The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs Book 3) Page 16

  The more I watch her, the more possessive I feel. It’s growth that needs to happen, but the hardest of my pains when it comes to her.

  I don’t want to know just yet who’s kissed her, touched her, fucked her. I’m liable to lose my head. But I know there’s a part of me that needs to be okay handling whatever the truth is. Even after all our time apart, it’s clear to me she’s very much the same girl I fell for, just a little less naïve and more worldly. I can still read her, anticipate some of her words, her thoughts. So, when her breath sputters after seeing a man in wait at the foot of her building, I notice.

  The guy catches sight of Harper and lights up when their eyes connect in a way that grates me, and I know without a doubt, this is the new.

  Harper’s ears redden, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

  “New?” I ask, trying to hide the raw jealousy I feel.

  I already know the answer, but she nods, looking on at him before darting her gaze back to me. “Just let me talk to him for a second, and then I’ll introduce you.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The guy lifts his phone as she approaches. “Hey, you, I’ve been trying to text you today.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been out and about.”

  Just as I was thinking it minutes ago, I know without a doubt I’m being tested, which is just my damned luck. Though he might be new, it’s obvious there is a little history between them. I can read it in their posture and easy conversation as I size him up. He’s tall, built, and dressed to dance in skin-tight black slacks and a matching button-up shirt. His thin pants leave nothing to the fucking imagination.

  And the cherry on top? Well, that’s the horse dick resting on one of his silk-covered thighs.

  Instantly, I want to dismember him.

  Horse dick looks past Harper’s shoulder at me, and her eyes follow. She’s nervous, and it’s painfully clear. She’s never juggled two men at once, and her attempt is shit. Even in my state, I swear to God I love her more for it. I’d be more amused if the guy wasn’t staring at me like I’d just stolen his puppy.

  After a few seconds of polite conversation, I make my way over to where they stand.

  “So, who is this?”

  “This is Lance. We went to college together at Grand. Lance, this is Casey, he’s a choreographer for the show I’m in. He was just doing a promotional shoot at the park across the street for one of his upcoming shows. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “Sure is.” It’s a nice enough reply, but I play on the only words I truly heard. “Yep, old college pals,” I say, grabbing his offered hand with a firm shake as he sizes me up. I’m only too happy when I see him swallow.

  That’s right, motherfucker.

  “Just old pals. I played ball for her dad.” I nudge Harper with my shoulder. “Though he got a little pissed when she Snapchatted my dick to him.”

  “It was your ass!” Harper says, close to hysterical as her eyes volley between us.

  “That’s right, my bare ass. My bad, pal.” Casey is not at all amused, and I give myself a mental pat on the back. It’s a hell of a lot breezier conversation than I thought myself capable of. But my point has been made, and I can safely leave it there.

  “So, what are your plans tonight?” Casey asks Harper, dismissing me as though he’s the bigger man. And maybe he is.

  I hate everything about this situation but fight the inclination to show it.

  Harper stands fish-mouthed for a few seconds. “Well, we’re…I was going to take Lance to—”

  “I’m training tonight, so she’s free,” I toss in, which has them both turning my way. Casey looks satisfied while Harper looks over to me, stunned. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I’ve got a fight in less than a week. Can’t pass up a chance to train. Tony’s with me.”

  “He is? Here in New York?”

  “I told you I fought last night. Can’t do that without my corner.”

  “Uh huh. But you said this was a charity fight coming up.”

  “A fight all the same.” I shrug. “Gotta have my trainer.”

  “A fight?” Casey asks.

  “He’s a boxer,” Harper adds with pride, despite my shitty demeanor. She’s too proud of me to act any other way. “He’s got his first pro fight in a few months.”

  Casey nods, eyes lingering on her face with the way she regards me. His disappointment is unmistakable, and I let myself have a little victory. I can see him mentally start to lay his weapon down before he persists, and I have to give him credit. He leans in toward Harper as I stuff my clenched fists in my jeans.

  Casey tugs on her scarf. “Want to grab dinner?”

  “I, uh,” Harper looks back to me.

  “You go,” I speak up, unwilling to witness another second. I’m not giving up, but I’m tapping out before I let the thought of them gnaw at me. “I should head out now,” I say, pulling Harper in for a brief hug, ignoring the eagerness in her expression.

  I look over to Casey. “Good meeting you, man.”

  “Nice you finally showed,” he mutters dryly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just as nice meeting you.” He’s no bullshit, and it’s clear he has a set of nuts on him as well. He tilts his head as if he’s trying to figure out my game while I keep my face as passive as possible. The hard part about becoming the man you want to be is owning the actions that entails. I’ve never been so fucking jealous in my life, but I know that if we are to ever have a future together, if we have any hope of having one anytime soon, I have to kill the territorial beast.

  “See you later?” I ask Harper.

  Harper slowly nods as I fight for every single step away from her.

  “You left her, at her apartment, with a guy with a Moby Dick?” Tony asks, holding the bag.

