First Love: A Superbundle Boxed Set of Seven New Adult Romances (129 page)

I ignore him and drop the sandbag by the wall. I hate that I ever thought even for a moment this guy was anything like my father. I’m sorry I met him.

He tries to block my way, but I circle a weight bench to avoid him.

He cuts in front of me. “You took that the wrong way,” he says. “God, I suck at this.”

There’s something in his tone that brings me down a notch. “You do,” I say. “I’m grateful for the job, but I’m not going to stick around and let you insult me.” I try to push past. It’s starting to feel like the day I met him, except now he’s the bad guy I’m trying to avoid.

His hand encircles my wrist. I try to stay focused on the anger, not the touch. He’s holding me, and I’m supposed to be mad. But I stupidly feel like I don’t want him to let go.

“I only meant to tell you how enticing you are. How distracting.”

I don’t have anything to say to that. I want to be brave, to look him boldly in the eye. But when I glance up, his hazel eyes are full of tangled emotions. There’s worry there. And confusion. He’s not like a big-shot fighter anymore. He’s a kid realizing he’s done something wrong.

I shake him off and say, “Don’t worry about it.”

He tilts his head. “I get it now.” His Adam’s apple moves up, then down, in a hard swallow. “You don’t like that shirt, do you? You aren’t comfortable around all these guys.”

I’m holding in my breath. I don’t want him to figure me out. If he knows this, then he’ll know pretty quick that he’s different.

He lifts his hand to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. My heart is hammering.

“I think you don’t know how beautiful you are,” he says. “I think you don’t want to know. It’s easier for you to just cut us all off. Keep us away.”

I’m trying not to shake, holding everything in tight.

He pulls his hand back and shakes his head. “And that is, without a doubt, a truly excellent decision.” He takes a couple steps back. “Stick to it.”

Then he turns around and walks out, not stopping until he’s through the doorway and out on the sidewalk.

I don’t release my breath until I hear his Harley roar down the street.

This officially counts as the craziest day of my life.

Chapter Six

When my alarm goes off the next morning, I can feel the pain.

The shower helps, hot and scalding. Washing my hair takes some effort, but when I wrap my hand around my upper arm, I can feel how much tighter the muscle is. It’s the craziest thing, like I’ve already started to change into someone else, somebody stronger than I was before.

I jerk the too-tight shirt over my head and cover it with a hoodie. No matter how hot I get, it’s staying on.

I eat a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. My stomach is a hollow pit of hunger, but I don’t have much else. The energy for this job is going to require more food than I can afford at first. Hopefully I’ll get paid soon. I have to nurse that little bit left over from the pawn shop.

The gym is nuts when I walk in. A dozen lifters grunt in the main room. Buster talks to a guy in sweats, signing him up, it looks like. He was right. It’s going to get busy.

He spots me. “Sign in and grab the box on my desk. It’s a banner we need to put up.” He frowns. “I guess out front. There’s a ladder in the addition. Figure out a way to hang it.”

That sounds loads better than hauling weights. I push my way into the office and scrawl the time next to my name. A tall skinny box rests on a pile of receipts. I glance at them. Weights. Mats. Chairs. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff. Big change for the gym. And all Colt’s doing, it seems.

I tear open the box and peer in. It’s a rolled-up banner. I’ll need some twine or rope. And something to attach it to.

I can’t pull the banner out, so I upend the box and let it tumble to the floor. It unfurls a bit, and I see a glove, smaller than a boxing glove, slender and black. The arm it’s attached to is thick and corded with muscle. I already recognize the tattoo encircling the bicep. I pick the banner up and head to the hall, where I can see how long it is.

As it unrolls, I have to suppress a giggle. No wonder Colt was annoyed.

The banner is him, all him. Arms in the air, shouting to a crowd. Crouched over, eyeing an unseen opponent. Punching air. I can’t help myself but run a finger over his bare chest. I remember crashing into it. Heat blossoms through me just thinking about it.

So I’m attracted to him. I shrug. Who wouldn’t be? It’s not like anything would happen between a big-shot fighter and a minimum-wage gym grunt. I’m safe enough.

In the center of the banner, giant letters proclaim “The Gunner trains here.” A laugh escapes before I clamp it down. This doesn’t seem like Colt’s style. Nor Buster’s. This was probably what they were arguing about yesterday.

