Mace (Cocky Cage Fighter #4) (6 page)

“We’re just friends,” I tell him as I look back over to where he’s soakin’ with his head leanin’ back on the edge of tub, eyes remanin’ closed. 

“Friends who fuck,” he mutters, a stated guess, not a question. “Funny that he hasn’t mentioned you once in the nine months I’ve been friends with him.”

If he’s tellin’ the truth, and he has no reason to lie, that hurts that I haven’t been worth an honorable mention.

“So, you two are friends?” I ask in wonder, but of course it makes since. They both fight at
Havoc,
and Mason and Senn look about the same size, so they probably even train together. Now I can’t help but wonder who is the better fighter. And then thinkin’ about the two of them half naked goin’ at in a cage with every bit of strength in all those sculpted muscles? Holy hell that would be a hotness overload.

“Uh-huh,” Mason responds. “We hit up the clubs in Raleigh or Cary most weekends.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes."

"Good for you," I say.

"
He
fucks different girls every weekend.” Mason lifts his head and opens his eyes to see my reaction after tellin’ me that nice little tidbit.

“Of course he does. He’s a hot, single guy. I told you, we’re just friends.”

“Doesn’t that make him a player?” Mason asks. Then he stands up, lookin’ like a giant in a kiddie pool with water pourin’ off his smooth, tan muscles. He climbs over the side and then strolls into the bathroom, comin’ out with a towel around his hips. Water is still sprinkled over his body, and I want to lick up every single droplet. Gah! What is it about this man that makes me keep thinkin’ about puttin’ my tongue on him? Any other guy and that would be hell no and so gross, but this man…maybe it’s that he’s smooth and muscular and just scrumptious with a sexy tattoo.

“Hailey?”

“Huh?” I ask still in a hotness stupor.

“Wouldn’t you say Senn is a player?”

“Yes, which is why we’re
just friends
.”

“Right. Well, you shouldn’t get your hopes up that he’s the one for you or some shit.”

“I’m not,” I assure him, even if that’s not completely true.

“Good, because it sounds like he had the chance to be with you and passed it up. He might be my friend, but he’s an idiot and he doesn’t deserve you now that you just so happen to be convenient to fuck this week.”

Mason’s observation is actually the same thing I’ve told myself. Senn is always quick to flirt with me and tell me how much he misses me when I’m in town; but once I leave, I don’t hear a peep from him. He obviously wants me. I just don’t think he wants me enough to take time out of his busy life to come and get me. And, being the silly girl that I am, I want him to actually chase me. I’d like for Senn to be so desperate for me that he can’t go a day without callin’ or a few weeks without comin’ to see me. That’s the type of relationship I want, the romantic comedy, all-consumin’ one, not one out of mere convenience. Maybe I just haven’t made it clear to Senn that I’m interested in having somethin’ real and serious with him, and he doesn’t want to make the jump without knowin’ he won’t get shot down.

The song “Magic Stick” suddenly starts blarin’ from across the room. When Mason heads in its direction, I realize it’s his phone. You have got to be kiddin’ me!
That’s
his ringtone? A song about a magical cock?

“Hello?” he turns his back on me to answer. “Sorry, but I’m out of town until next weekend. Remember, I told you that my sister is getting married at the beach. Ah, I know, I do too. All right, hon. Talk to you then. Bye.”

“Girlfriend?” I ask when he hangs up.

“A girl that I’ve been seeing,
more
than one night,” he replies before droppin’ his towel and reachin’ down to his duffle to pull out and put on a pair of boxers. Good God. He has no modesty, but really, as sexy as he knows he is, why not flaunt it? He was still movin too quickly for me to get a peek at his cock.  

“What’s her name?” I ask.

“Lena.”

“How long have you two been datin’?”

“Ah…a year and a month.”

Holy crap. If that’s not a girlfriend, then I don’t know what is. And why do I now have the urge to hiss at this unknown woman and claw her eyeballs out? Because I know she’s seen his cock. And felt it. And tasted it. That lucky little bitch.

“That’s a long time to date someone. Wouldn’t that make her your girlfriend?” I ask. Mason walks over and then takes a flyin’ leap onto the bed, bouncin’ a few times before comin’ to a stop, flat on his back, hands behind his head. In nothin’ but black boxer briefs. Wait, where am I sleepin’ tonight?

“She’s one of the girls I date.”

“Girls plural?” I ask him for clarification.

“Uh-huh.”

“And how many girls do you date?”

“You sure do ask a lot of personal questions.” He chuckles. “Should I go ahead and tell you how old I was when I lost my virginity? Fourteen. And how many sexual partners I’ve had? Six. And my condom size? Magnum.”

Whoa. I’m not sure which is more surprisin’ to hear, his condom size, the fact that he lost his virginity so young, or that he’s only been with six women. Just six? Really?

“Um, TMI, but okay,” I finally find my voice to respond.

Mason continues to laugh while I try to digest that information. My mind is still hung up on the Magnum confession.
Hung
being the operative word.

“Well, now that you know all my stats, let’s hear yours, sweetheart.”

“Seriously?” I ask, sittin’ stock still at the desk beside the bed. When Mason simply stares at me, I feel a strange compulsion to respond. “Sixteen, nine, and I don’t know my condom size.”

“Magnums are the only way you should go,” he says. “And those assholes who say size doesn’t matter have shrimp dicks and are lying to themselves.” 

“Wow, okay.” I shake my head in response to that tidbit. “So instead of dick size, can we talk about more important things like where I’m gonna sleep tonight?”

“Ah, in the bed.”

“And where are you gonna sleep?”

“In the bed. Do you see how big it is?” he asks, stretchin’ his arms out to the sides. Not big enough, because he’ll still be way too close and too temptin’. I would throw myself at him in a heartbeat and then he’d turn me down, crushin’ me, or worse, we’d fuck and then things would be hella awkward at all holiday and family get-togethers.