  “Yep,” I grunt, running a combo on the tattered sack.

  “Why?”

  “To prove to myself I can handle it.”

  Again, I slam my fist into the bag, the momentum pushing Tony back.

  “Props, man. I would have pissed a circle around her.”

  “Trust me, I fucking wanted to.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t be, you don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “It’s okay to think, as long as you never act. It would do you good to remember that. And you’re making the bag bleed. I haven’t seen you this amped up in a hot damn minute.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “Sure you do, you’re giving her a choice.”

  “He’s here. He’s in her world. I’m not.”

  “I’m not much for girl talk, but if I remember correctly, at one time, you were her world.”

  “Right,” I do another combo, and Tony’s again pushed back by the force of it. “That’s why she left.”

  “Easy, man. This is just a warm-up. And maybe that’s why you’re here. Not for another chance with her, but to finally front her out about leaving you so abruptly.”

  I shake my head. “You think I’m such a damned egomaniac I can’t handle getting dumped?”

  “By her, dumped by her. She’s the difference.”

  It’s the truth. Post breakup, I had to spend a lot of time training with Tony. He watched me fight through it all and has been around every minute since. He’s one of the only true friends in my life, one I respect.

  I tag the bag again with a hard right, and he shakes his head.

  “Jesus, don’t throw like that at the charity fight, you’ll kill the guy.”

  “Why are we doing this anyway?”

  “It looks good on the résumé,” he answers. “And before you think about canceling it to spend more time in New York, think again, it may be a charity fight, but we’re getting a decent paycheck, and we both need it.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  “I mean it, man.”

  “I fucking won’t!” I roar as Tony steps back
, and I lay into the bag.

  “Chill, you’re going to spend yourself on warmup, and we have a match in five.”

  We’re training in one of the nastiest dumps I’ve ever been in, and that’s saying a lot for having grown up in a town with one stoplight.

  “Where did you find this shithole?”

  “I trained here for a while before I went pro. Don’t knock it, some of the greats stemmed from here. And anyway, platinum training doesn’t keep anyone hungry. You stay in the gutter, you stay hungry.”

  “Wise words from the Buddha of Boxing.”

  Tony grins, reminding me of Joe Pesci—who he could pass as a cousin for—just with added height. “Damned right, and it will do you good to remember it.”

  “Who am I fighting?”

  Tony glances around the room and jerks his chin. “That guy. Three o’clock. He beat Otto once.”

  “No shit?” Otto Lawrence won heavyweight this year and is a fan favorite. His strength and speed are intimidating. He’s one of the few who do that to me, but when it comes to boxing, I’ve never hesitated to step into the ring.

  I size up my competition on the other side of the room, and he gives a polite nod. His demeanor may be friendly, but his eyes say he’s going to own my ass. My answering nod says, ‘we’ll see.’

  “He’s got the speed you lack. After he schools you, he’s going to give you some pointers.”

  “Don’t be so sure that’s happening.”

  “I like your confidence, but he’s next level. You aren’t quite there yet.”

  I glance over to where he sits while getting his fists taped up, as an image of Harper and horse dick pops up, blurring my vision crimson. “Let’s do this.”

  “Fuck, I look like Quasimodo,” I say, eyeing myself in the mirror in the bathroom while making my way to Tony.

  He throws his head back with a laugh. “That’s what you get for squaring off with a professional.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I wince as he presses on my nose, my words coming out muddled. “I need a painkiller.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Tony says, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen and tossing two in my hand, “you came to New York pretty, but you got jacked.”

  My phone buzzes on the bench beside me as Tony tapes up the cut above my eye. “No stitches needed, the nose will go down overnight, and the tooth will reset itself, just don’t touch it. Your eye, though,” he whistles through his teeth, “well tomorrow, you’ll have a face only a mother could love.”

  “You didn’t tell me he’s an ex-champ.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Am I ready for this?” I ask honestly.

  “Don’t doubt yourself now, asshole. He came at you with everything he knew because you didn’t know of him. That’s insulting. Know your opponent. I told you to start watching other fighters.”

  “I played football for fifteen years, I know football.”

  “And you’ve been in this ring for years, no more excuses. I know you have a shit ton on your shoulders, but we need to get in the head game. I’m serious, man. We, not just me, have to anticipate strengths and weaknesses. We’ll attend more fights this year.”

  “Yeah, because we have the bread,” I roll my good eye.

  “We’ll deal with it. You need some sleep. That’s fatigue talking.”

  My phone rattles again, and I pick it up to see it’s Mom checking in. I text her back and see a missed text from Harper.

  Harper: Why did you run off like that and leave me there? That was a dick move.

  “Shit, and it’s just that damned easy for her to make you smile,” Tony says, bagging his supplies. He lingers, and I can tell he wants to say something but thinks better of it. “Ice and heat. And sleep.”

  “Got it.”

  “See you the day after.”

  “Wait, you’re giving me some time off?”

