I start pacing for a moment, dragging my hand through my hair all the way down to the back of my neck. Then I drop my arm with a sigh because I’m at a loss for words here. “Brooke, I can’t fight and keep an eye out for you.”
“Remy, I had it covered,” she cries.
“My f**king ass, you had it covered!”
She jerks in surprise, and my fingers curl into fists as the need to drive my hands into that dark hair and crush her against me starts to slowly and painfully consume me. Suddenly, her eyes flash in fury. “Why is everyone looking at me like it’s my fault? You’re supposed to be fighting Scorpion!”
A dark scowl settles on my face. “And you’re supposed to be in your goddamned seat on the front f**king row to my left!”
“What difference does it make? You’ve been fighting for years without having me in the audience! What does it even matter where I’m at?” She glares at me and dares me to tell her all the shit I feel for her, and the lack of words in me only frustrates the hell out of me. “I’m not even a fling, Remington! I’m your employee. And in less than two months, I won’t even be that, I’ll be nothing to you. Nothing.”
God, is that what she thinks?
Does she think I haven’t taken her because . . . what? She’s a toy to me? I’m f**ked-up and imperfect, but I’m human and I want things. And what I. Want. Is. Her.
I want her too much to f**k it up.
I exhale through my nose and ask, “Who was that girl you were chasing?”
She drops her voice to a whisper. “My sister.”
A silence stretches between us as I register that her sister apparently is friends with Scorpion’s crew. “What’s your sister doing with Scorpion’s goonie?”
“Maybe she’s wondering the same about me,” she says with a bitter laugh.
I laugh right along with her, my laugh a thousand times more bitter than hers. “Don’t mistake me for a f**kup like him. I may be f**ked-up but that guy eats virgins and spits them out like vomit.”
Brooke starts pacing, her face scrunched up in worry for a moment, then she closes her eyes sadly. “Oh, god. She looked awful. Awful,” she whispers.
That’s it.
That’s f**king it.
Brooke won’t be suffering like this over anyone.
Not in front of me.
I’m not a person who can stand and talk about stuff when there’s something to be done.
Quietly, I open the door, but before I leave, I look at her pretty face, all its color lost, and I have to say something. I’m no good at this, but I make an effort and gruffly tell her, “You’re not nothing. To me.”
Shutting the door behind me, I head straight for the elevator.
It’s not difficult to find a man who tattoos a f**king insect on his face.
Plus the fighters always stay in one of the hotels close to the Underground location.
Feeling bloodthirsty, I curl my hands into fists as I cross the lobby and head out into the night. A huge crowd litters the hotel driveway.
“Riptide!” they scream.
Camera flashes explode all over the place.
“Ohmigod!” A woman starts crying while members of the hotel staff struggle to keep the crowd at bay.
I’ve successfully shoved through one side of the crowd while a good dozen hands rub my ass and my chest muscles when I hear, “That’s her. Her fault he was disqualified tonight!”
Turning in confusion, I see something white flying in the air and smashing straight on Brooke.
Another white ball follows the first.
Simmering with rage, I clamp my jaw and stomp my way back to her as the f**king crazy people keep throwing shit at her.
Brooke has ducked and run to one of the parking valets, who sees me come up and says something to her.
Another egg crashes into her shoulder as I reach her, and I swear I feel like the f**king Hulk. I’m so damn mad, I feel f**king green!
“Whore!” they shout. “Bitch!”
Using my back as a shield, I catch an egg on my trapezius as I lift her up in my arms and swing around to face these f**king lunatics.
“It’s because of this woman I’m still fighting!” I shout at them, feeling angry, feeling betrayed by them.
A sudden silence falls across the crowd, and I’m not done yet—motherfuckers!
“Next time I’m in the ring, I’m going to f**king win for her, and I want all of you who hurt her tonight to bring her a red rose as an apology and tell her it’s from me!” I demand.
After a second, they get it.
They f**king get it. . . .
And they start screaming and clapping as I take her back inside.
