* * *
I fucked up. That’s all I could think about as I pushed hard through a five-mile run and began my usual thirty-minute stint with a jump rope. Click. Click. Click. The sound of the plastic striking the gym mat was almost lulling, and I fell into my groove, my muscles warm from the run.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Click. Click. Click.
There were a few early-morning guys getting their workout in, but it was Saturday, so most of us were here to get in and get out and not interested in talking. This suited me fine. My first client was at ten, but right now, I just went through the paces. Besides, the guys knew I was always there for them—it was my gym after all—but a guy’s workout time was sacrosanct, and everyone knew not to fuck with me during mine.
The cleaning crew had come through overnight, and the strong scent of pine cleaner and bleach lingered. The speakers pumped out a techno beat. I hated lyrics blasting while I worked out, the voices distracting me, so I kept a playlist where the steady rhythm helped keep the mood amped. As owner, I ran the gym my way. Since my name in the industry preceded me, no one was going to question me or how I did things. And if they did, well, they could go somewhere else.
The gym had been open a few years, and I had my regulars, plus my solid core of employees, which suited me just fine. I liked things calm. Consistent. The only fights I wanted to be involved in these days were in the ring, and usually it wasn’t me doing the fighting. Not anymore. I was done with that life now. I was just the trainer behind the ropes. Yeah, right. There was no fucking way I could ever be just a trainer behind the ropes. No one would let me. My agent, the sponsors, all of them wanted a piece of The Outlaw. And me? I just wanted… quiet. Just as Emory had said.
With my usual early-morning opener at the front desk handling the day-to-day running of the place, I didn’t have any distractions. I gave a little chin nod to a guy heading to the locker room, not breaking my rhythm with the rope, then gave myself over to my thoughts, my mind veering directly to how much of an idiot I'd been the night before. My dinner meeting with my fighter, Reed, and the PR guys had gone long, so when I finally pulled myself free, I floored it across town to the engagement party. The way Paul looked at his fiancée, Christy, had been worth the hustle, but watching a woman charm the bartender had made my night.
I’d been standing with two guys questioning me about the next big fight when I saw her. It was as if I’d been round-kicked to the head, and I couldn’t look away. She had brown hair, wavy and long, pulled back from her face in some magical way women tamed it. But hers didn’t look all that tame. Controlled, perhaps. Barely. As if a strong wind or a man’s hands running over the silky strands would set it all free. Her eyes had been dark but sparkling with mischief. Her full lips had been coated with something clear and shiny. Very kissable. The bartender had laughed at something she'd said. It hadn't been flirting. She hadn't touched him, hadn't leaned in to work her feminine wiles. Hadn't even batted her eyelashes. She just had a way about her I wanted focused squarely on me—not the damn guy behind the bar. When he handed her a glass of water he'd disguised as a gin and tonic, I was intrigued. And that was saying something because I was intrigued with jack shit these days.
Her dress had been yellow with no sleeves, so her tanned, toned arms were exposed. But that was all she'd exposed because the neckline was high, like a T-shirt. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage, although the trim style showed off her obvious curves and narrow waist. And fuck, she had just the right amount of curves in all the right places. I was a man, what the hell did I know about dresses, but it reminded me of something a movie star would have worn in one of those old black and white movies. The dress had looked vintage, with a full skirt that hid her hips and her legs down to her knees. Strappy sandals with a reasonable heel made her look… feminine. Not like the over-the-top, in-your-face, fuck-me-now women in the bar area who had eyed me as if I were a piece of meat or the MMA champ they knew me to be. They wanted me to take them to the restroom, lock the door and fuck their brains out. No names, no connection. Just a quick lay with the champ.
I was done with that shit.
&nbs
p; But this woman, this woman, Emory, she was soft and lush. Mysterious. Intriguing.
I’d been pulled into another conversation about fighting and been forced to look away from her. I was able to get my sights on her again when I finally made my way over to Paul. She’d gotten cornered, talking to some asshole who’d been standing too close with his hand on her arm. From across the room, I had no idea what they spoke of, but it was obvious she hadn't been interested, especially when she’d moved out of his grasp. I'd watched the asshole closely; he definitely wasn’t her date. If he was, he sure as hell wasn’t getting lucky. Her gaze had kept darting out the large windows, and she took frequent deep breaths as if she’d been ready to flee or knee him in the balls. Something he'd said made her frown, a little crease forming in her smooth brow, and I’d been pissed. She shouldn’t be doing anything but smiling and not with that fucker.
If what he'd said offended her, I had no clue why she didn’t just toss her drink in his face and walk off. Paul must have noticed as well, told me the guy was his cousin—his very handsy dumb-as-rocks cousin—and asked me to step in and rescue her. Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the group we’d been with, but I didn’t mind, not in the least. He'd said the woman was a friend of Christy’s and was too nice to give an asshole—every family had an asshole cousin—much of a brush-off. Paul had no idea I’d been watching her, but it fucking made my night that he knew her and asked for my help. It was the perfect excuse to get her to turn that brilliant smile on me without coming across as another guy who tried to pick her up. The way she looked, the way she just glowed, the men would be hounding her.
