Rough and Ready (More Than A Cowboy Book 2) Page 6

  Cam.

  Fuck. They were all against me. Whatever tension I’d worked out of my body by Reed’s diligent thumb or my crying jag was gone. I didn’t want to talk to them. I didn’t want to think about Cam getting out of jail or the way my parents enabled him. Fortunately, I wouldn’t be in town—or the country even—on his release day. I just needed to get away from them, from whatever Reed had stirred up.

  It wasn’t fair to lump him in with my family. There was no comparison whatsoever. While my parents and brother brought up old emotions and ripped off scabs on barely healed mental scars, Reed was coming at me from a different direction, which was just as overwhelming. Perhaps even more so because I didn’t understand it. I knew my parents. I knew Cam. I knew their strategy, and I had a plan in place to defend myself from their constant attacks. I had defenses, no matter how weak they were.

  But Reed? I had a feeling he was going to be hard to fight.

  There was an easy solution to get away from my family, at least a temporary one. To give me some space to think about Reed. I pulled up my reservation on the airline’s app and changed it.

  8

  REED

  I didn’t see Harper leave for work as I’d hoped. I’d barely slept, thinking about her. I’d had to take my dick in hand not once but twice to ease the ache for her. Remembering how she looked when she came finished me off in record time.

  When Gray and I came back from our morning three-mile run, I noticed her car was gone from the parking lot. Yeah, I was taking note of her car like I was pussy whipped. Six-thirty was early to go to the office, but this was the last week of the semester—she’d shared that over pizza the other night—and her schedule was crazy busy.

  Watching her walk in those sky-high heels she seemed to wear would have made my half hour of jump roping much more enjoyable. Instead, I’d thought about the feel of her toned thighs beneath my palms, the silk of her panties, the softness of her folds and swollen clit through that wet fabric. The way her eyes went from spitting fire to blurry passion. And the way she came for me from just my thumb, fuck, she was incredibly responsive. It had been the second day in a row I’d had a hard-on while jumping rope.

  A woman’s mind was something I never tried to figure out, but Harper’s? Hell, she was complex. And she had some serious problems. Problems I wished I could solve for her, so I never had to see her cry again.

  That had gutted me, and I’d had no idea how to make her feel better. One minute she was on her knees ready to suck my dick, the next she was coming in my arms then had tears streaming down her face.

  I’d never had a woman sob in my lap before. For a few seconds, I’d been stunned. Confused, even. But she hadn’t been crying because I’d hurt her or touched her in a way she didn’t like. No, she’d cried because I gave her a safe place to do it. I’d pushed her just far enough to let go of the shit that she’d had pent up, to give her the release she’d really wanted. It seemed she just needed to cry, so I’d let her. She’d felt good in my arms, so soft and warm. I’d breathed in her scent. Strawberries. Fucking strawberries made me lose my mind.

  She’d screwed with more than just my usual warm up routine because when I moved on to spar in the ring, the first round hadn’t gone well. I had zero focus, and my opponent took advantage of that. My left knee was reaped and swelling because I’d let him take me to the mat. After a verbal beat down by Gray, I got my head in the game and put the sound of Harper coming out of my mind until I got to my shower, stroked my dick and came hard from the memory of her breathy moan, the way the scent of her pussy had lingered on my thumb.

  I gave her two days to avoid me. Gave her the room to process her emotions because she went through a fuck ton of them in just a few minutes. I wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed or mad. Sad or horny or all of the above.

  If she hated my guts, that was fine. At least she wasn’t fucking Larry the Loser in a stairwell.

  But two days had passed, and I hadn’t seen her. Nothing. I had to know she was okay. After knocking on her door and getting no response, I went to see Emory. She’d given me a funny look when I’d asked her for Harper’s cell number but said nothing as she put it in my phone.

