Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

“Sorry, love. We were just chatting,” Tasha says with a flirty tone in her voice.

The man’s frigid exterior melts a tiny fraction at Tasha’s playfulness. “Yeah, well, don’t lounge about. Get moving. You can’t keep a bloke waiting forever.”

“Sure thing, gorgeous.” Tasha takes my hand, walking me towards the door. On our way past the large, menacing man, she drags a painted fingernail across his chest and purses her lips. “See you later.”

He grunts, and I swear I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, the man smiles. The big scary iceman has feelings, who knew?

Once we’re out of earshot, I whisper to Tasha, “What in bloody hell are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, panic in her voice. “I just played it by ear. It seemed safest to do what he said.” Tasha looks me in the eye as her hand rests on the doorknob.

“We don’t know who or what is in there, Tash.” I’m shaking all over. The adrenaline rush from watching Dax fight is gone, leaving me to deal with its uncomfortable aftereffects.

“It seems a better choice than dealing with that bloke. Although, he is rather sexy, don’t you think?”

“No, Tasha. I don’t think that!” I hiss.

I look over my shoulder and see Mr. Big and Creepy staring directly at us, waiting for us to open the door. He has a knowing expression in his dark eyes. Something about it is telling me to be worried what we’ll find on the other side.

“Here goes nothing.” Tasha turns the knob and pushes the door open.

We both freeze at the sight in front of us. This room is clearly some sort of locker room or changing room—how I manage to notice my surroundings I don’t know, but I do. The walls are covered with shelving stuffed with equipment. Gloves hang on various pegs and there’s a pile of towels in one corner. But it’s what is seated on the small wooden bench in the center of the room that catches our attention and crushes my heart.

Or should I say who?

Dax is sitting, completely naked, with his head thrown back and eyes closed. Droplets of water cling to his body and his hair is damp, indicating he just took a shower. His lips are parted in ecstasy, the angled planes of his jawline clearly visible. This is not the cold, hard façade I’m used to seeing.

Soft grunts can be heard as they escape from his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. Dax’s large, bruised hands are buried in the blonde hair of the girl kneeling between his legs, controlling her movements as she loudly and enthusiastically sucks his cock.

“Holy—” Tasha whispers, not meaning to speak but too shocked to keep quiet.

Dax’s head snaps up, those deep chocolate eyes locking onto mine even as the girl’s head continues dipping up and down in front of him. As the tears begin to well up, the horrible scene in front of me goes fuzzy. Not enough that I don’t register the horror on Dax’s face before the tears are too thick to see. Unable to do anything else, I turn and run.

I realize I’ve put Dax up on a pedestal all these years without ever really knowing a thing about him. Now that I’ve seen who he is—what he is—I’m done. I am getting the hell out of this sodding town, leaving Dax Davies and my shattered heart behind.

CHAPTER 4

Six months later

Dax

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” I have my arms around two girls, one on each side. They want me so badly they’re practically humping my legs. Getting women in L.A. is easy. I don’t have to work for it at all. Hawke says it’s the British accent. I have to agree. It makes American women strip their clothes off faster than you can say ‘shag me’.

“Lovely,” Adam growls, in a piss poor mood again.

I stifle a growl. “Ladies, excuse me for a moment.” They giggle ridiculously as I grab my mate’s arm and shove him into a corner of the loud club.

“Fuck off, Davies.” He drains the rest of his drink, slamming the glass down on a nearby table.

“When are you going to start having fun? You going to spend the rest of your life moping around because Ellie broke up with you? It’s been two months, Reynolds. Haven’t any of those American pussies made you forget about her yet?” I lean into Adam’s space, practically snarling at him.

“What do you care? Go fuck your tarts and leave me be.” Adam sounds angry and determined, but his eyes tell a different story. They’re the eyes of a broken man. I would know. I see the exact same thing in the mirror every day since I fucked up with Kate.

It’s why I’m so cheesed off at his behavior. When I see him self-destruct, when I watch him try to fuck Ellie out of his head, I’m reminded of my own actions, my own hurt, my own screw-ups with Kate.

I shrug off the memories. I don’t need her or any other girl. I’ve got a successful band, my father doesn’t have any say over my life anymore, and I have more women available than I ever could have imagined.

So why do I still obsess over one woman in particular?