As I'd made my way closer, I'd been able to see she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room. There were ladies in their twenties I’d passed who put their best assets to full advantage, trying to score. It wasn’t just the men trolling. The bar had been an equal-opportunity meat market. Cleavage, exposed thigh, stiletto heels, pouty red lips were on full display. Youth was also on their side, but youth lacked experience. Life. This mystery woman was definitely in her thirties, probably closer to forty. She wore her age well, as if she knew who she was, what she wanted from life, and told everyone else to fuck off. Except for Mr. Asshole. He’d made her frown. As I made my way across the room, the guy’s hand had moved to her waist, and I’d seen red. I'd wanted to storm over there and rip the man’s arm off for touching her. She'd stepped back, and I knew she wasn’t interested.
That’s right, baby. He’s not for you.
She wasn’t a quick lay. She was so much more.
The restaurant hadn’t been the fucking ring, and I couldn’t have just beat the shit out of him. I'd had to be civilized, so I didn’t get arrested, but more importantly, scare the crap out of the woman. I'd taken a few deep breaths and chilled the hell out and got the girl. At least for a little while.
Click. Click. Click.
I glanced up at the digital clock placed high above the wall mats. Fifteen minutes to go. Sweat soaked my T-shirt, and my legs were starting to tire. My breath came out in an even pant, but I pushed on and thought about the conversation with Emory to get me through to the end of my workout.
She’d actually considered that I’d drugged her water. Someone like Emory shouldn’t have those thoughts, shouldn’t have to watch out for predators. Men who were willing to treat her poorly or worse. Had some guy—perhaps her ex—been a dick and hurt her? Done shit like putting a Rufi in her drink? Was that why she was wary?
When she’d looked at me, she’d been cautious. Yeah, I had cauliflower ear from fighting. My nose had been broken multiple times. I had scars on top of scars. Tattoos. I also dressed like I was from a ranch near a small town in Wyoming, not that I ever went back to that hellhole. I liked my leather boots, jeans and big belt buckle. I wore a Stetson I’d had since I was twenty-two. I didn’t fit the norm for Brant Valley. I didn’t fit the norm for anywhere.
Besides being an MMA fighter, I was a Marine. Beneath all that, I was a cowboy at heart. My first big check from fighting went to buying a ranch of my own an hour from town, just over the Divide. Wide open spaces and lots of quiet. My escape. You could take the cowboy out of the country, but you couldn’t take the country out of the cowboy.
Then I bought the building in Brant Valley, set up my gym and moved in upstairs. This town sure as fuck wasn’t a fighter town, but there was no way I was settling in a place like Vegas. I was famous in the industry, enough to set up my gym anywhere. So I did… in the closest town to my ranch. And the guys who wanted to make it in the MMA circuit sought me out and made Brant Valley their home while they worked with me.
I went for snap shirts and jeans, not suits and ties. Or on the mat, shorts and bare feet. Even so, I looked dangerous, and to some people, was dangerous, but not with Emory. It just proved that my life was fucked up enough that a good girl like her would be afraid to be with the likes of me.
She’d said she was divorced. The guy must have done something epic to fuck with her. She’d been skittish and nervous as a sixteen-year-old girl on a first date. She'd blushed so endearingly, and that proved it. I’d given her space, kept my tone gentle, tried to keep her at ease because, hell, I was pretty fucking scary looking. She’d said she wasn’t scared of me. Just nervous. Well, the feeling had been mutual. I’d been nervous as fuck around her because I hadn't wanted to mess up. But I had anyway. I’d stuck my foot in my mouth over and over. I’d told her I wasn’t picking her up, and I saw her smile slip.
I’d made her think I wasn’t interested, that she wasn’t enough, when in fact she was too much. Too perfect. I hadn’t wanted to be like the other dicks in the bar because while I probably had the same dirty thoughts as the oyster guy, I was gentleman enough to know she didn’t do pickups. She would have run away screaming if she'd known how much I wondered what she’d worn beneath her prim dress. Something sexy and lacy, perhaps. And that had made me debate what color her nipples were, if her skin was as silky soft as it looked. If her pussy tasted as sweet as I imagined.
Emory hadn't been some woman at the bar looking for a good time. She’d admitted outright she wasn’t looking. Period.
The kicker was, she'd had no clue who I was. No idea I was famous in the industry. She didn’t know about my career, didn’t know my wins, my championship belts, my notoriety. Didn’t know I’d been stopped at least five times within as many minutes when I showed up at the bar. There'd been no sign of recognition at all when I told her my name. She wasn’t a groupie hoping for a little reverse cowgirl with a real cowboy, and that made her one of the only women who’d said to my face she wanted nothing from me. I had been the one to pursue her. To give her the option to see me again, and she’d been the first in a long, long time I’d done so.