  Back in my chair, I tried not to think of how right she’d felt in my lap. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but I wanted to talk with her. And more. I shouldn’t. She was too good for me, too damn perfect, even with whatever shit she was dealing with. I couldn’t give her anything. I had some money—I saved most of my portion of my winnings and was starting to get endorsements. Even if I did bring in the heavy purses and made bucket loads of cash, I’d still never fit into her country club lifestyle, the stuffy faculty meet-and-greets. I’d never be smart enough for her. I wasn’t enough for her.

  But that didn’t stop my thumbs from moving awkwardly over the tiny keyboard on my phone. I’d never sent a text to a woman before. I’d never had to. More importantly, I’d never wanted to. I sighed, knowing it was a dumb move, but hit send anyway.

  Me: I want you on my lap again.

  I did. That was the fucking truth. I wasn’t going to say romantic shit to her about flowers and rainbows, especially in a text. That wasn’t me. But I also wasn’t going to tell her what I wanted to do to her. With her. Watching her come had stirred up all kinds of killer fantasies, and they all involved her in my bed.

  After two hours of watching crappy TV and icing my knee, I gave up on getting a response and went to bed. Had I fucked things up by pushing her the other day? Had I scared her away with my damn text? I might have sounded like a fucking middle schooler, but those were the thoughts that kept me tossing and turning all night. Again.

  When the alarm went off on my phone at the usual five-thirty, I wiped the sleepy grit from my eyes and saw she’d responded. Two hours earlier when I had the sound programmed off. What the hell was she doing up that late?

  Harper: Didn’t I embarrass myself enough the first time?

  I ran my hand over my face, felt the beard that was starting.

  Me: That wasn’t what I remember about it. Go out with me.

  I hit send and then realized what I’d done. I wasn’t fully awake. Why the hell was I texting before the sun came up? To a woman? I just asked Harper out. On a date. I didn’t do dates, I remembered, dropping my cell on my unmade bed and throwing on my workout clothes. I slipped sweats and a hoodie over top and grabbed my running shoes.

  I waited for the elevator. Yeah, it was a lazy ass move instead of taking the stairs, but I was stalling my run and giving myself time to wait for her to respond back. My phone dinged as I stepped on, pressed the button for the ground floor. I glanced down at the screen.

  Harper: Can’t.

  I stopped halfway out the elevator, and the doors bumped my shoulders, prodding me to move. Gray was waiting in the lobby, tying his running shoes. He was dressed for the bitter cold in sweatpants, an insulated jacket and a skull cap on his head.

  Me: Can’t or won’t?

  Harper: Can’t. I’m in London.

  I frowned. “Why the fuck is Harper in London?” I asked Gray, holding my phone out.

  He looked up and raised an eyebrow as he stood. We didn’t usually talk before we finished the first mile of our run.

  “Work, I think,” he replied.

  That was why she hadn’t responded the night before. England was what, seven hours ahead? She’d been asleep. I ran my thumbs over my screen.

  Me: You running from me?

  She hadn’t mentioned a work trip, but then again, she hadn’t mentioned much of anything about herself. I knew what she did for a living and knew she had the endurance of an ultra-marathoner. I was somewhat aware of a shitty family and her misplaced source of comfort in sex with faceless men. That wasn’t much, and I had a feeling it all tied in together somehow. And the damn elevator. The woman was fucking complicated. I didn’t do complicated, didn’t even know how. But I did know I needed to figure her out. I needed to get her to feel safe with me, with not just her perso
nal safety, but to let her guard down and give herself over to someone completely. To me completely.

  Yeah, I was a hypocrite. I was a fighter, and it was my job to keep my guard up. I didn’t let anyone in whether it was in the ring or not. I’d had a shitty childhood with really, really shitty parents. I had enough baggage of my own that I refused to share with anyone. Gray may have gotten big bits and pieces out of me over the years, but he didn’t know it all. Didn’t know how truly bad it had been. But Harper, she’d one-two punched me the first time I laid eyes on her, and I was still sucking wind. I just worried I always would.

  Harper: I’m running from everything.

  Shit.

