Read Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) Online
Authors: Cara Nelson
Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) (8 page)
Everything felt fragile. Bronny touched her lightly, almost afraid. She was the sure one this time, pressing his hand between her thighs, kissing his mouth, straddling his lap and moving up and down him until she was purring. He lifted her off him by the hips, an incredible act of control on his part.
Bronny ran his hand through her soft hair. What was it about her that made him just want to touch her? Feeling the silky texture of her skin, gliding his fingers through her hair, he simply did not think that he would ever get enough of Camila.
Tilting her head, he nipped at her earlobe before trailing kisses down her neck. He hugged her closer when she sighed in contentment. He loved the noises that she made when she was turned on and he wanted to hear more. Smiling down at her, he kissed the tops of her breasts, as she lay back on the pillows. Her hair fanned out around her head as she looked up at him with wide eyes.
Cupping the side of her face, she turned to press a kiss into his palm before he slid his fingers down her body. Not expecting her to become aroused, he watched as her eyes darkened and her skin seemed to heat up where he blazed a path with his touch. Circling his finger around her navel, she sucked in her breath as his hand came to rest on the waistband of her pants. Rubbing his thumb along the top of the band, he slid his fingers inside as she lifted her hips.
“Condom?” He managed to grind out as he tried to resist plunging into her tight wetness.
Camila shook her head. “Nothing between us.”
She sank onto him fully. He jerked his hips, pumping into her with abandon, feeling that kind of deep acceptance, the way she took all of him into her body. He spilled inside of her, felt her grip and pulse around him as she came under the ministrations of his hands and mouth.
She kissed him afterward, curled up in his arms.
“I love you, Bronny Dolan. I’ve loved you since you carried that fucking keg up the stairs for me.”
“Did you now?” He teased, “And I’ve loved you since you told me I was right about giving a plate of pasta to the baker’s table.”
“Truly?” she demanded.
“No, ‘twas before that even. It was when I saw your shamrock tattoo. It gave me hope you might not hate everything about me. Where is that tattoo, exactly?” he demanded, pretending to search her skin.
“It was a press-on from the drug store.” She laughed. “You fell in love with a temporary shamrock.”
“No. I’ve fallen in love with a permanent Camila,” he said, kissing her, “and I intend to fight for her.”
“You’ve won me already I’m just glad the Jameson boy can step in tonight…we don’t want to disappoint the bloodthirsty locals who want to see the last of these fights.” Bronny nodded and didn’t say a word to contradict her. A man who fought with his bare hands didn’t waste time with argument.
Bronny
It was a Dublin boy, a Flaherty out of MacPherson’s stable of touring fighters, and it had cost a pretty fee to engage him for the bout. His name and the MacPherson logo were enough to bring spectators from four counties and sell enough beer to account for a month of receipts.
There was a time when Bronny’s dad had tried to convince him to go for MacPherson’s, to go to the open calls in Dublin for fighters and see if he could cut it. It was the life, his dad swore, traveling the country and dominating bouts with local toughs and raking in money and fame.
Bronny had watched video of the Flaherty boy, and he was secretly a bit worried about his height. While Bronny was hulking, massive, Flaherty was taller, more sinewy, with an enviably long reach. That reach could be hell in a ring, when there was no getting away from him.
Bronny had never seen the Cheek so packed. The fire marshal had set capacity down the basement to around three hundred because they had a back exit down there as well. The crowd was well beyond that, and all of them eating and drinking and shouting and making bets. It made his heart stir with excitement and fire, but none of them meant a damn thing next to Camilla.
This was his chance to win her favor. She loved him already, certainly, but it was something like slaying a dragon for a lady of old. He could win enough that night to vanquish her mortgage and get them a down payment on the shop next door.
It was imperative that he win, something he’d never really experienced before. Sure, he had felt pressure from his family, but nothing like these stakes. He went behind the bar and took Rabbie aside. He needed an ally and the manager was the closest thing he had. He told Rabbie his plan, expecting pushback, expecting argument. Instead, Rabbie clapped him on the shoulder.
