Strong and Steady Read online

  This had Thor glancing at me. “No shit?” he repeated.

  “No shit,” I replied on a sigh. “I want to do this right. I… I like her. It’s not a matter of me telling her about my past because a quick search on her phone will tell her enough, but if she makes it to my bed—no, when she makes it to my bed—there will be nothing between us.”

  “I thought you had a no-sleepover rule.”

  Sex was sex, and that was it. There was no cuddling after, no sleeping over. That’s why I never had a woman to my apartment. No strings. Another reason taking Emory there yesterday had been a big deal. But when I'd come out of the shower and she was there, pretty as a picture waiting for me, it felt right. It felt… more.

  “That’s what I want from her.” I ran a hand over my head, my short hairs rasping against my palm. The front desk attendant waved to get my attention, held the phone up in the air and pointed at it. I stood, looked down at my friend. “Which means I’m fucked.”

  I went into my office that had a wall of glass facing out onto the mats and dropped into my desk chair to take the call. I hadn’t even gotten a taste of Emory, and I knew whatever could be between us was doomed. I shouldn’t have texted her, kept things going, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to let her go.

  “Green,” I barked.

  “Hello, Sonny.”

  That voice. That nickname. Not Grayson or Gray. Sonny. Fuck. My hand gripped the phone so hard, it probably cracked the plastic. A call from dear old dad only meant one thing. I was still totally fucked.

  “Heard you got a girlfriend.”

  10

  EMORY

  * * *

  I nudged the car door shut with my hip as I lugged two grocery bags and my purse from my parking spot, which, fortunately, I found on my block. It was all very tight parallel parking. It was almost eight, and the night was still hot. All I could think about was a shower, a simple dinner then a book. It had been a long day in the ER, punctuated by a stabbing, a family in a car accident and a guy with one too many personalities. I had two more days to go this week, so when the ambulance went by with the siren blaring, I was glad it was someone else’s turn to patch them up.

  When I could see my house, the little boy from the other day and an older man were sitting on my steps. He appeared to be in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, a full beard, wearing jeans and a Harley T-shirt. His outfit screamed biker, but I didn’t see one at the curb. In the heat, he somehow looked cool while I felt rumpled and wilted in my scrubs. My hair was long down my back in a sloppy tail, I had no makeup, and I was sweating. The scent of strong antibacterial soap clung to me. Not the best way to greet guests.

  When they saw me approach, they stood. “Take one of the bags from the lady, Jackson,” the man directed.

  “Hi, Miss Emory!” Jackson trilled, grabbing a cloth grocery bag from me with his little hands, wriggling it up and onto his shoulder, so it didn’t drag on the ground. In shorts and another T-shirt, this one white, I could see only one Band-Aid on his knee and none on his elbow. We walked side by side up to the steps.

  “This is my grandfather,” he said with a wave of his hand as way of introduction.

  The man offered an easy smile. “Please, let me take your other bag. You must’ve had a long day and don’t need to carry such heavy stuff.” His voice was deep and raspy, but his words thoughtful.

  I let the man take it from me as he was so intent. He didn’t seem like one to argue with.

  “Thank you. Just set them on the steps.” They complied and turned back to me.

  “We came by earlier, and your neighbor—” he pointed to Simon’s front door, “—said what time you would return, so we waited.”

  Since Simon shared my schedule with this man, they must have talked enough for him to feel comfortable. He wouldn’t have told just anybody my routine. Although, I was pretty predictable.

  “I am Quake Baker, Jackson’s grandfather. I wanted to thank you for helping him the other day.”

  Quake was quite the name, and I had to assume it was a nickname. A biker name?

  The boy stared up at me as if I walked on water, and I smiled. “It was no trouble at all. You’re not having fun unless you’ve got a few scrapes.”

  “The helmet was smart and generous,” he added. “Heard it was your son’s when he was small.”