  Gray tucked his hat lower on his head and went outside, saw his breath form in a white cloud beneath the entry lights. I couldn’t text Harper back. I wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl and didn’t have the dexterity in my thumbs. Besides, Gray was waiting, and what was going on was too big for a fucking text. I slipped my cell into the band on my biceps, tugged on my running shoes and joined him outside, breathing in the biting air. Harper was something I was going to figure out. Later.

  9

  REED

  “Who the fuck is that?” I asked, pointing out the window of the gym.

  A car was in the lot, two men sitting in it. A black Cadillac, but it wasn’t a limo. The wheels were pimped out, and it didn’t have livery tags. They weren’t coming to the gym, and they didn’t look the type to buy flowers for their girlfriends from the florist next door.

  Gray came over, crossed his arms over his chest. I grabbed my towel from a bench, wiped my sweaty face. My hands were taped, and my feet were bare. We were taking a break between rounds of sparring. Thor had come in directly from work, and we were waiting for him to get changed. I knew I was big, but Thor made me look like a gangly teenager. He could have played pro football, if he liked the sport. He took the BJJ class and sparred but skipped the more brutal aspects of MMA. His wife had enough of a leash on him to keep him from getting hurt.

  “They’re not here for memberships,” Gray said.

  I huffed out a laugh. From what I could see of them, they lifted more doughnuts and beers than weights.

  “Mid-twenties, expensive shades,” I observed. The sun was just about to set, and while bitterly cold out, the sun was bright. “Expensive car.”

  “Punk attitudes.”

  I agreed with Gray’s assessment. There was something obvious and cocky about punks. They thought their shit didn’t stink. In the ring, they thought they could take anyone down and talked enough smack for people to believe it. But their bad-ass attitude only lasted about thirty seconds when they tapped out then complained about an unfair fight. Whatever.

  We both knew those assholes. They came into the gym on occasion, trying to prove they were better than Gray, me, all of his fighters. Like the doctor’s kid from the other day. Gray gladly—and quickly—proved them wrong. They didn’t linger. It wasn’t that kind of gym.

  “They could be from my past.”

  I stated it plainly, without emotion. I didn’t bring it up, but it was a strong possibility. These guys were in the wrong part of town. Sometimes, I felt I was, too. My past was a fucking cesspool. I’d gotten out of the shittiest neighborhood in Denver and never looked back. I’d tried, put too much effort in doing so, but it seemed no matter how hard I tried to leave it all behind, sometimes it came to you. Like the two sitting in the Caddy looking across the parking lot. Had my past caught up to me? No one in any of the rundown houses on my block had the cash for a pimped-out ride like that back in the day. Times had changed. Drugs and other shit had moved in. I’d gained some notoriety with my fighting but the good kind. No drugs, no booze, no wild partying. I fought clean, and I lived clean, and I wouldn’t waste any hard-earned cash on a POS status car. I was fine with my POS pickup truck.

  “You’re not going back to that shit, so why would they be here now?” he asked.

  My parents were dead. I’d cut all ties from my old neighborhood when I went to juvie, then I’d gone right into the army. I hadn’t even gone back when I’d been discharged, just came directly to be Gray’s fighter. I hadn’t figured it out at the time, but juvie had been the best thing for me. Perhaps the judge had known that, that I’d get a second chance if I was pulled out of my old life and away from the people who’d been dragging me down. I’d have either sunk into drugs like my mother or doing fifteen for armed robbery like my dad before he’d died. Maybe I’d be dead now, too. Fuck, no maybe about it.

  Here, I was away from the violence, the drugs, the drinking, the crime. The death. Hell, these days I rarely even ate carbs. I was like a Boy Scout in comparison to my teenage years.

  “I have no fucking clue. I’ll go and find out.”

  I tossed the used towel in a laundry basket next to the bench.

  Gray’s hand on my arm stopped me. “Let them be. Just keep an eye out, and we’ll see what they do, who they’re here for. I’ll tell the others to watch as well.”