“Yer a good boy, Dolan. Better’n the rest of your lot, I daresay. Leave it to me.”
Rabbie went to deflect the Jameson boy to clear the way for the defending champion, an injured but determined Dolan who was even now washing down his third Vicodin with a generous swallow of whiskey.
He had struggled this morning with the pain level of even having the splint off, but now he was firing on adrenaline, narcotics and love. He adjusted the tape on his hand, thankful Camila was kept busy in the kitchen. She didn’t see him slip downstairs.
Instead of finding it vacant before the fight, he saw that the crowd was already dense. He stripped off his shirt and warm-ups, adjusted the layer of tape on his hand, and did a little shadowboxing, more for showmanship than practice.
The sight of him in trunks, in the ring so soon after the stabbing set the audience crowing. More than one person tried to dissuade him, more than one old friend nudged him and said that they knew nothing could keep a Dolan from a fight. Just this fight, he wanted to tell them, just the one worth winning. Betting was heavy, and he was amused to hear it was mostly against himself.
Word of the break with his family had spread. Locals thought this a desperate hazard, an attempt for him to reconcile with the old man even if it cost him the use of his hand. Dire predictions rippled through the crowd. That, coupled with the MacPherson fighter’s reputation, set the tide of opinion against him.
Bronny was more than ready. He was all adrenaline and fire, ready to take on the world to keep Camila in his life. So when the bell rang, he circled his prey and waited for the Flaherty boy to take the first shot.
He’d seen enough tape of the man to know how he operated, and the few who’d beaten him started out slow and measured. He wouldn’t go in like a fury, as he had with Joey Carney. This was a head game as much as one that relied on brute force.
God, let my hand hold out. Let me win this one and I’ll never ask for anything again. I’ve got to win her, be worthy of her, the one man who doesn’t let her down, he prayed earnestly.
He watched Flaherty’s blue eyes, his tight shoulders. They danced around the ring, exchanging a few jabs, making the crowd hold their collective breath. Bronny took a sharp hit to the right eye that he didn’t expect and it hurt like the devil. It throbbed and started to swell, messing with his depth perception.
Angry, he took a shot at Flaherty and was blocked easily. Narrowing the one eye that would obey him, he went for a body blow and landed one punch before taking one in the stomach himself. It was too evenly matched, he thought as he dodged and stepped.
Not like his other fights where he had to spend time stalling and putting on a show. This man could knock him out even if he was at his best, even if he wasn’t injured and drugged up. Flaherty could leave him broken and shamed on the mat. Fear surged into his body. He blocked out the crowd, hearing only the roar of his own blood, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in his eye.
Bronny struck him with a vicious left jab to the jaw, but Flaherty turned enough that the blow glanced off, doing less damage. He pounded Bronny in the face and body, a tireless assault that was wearing them both out fast.
Under the barrage, Bronny resisted the urge to put up his hands to protect his face. It would just leave his midsection open, and he’d have broken ribs to show for it. He took a bruising hit to the side and felt his ribs give and crack anyhow. But it gave him the opening he needed. He leveled a cross at Flaherty’s face with his off hand.
When the man blocked him, he punched with his right, smashing his fist sloppily, furiously, into the man’s cheekbone. The cry that split the silence in his head may have been his own. Flaherty dropped to the mat, clutching his face, and Bronny stood, holding his throbbing hand and trying not to retch.
It was finished. He’d won, at whatever cost. Relief sang in his blood, riding along the edge of the agony pulsing from his ruined hand. She would stay. She was his. Good God, but he hoped she hadn’t seen that or she’d kill him yet.
The referee was on them, declaring him the winner, and medics were coming into the ring. When the medic felt his hand for soundness of the bones, he retched again. They were muttering things about fingers and wrist, tendons and ligaments. He sank into a folding chair as they wrapped his hand to stabilize it before he could go to a hospital. His father appeared at his shoulder.
