“Hey,chill, brother.” Blood falls into step with me.
“You’re supposed to have my back.”
“Just calling it like I see it. Shit, Martina’s fair game. Just don’t understand what the fuck you’re waiting for.”
I head straight for the bar, looking forward to putting the past two weeks behind me. Complete and utter fuckin’ torture watching Martina train and work out in the gym. And, fuck me, but she is good and getting better every day. She’d put on some much-needed weight in the best possible places and gained impressive muscle mass.
Maxie has her primed and ready for her first fight next weekend, but that didn’t help quench my itch. It probably would’ve been better if I boned her that first night, but it all fell to shit, and somehow I became herfriend.
Seriously, I have enough goddamn friends.
Blood’s words pissed me off, but the fucker is dead-on right. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, although I hadn’t realized the spying was mutual. Or maybe he was just busting my balls.
Either way, I have no intention of acting on it—for all the right reasons.
I never saw love at home between my parents. Then, becoming a fake baby daddy, along with not one but two failed marriages. Okay, so divorce is no big deal today, but to have three bad relationships before I was thirty. It’s gotta say something when one woman lies to me about paternity, and both my wives cheated on me and then aren’t even sorry about it. Must be some kinda weird-ass vibe I throw off that says I don’t care, or I don’t know how to pick women. Either way, I wouldn’t know a healthy relationship if it bit me in the ass.
Tonight is Marisol’s night off, so I flag over one of the prospects and order a shot of Jack. Plus, and this is a big-ass plus, she’s way too young for me. I’m eight years older than her, and I’ve experienced way more life than her.
This whole new generation of women confuses me anyway. Maxie’s always telling me in the gym that I’ve evolved from some caveman species, and I know she’s busting my balls, but some of the shit she says is true. I’m all for equality. Shit, Maxie and some of the other women fighters could take down the men any day of the week, and I’m good with all of it.
I get they want their freedom to do what they want without being sidelined. I also know it’s that rebellious side that makes them so fierce in the cage, and I pride myself on training the women as hard as the men, but putting that mindset into a relationship is confusing.
The prospect puts the shot of Jack in front of me. “Anything else, Boss?”
I down it, point to the glass, and he refills it, but I have a feeling it isn’t gonna help.
I like being the guy who kills the bugs, who’s stronger physically, and I like protecting a woman I care about. It’s hard to switch that shit on and off, and when it comes to Martina, my heart aches at the thought of her being hurt or scared.
I saw something in her eyes when she was up on stage and then later when we went up to my apartment. She was ready to fight me even though I outweigh her and could probably lift her over my head with one hand. But it didn’t matter to her, and right then I knew she’d been hurt.
It hit me like a fist to the face. An intensity I’ve never experienced, but she doesn’t need my brand of trouble. What she needs is for me to boot her ass over the border so she can go back to her mother’s house in Cali and meet a nice boring accountant, have two point five kids and take trips to the beach.
None of which I’m capable of offering.
If anything ever did happen, I’d inevitably piss her off, and then it would be awkward as fuck.
I down the second shot, and the warm liquor burns mythroat just enough to level me out. The prospect returns, and I let him fill it up again.
I run my finger around the rim of the glass, thinking maybe the guys are right, and I should just make it easy on myself and hit it with Chantel. She is always available and always more than willing. Usually my go-to with women—boring as fuck, but after my past with females, available and willing look pretty damn good.
I check my phone. That asshole Eduardo should be showing up soon, then after the meet with him, I’d really get my drink on and hit up Chantel. Scratch one itch at a time.
Her signature music fills the club, and I reason maybe watching her onstage will prime my pump. She sure is a favorite of our customers, and she loves to shake what god gave her. I push off the barstool and head to the stage. Might as well get the whole show.
I elbow through the crowd, and my eyes are drawn to the front of the club. The door opens, and the prospect ushers in Marisol, Maxie, Francesca, Tanya and—holy fuck! Martina in a dress only she could wear.
Chantel’s music amps up louder. I turn, and she moves to the edge of the stage, angles her nearly naked body in front of me, then gyrates her hips, and, yeah, my dick reacts. I dig my hand in the pocket of my jeans, pull out a hundred-dollar bill and shove it in her G-string.
I throw another look toward the door, but Martina is lost in the crowd. Better I stay far away from her.
Chantel leans over, getting as close as the brass rail around the stage allows, and whispers, “That’s gonna buy you a lot of fun later.”
I throw her a smirk ‘cause that’s what she expects, and console myself, knowing I did the right thing.
MARISOL
“He’s a jerk.” Marisol flicks her hand in Diesel’s direction.