“I should get my own room,” I remark.

“Don’t be ridiculous. My chubby buddy’s not that long. He won’t poke you without your permission.”

I roll my eyes, lettin’ the sleepin’ arrangement go for now. "What are we gonna do for the rest of the day?"

"Hang out here while you
recover
."

Lookin’ around the room, I realize there's not even a television set. "No TV?" I ask, and Mason chuckles.

"Pretty sure the people who stay in this room have better things to do than catch up on their shows, you know like ‘Doin’ It.’” He not only starts singing the chorus of the LL Cool J song, but adds a few upward hip thrusts. He just had to go and make me think about fuckin’. Not just fuckin’, but fuckin’
him
. In that bed he's lyin’ on. More times than I can count.

"I'm bored," I say when the sudden arousal makes me restless. "Let's just get in the car and drive the rest of the way."

"No."

"I'm not gonna get sick again," I argue.

“
Yeah you are," he says. "Maybe not today, but tomorrow and probably the next day. How often do you get sick, Hailey?" Mason rolls to his side and props his head up on his elbow, waitin’ for my response.

"It's not a big deal, and I told ya I don't wanna talk about it."

"Too bad, because talking is all there is to do around here." Screw that. I stand up and grab my purse, headin’ for the door. "If you walk out, I'll tell your family the truth," Mason threatens when I reach for the knob.

I suck in a sharp breath at his threat. “You're an asshole," I grumble, but I don’t leave.                                         

"You're sick."

"No, I'm not." Knowin’ I'm stuck here, I go and plop back down at my seat at the desk.

"Yes, you are. Not with a stomach virus but with a serious eating disorder."

"Whatever. If I had an eatin’ disorder, I wouldn't be fat, would I?"

"You're not fat, and the fact that you think you are when you're not is the whole problem."

"Is that right, Dr. Phil?"

"Doesn't take a doctor to figure that shit out," he replies before sittin’ up in the bed. "So how long have you been anorexic and bulimic?"

I groan and roll my eyes at his proddin’. "So what if I watch my weight? All women do, especially the ones in my profession."

"Your profession is toxic and hurting you. Isn't there something else you would rather do?"

"No. I like modelin’."

"Why?"

"I just do."

"Because you like the acceptance it occasionally offers? What is that, like maybe ten percent positive for the ninety percent negative?"

"Can we please talk about somethin’ else? You don’t know me. You just met me a few hours ago, so you really have no place to be lecturin’ me about somethin’ you don’t know anything about." Bastard. I know that my career is likely comin’ to an end whether I like it or not, so I don’t need to hear shit from him. I’m already freakin’ out about what I’ll do next. Since I’ve never used my marketing degree, decidin’ to travel the world with my agency instead after I graduated, that doesn’t leave me with a lot of options. “Washed up, overweight model” is not very glamorous on a resume.

"Does anyone else know the extent of your body image issues?" Mason asks. "I'm betting they don't, so I guess that means I know you better than everyone else."

I refuse to answer his question because he’s right. Again. I sort of hate him for it. Instead of respondin’, I turn my back to him in the desk chair and pull out my phone. Argh! More worried, inquisitive texts from my brother and parents because this jerk had to run his mouth. Of course I don’t want them to know, because just like him, they won’t understand what it takes to stay in this industry. I may only model plus size clothin’, but the retailers don’t want flabby women. They may say they want “normal” sizes, but really they want tall, lean runway models. There have been plenty of times where I’m turned down for being “too curvy.” And more recently, too old.

“Hailey?” the meddlin’ jerk says into the silence several minutes later.

“What?” I ask. When he doesn’t say anything else, I look back over my shoulder at him and wish I hadn’t. He and his sculpted muscles all stretched out in the most romantic setting ever is like puttin’ a three-layer chocolate cake in front of me and tellin’ me not to eat any. I want him so freakin’ much. Why can’t he put clothes on?

“Come here,” he says, pattin’ the space next to him on the mattress. My face flames at the sinfully temptin’ summons. There is no way I can be that close to him without attackin’ him.

“Ah, no,” I quickly decline.

“Please?”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I’m worried about you.” I want to call bullshit on him because he doesn’t know me, and we just met. But I don’t because of the honesty in his golden green eyes. It’s not fair that he can look so damn good, all big and badass, inflictin’ pain on other men for a livin’, and also have this incredibly soft, sensitive side to him. He’s the complete package, like he was made from a perfect boyfriend kit.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not!” he yells, his deep voice actually startlin’ me so much I jump in my seat. “
Fine
is not throwing up after you eat. You need help, especially if it’s been going on for a long time.”

“You’re makin’ a big deal out of nothin’,” I tell him. “I throw up once after eatin’ five hundred calories and you’re twistin’ it into somethin’ that it’s not.”

“When was the last time you threw up before lunch today?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell me. I just want you to be honest with yourself about how often you toss your cookies and how long this has been going on.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil, point made. You can let it go now.”

“I’m not letting this go,” he says. “Not until you agree to see someone. But fine, I’ll drop the issue for now.”

I exhale in relief that this uncomfortable conversation is over. He’s awfully young to be so damn bossy. “How old are you?” I ask curiously.

“Twenty. Why?”

Jesus
. I’m seven flippin’ years older than him. Now I feel really old
and
fat. “God, you’re young. You can’t even legally drink!”

“Right, like something as silly as a law stops me?” he replies with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re a stickler for rules,” I remark as my eyes drink him in from his head down to his toes stretched out on the bed like every woman’s wet dream.

“The way I see it, rules are made to be broken,” he says softly, his voice soundin’ deeper. Is it just me or did that sound dirty?