Camila climbed between the ropes and knelt beside him. She was weeping, ugly crying is what she would have called it, her face red and her mascara all over the place. Shaking her head, she kissed him. She looked in his face and kissed his other, uninjured hand. He touched her face and her hair and wondered what magic had brought her here, into this ring, at this minute when he needed her most. He marveled as she stood up, squared her shoulders and stuck her hand in his father’s face.
“I’m Camila Saunders. It’s time we met so you could say some of those ugly things to my face.”
“I think not. It’s you who’ve brought my son this low. There’s not a word for what you are.”
“Don’t worry. There will be soon. When I’m his wife. Then you can call me a daughter,” she said with a smile that was pure poison.
Bronny choked on a laugh.
What a woman
, he thought. What a fucking rock star to stand there beside him and say that to his father.
“I would never call you daughter,” his father said.
“You’ll have to. See, since your wife ran off and my mom’s dead and my dad…well, I think you knew that fucker. Our kids aren’t going to have much in the way of grandparents unless you get your head out of your ass,” she chirped.
“I know you’re angry,” Bronny started. “I wanted to fight for you. I know you’d not have let me so I didn’t tell you. Be mad at me later. Just be with me now.” He said
She nodded, her dark eyes warring between astonished and enraged. She bit her lip and turned back to his father.
“Bronny, I think the ambulance is finally here. We need to go. We can catch up on old times with your dad later.”
Camila reached down and helped Bronny up, hitching his arm over her shoulder and maneuvering him out of the ring. He kissed her then, because he couldn’t put into words what he wanted to say.
“Oh, you can thank me later. It won’t be as much fun without your right hand, but I think we’ll manage,” she winked.
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Men of the Capital Series
The Billionaire’s Hotline
(Excerpt Below!)
Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood
Pride
The ProVokaTiv Rockband Series
Excerpt from ‘The Billionaire’s Hotline’ Download Instantly Today!
“That’s right, Miss Hollingford, number nine on the list. Rebecca, actress, 27. Tonight at the Blake, say eight o’clock,” Jasper told his social secretary.
So far, the project had worked like a charm. Hot and cold running blondes at the touch of a button. Last night’s text had delivered a stunning lab assistant to his favorite sushi place in a barely-there bandage dress. She wouldn’t eat, swearing that there were bacteria in raw fish, so he didn’t even have to buy her dinner, just a dirty martini. Tonight he wanted someone light and fun. An actress sounded just right, although 27 was a little on the elderly end of the spectrum for his taste.
Jasper had had a productive day, finalizing the acquisition of two more promising competitors in the wind energy industry. He didn’t care much about green energy, but he liked to breathe and figured it was easier to make a profit off people who were healthy and generating income to buy his other products. It seemed a sound investment. Better than those e-cigarettes he’d passed up; although they were gaining popularity, he still thought they looked ridiculous. He hoped the actress didn’t smoke plastic cigarettes or anything else…he couldn’t stand the taste.
At eight, Jasper was sitting at the bar at the Blake in the same suit he’d worn to work. If it had been a date or an event, something where he had to worry about the impression he’d make, he would have gone home to change. As it was, he was able to work straight through until 7:45 and still make it to his rendezvous on time. He congratulated himself again on the sheer convenience of his planning…investing in a hotel with a lux bar close to the office, hiring a secretary and ersatz bagel boy to orchestrate his social life. It was good to be king, he mused complacently.
At 8:10, his actress had not arrived. He called Miss Hollingford with instructions to text the woman again. At 8:20, he demanded the number and texted her himself. There was no response, and certainly no delectable blonde on the menu at the Blake Bar. Exasperated, he texted again five minutes later. Didn’t she realize his time was valuable? If she showed up by 8:30 and apologized, he’d still sleep with her, he decided magnanimously. If she showed up by 8:40 and was suitably gorgeous, he might even buy her a drink first, although to his mind she had already wasted the getting-to-know-you courtesy quarter hour with her appalling lateness. He knew he should give up and return to the office, but he was reluctant to admit that his system had failed. It was a matter of pride now. Even though he could be at the gym or signing off on a leveraged buyout. Irritated beyond the telling of it, Jasper texted again. It felt good to plague her with obsessive reminders. It was satisfying somehow. He didn’t even admit the possibility that she’d discarded the phone or forgotten to charge it.
