“You’re not going to do that here, surely,” Coach Merritt blubbers out, convinced he’s seconds away from witnessing Saint lift Demi onto the slushie counter at the back of the gym, then go to town on her pussy.
When Saint ignores Coach Merritt’s panicked tone, he shifts on his feet to face me. “Ox…”
My eyes snap to his so fast, my head grows woozier than the anger that fused my brain while considering the possibility of Saint going through with his pledge.
I didn’t think this through. That isn’t uncommon for me. I did the same thing when an MC at an underground fight asked me my name. I am the first to admit I’m not overly good at thinking on the spot, so I went for something easy. Until today, no one has ever shortened my name to Ox. Well, not in this world anyway.
Although I want to ask Coach Merritt exactly how much he knows and for how fucking long he’s known it, I don’t have the time nor the patience to wade through that shitstorm right now. My brother is moments away from calling me out as a liar, and it’s taking everything I have not to pummel his face in for outing me so cruelly.
It’s not every day you encourage your big brother to hit on the girl you’ve been crushing on since primary school, and I had to take it one step further by forcing him to bring out his signature move.
He isn’t going to simply ask Demi on a date. He’s about to ignite a spark between them so furious, no amount of liquid will dose the flame, not even the blood gushing from my bleeding heart. He’s about to make Demi Petretti his, and the bro-code states there isn’t a single-fucking-thing I can do about it.
2
Demi
“Oh, sweet Jesus, here he comes.”
Sloane, my best friend since middle school, fluffs out her curly locks like it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to waltz across the room, weave his fingers through a random stranger’s hair, tilt her back, then kiss the living hell out of her.
Yes, it sounds romantic, but do you have any idea how many lawsuits Saint could face if his flirt radar was off by a measly inch? Unlike Sloane, I’m not studying law, but I imagine the penalty would be hefty—for the average man. I can’t say the same for the men who ‘work’ in my uncle’s industry. They don’t live in the same world as you and me, and they most certainly don’t follow the same set of rules.
When Saint, proverbial playboy and middle sibling of the Walsh brethren, reaches the halfway point, Sloane rams her elbow into my ribs. “Wet your lips. You don’t want the zap to fall through the cracks. If there’s no spark, he’ll retreat as quickly as he arrived.”
“What?” I crank my neck to hers so fast, I make a mental note to book an emergency appointment with a chiropractor. “Why do I need to wet my lips?”
Sloane peers at me like I’m insane. “Saint he-can-fuck-me-any-day-of-the-week Walsh is heading in this direction. We’re the only females on this side of the gym, so either you or I are about to be kissed.”
She tries to hold back the disdain her last sentence hit her throat with. Her efforts are borderline. The last time she looked at me as she is now was when I got the over-hyped Barbie convertible one whole week before her. She didn’t care her birthday was seven days after mine. She wanted us to get it at the same time.
Sloane’s narrowed eyes slant even more when my tongue instinctively delves out to moisten my lips a couple of seconds later. I’m not buttering them up so Saint can authenticate the durability of the spark he’s endeavoring to ignite between us. It’s because my mouth went bone-dry from catching a steely blue stare across the room.
Maddox is watching his older brother’s stalk of the sweat-scented space. Unlike the numerous other gym-goers stalking Saint’s prowl with the hope of witnessing his signature move be slapped back to the nineties with the crack of a palm, he looks more frustrated than hopeful.
It isn’t an expression he often wears, not that I watch him or anything. He’s in the general area I’m perusing, so I can’t be blamed when my eyes linger on the tight bumps in his abs or the beads of sweat rolling throughout his delicious, tattooed guns. He’s flaunting his assets for the world to see, and unlike his brother’s nickname, I am no saint.
The Walshs have been known around this part of the state for almost as long as the Petrettis. They live in the town bordering mine, and although they have standard, everyday jobs, their family name is well-respected amongst the locals.
I can’t say the same about mine.
If you believe the many reports family services have on my family, my uncle stood up to the plate to raise me when my father passed away six years ago. He paid for my education, ensured I had a roof over my head, and he even spoke with the Dean of a local college about granting me a scholarship.
Just like Saint’s signature move, everything appears swell on paper. It’s only once you read between the lines do you see what’s truly happening.
My uncle is an abusive tyrant of a man. He pushed my father to the brink so many times, it was inevitable one day his tiptoe across the rocky cliff he forever balanced on would end badly. No one could help him, not even me, his only child.
Most children have a mother to fall back on when their father dies. I wasn’t granted the same mercy. With her ‘owner’ dead, and her debt to my uncle unpaid, my uncle forced my mother back into the ‘trade.’ I haven’t seen her in years. In all honesty, I don’t even know if she’s still alive.
Women aren’t valued in my uncle’s industry. More times than not, we’re seen as a burden. If I don’t prove to my uncle time and time again that I’m worth my weight in gold, I’ll be forced into the trade like my mother. Since that scares me more than I’ll ever let my uncle know, I have no choice but to play his games.
My focus shifts back to the present when the undeniable aroma of a man on the hunt streams into my nostrils. Saint has made it across the room unscathed, and unlike his younger brother’s eyes that are locked on me, his baby blues are bouncing between my best friend and me.
It’s wrong to admit a sigh parts my lips when Saint weaves his fingers through Sloane’s hair before he dips her back and attaches their lips, so I’ll keep my mouth shut. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want to be kissed by Saint, but things would have been easier if he’d gone against the grain. Alas, life isn’t easy for any of us.
With the crowd feeding off the electricity surging between Sloane and Saint, I almost slip out the back entrance unnoticed. Almost.
“Demi, wait up.”
I recognize the voice of the man chasing me down. I heard it many times throughout my childhood and ignored how it made the fine hairs on my body bristle anytime it floated over my skin. I’ve even taken it in when it’s on the brink of exhaustion from doing an activity someone as handsome as him shouldn’t be doing.
Maddox Walsh is a beautiful canvas on the verge of being wrecked if he doesn’t stop parading himself in front of numerous pairs of fists every Thursday night. From the intel my uncle has shared, Maddox is undefeated in the underground fight circuit he’s been contending in the past seven months, but shouldn’t the prospect that there’s always someone better than you around the corner concern him?