  I looked from boy to grandfather. Mr. Baker was close to six feet, his posture straight. He seemed very polite with me, yet looking in his dark gaze, I saw shrewdness, as if while we were talking, he was assessing me. I didn’t think he was this thoughtful with everyone.

  “Yes. My son, Chris, is away at college and is much too big to wear it anymore. I thought Jackson might get enjoyment out of it.”

  “He left his at home and did some extra chores as punishment. Motorcycle, bicycle, a brain bucket’s a must. You’re a smart lady.”

  I sighed. “Smart? I’m not sure about that, but I’ve raised a boy, so I know what can happen. We’ve gone through our fair share of bumps and scrapes.”

  “No doubt at your work as well,” Mr. Baker added, looking down at the light blue scrubs I wore.

  “Yes, that’s true.” I wondered how much about me Simon had shared and how much he’d dug up on his own.

  “Won’t keep you as you must be beat, but I’d like to buy you a meal from our restaurant as a thank you.”

  “Restaurant?”

  “The Double-B Diner.”

  I quickly made the connection. The place had been around for as long as I could remember. Since it was on the other side of town, I’d never eaten there.

  “Have a meal, coffee, on the house.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Baker, but I can’t go like this, and I’d need to clean up and—”

  He held up his hand to stop me. “Call me Quake. Not tonight then, I understand. Tomorrow?”

  He was certainly insistent.

  “I work again tomorrow and Wednesday.”

  Jackson remained quiet as we spoke, watching us both earnestly.

  “Then I’ll get the food to you,” Mr. Baker… Quake, said with a nod. “I’ll have dinner packaged and brought here tomorrow night. Then no cooking after another long day. Don’t even have to go out when all you want to do is put your feet up.” He picked up one of the bags of groceries and started up the steps. “Jackson.” He pointed to the other bag, and the child grabbed it and followed. I had no choice but to follow as well.

  I doubted he would take no for an answer, so I agreed to his offer with a thank you.

  The crunching of glass had Quake stopping, lifting his foot. “What’s this?”

  Looking up at the front of my house, I saw that my outdoor lights were broken, and the glass scattered on the steps and concrete. I had a small light by the door that was connected to a timer, turning on and off with dusk and dawn, but I also had a motion sensor light off to one side. Simon had installed it after he moved in, so it lit up the space between both of our houses.

  “What on earth?” I said to no one in particular. Shit, what a mess! I wanted to swear out loud, but I was used to tempering those words around kids. “The lights are all broken.”

  Quake frowned, and Jackson watched both of us, unsure.

  I sighed, then remembered myself. “Here, sorry.”

  I unlocked the front door, taking the grocery bags from both of them, sticking them inside.

  “This happened before?” Quake asked, glancing down the street one way then the other, his look shrewd. While a car drove by, nothing seemed unusual. I didn't see any glass on Simon's stoop nor the house on the other side.

  “No,” I grumbled, tossing up my hands. “Just leave it. I’ll sweep it up, so no one gets cut. I’ll get new bulbs after work tomorrow.”

  Quake shook his head. “Nah. I’ll have this taken care of.” When I was about to object, he cut me off by holding up his hand. “My son, Frank, will deal with it while you’re working. He’ll be here at seven thirty tomorrow
night for you to test the lights, and he’ll bring your meal. All right?”

  Tilting my head, I eyed the man, trying to read him, which seemed impossible. I didn’t want to play poker with him, and I doubted many said no to him. “I have a feeling you’re going to get your way, aren’t you?”

  I glanced down at Jackson for confirmation, and he just grinned, a dimple creasing his cheek. “He always gets his way,” he whispered, but Quake heard and chuckled.

  “Yeah, make it easy on yourself and say yes. You took care of Jackson, so now we take care of you.”

  I wasn’t sure who the we was, but I was too tired to argue.

