ZEKE (5 page)

Another thing I’ve learned from Emmie and Rayna is that girls have “guy stories” too, and while I rarely have anything to contribute to those conversations, I love listening to their stories. I hope to have some of my own someday. That’s probably why Rayna is pushing so hard for me to take on Zeke Declan. She knows I need to start somewhere, but she could’ve presented me with someone other than the best damn lay in Galveston County.

The announcer’s voice kicks in over the sound system. “Welcome to JZS! Who’s ready for the Lightning?” The crowd starts to holler, stomping their feet to a precise beat. The pounding melody echoing in the room sounds familiar. “That’s right,” bellows the announcer. “You know who I’m talking about!” The stomping gets louder, and I can almost tell what song the crowd’s feet are beating to. “For those of you who have or haven’t seen him fight, raise your fist for,” the announcer pauses and then shouts, “Zeeeeke Declaaaan!”

The room fills with the opening guitar riff of “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC. I recognize it right away. When my brother, Stone, in his late teens, went to see them in concert, it was all we heard in the house for the next month. As that one-handed tapping guitar sound and the word, “Thunder” grinds through the speakers, my heart starts to race. Fists punch above the crowd’s heads to the beat while chanting “na na na na na na na na na na.” I straighten in the stool, following the lights as they shine to the back of the room. I catch a glimpse of skin moving through the crowd. The lights flicker to the music. The crowd is in tune, shouting “Thunder” on cue. All the energy, command, and excitement lift me from the stool.

I watch the tanned skin, stamped not only by tatts but also by the metal links of the cage, move closer. With an arm in the air, like the crowd, he’s pumping his fist. The cage door swings open. Without missing a beat, Zeke punches the air, and mouthing “Thunder,” he enters the ring. There’s a colossal smile on his gorgeous face as he encourages the crowd with his hands, waving upward to make more noise. His smile is infectious. His body language is enthralling. With powerful, sexy charisma, he easily draws them in. The crowd gets even louder. The floor shakes from all the stomping. Excitement shoots straight through me. My heart pounds hard. My palms sweat. Zeke continues with the little show for another minute before the music starts to fade. After the crowd settles down, the announcer introduces his opponent.

Looking around, I realize that my feet have pulled me closer to the cage. Zeke is in his corner, nodding and nudging his head at people in the crowd with that huge smile still plastered on his face. My eyes fix on his glorious presence, and I take in every inch of his muscle-bound body. My pulse quickens. He has tatts all over but the one just above his black shorts catches my attention. I squint trying to read the words. Taking a few steps closer, they begin to take form. Oh, my God, they say Ride the Lightning! And right then, I declare that’s exactly what this wild bitch is going to do. I’m going to ride Zeke Declan hard!

The ref calls the fighters to the center to go over the rules, and that’s when I see yet another one of Zeke Declan’s masks. His expression turns from playful and charming to serious and ruthless. And it stays that way for the next seven minutes and twenty-two seconds, when they call the fight. Zeke was breathtaking, fast, accurate, and dominant. He crushed his opponent. And a few minutes later, walking out of the bar, I can still feel the dampness between my thighs. Observing my sexy, novel study turned me on.

The parking lot is dark. I spot the golf cart and head for it.

“Leaving so soon, Picasso?”

The sound of his voice, like a lasso, loops and spins me around. Shirtless, muscles glistening with sweat against the dim light, Zeke casually leans against the side of the building. A faint rise and fall of his chest gently breaks his stoic composure as if he’s still trying to catch his breath from the fight. “Enjoy the show?” A smile tugs on his mouth as he waits for me to respond.

“Maybe.” I smile. “If I was one to enjoy watching two idiots beat the shit out of each other.”

“Ah …” He chuckles, deep and low. “You disagree with the sport?”

I don’t. The savage and powerful exhibition I just observed, there was something stimulating about it. Not that I’m going to admit it to him. “I didn’t say that.”

“What?” He turns his head slightly to the left, keeping his eyes connected to mine. “Come closer.” He tilts his chin, his grin widening as his head turns back to me.

