Use Me (Caldwell Brothers)

I have an assigned best friend. That’s what my parole officer calls himself. Luckily, he has given me a wide berth since Shaw died and I went into business with Jagger.

If he shows up for a random piss test, I would pop for those pills. And that... Well, that can’t happen.

When I walk into the gym after my run, I am still groggy, still tired, but such is the life of the damned.

Jagger winks and nods to the right where Tatiana is with her woman’s class, and I see Legs.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble, which makes him laugh.

“She’s a damn good-looking woman,” he mentions with a smirk.

“Well, I’m not looking,” I snap, grabbing a protein drink from the fridge.

“She paid for a month of classes with Tatiana, and paid for a month of training. Says she wants to learn to box.”

“Hope you have free time; I’m booked.”

“Said she wants you.” He hands me a clipboard with the completed enrollment form.

She said the same damn thing to me, I think.

“She also made it a point to tell me that she is leaving in a month and has no plans to return.”

“Good,” I comment as I sit down.

“You look tired, Kid,” he says, gripping my shoulder.

I tense and have to stop myself from reacting on instinct.

“Hands,” I remind him. One day, he will learn that I don’t like to be touched... I fucking hope. Or, I’m going to end up punching him.

He holds them up. “My bad, man, my bad.”

I make sure my back is to her when I’m in the ring with Tito, one of the men fighting tonight. I don’t want to see her, and I am not looking forward to the kiss-off I’m going to hand her, either.

Why the hell can’t she just leave it alone is beyond me. Who the hell comes to a gym and spouts off some crazy proposition? She wants me for a month as a muse when she doesn’t know a damn thing about me?

I’m the kind of man your mom warns you about. I’m a felon, a convict. I can’t vote. I can’t own a fire arm. My American, natural-born rights were stripped away from a judge and jury who deemed my actions to be criminal.

After an hour in the cage, I nod to Tito. “Speed bags. Everything else looks great. Your form, your blocking, your stance—all looks good. Just need to be faster.”

When I climb out, she is standing there, waiting.

I grab the clipboard off the bench and read over her information.

“Tatum Longley,” I read out loud. Her body stiffens when I look up. “I have no interest in training a woman, especially not one who is going to be fighting. I have men who need my help.”

“Kid,” she begins, pointing to Jagger, who smirks. Fucker told her my nickname. “He said your name is Kid. I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

When I don’t say anything, she sits down on the bench next to me.

“I’m embarrassed by what I said. Well, how I said it.”

“As well you should be,” I tell her, not sure what the woman expects from me, but knowing she damn sure won’t get it.

Then her scent hits me, and I’m embarrassed by how it affects me. It’s not one I’m used to. It’s not simply floral or citrus, but this blend that bursts inside my nostrils.

I’m not used to being around women outside the gym. The thing I learned the quickest in prison was to shut down all emotions. Everything about Legs makes me see, feel, and want. I don’t know a time in my life I wanted someone the way I want her.

She stands up, her face flushed. I can’t help wondering if the rest of her body is the same pink.

“You didn’t look like the judgmental type when I saw you. Now I know better.” With that, she turns and storms out of the gym.

I should feel bad that I upset her. She’s a fucking girl. Only, I don’t. I feel relief.

***

Before turning out the lights and heading to my apartment, I notice a bag in the corner. Someone must have left it after the fights.

When I look inside for an ID, I see books, keys, and a journal, but no wallet.

I’m tired as hell and want to go shower, come, and sleep, but I know I can’t. I need to hang out for a few minutes. Whoever left this bag will more than likely be back.

I open the journal to see if it has a name, a number, something.

It doesn’t. Instead, I find a handwritten script of what seems to be a story.

The first time I saw him, I knew he would rock my world. He stood a foot taller than me, and when I dared to look up, I could see need in his eyes. It mirrored the need I felt in my soul.