottle of
Verve Cliquot
, and come back with two glasses hanging from my fingers. She presses the elevator button, the doors slide open, and I notice a distinct bounce in her step as we walk in.

“Hey, Pierce!”

A guy holds the doors open. It’s somebody who thinks he’s my friend.

“Who let you in here?” I ask. I don’t even smile.

He sidles up to me, lowers his voice. “Up for some Charlie?”

“No,” I tell him.

“Come on, mate. I got my boys here and they’d really like to meet you. Big fans.”

I lean closer to him, beckon his ear. He points it toward me. “I don’t give a fuck,” I say. I turn around to leave, but he grips my arm, stops me.

“Where are you going, bro?”

I look down at his hand. He lets go instantly.

“Fucking touch me again,” I growl.

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble.” He’s backing up now. “Just thought you might be up for a bump or two. It’s on me, mate. Really, I’d be honored.”

“Leave,” I tell him.

“Alright, I’m going.”

“No,” I say. “This club. Leave it.”

Now his expression changes. He’s getting amped. “What?”

I look toward the bouncer by the lift. The bouncer nods, and within seconds has the guy locked up with his arms behind him. The prick is forced out the fire exit.

The elevator doors slide shut. I catch Penny smiling in the reflection, and there is an unmistakable look of relief on her face.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody I know.”

“What, the bouncer owe you a favor or something?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’m one of the owners of this club. Bought in last year.”

The expression on her face is that of slight puzzlement.

“I’m getting into business now so that when I’m too old to fight, I’ll have something.” I explain. “And in the underground, you get old fast and hard.”

“Good for you.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Clubs just aren’t my thing.”

“Well, that’s why we’re leaving it.”