“She’s a bitch.”
“She’s loud,” I counter. “She’s excited. But she’s not mean.”
Jenna only shrugs and continues walking. “We’re allowed to have differing opinions. That’s the beauty of being best friends, huh? We don’t have to agree to still love each other.”
Um…” Memories of watching Evie fight in her gym batter at my brain. Her long, pretty hair. Her fast smile. And her utter love and devotion for the man she’s going to marry soon. “You’re not going to do anything to her dress, are you? You’re going to deliver what she paid for?”
“Of course.”
She flashes a wide grin, and releases my arm when Jackson steps into the room in his perfectly tailored suit. He wears a purple pocket square that makes me look down at my dress again.
As Jenna loops her arm in his and brings him across the room, my eyes narrow at the fabric of his tie. “Is that…” I reach forward, and finger the material. Then I look to Jenna. “Is that made from the cut-offs of my dress?”
“Uh huh! The color is beautiful, isn’t it? You guys look perfect together. Here.” She pushes her brother toward me and snatches out her phone. Without waiting for me to prepare – or, ya know, object – she starts snapping pictures, and grins when a pair of lips press to my temple. “Perfect. It’s almost time to open up the event. Are you guys ready to make some money?”
“Mm.” I step away from Jackson and make myself busy with the files in my hands. “I have to do one last run-through with the event planner. Then I have to get rid of these,” I lift the files away from my chest. “I’ll see you guys at dinner.”
“Make sure you smile,” Jenna waves me off and steps to her brother with a mischievous grin. “We make more money when we smile.”
“Yeah.” Rolling my eyes, I snatch my phone from my clutch and walk out of the room in search of the planner.
I already have replies from the texts I sent Bryan in the bathroom.
Bryan: Fuck me!
Bryan: No, seriously, fuck me. Please.
Bryan: You look stunning. Crudeness aside, since I had to get that out of my system. Jesus, Maddi. Hand to my heart, I’ve never seen someone more beautiful in my life.
Bryan: Come back here tonight. I’m begging you.
Bryan: Since we’re sending bathroom selfies.
The final message that pops through is a nude. Completely fucking nude, as he stands in his bathroom with a hard dick, a flexed bicep, and an arrogant smirk.
He’s so obnoxious it should be infuriating. But mostly it’s… endearing.
I walk the halls of this fancy hotel, and I think into my future. Just like I did on Monday when I thought of a future with Jackson, I do the same now, but I think of Bry. I think of how annoying he is, how loud, how arrogant and bossy.
I think of what I’ve been witness to as Kit and Bobby Kincaid interact. Bobby is arrogant too, he’s loud, he’s big. And Kit had to hit him a dozen times over dinner on Sunday night to shut him up.
But they smiled. They smiled so much that my heart wept, and my face ached from my own smile. When he pulled her into his lap – at the table! – no one was surprised. There was not one single raised eyebrow but mine. Not one single sideways smirk, or word of teasing.
Bobby Kincaid pulled his wife into his lap while the rest of us ate dinner, he tipped her back, and he kissed the shit out of her with so much passion that I was almost tempted to excuse myself from the table. Kit’s long hair dangled in Nelly’s lap while her son and daughter-in-law made out. But she only smiled and kept eating.
And when Bryan noticed my shock, he only slid his hand into my lap and winked.
That’s it.
Goddammit, if I were to see where this thing with Bryan goes, I have no doubt I’ll want to murder him with a frying pan when he obsessively goes out of his way to annoy me. But… just maybe… twenty years into this relationship, maybe he’ll still be pulling me into his lap and making out like we’re still twenty-something. And maybe when he does that, everyone that surrounds us will be so used to such behavior that not a single brow will be lifted.
That sounds like a really fun twenty years.
I hit reply, and try my best not to look at the picture he sent.
I’ll text you when I’m leaving. Open the gates for me?
Bryan: Of course. You look beautiful, Turdsky. Tell Jackson I’m glad his face still hurts, and whoever sewed that tie for him can suck my dick. I might be a possessive man, Maddi, but I’m not stupid. Having that picture turn up in my newsfeed just a minute ago was clearly a power move. But I trust you. When we know, we know. See you when you get home, Princess. I’m gonna tear that dress off your body.
Bryan
A Little Ketchup on the Side
“Sprawl!” I stand on the outside of the octagon two weeks out from Smalls’ wedding, and watch Iowa and Mac whale on each other.
Mac has gained weight the past two years. As soon as my cousin took control of his diet, she made it so he packed on enough weight to make up for the fact he’s always on the lower end of his division. He’s always been skinnier than us, always working harder to gain and retain weight. And though he and Iowa are in the same division, there used to be a clear weight difference.
Now… not so much.
Sweat flies through the air as Iowa tries for the takedown, but, just as I ordered, Mac sprawls and drops his weight onto Iowa’s back. They grapple for submission, they slam fists against each other’s bodies, and elicit grunts of pain as they fight to be the guy on top.
Mac’s hair hangs longer than Iowa’s. It drips with sweat, dangles to his nose, and draws my eyes down to his shining mouthguard.
Iowa bridges beneath Mac’s weight, slams him back to the canvas with a fast swing, then he jumps on top and grabs Mac’s flailing arms. Mac is a brawler. Iowa used to be a brawler, but more than a year of working with me and my Uncle Aiden has left the guy a technically proficient roller. He fights with his brain now, rather than brute strength.
“Escape, Mac!” I rattle the cage, and watch as Iowa works on securing Mac’s arm. “Slip out of there, Mac! Move!”
“I’m tryin’!”
He tries to bridge. He lifts his hips, and moves Iowa up a couple inches, but he struggles. His breath races fast, and the scar that lines his torso stands out in stark contrast as it shimmers with sweat.
“Ten seconds, Mac! Knock him the fuck out, or go home!”
He moves harder. Faster. Like a dog caught in a trap, he spasms and works on getting free, but the clock ticks down while Iowa searches for the lock.
Five. Four. Three.
“Mac!”
The buzzer sounds and sends the fighters separating until they roll away and drop to their backs.
“Fuck,” Mac pants. “Motherfuck!”
“He almost had the lock. What were you thinking?” I step around the cage and climb up the stairs. Opening the door, I walk between the fighters and look down between them. “At Stacked Deck, you’d both be disqualified for that shit. No tap, no knockout, you both get sent home. You wanna give that cash to someone else?”
“No.” They answer as one. They’re both desperate for the payday.