  The others were his regulars, guys he could count on to help out in the gym, who had his back. Who knew what to watch for when there was trouble.

  “Why are they sitting there?” I wiped my face with my hand. “If they’re not here for me, you think those are Dominguez’s men?”

  Gray shrugged. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I don’t like this,” he added after a minute. The men hadn’t moved from the spot. They saw us but didn’t give a shit. If they were here to intimidate an opponent, to make me shake with fear over the fight with Sammy, it wasn’t working. Those two goons? I could take on both of them with one hand tied behind my back. I assumed Dominguez would know it, too. Maybe that was why they stayed outside.

  “Intimidation, gambling, even talking shit is all part of the game. Coming to the gym like this… it’s new, even for me,” Gray added.

  Yeah, I didn’t like it either, but I could defend myself, in the ring and on the street. I doubted they were here waiting to jump me in the lot. If I was hurt, there was no fight. No purse. Injuring me did them no good.

  “We watch the women,” he said, turning away. I knew he was going to his office to call Emory. If she was out, he’d meet her in the lot, walk her inside when she got back. He’d said “women,” meaning he wanted Harper watched, too.

  For once, I was relieved she was in another country. Safe from danger that could be my fault.

  10

  HARPER

  Jet lag was killing me. It did every time, and I had yet to find a way to make it better. I barely made it through the last lectures of the term and the staff meetings, and that was before I left. Now in the UK, I turned down the polite offers of dinner to instead return to my hotel room to sleep. I came to England about three times a year and stayed at the same quaint place, met with the same professors in the art history department. It was familiar. The faces were familiar, and I considered many to be friends. Lately, London was a safe haven. I was an ocean away from Cam, from my life. I could take a break from it, compartmentalize it all in my head and let it go, knowing it was so far away.

  I was safe in England. I felt safe, like I was a different person. I’d been coaxed and swayed several times toward taking a permanent teaching position at the university here, but I’d always turned them down. But now with Cam getting out of jail, with him pressuring me, perhaps it was time to go where he couldn’t get me. Since it would be a parole violation, he wouldn’t follow.

  I’d be safe.

  My mind spun, circling around and around. It was the middle of the night, and I was wide awake. The street lights filtered in through the break in the curtains of my hotel room, street sounds muffled by the thick windows. I was comfortable in the dark, cozy in the room with the slanted ceiling and exposed beams.

  Yet I’d never felt more alone. I picked up my cell from the bedside table, checked the clock. Two-thirty. I’d come directly back from the last meeting, taken a shower and slept a solid eight hours. There was no chance I was going
back to sleep. I found a text I’d missed earlier from Giles. Giles Armstrong-Smythe, the lecturer who specialized in Norman architecture. It was a few centuries before my area of expertise, but we were in the same department.

  I saw his face in my mind, the dark hair, the aristocratic nose. Heard his clipped English accent. He was handsome and a few years older than me. He’d been married once, now divorced. I was the foreigner, the woman he could fuck and forget every time I flew home. I should have been bothered by the casualness of it all, but I liked it that way. He probably didn’t realize just how much. It had only happened twice and both times in the musty storage closet next to his office in the Arts building. Only the required clothing had been removed to get the job done. Nothing more. I hadn’t come either time, but I’d made the connection, soothed the loneliness I’d felt if only for a little bit. Eased the burden of remembering what had happened to me and the lack of support from my family.

  Of course, he knew I was back for the meetings and presentations and wanted more no-strings-attached action. Why wouldn’t he? I offered him no-strings fucking. I wasn’t clingy, I wasn’t anything really to him. He wasn’t anything to me.

  The vision of him transformed to Reed. His dark hair. His ice blue eyes. The way his lip kicked up at the corner when amused. The heated anger at seeing me with Larry. His voice when he’d coaxed me to come from just the motion of his thumb. He’d texted me while I was in a morning meeting. I got hot all over just thinking about the words.

  Reed: I want you on my lap again.