  11

  EMORY

  * * *

  By the time I’d showered, eaten and swept up the glass, it was nine. Throwing on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top in deference to the heat, I finally had time to check my phone. I stood at my kitchen counter and saw that I had another text from Gray. My heart rate sped up, and I felt giddy at the sight of his name. I was smiling in my quiet kitchen. It was a new feeling for me, this excitement about a guy, and I liked it. It was thrilling and definitely flattering. Gray was hot, a different league entirely than any other man I’d met, and he was interested in me. Me!

  Why, I had no idea, but I was going to see what happened, even though that concept was completely unfamiliar to me. I didn’t just see what happened about anything. I was a mother and a planner and… no. No! that was the old Emory. The normal Emory. Now, I just went with it. With fumbling fingers, I eagerly pulled the message up.

  Gray: Thor found hot sauce on my chin this morning. Why didn’t you tell me?

  Eyes widening at his words, I covered my smile with my fingers. The idea of Gray walking around with a dab of wing sauce on his chin was ridiculous… and only wanted to make me think about licking it off. God, why did he always have to say just the right thing? I’d been unsure of what the next steps were with him, but he’d made it easy for me to respond. He wasn’t playing games, he was just going with it, too. I typed quickly, my thumbs flying over the screen, biting my lip as I went.

  Me: How was Thor's date with his wife?

  He responded within seconds.

  Gray: You were right. Let's just say Thor's a happy man today.

  I couldn't help but grin as I thought of the big guy trying to navigate the insanity of early childhood.

  Gray: What's your stand on toilet brushes?

  I froze, staring at his text. Toilet brushes?

  Me: Is this code for something?

  Gray: Relationships.

  What? I leaned my hip against the counter.

  Me: Not sure if I'm a good person to ask. I went on one not-date, and the guy couldn’t even use a napkin right.

  Gray: I guess I have to clean up my act for you to kiss me.

  My lips turned up, and I pressed the phone to my chest, took a deep breath. My thumbs raced over the screen.

  Me: You mean the kiss I’ve been thinking about all day?

  God, that was bold. It was so not normal. My finger hovered over the Send button only briefly before I scrunched my eyes shut and pressed down. There. I did it. I paced over to the cupboard and got down a glass, filled it with ice and water from the fridge dispenser. God, I wasn’t even thirsty! I paced back across the room and nibbled on my thumbnail, staring at my phone. I hadn’t lied to Gray. I had been thinking about kissing him through my entire shift. He’d said I’d be in his bed soon, and the images that conjured had my nipples tightening, and I felt my whole body flush at the idea. I ached between my legs in a way my vibrator was not going to soothe.

  It was a miracle my job was busy and distracting enough to keep my thoughts off of getting in my car, driving over to his gym and jumping his incredible body. It probably wouldn’t look good for him to have a woman in scrubs come in and tackle him to the ground.

  Although, in his job, being tackled to the ground was all in a day’s work. I’d done a search for him online, and so much information had come up. His fights, every detail of his career, some bad stories with his father. Old photos, everything. It was obvious why he was wary of people knowing about him and their motives at meeting him. The media spun the information in ways to sell, including the supposed baby with the film star, but I knew the real Gray, at least a little bit, to be able to separate fact from fiction.

  Men sought his autograph and both sexes stood in photos with him. A picture with the champ. Women practically tossed themselves at him, scantily clad and eager to be seen and perhaps win the affections of the Grayson Green. The Outlaw. I’d laughed at that title because it didn’t suit the real him at all. A stab of jealousy had made me bitter toward the busty women in the pictures, but nowhere in his online profile did it mention girlfriends, past or present. These women, who tried to climb his body like a monkey only had his attention long enough for a photo. He wasn’t looking at them the way he focused his dark eyes on me. He didn’t even really see them. Just smiled for the camera, and after the brief amount of time I’d known him, I could tell the smile wasn’t even genuine.

  He was good at what he did. Exceptional, actually. He was one of the best in the industry, if not ever, based on the articles.