At nine, a vagrant entered the bar, her cut-offs and tank top spattered with paint. Messy brown hair was coming out of a lopsided ponytail and her face was flushed. Perhaps she was mentally ill, Jasper thought idly. Security should come take care of this before the patrons were importuned with some sort of scene. Even his house cleaner dressed better than that. What business she thought she had in an upscale hotel bar was beyond him. He punched in another text angrily. Seconds later, an absurdly loud message beep sounded…from the phone that vagrant creature held in her hand. She brandished it with disgust and marched directly up to him.
The mentally-ill street person addressed billionaire CEO Jasper Cates.
“Who the HELL do you think you are?” She hissed. People had ceased to talk and were avidly listening to the confrontation. Jasper let his derisive gaze sweep her from head to toe languorously.
“That depends entirely on whom exactly you think I am.”
“You’ve been texting this phone incessantly for the last hour and a half now what do you want?”
“There appears to be some mistake. I was trying to reach Rebecca,” he said smoothly, pleased that he remembered the actress’s name and wondering why in God’s name the half-witted bagel boy would have given a phone to this harpy. She wasn’t blonde, she wasn’t happy, and she clearly wasn’t overfond of Crossfit, judging by the softness of her shape. She wasn’t even clean.
“Becca is my sister,” she said. “You need to leave her alone. She’s happy. She’s with someone now, and she doesn’t need you fucking things up for her with your stalking.”
“Did you just say fucking in the Blake Bar?” Amusement quirked the corner of his sardonic mouth.
“Yes, I fucking did,” she spat. “Now stop texting and calling this number. It’s not Becca’s phone anymore, and I’m certainly not interested in you.”
“I assure you I won’t be trying to contact anyone at that number again. Clearly Rebecca’s life is going another direction now. I cherish the effort and grace required to inform me of that fact when a simple text message would have been adequate.”
“You were texting her obsessively. It was—alarming. I wanted to make sure you backed off.” A number of sophisticated diners were gaping at her, and her courage withered. “I know how I must look. I was painting my apartment when you started texting and…I guess I didn’t think it through.”
“I’ll take the phone back.”
“No. I need it. She gave it to me because she was through with it. It was hers. Were you the guy who gave it to her?”
“No but the phone belongs to my company.”
“Then how did Becca—never mind. My sister gave it to me, and I’m keeping it.”
“Listen, Miss—“
“Largent. Hannah Largent,” she said, hands on her hips, fury at defending her phone burning away her fit of embarrassment.
“Miss Largent, your sister was given the phone for a reason which is no longer viable. Return it to me.”
“Forget it.” She turned around and stalked out of the bar.
Without hesitation, Jasper left his drink and took off after her. The idea of this harpy keeping one of his phones when it could be redistributed to a woman who met his criteria was offensive. That was
his
thirty dollar disposable phone, and he’d be damned if some stupid actress was going to get away with giving it to her frumpy sister. He caught up to her. Maybe she wasn’t as out-of-shape as he had thought, considering her speed. Grabbing her by the arm, he stopped her. She whipped her head around, her ponytail flicking him across the face.
“Seriously? You’re going to follow me, because all the text stalking didn’t make you seem psycho enough?” She scoffed.
For the first time, he noticed that her voice was gorgeous, low and husky. It made him think of a dark cabaret, a pair of red lips closing around a white cigarette, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to form a perfect pale smoke ring drifting up to the rafters. Her voice was like velvet, and he had a fierce urge to cover her mouth with his.
“My phone,” he gasped.
“No, that’s MY phone. Were you going to give it to some other girl? Wait—that’s it, isn’t it? You gave the phone to Becca or had someone else do it so you could call her to hook up. How many phones have you given out?”
