“Get someone to look at Brooke’s sprain. Get her some fucking crutches. And get two of your own cars after the fight tomorrow, I want Brooke alone.” I cross the living room in search of food.
Pete dials to concierge. “Do you want the Escalade or would you like someone to drive you?” His yell reaches me in the kitchen as I scour for the food Diane prepared.
“Get me a driver, I want my hands free.”
PAST
SHE FIGHTS
I’m in the zone.
Standing so I can stretch my legs and bounce in place, I curl my fingers and twist my neck to one side, then the other. Riley lifts three fingers, and I’m up in three. After a couple more jumps, I pry off my headphones, slip into my robe, and then wait until I hear it: “And noooow, ladies and gentlemen, say helloww to the one, the only, Remington Tate, RIPPPPPTIIIIIIDE!”
Taking off down the walkway, I follow my name, then I leap into the ring, strip off my robe, and hand it over to the guys at the corner. The noise heightens as I open my arms and turn around, taking a good look at my crowd. Hundreds of heads are turned in my direction, waving banners and shit in the air as the name Riptide shudders upward and across the ceiling rafters.
My arms still out, I keep turning, scanning the crowd until my eyes lock on her. Brooke Dumas. Sitting right where I want her. She’s framed by the groupies Pete and Riley brought up to my room, and they have nothing on her. She wears her hair down, and her smile, fuck, her smile is just for me. I smile back at her, thinking, this is for you.
Then I focus on my opponent, wait for the bell, and take him down. Working up a sweat, I take out a second fighter, a third. On my fourth and fifth, I keep jabbing, hooking, shooting out double punches, straight power punches, countering, attacking, and defending.
On my eighth, I block a power punch from his left arm, then I bury my hook in his ribs and finish him with an uppercut to the jaw that knocks him out completely with a thunk. He tries to rise, but slumps back down.
The public roars as my name takes over the entire room.
“RRRRRRIIIIIIPTIIIIIIIDE!” The ringmaster lifts my arm, and I’m catching my breath as the announcer yells, “Our victor, ladies and gentlemen. Riptiiiide!”
The screams are almost deafening, and I turn around and look at her, the smile on her lips so perfect, I can’t fucking wait to kiss it.
It takes me five minutes to shower and change at the hotel, then I cross the lobby to where Brooke waits in the back of a black Lincoln.
I slide in and shut the door behind me, and when I settle in my seat, the back of my hand rests against the back of hers. I carefully watch her for any signs of her wanting to pull away.
We head into traffic.
Brooke still hasn’t protested.
So I run the pad of my thumb over the back of hers, watching her reaction.
She inhales a quick breath, and the way her tits push up against her glittery top makes me hard. I think about running my thumb up her bare arm, her slender neck, then trailing it over that plump, pink mouth I want to feel all over me.
“Did you like the fight?” My voice is low and gruff.
She stares out at the window, her thoughtful profile making me want to fucking beg for it.
“No. I didn’t like it,” she admits as her eyes finally come to mine. “You were amazing! I loved it!”
The words hit me with such joy, I laugh, and I grab her hand, lift it to my mouth, and scrape my lips across the small rises of her knuckles, looking at her.
“Good,” I murmur, staring deep into her eyes. It takes all my effort to let go of her. But I want her to get used to me first. I want her to smell me, feel me right here. I want her to feel my body heat and get accustomed to me. My presence. Everything about me. When I sit next to her, this is the last time I want her shoulders to go tense and tight.
Soon, we reach the club. I help her out of the car, and when she slides her small hand deeper into mine, I feel so fucking possessive, I don’t let go of her. I want every man looking in her direction to know this one’s fucking mine. In silence, I lead her past the bouncers and to a private room in the back.
“Pete is getting a lap dance,” Riley tells me at the door of the private room, and I’m disappointed when Brooke quietly pulls her hand free from mine. “You don’t mind treating him to one as a birthday present?” he asks me.
We all watch as a woman in a glittering silver bikini heads for Pete, who looks goggle-eyed. Brooke squirms at my side, and Riley turns his attention to her, his eyebrows flying high. “You shy about this, Brooke?” he asks in amusement.
A soft-pink hue stains Brooke’s cheeks, and a rush of possessiveness charges through me. I engulf her hand in mine again, quietly asking her, “Do you want to watch?”