Breathing through my nose, I’m trying to calm down when Brooke starts laughing in my arms, her eyes shining in disbelief as she looks up at me.
I frown in confusion and press the elevator button a dozen consecutive times.
“And they say Justin Bieber’s fans are crazy,” she gasps.
My voice is raspy and rough as I brush off some eggshells from her shoulder. “I apologize on their behalf. I disappointed them today.”
Her laughter fades, and she links her fingers at the back of my neck and stares up at me as I carry her into the elevator. A couple decided not to join us and remained outside the doors.
“You coming?” I snap as I cradle her against me.
They both step back and say, “No.”
So we ride upstairs alone, and Brooke presses the tip of her pretty little nose into my neck. “Thank you,” she breathes.
I tighten my hold. She feels so right and perfect in my arms, I never want to let her go. I don’t care if we smell like sulfur; I’ve been hungry to have my arms around her and her arms around me, and right now I can’t think of anything else that I’d rather be doing or anywhere else I’d rather be than here.
After sliding the key into the slot of my suite, I carry Brooke inside. “What the f**k is going on, Rem?” Pete demands as he and Riley charge over.
“Just get the hell out, guys.” I hold the door open for them with one arm and cradle Brooke to my chest with the other. They stare at Brooke as if she can solve some unnamed mystery for them, so I snap at them, “I do what I want, you hear me?”
That reminds them I’m here—glaring—and they turn their attention to me. “We hear you, Rem,” Riley answers as he follows Pete out to the hall.
“Then don’t f**king forget it.” I slam the door shut and bolt it so no dipshit can come here to interrupt my time with her, then I take us into the bath of the master bedroom. She tightens her hold when I pull open the shower door, and I’m so f**king happy that she wants to stay with me, I keep her in my arm as I turn on the shower.
The water falls, and I quickly kick off my shoes, take off hers, and then step into the shower stall with her in my arms.
“Let’s get this shit off you.” She slides down to her feet as I run my hands over her wet hair, the water falling on her face as I pull her dress over her head. I toss it aside and soap up my hands, then watch her face as I run them up her body.
She bites her lower lip as I touch her, spreading her arms up and sliding soap into her armpits, down her abdomen, between her legs, up her neck. My T-shirt is plastered wet to my chest, and I grab it in one hand and jerk it off me, quickly running the soap over me.
“I can’t believe your groupies called me a whore,” she says as she watches me.
Quickly, I lather my hair. “You’re going to survive.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yeah, you do.”
Then I lather Brooke’s hair, my fingers digging down to her scalp. “They hate me,” she tells me miserably. “I won’t be able to go to your fights now without fear of getting lynched.”
Taking the showerhead, I turn it so the water slides over Brooke’s head, and her eyes drift shut as the soap slides down her body.
Holy god. Holy god.
Her ni**les poke into her bra, soft peach and puckered. And the cotton of her white panties clings to her pu**y lips. Fucking bare as the rest of her. My eyes jerk up to hers before her eyelashes flutter open, and she looks at me. Her oval face, pink lips, dark, wet hair, those eyelashes glistening wet, and those gold eyes, looking at me like they do. Like there is nothing on this earth she would rather see but me. My throat feels thick as I brush a strand of damp hair behind her forehead, my heart beating as fast as it has ever beaten for anything in my life.
She’s so beautiful and so perfect, my lungs hurt. Lifting my arms, I frame her face as gently as I can in my palms and stare at her, then I use one finger to touch her mouth. She’s kept this mouth from me, and I want it back. I want it back because it’s mine. It’s f**king mine and she’s killing me right now, looking at me with those eyes, her body wet and shivering against me.
“That’s never going to happen,” I tell her gruffly, because I’d have to be dead first before anyone harmed her, fans or otherwise.
The sleek tendons of her throat work as she swallows. “You shouldn’t have . . . said that about me, Remy. They’re going to think you and I . . . that you and I . . .” She shakes her head, and looks at me, out of breath.
“That you’re mine?” I prod softly.
She blinks for a moment, then laughs.