“Why?” My body freezes.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, pushing himself from the building but only takes a single step toward me. Everything inside responds to him, my nipples harden, the tiny hairs on my body rise, and the dampness between my legs increases. How can a man cause this kind of response to a woman’s body just by taking a single step?

Dammit. Get it together. Rayna has faith in you.

“Okay.” He lightly chuckles again. “Here,” he thrusts out his hand, “let me see your phone.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me,” he says, and I know when a guy like Zeke Declan demands something from a woman, she probably gives him what he wants. Not this girl.

“No.” I smirk, flip around, and start for the golf cart. I hear heavy footsteps behind me, but I continue to crawl into the small cart. I drop my cell on the passenger seat, stick the key in the ignition, turn to the left, and glance up. He’s looming over me with an arm stretched up on the roof of the golf cart. I skim past his naked, muscular chest. I push myself back in the seat and cross my legs.

“Look at you,” his eyes slowly roll down my stringent body, “all little Miss Uppity. I bet it’s hard maintaining that perfect posture, watching every word fall properly from those pretty red lips, and keeping those legs crossed so tight that your thighs are begging for some relief. Well,” he leans his forehead against his forearm, gazing down at me, “maybe it’s not your thighs in need of some relief, huh?”

“Now, now …” I grin. He’s flirting with me, and that’s good. It’s exactly what I want. “Who would have thought Zeke Declan would be attracted to a woman with good posture, who spoke proper English, and who also knows how to sit like a lady.”

With a crooked grin, his brow lifts. “Attracted to you?”

“Yeah.” My eyes drop to the waist of his shorts, inspecting his tattoo. I find myself wanting to trace each letter with the tip of my finger. I flash my eyes back to his. “Why else would you be thinking about all the begging that may or may not be going on between my thighs?”

“Sweetheart.” He bends down, nearing my face, my mouth, and my slightly parted lips. “It’s my biological instinct to relieve any begging that might be going on between the legs of any woman, perfect posture or not.”

“Well, I can guarantee you that your biological services are definitely not needed here.” I cross my arms over my chest. It’s a defensive position, but I am on the defense here. Even to an educated, levelheaded woman such as myself, the man is tempting. Giving in to my attraction to Zeke and letting him get what he wants, well, that’s not going to break him. I need to make him work for it, and just when he thinks he’s going to get what he wants, I need to make him work harder. It’s a game, I know. But what man doesn’t like a good sport? Eventually, it’ll wear him down, and I will win. I will break him and his absurd rules.

“Okay, if you say so,” he huskily says, pressing forward, closer. I lean back farther into the seat, not wanting his tantalizing mouth to get too close to my lips. He reaches over me, still holding that cute, sexy, I-get-what-I-want smile. He pulls back with my cell in his hand and stands up.

“Hey-” I grab for my phone, and he veers back from the golf cart, tapping my screen.

“There.” He hands the cell to me, and I snatch it from him. “Considering you don’t need my biological services, and you’ve stated that I’m not your type and there’s no way you could fall for a guy like me,” he crouches back down, again dangerously close to my slightly parted lips, “perhaps you’ll call me if you’re interested in my strictly platonic tour guide services.”

“Platonic,” I breathe out, then smooth my tingling lips together.

“Yes.” His eyes drop to my mouth for a brief moment, and I lick my lips trying to wash the tingle away. “You know,” he peers up at me through long lashes, “nonsexual.”

“Yes! Yes! I know what platonic means.” Yet I don’t think there’s anything nonsexual when it comes to Zeke Declan. Even now, he’s drawing heat into my blood.

He gazes into my eyes for a moment and all I feel is desire—hot, disobedient, sexual desire. “Okay, then, give me a call.” He stands then, and without looking back, he walks away.

I grip my phone with a smile. Rule number one, broken.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I toss back another shot of Jameson in an attempt to dull my exhaustion from babysitting Slate all night after Jax and I had to bring him back from a bad high via an ice-cold shower. Now, with the night off from JZS and no fight scheduled, I’m ready to get all liquored up. And in order to get a decent night’s sleep, besides getting drunk, I need to get laid but, fuck. All my cock wants is that sweet little Picasso. It’s going on four days and still, no call from the damn woman.