I roll the banner back up and lean it in a corner. Buster’s still talking to the man at the counter. I go outside and assess the front facade. There’s an unused flagpole sticking out to one side of the door. I could tie it to that. I pace off the approximate length of the banner. The brick wall is unbroken here. No place to tie the other end.

We probably want it lower anyway. I’m examining some metal hooks attached to the top of the window when I hear a motorcycle slow to a stop behind me. My heart accelerates.

The engine cuts off, but I keep looking up. Yes, there are quite a few places I could loop rope through. I just have to locate some. I can sense Colt behind me, but I don’t turn around.

“You always stare at painted windows?” His voice cuts straight through to my gut. Stupid crush. I have to ignore it, make it go away.

I look at him, but I can’t think of anything witty to say. “You’re not going to like my next task.”

He raises his eyebrows. No jeans and leather today. Just a pair of gray sweats and a hoodie. He fits in now. I like that he’s adapted.

“And why’s that?” His grin is wicked.

The ache shifts into a burn. “The dorkiest banner I ever saw is about to go up.”

“Featuring Gunner McClure, I bet.” He tries to look annoyed, but his eyes crinkle with a smile.

My whole body goes hot. I don’t feel anxious at all now. It’s like we survived our first fight yesterday and now we can act natural around each other.

I crouch into one of his fighting poses. “You’re like this,” I say. I move into another position. “And this.”

He laughs out loud, his chin in the air. “I can totally see it.” He leans against the window. “So what will it take for me to convince you to drop it down the sewer drain?” His voice has gone all low and sexy.

His eyes are on me, giving me his full attention. I seize up then, completely losing my easy humor. “M—might be expensive, since it’ll probably cost me the job you got me.”

My stumble changes something in him. I can feel the shift like a sudden weather change.

Colt stands back up, as if shaking himself free of whatever he’d been thinking. “That’s all right,” he says. His voice is hard now, cold. “I can always tear it down myself.”

He heads for the door.

“Colt?” I say, but my voice is puny.

He waves his hand next to his head at me like he doesn’t want to hear any more. The black door closes behind him.

I’m not sure how I’ve messed up, why he has gotten mad at me. He’s so hard to figure out. I pretend to examine the hooks a few more minutes, enough time for him to get in the locker room. Then I head back in.

Buster tosses me a coil of twine. “Need help with the ladder?”

I shake my head and cross through the weight room. The cigar man is back with another boxer, taking up the corner punching bag. There aren’t any girls this morning, just men of every age, some spotting each other. Nobody talks or smiles. They seem serious about their workouts.

I pass through the plastic-covered hole to search for the ladder. The crew isn’t there yet, but the place is swept up. A big rectangle is chalked off in the center.

I spot the ladder. It’s enormous, at least ten feet. Just getting the legs pushed together takes effort. I feel pathetic compared to all the people I’ll be walking past.

I tuck the rope into my pocket and lift the ladder in the center. It’s aluminum, so it’s not unreasonably heavy. Still, I’m sore from yesterday. I poke the plastic curtain with the end, hoping nobody’s in the way.

People stop to stare as I pass through the weight room. I try to look nonchalant and capable. But my arms are screaming. As I near the doorway, a random muscle flat out refuses to hold. The top of the ladder tips and scrapes along the concrete floor with a screech.

I try to set it down easy, but the other arm gives in and it crashes down. The weight room goes quiet, the clink of metal stopping.

“Sorry,” I mumble. My gaze stays straight ahead on the front door. I don’t want to know if anybody is looking at me. I shake out my arms and pick the ladder up again. I will do this if it kills me.

Buster cuts in front of me to open the outside door. His face is a mask. I have no idea if he’s impressed or trying not to laugh.

I lay the ladder on the sidewalk, my arms trembling. I begin to doubt if I can handle the job. First Colt. Then the sheer physical labor.

But I don’t have a choice. I suck in a breath and steady myself to fetch the banner.

When I head back in, I see an unfamiliar girl inside. Her back is to me. She’s leaning against the entrance to the weight room, talking to someone on the other side of the wall. Her manner is easy, almost seductive, her bent elbow up near her head. She’s showing lots of skin between a black athletic bra and low-slung shorts rolled down at the band.

