Fighting Solitude (On The Ropes #3)(38)

Deep.

Languid.

Hard.

Reverent.

Liv.

“Oh my God!” she yelled, snapping me back to reality. Throwing her arms around my neck, she pulled me in for a tight celebratory hug.

Meanwhile, the warmth in my chest disappeared as I mourned the loss of a moment that had never truly been mine to claim.

I had to get over this bullshit with her.

Or…figure out a way to get her on the same page as me.

Both seemed equally as impossible.

But, then again, she had been checking out my ass tonight, so maybe…

God, what am I doing? Am I seriously thinking about seducing my best friend? Then what? We f*ck? We date? We go back to being friends? Shit, we get married?

Yes. I was insanely attracted to her, and I cared about her more than I could ever put into words. But what else? What if that was it? What if we had sex and nothing more came of it?

Liv didn’t pour her soul out to me about dudes or anything—it was safer for everyone involved that way. She’d had boyfriends. I’d actually liked a few of them. But I had an inkling that she wasn’t the casual let’s-experiment-naked-and-see-if-we-have-any-feelings-for-each-other kind of girl.

I knew right then that I had to shut that shit down. She deserved someone better than me. If I knew some guy was having these wishy-washy thoughts about her, I would have beaten the absolute f*ck out of him before I ever let him come near her.

The only problem was that this was one fight I couldn’t walk away from.

Quarry Page versus Quarry Page.

The man who suddenly and desperately wanted to claim her versus the man who would protect her at all costs—even from myself.

Clearing my throat, I briefly returned her hug then set her away from me. “We need to get some ice on that.” I nodded to her hand.

She ignored me. “So, when’s the fight? How much money are we talking this time?”

I chuckled. “We’ll talk when we get home. I have a copy of my contract in my room.”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me!” She crossed her arms over her chest in what I assumed was supposed to be an attitude, but a wide grin gave her away.

“I just found out this morning. I was gonna tell you tonight,” I replied as our car finally pulled up. I was pushing the door open when she grabbed my arm.

“Wait. What time is it?”

I glanced at my Rolex. “Nine.”

“Come on. Let’s do something fun. I have a new assistant. You have a huge multimillion-dollar fight, which is surely going to net me a raise. Let’s celebrate! What do you say? Chili dogs, cheese fries, a soda big enough to drown us both? Then we’ll chase it with a million beers at the house.”

“Shit.” I curled my lip in disgust. “That sounds like the recipe for puke.”

“So, you’re in?”

My lip curled even higher. “I have the chance of a lifetime…for the third time…to win the boxing heavyweight championship of the world in a few months. Just because Davenport is a viper cunt doesn’t mean he isn’t a beast in the ring. It’s going to be grueling, Liv. You remember how hard I worked out the last two times. Spending entire days in the gym, eating cod six meals a day, chugging protein shakes like they’re an elixir from the gods. Training, conditioning, and a strict diet starts immediately.”

She tipped her head to the side and repeated, “So, you’re in?”

I blew out a hard breath. “Fuck yeah.”

With that, I shoved the door wide and hooked my arm with hers. We laughed as we hurried to the SUV. Cameras flashed around us and people called our names, but as far as I was concerned, the real excitement would happen when we got home.

Alone—together.





“YOU NEED ANOTHER?” QUARRY ASKED as he made his way to the kitchen.

“Mmm.” I hummed around the bottle tipped to my lips. “Yes, please,” I slurred, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

Usually, I wasn’t much of a beer girl, but after the excessive amount of junk food I’d just consumed, there was no way my stomach could handle wine. As my mind buzzed, it became clear the six-pack had more than done its job.

Hot dog wrappers, remnants of broken french fries, and at least a dozen beer bottles littered the coffee table. I’d long since shed my dress and my heels, having opted for a comfortable pair of pink sleep shorts and a white tank top. Quarry had barely even made it in the house before he’d peeled off his shirt in search of his house uniform: a pair of variously colored workout pants—tonight was black with a white stripe down the side—and a T-shirt that on anyone else would have been plain. However, the way it was forced to stretch around his biceps and his pecs made it anything but.

It was well past midnight, and we were still “celebrating.”

Since it was now a dual celebration, he’d nixed every single one of my movie choices and decided to put on some stand-up comedian neither of us was paying any attention to.

“Has Till texted you back?” I asked when he returned from the kitchen.

“Nah. He’s probably still trying to drag Eliza’s drunk ass home. I’m sure everything’s fine. Flint or Slate would’ve messaged if Davenport was stirring up more shit. I’m just hoping tonight pissed him off enough to get him to actually crawl through those ropes.”