Legend (Real, #6)(19)

And then lips are pressing against it, and guess whose lips those are? Mine.

And he tastes better than this vanilla ice cream, and it suddenly feels like the only thing that will satisfy this endless craving he’s started in me is him, and I’m pretty sure I can’t have him just like I can’t have normal ice cream.

I hold the bowl in my hands but actually strain my ears to hear more of the talk out in the living room.

Remington Tate is the king of the ring. Undefeated for years. He trains like his life depends on it, and he fights like he lives for it. He’s an icon of the Underground and a master fighter. First a boxer, kicked out because of his unruly temper, he’s now made a name for himself in the Underground to rival that of any heavyweight, welterweight, or middleweight champion. He fights mega-fights, which draw mega-crowds; and between his cocky, dimpled grins and the way he beats his opponents to a pulp, the sensational fights he creates are cause for a lot of money and a lot of fans.

Maverick, however, has never fought in his life until tonight.

I wander back outside and stay by the fringes as the four men—Coach, Riley, Pete, and Remington—sit on a couch, bent over something. Brooke stands nearby because Remy’s arm is around her waist and she seems to have no other choice.

They’re watching the fights on Coach’s phone. Evaluating all the fighters.

Maverick?

My eyes hurt with the need to see.

“First fight. Not enough to see real weakness except he lacks patience,” Coach says.

“Play it back,” Remington says. He watches. “Huh,” he says, impressed.

“Yeah. You might just get a challenge.”

Remy mumbles something, stands, and walks away, patting Brooke’s butt all the way to their bedroom.

“What did he say?” Coach asks the other two.

“He said, ‘About goddamned time.’?” Pete exchanges looks with Riley.

“If Oz tries to stitch the poor kid’s open cut, the kid’s going to lose an eyeball,” Coach declares as he gets up and grabs his jacket.

My heart turns over in my chest.

“He’s got some chip on his shoulder.”

Coach shoots them a grave look. “If his old man is who we think he is, of course he has a chip.” He spots me and for a moment seems confused as to why I’m here. “Reese, right?”

“Yes.” I smile at all three of them. “Congratulations.”

“Come with us next time,” Riley says. “I promise you it’s quite the experience.”

“Can’t. Apparently Racer’s on an I-need-Reese-to-sleep phase. I’m his new blankie.”

I quickly shuffle back into the kitchen, ask Diane for a cooler bag to fit a pint of ice cream, then go knock on the door of the master bedroom. I hear shower water in the background when Brooke opens the door with a towel clutched to her chest. I force myself not to look inside because when I’m around them, I almost feel like I’m intruding on the incredible chemistry they share. “Can I go out for a walk? Racer’s tucked into bed. I want to burn some calories.”

“Sure, but . . .” She glances into the bedroom as if to check the time.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure, dipping my hand into my bag. I take out the pepper spray she gave me.

She grins. “Okay, then. You’re set. Be careful, Reese. One hour back here or I’m going to bust your phone.”

“Yes!” I cross the living room and head outside.





TWELVE


FIRST AID


Reese

Twenty minutes later, I’m at the lobby of his hotel. I pretend to be his girl, the dumb-wit who forgot the room number, just got into town, and wants to surprise him. Because I’m young and seem sweet, the staff falls for it and dishes out the room number, and three minutes later, I’m a mass of nerves knocking at his door. “Just do it,” I hear, a low growl.

Even through a door, the guy’s voice makes me shiver.

Why are you here, Reese?

“Maverick.” I knock again, then say, “Maverick, it’s me.”

There’s total silence to the degree that I wonder if I made up the sounds I just heard coming from inside the room.

He swears and three heartbeats later, the door swings open. Maverick Cage stands before me, utterly still. Tall. Sweaty. And intimidating. I inhale, because, hello? Intimidating.

One eye is closed, bleeding at the eyebrow. The eye beneath it is swollen and bruised, and the power in his other eye’s stare is so absolute, it would thrust me backward if I weren’t so determined to get in there and help.

It takes me a moment to realize that while I stand here and gape, he’s been checking me out, head to toe.

Heat pops up all over my body, quickly following his stare.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is about as raspy as sandpaper. There’s a world of frustration in his expression, and his throat is so tanned and thick and he’s bleeding and shirtless and he is so ripped. And glorious. Every muscle of his chest is chiseled and rock-hard, covered in the smoothest, most golden skin I’ve ever seen. His nipples— You are not staring at his small, pointy, brown nipples, Reese!

“I can sew,” I blurt. “I mean, shirts and stuff but . . . my cousin insisted I learn first aid and more when I came to help for the summer.”