I head into the hall for the banner. Even if my high school years had gone differently, I could never have been one of those flirty girls. I liked loose jeans and sweatshirts. To disappear.

The only time I’ve ever worn makeup was my eighth-grade class play. I was too old to cry when they stuck me in a dress. I played one of the ladies-in-waiting for Queen Isabella, ready to direct Christopher Columbus on his journey to the New World. But the color on my eyes was purplish blue, like a bruise. No one listened to my argument that Cover Girl didn’t exist in 1492. I rubbed it off before the curtain closed.

When I come back down the hall with the banner, the girl turns around to look at me. Her blonde hair is too perfect for a gym. Her own makeup is expertly applied. When she moves, I can see Colt on the other side of the door. She’s been talking to him the whole time. But now that she’s looking away, he’s staring at her cleavage.

I wash cold and dash through the front door. The banner smacks against the sidewalk when I drop it.

I feel completely sick. It’s stupid, the whole thing. I have no chance with someone like Colt. I have a dumb crush. I’m years behind where I ought to be, twelve instead of twenty. I’m gooey-eyed over the first hotshot who looks at me. I blast with anger at how foolish I’ve been.

The hurricane starts to rise inside. I bend down and grip the ladder so tight that I can feel the metal cutting into my skin. The air is cool, so I try to focus on bringing down the burn. A muscle ticks in my jaw. The ladder goes up easily now, the adrenaline rush driving every movement.

I realize I have nothing to cut the twine with, but I’m not going inside. I run my hand along the edge of the ladder until I find a rough spot.

It only takes a few seconds of rubbing the line against the metal before it snaps. My attention is razor-sharp. Banner. Hole. String. Lift. Tie.

The end of the banner slides into place. But it’s no help for my mood. Colt stares at me with determined eyes. It’s hard to imagine anyone this intense being a failure at anything. I wonder what his father wants him to do, how unreasonable he’s been.

But it got him here. To me.

I shift the ladder easily. The hurricane always makes me feel strong. My daddy was the one who named it. The first one that I remember happened when I was five years old. He and I were on a playground. Some boy threw sand in my eye. Daddy said I became the wind. The dirt whirled around me, and the boy backed away, covering his face.

Daddy snatched me up. He held me tight against him. Just the memory of it calms me. I lift the center of the banner and thread twine through. Colt is looking away in the image beneath my hands. I wonder who his opponent was in the shot. What he was thinking.

I string it up. I’m lost and I know it. It’s the first time I’ve actually looked at someone and thought he might be for me. That instead of being in trouble, I might be safe with him.

But it’s impossible. Life is always impossible.

Chapter Seven

By the end of the day, the new banner has done its recruiting magic. Buster has signed up at least ten new people. Weights were a mess all day, and I was the only one around to keep them straight. Hopefully he’ll hire more help soon.

I’m starving, so I go across the street to the cafe. Zero is waiting on a table full of gray-haired ladies. He sees me and points to a booth in the far corner. I know he’s going to sneak me some food. It’s our code.

I squeeze up against the window, so I’m not easy to see. Zero shows up with a glass of water. “You look like you’ve had a long day,” he says. “How was Golden Boy?”

I shrug. I could never explain the hot and cold way Colt was acting.

Zero looks as put together as always. Mint-green shirt, pressed jeans, snappy shoes. He’s too classy for the cafe. I know if he ever gets a regular showgirl gig, he’ll quit in a heartbeat.

“I’ll bring something by in a minute,” he says. “You probably need some carbs after working that job all day.”

He takes off again. I’ve been to a couple of his shows, when he puts me on the guest list. I never sit at a table. One drink is an hour’s pay. But there’s a rail off to the side. I like it there, kind of hidden. I can see the show onstage. But I can also watch the next performer line up, nervous, pacing. It’s a world like nothing I’ve ever known.

Zero’s stage name is Miss Zerobia. I don’t even know his actual legal name. Every ID I’ve seen him pull out says Zerobia Kincaid. Maybe he’s changed it. Some things I don’t ask about.

But when he’s performing, he’s someone else. Beautiful. Powerful. The competition is always a lip-sync, although I know Zero can sing. He has amazing costumes. Hand-sequined gowns. Flapper dresses. Body suits that match his deep skin tone perfectly.