“Twenty-nine.” He smirked.
“That is repulsive. Who does that?”
“I’m a busy man, Miss Lawson.”
Hannah leaned closer for emphasis. “Largent. But if you’re as successful as you act, you already knew that and just said my name wrong to put me in my place.”
Now Jasper knew she sounded like Nina Simone and smelled like cinnamon gum. He found it hard to regulate his breathing, much less keep his hands to himself.
“Excuse me?” His eyebrows shot up.
“You dropped your voice to make it sound confidential, but your eyes cut to the left. You’re trying to manage me with a falsehood.”
“Are you a criminal profiler or something?”
“Actually, I do voiceovers and some sound effects editing. I work both sides of the sound board. I know how to manipulate intonation linguistics. It’s part of my job. You, Mr. Cates, have a Machiavellian inflection.”
“Is that a clinical term?”
“No. I just made it up, but it suits you, because you’ll say anything to achieve your objective. You belittle me, lie to me, and harass my sister.”
“I merely tendered an invitation which she no longer wishes to accept. Return my phone so it can be recirculated.”
“I refuse to abet such a blatantly patriarchal attempt at human trafficking.” Her low voice grew haughty, but no less irresistible for it.
“Human trafficking entails financial gain or compensation. I read
Half the Sky,
so don’t try to give me a vocabulary lesson and mischaracterize my dating methodology as an atrocity against women and children.”
“Prostitution, then.”
“Again, by definition, a financial transaction. I have never had to pay for or even coerce sexual favors from anyone.”
“You’re awfully insecure for such an arrogant man. I’d like to add you to my repertoire. May I record you?”
Jasper bristled at the implication and set his jaw. “No,” he barked.
“I’ll give you back the phone in three days—that’s when I’ll get my real phone back—if you’ll let me record you being arrogant and manipulative. I’d like to study your intonation and see if I can imitate it for work purposes. It’s more complex than I first thought,” she offered, dropping her voice so he had to step closer.
“No one is studying my voice. I’m not a test subject. I’m a CEO.”
“Congratulations. You must be very proud,” Hannah said slyly. “You’re not getting the phone tonight, and you’re obviously not going to get laid unless you mobilize another disposable tart. So I’ll buy you a cup of coffee if you’ll keep talking to me.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” he spat reflexively.
He was tempted to go to a diner with her, to keep talking to her, to see if he could win her over and perhaps to convince her to put that luscious mouth on him. She had full lips, bordering on a pout, but a tight, cross expression ruined their sensuality. Jasper thought that, given a chance, he could do away with her look of profound dissatisfaction.
“Okay. I’ll have coffee and you can have water or something healthy like that. Unless you’re afraid of tap water, too.”
“Why would I be afraid of tap water?” he said sourly.
“You acted like I asked you to tip back a mug of battery acid when I mentioned coffee. I assume it’s got additives or carcinogens or some crap like that and you’re afraid to drink it. Live a little.”
“I was trying to, but you took her phone,” he said with a rakish grin. “What kind of coffee do you drink? Isn’t tea better for your vocal chords?”
“Yes,
Mom
. I like coffee. The kind with lots of caffeine and sugar, and whipped cream if I can get it.” She laughed at him.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, equally irritated and aroused by her. This, he supposed, was banter…that snappy nonsense from black and white films that Clare used to go on about. He recalled her perpetual whining that he was a terrible communicator and never engaged with her. Why had he thought of her now? She had been utterly unlike this street urchin with the sexy voice and the fierce opinions. Banter was easy with Hannah Largent because she got a rise out of him.
“I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, all the whipped cream you want, and you can listen to me speak while I convince you to relinquish the phone to its rightful owner.” Jasper dialed up the charm, knowing full well that his smile was warm and showing just the hint of a dimple in his right cheek. Women loved that dimple.
“Sure. I’ll drink free coffee, but you’re not getting the phone. Let’s say it’s in the name of linguistics research.”
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