Always Have: A Bad Boy Romance(8)

“Thanks, babe,” Selene says.

Braxton’s face softens. I lean back against the cushions, feeling a sudden wash of dizziness pass over me. I probably could have done without that last drink.

Braxton picks up my legs and sits between me and Selene, placing my feet in his lap once he sits down.

“Stupid men,” Selene says. “Nathan is the literal worst. And Ky’s guy flaked on her again.”

“Men are *s; you two know that, right?” Braxton says.

He grabs one of my feet and rubs the bottom with his thumbs. My eyes flutter closed, and I have to stop myself from sighing. Man, that feels good.

“You’re not an *, Brax,” Selene says, her voice sleepy.

“No, I am,” he says. “I’m the worst kind.”

My eyes flutter open. He’s looking at me. His hands feel good on my bare feet, and I don’t want him to stop. All the vodka is making it hard to keep my eyes open.

We sit in silence for a while. I feel myself drifting in and out. I try to stay awake, but it’s a battle I’m definitely losing.

Braxton squeezes my foot. “You girls should get to bed.”

I force my eyes open. Selene is so out she’s mouth-breathing.

“Wait here,” Braxton says. “I’ll carry her upstairs and come back for you.”

I giggle. “Will you carry me upstairs too?”

“Your room is down here,” he says.

My eyes close again. I’m so sleepy. “You smell good. I bet your sheets smell like you.”

Braxton stands abruptly, tipping my legs off the couch. I bend my knees and tuck my feet under the blanket. Who needs a bed? I’ll just sleep here.

Braxton’s hands slipping beneath me wake me from a vivid dream.

“Where? What?”

“Shh,” Braxton says, his voice throaty and low. “I’ll get you to bed.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head against his chest. He carries me across the living room, past the kitchen, and through my bedroom door. His chest is solid, his arms hot steel around me. My eyes don’t want to stay open, but a part of me wants to wake up. To see Braxton holding me like this. To be aware of what’s happening.

I feel the mattress beneath me as he sets me down. He pulls the covers up, and a second later I can tell he turned off the light. Everything melts away, floating on a sea of vodka.

“Night, Brax,” I say, without opening my eyes.

“Night, baby girl,” he says.

Something he said catches in my mind. “Brax?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not an *,” I say. “You’re the only one of them who isn’t.”

He doesn’t reply and I feel myself drifting off again, the soft blankets warming me.

“I am, Ky,” he says, and his voice startles me. “I really am.”

The door clicks shut and I fall asleep, wondering what he means … and wishing he had stayed.





I grab a towel and wipe the sweat off my forehead. ACDC blasts from the speakers. It’s six-thirty in the morning, but my gym is in an industrial area, so I don’t have to worry about bothering the neighbors. I’m not always in at this hour, but today I have a client at seven, and I’m booked up until the afternoon. I needed to get my workout in early.

My legs burn from doing heavy squats. I walk around to loosen them up before my next set. I’m too hot, so I pull off my shirt and toss it on the floor. It feels good to get some of my aggression out. Working out has always been a must for me. It doesn’t matter what else is going on—unless I’m injured or sick, I hit the gym. Hell, sometimes even when I am injured or sick.

Sweat runs down my chest and back, but my head clears as I do another set. It’s like getting an extra hit of oxygen. I finish my workout, grab some water, and jump in the shower before my first client is due to show up. And Derek Marshall wants to stop by and take a look at the facilities again. If this guy keeps being such a prima donna, I’m going to tell him to f*ck off. He won’t be the last football player I have a chance to take on. But that’s the thing with training pro athletes: they sign these big contracts for huge money, and everyone treats them like their dick is made of f*cking gold.

Everybody except me. They pay me for results, and that’s what I give them—but they have to be willing to put in the work. Most of them are. They don’t get where they are by being lazy asses. But I also don’t put up with bullshit excuses—whining, showing up late, or canceling appointments. If they want me to take them to the next level in their career, I’ll f*cking do it. But I don’t put up with divas who aren’t willing to work their ass off in my gym.

Does it mean I lose clients? Yeah, all the time. But I’m in high enough demand that they come to me, not the other way around. I have no problem filling my schedule. So if Derek Marshall wants to be a * and find a trainer who’s going to coddle him, he’s welcome to.

The first part of my day goes fast. I go from one client to the next, take a quick break for lunch, and see two more in the afternoon. Derek Marshall does stop by—sans manager, which is a nice change. When he’s not with his entourage, he’s a decent guy. He signs the training agreement, and I get him on the schedule for next week.