“Just admit it,” he says.
“Admit what?” I ask.
“Why you’re here.”
“Lay off, man,” Finch says and tries to pull Hunter by the arm out of my way, but he shrugs off his teammate’s arm without a look his way.
I shake my head subtly, the gravity in my voice matching the look in my eyes. “Honestly? I’m not sure why I’m here anymore.” More than a small part of me wishes I wasn’t. I’ve been his verbal punching bag one too many times since I came here, and I’m done.
It’s one thing when it’s just the two of us, but now he’s doing it in front of his teammates and all that does is undermine my professionalism. If I stand by and take it, I look like I have no backbone, and they’d wonder how that would translate to me fighting in contract negotiations for them.
On the other hand, when I do engage him and stand up for myself, it just devolves into an insult-fest that looks unprofessional and immature.
I feel like I’m in a no-win situation, especially when I see he’s not going to change.
Before I showed up here, I thought I could fix whatever was going on with him and win his trust in doing so, but now . . . now, I don’t think anything I do will help him.
Is this where I call my dad and tell him to pick someone else for me to recruit? That I refuse to put up with Hunter and his constant picking of fights to prevent us from having any real conversation? Or do I stick it out to prove to my dad that I’m tough and can handle even the most difficult of clients? But this isn’t about my father’s lack of faith in me . . . because I know he believes in me. KSM needs a Hunter Maddox in its client list.
I feel like I’m at a loss either way, but my dignity is stronger than my pride, and I’m done.
I look at Hunter one last time, and his expression falls as I stare at him a second longer before skirting around him and walking out of the club.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HUNTER
“WHAT?” I SNAP AT THE guys when they stare at me after she walks out.
“What the fuck, Cap?” Finch asks and the look on his face—disgust and disappointment from a man I’m supposed to lead—hits me harder than his words.
I don’t wait for them to say anything more or rebuke me or what-the-fuck-ever it is they want to malign me with and head to the bar.
It’s much easier to drink to cope than to stand here and replay everything that happened at my parents’ house—the things I know will never change—and the fight I got into at the first bar I stopped by on my way here.
When will this pain and guilt and need to destroy everything go away?
When will the things I do ever be good enough to outrun the clusterfuck of emotions that have been running rampant over the past few months?
It’s simpler to down the first shot of gin. To focus on the burn instead of the argument I had with my mom and the disinterest and then criticism from my dad. From the words I wanted to shout at them—that I’m still alive and still their son, and isn’t that enough?
But I know why they are how they are.
I know why our lives have all changed.
I know that I’m the one who set forward the events that caused all of this.
The second shot I swallow in one gulp burns just as bright as the first.
Thoughts of Dekker fill my head. I can’t get them out. Not her before. Especially not her now.
Her presence is torture. It’s showing me something I thought I wanted. Something I forced myself to walk away from because I knew I didn’t deserve her.
And just when everything is turning to shit, she’s back again. A sinner and a saint, and fuck if I know which one of those parts of her I’d love to drown in.
You’re a piece of shit, Hunter.
I think of the words I spewed at her.
Grade-A piece of shit.
Not like that’s anything you didn’t already know, but now you can’t deny it.
The accusations I made just so she wouldn’t look too closely or see the truths about me.
Hockey player. Royal fuck-up. Commitment-phobe. The reason Jonah’s dying.
I scrub a hand through my hair and down the third shot in as many minutes, landing the glass back on the bar top with a slap for emphasis.
Fucking Dekker.
I shake my head but she’s still there, still owning my thoughts, still making me want her.
But she’s here.
And I think she’s recruiting someone.
But who?
Me? She’s ballsy enough to make that kind of move without a blink of an eye.
Maybe the rumors are true that Sanderson is fucking people over. It’s not like he’s doing me any favors right now.
Would I move over to KSM? Would I let Dekker represent me? Her track record’s phenomenal . . . so why is it people are jumping ship to Sanderson? What exactly is he promising these new clients that us old ones aren’t seeing?
The question is, if she represents me, how is it going to work when I sleep with her? Because I am going to sleep with her again.
That was a forgone conclusion the minute I saw her standing in Tank’s last week.
And with her by-the-book attitude, I’m going to enjoy every damn minute of bending her to my will.
I chuckle to myself and look around, catching the eye of a blonde at the end of the bar. Tall, nice rack, good smile, come fuck me eyes.
She’d do for the night.
But Dekker would be so much better. We may be oil and water, but between the sheets, hell, we’re a goddamn masterpiece.
I rest my hips against the bar and watch the sax player do his thing—fingers pressing on keys, sunglasses shading his eyes, body moving to the rhythm he’s creating—and let myself fall under the haze of the shot I’ve just downed.
I’m still watching him while the blonde studies me, and all I can think about is a different woman: Dekker Kincade.
The fourth shot is much smoother, simply because I no longer taste it. I’m distracted though. Preoccupied.
You better stop thinking about her, Maddox.
The question is, do I really want to?
Maybe she’s the distraction I need right now.
Perhaps she’s the something I can get lost in—the chase and the challenge and then the reward—that will get me out of my own head.
But I know more than most, a little bit of Dekker was never enough. Nights of wanting and needing and pretending, are my proof of that.
But why would she want you after the bullshit you put her through tonight? The crappy comments and accusations?
Surprise, surprise. You fucked up again, Maddox.
I pull bills out of my wallet and set them under an empty shot glass. Time to go. To stop thinking. To sleep this off even though my thoughts have already sobered me enough.
Shit. What a waste of good alcohol.
“Hey there.” The smooth voice belongs to the blonde from the corner of the bar and as much as I need to get lost in something for a while, she’s not her.
“Have a good night.” I take a step away but her hands grab one of mine and pull it toward her as she tries to lace her fingers with mine.
Interest doesn’t even flutter to life.
“Don’t be a party pooper.” She pouts and then paints a siren’s smile on those glossed lips of hers. “I saw you looking. I know you’re interested.”