  My mind shifted to how good he was at tackling. I so needed to be tackled like he'd done with me in the gym but, perhaps, in a bed instead. At the least in a less public setting. I’d been in a sex drought for years and hadn’t cared all too much. I’d had my vibrator to keep me company and been reasonably satisfied. I barely remembered when sex had been decent with Jack. Last night, I’d tossed and turned, wondering what Gray’s lips felt like, whether he’d be gentle or demanding, if he’d press me up against the wall while he was kissing me and—

  My cell rang, and I jumped a foot. Gray.

  “You want to kiss me?” he asked, his voice a deep grumble. I practically melted into a pool of goo at the sound, and I loved the fact that he hadn’t even said hello.

  “Um, crap.” I shut my eyes, took a quick breath and said the truth. “Yes.”

  The line was quiet for a minute, but I could hear music in the background. Based on the crazy beat, I had to assume he was in the gym. Or out at a dance club, but I couldn’t picture that with him. “Shit, Emory. That one word is the hottest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  I crinkled my brow. “Really? All I said was yes.”

  “It means that we’re more than just people who coincidentally meet in a park.”

  “You make it sound like we’re practically lovers.” I walked over to my junk drawer, pulled it open and started weeding out expired coupons, wedging my cell between my ear and my shoulder.

  “I know.”

  I dropped the phone into the pile of junk. In my haste to grab it, I bumped my hip on the drawer and shut it, phone inside. “Shit!” With fumbling fingers, I yanked it back open and pulled out the phone. “Gray? Sorry, I dropped the phone.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh.” I heard the pout in my voice.

  “Emory,” he groaned. “I’m at the gym with a bunch of guys still on the mats, and when I hang up, I’m going to have to sit here in my office for a few minutes and pretend to do paperwork before I can head back out there to coach.”

  “Oh,” I repeated. Then I realized what he meant, and I flushed hotly, savoring this little rush of power I had over him. “Oh! Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you what I’m wearing.” I was cruel, and I knew it.

  “No,” he hissed. “Goodbye, Emory.”

  He hung up, and I laughed as I did a little happy dance on the steps up to bed.

  GRAY

  * * *

  Emory was a distraction. Plain and simple. I hadn’t been able to leave my office for twenty minutes after our phone call the night before because I had a hard-on that could pound nails, just from having her tell me she wanted to kiss me. Just a kiss! I usually fucked them and forgot their names by now, and I was losing my mind just from the idea of kissing Emory.

  My firs
t training session of the day was at six-thirty, and a restless night of sleep from thoughts of a very introverted nurse had me in the ring as a fighting partner.

  “Dude, what crawled up your ass and died?” Reed asked when I’d pushed him through not only a five-mile run on the treadmill but an all-out sparring session. We sat on the edge of the mat to cool down. I pounded water and wiped my sweaty head with a towel. The guy was almost half my age, and he was toast, arms resting on bent knees, his breath coming in harsh pants. His dark hair was dripping wet, the skin on his tattooed arms was slick with sweat. He wanted to be an MMA champion. He would get there if kept working his ass off like he was—and I got paid to see that happen.

  My muscles ached from pushing him—and myself—but I needed something, anything, to burn off this restless energy. I’d had to take my dick in hand in the shower the night before to ease the discomfort, but it had only been temporary. Blue balls were something new to me. Waiting for a woman was new to me. Desperate just for a kiss was absolutely new to me.

  “You’re weak,” I muttered.

  He laughed but then groaned. “You’re old,” he countered.

  “Yeah, but I fucking kicked your ass.” I schooled him, and he knew it. Keeping his ego in check was just as important as teaching him to fight. I wanted my fighters cocky but not assholes.

  We slapped hands, then I stood and headed up to my apartment to shower. I first went over to my cell on the kitchen counter and sent a text to Emory.

  Gray: Have dinner with me tonight.

  When I heard the phone ring an hour later, I thought it was her and answered it without checking the screen. I should have known better, should have known Emory would cloud my judgement.

  “Didn’t think you’d answer.”