“Rusty.” I lift my shot glass. She scowls at me and pulls away from the bar where, bent over, she’s flirting with a pretty blonde. She twists around, grabs the Jameson off the shelf, and pours me another. “She’s straight, ya know?”

“No shit.” Rusty sets the bottle on the bar. “But some studies have shown that fifty percent of women have either made out with another woman or have fantasized about it. Being an expert and all with the ladies, I thought you’d know that, bitchmeat.”

“I didn’t.” I pick up the shot glass, give her a wink, and down the alcohol. “So,” I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth, “you think Goldilocks over there falls in favor of your fifty percent?”

“I wouldn’t know ‘cause you keep callin’ my ass over here to refill your damn glass.”

“What, you sayin’ I’m pussy blockin’ you?” I laugh.

She places her palms on the bar. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” She squints. “Hey.” She jabs her chin at me. “What are you doing sitting alone at the bar anyway? Shouldn’t there be a skirt or two hanging on you?”

Huh. She’s right. I glance around the bar. I haven’t had a chick hit on me yet tonight. Damn! Can the ladies sense my dogged cock is on a one-woman mission? Fuck that. I gotta get a grip on the beast in my pants, gotta get him wagging from some tail. Picasso can’t have this kind of impact on my dick, not if it’s going to block me from gettin’ laid tonight.

I spot one of Missy Mills’ friends, the blonde with big tits, the one with the fuck-me-now eyes. Even in that short little skirt and tight halter-top, fuck-me-now is doing nothing for me. Fuck. My dick must be broken. I wink at her before rounding back to Rusty.

“Yeah,” Rusty says, looks at the chick, and then smirks at me as she picks up the Jameson, “ya better lay off this shit unless you want whiskey dick tonight.”

I let go of a chuckle. Rusty knows what whiskey does to me and why I don’t normally drink it. But, apparently, my cock is already ruined. So what the hell; I snatch the bottle from her and pour myself another shot.

“Holy shit, Zeke!”

“What?” I glance at her, pick up the shot glass, down the burning whiskey, and then reach for the bottle again.

“No!” Rusty grabs the Jameson and holds it back away from me. “It can’t be,” she says as I stare at her, trying to figure out what in the hell she’s getting at. “I can’t believe it.” She laughs. “Oh, my God!” She laughs again, waving her hand. “The past few days ... uh-huh.” She nods. “Oh yeah, it all makes sense now.”

“What?”

“Zeke Declan is finally hung up on a chick.”

“Fuck you,” I say but hear the crack in my voice.

“Come on,” she says curling the bottle into her chest, swaying back and forth with a huge knowing grin. “Tell me.” She leans in then stops, eyes wide and waiting. “Who is she?”

“You’re crazy,”

“No, I’m not.” She stands up straight. “It’s the redhead who was in here the other night, the one who shot you down. Just admit it. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, right.” I laugh it off. “Sorry, my beautiful carpet-muncher, but you have a better chance that half of the women in here are bisexual then that being true. Think about it, Rusty. Think about who you’re talking about here.”

“Uh-uh, that shit doesn’t work with me, asshole. I know you. You’re a romantic at heart. You believe in love. You just act like you don’t know how to commit.” She pauses, and I smile at her. “But we both know that’s not true. You got no problem with commitment. You’ve committed to being a player for most of your life.” She gazes at me for a second. “It’s something else that holds you back from letting anyone love you, bitchmeat. And while I may not know what it is, you do.”

Like all the other times that Rusty has tried to get me to open up to her, I give her my biggest fuck-you grin to shut her down. No one knows the reason as to why I am the way that I am. No one will ever know the truth. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to relive or feel it. But no matter how hard I try, it still haunts me. The recurrent nightmares remind me of what I have lost and why. I’m an omen. I’ve accepted it. Fortunately, the people who do care about me, like my brothers and Rusty, well, they haven’t been affected by it. Still, I’m not taking any chances with anyone else.