Me: Another brother.
Dom: It’s a fucking baby factory over there.
Me: I guess so. LOL
Dom: Shoot me a text when you make it home. K?
Me: Ok. Be careful.
Dom: Enjoy your dinner party.
Me: That was written with sarcasm. I can feel it.
Dom: I always make sure you feel it, babe.
With a laugh, I tuck my phone away. His statement is true—he does make me feel it. He makes me feel a whole hell of a lot more than I can afford to.
Dominic
THE MATS ARE COOL AND still a little damp from the cleaning agent Hannah used on them a little while ago. I sit, legs together, and bend forward, loosening my hamstrings.
Hannah’s gaze is heavy on my back as I stretch. She’s the gym equivalent of a lot lizard—the chick that’s ready and willing to give you a whirl. Or a twirl. Hell, she’ll give you whatever you request with an enthusiasm that’s hard to match.
That’s what girls like that do. They know how the game is played and they want their chance, their fifteen minutes of legs spread wide open, to see if they can sink you as you sink into them. This is especially true if you’re the fighter the gym is known for. That either makes you extra special or extra targeted, depending on how you look at it.
It’s easy to be persuaded by how crazy girls like that seem for you. I mean, enthusiasm is fifty-one percent of what makes a good fuck. It’s hard to beat an eagerness to take your cock like it’s her purpose in life. Think about it. A little zest for the best can make up for a lot of the rest. A lot, but not all.
Fifty-one percent might be a majority, bu
t no one ever said that was a passing grade.
As I look over my shoulder and see her watching me from the desk, the conclusion I came to six months ago when she walked in the door is reconfirmed: extra targeted.
“How’s your rib, Dom?” she asks.
“It’s good.”
“Bond was worried he broke it.”
“I’m sure he was,” I say.
Turning away from her, my hands flurry against a heavy bag. With each snap, my muscles ease a little of the tension I seem to have been born with. It’s something I can never totally get rid of. It’s a feeling that something is always either wrong or about to go sideways. The result, I suppose, of growing up with an alcoholic father and a mother too weak to tell him to go fuck himself.
“Yo, Dom!”
Stepping back and sucking in a quick breath of air, I glance towards the locker room.
“Hey, Nate,” I say to my brother. “Didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, I just stopped to get a quick workout in before I head to the bar. My bartender called off tonight so I got Chrissy to watch Ryder.”
“You still fucking her?”
He grins. “Not on the regular. But she wanted a little last night and I gave it to her like the giver I am. So she owed me one.”
“I love how you convince her that you’re doing her some kind of favor,” I laugh.
“Hey, she likes my cock and my kid. What else could I ask for?”