  “Get your miles and weights in, but yeah, you’re ready. Have a good Christmas. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “What about you?”

  Tony grins. “I’m covered.”

  “Like that, huh?”

  “Yeah, like that. You forget this is home for me and I’ve got a house call to make. Besides, one of us needs to get laid.”

  I give him the finger and glance down at my phone.

  Lance: How would you know? It’s been a while since you’ve seen my dick move.

  Harper: Har, har, still Shakespeare, I see. And that’s not what I asked. Why did you bolt?

  Lance: I told you I had a match. And I got my ass kicked. I don’t look pretty.

  Harper: That’s karma. What time are you coming in the morning?

  Lance: In the morning.

  Harper: You are such a pain in the ass.

  Lance: Admit you missed me.

  Harper: Rolling eyes emoji.

  Harper

  “Holy shit!”

  “I texted you it wasn’t pretty.”

  “You look like a pug dog.”

  “Thanks, and you look beautiful.” Heart soaring from his compliment, I tug him into my kitchen to inspect his eye. Much like yesterday, he looks gorgeous, aside from the side of his face that looks mangled. It’s a little grotesque. There’s a cut above his eye, and his nose is a bit swollen. I order him up on the counter, and he hoists himself up easily, his biceps flexing under another form-fitting sweater. I pull one of my ice packs from the fridge and press it against his bruised skin. “Does it hurt?” I lift the pack and press on the area, testing to see if there’s fluid behind it.

  “Yes, because you’re fucking with it.”

  I jerk my hand away. “Sorry. What does the other guy look like?”

  “Hot, he’s about six-one, two-thirty, mocha skin. It was a nice date. How was yours?”

  “We didn’t make it to dinner.” Casey knew after laying eyes on Lance that he was the one I’d been waiting for. He’d said as much after I hesitated to accept his dinner offer before he bowed out.

  “Shame. Are you upset about it?”

  “No, he knows I’m not in the right place for commitment.”

  I pause because I can feel his body tense with my statement.

  “And anyway, you took care of the rest with your lewd shit. Thanks for that. I had to spend five minutes explaining why I Snapchatted your ass to my father.”

  “Sorry,” he smirks. “It slipped.”

  “Sure, it did. I can’t believe you told him we did the horizontal hustle.”

  He tosses his head back and laughs. “You dork. Who says that?”

  “Nana and I don’t like saying…”

  He quirks a thick brow. “Saying…?”

  “You know,” I say softly.

  He leans in. “Nope, no idea.”

  “Sex.”

  Lance shakes his head slowly. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

  We’re close to eye level, his breath hot on my lips, his eyes tracking my every movement. “I remember it flowing quite nicely through those lips, many times.”

  “Fucking,” I own it. “But I don’t like to be that vulgar when I’m not in the heat of the moment or pissed off.”

  “I’m hurt, Priss, I thought we made love.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “’Sides, I thought I was a gentleman about the whole situation.”

  “You almost passed for one. And what’s up with that? Who are you, and what did you do with Caveman Prescott?” I can’t figure him out. His eyes and lips, even his language all scream intimacy, and yet he hasn’t gone out of his way to touch me or claim me in any way, even for the moment, even if his visit is brief. Maybe his intention isn’t at all to win me back. Maybe his point of visiting is just that. I swallow, tracing the light bruise on his jaw.

  “Be proud of me, Priss,” he says through thick lips. His eyes are drawing me closer as I inch my fingers around his face. Nipples drawn tight, I’m far too eager to give in one more inch and draw on his lips. The buzz between us is there, it’s heav
y in my limbs, my aching center, becoming harder to ignore. I never asked if he had anyone waiting for him back home. And the question is getting harder to pose.

  “Proud of you for?”

  “I’m a growing man,” he says gruffly. “Speaking of which, I’m starving.”

  “O-okay,” I stutter out reluctantly, pulling my hands away. “I’ll, uh, get my purse. We’re going to my nana’s first if that’s okay? I just need to show my face and spend a little time with her since my Christmas plans changed last minute.”

  “Sorry,” he says, sincerely apologetic.

  “I’m not,” I say, sliding my purse on my shoulder. “Let’s get you fed.”

  Lance and I take the steps up to the brownstone as I pull my keys from my jacket pocket before unlocking the door. “Nana, where are you?”

  “Hey, Dove, I’m in the kitchen.”

  “I’m not alone,” I call out in warning.

  “The more the merrier.”

  “I bet she’s making matzo ball soup,” I say excitedly. “It’s tradition. Today is the first day of Hanukkah.”

  Lance hesitantly steps into the house, glancing around.

  “Don’t worry, she’s a little old school, but surprisingly open-minded, and she’ll love you. Take your boots off.” Lance unlaces his boots and sets them on the doormat next to mine.

  Nana calls out to us from the kitchen. “Come on in, I’m making matzo soup.”

  “Told you,” I say as Lance takes his time perusing the two-story townhome I’ve spent most summers living in since I was five. He stops short of the entryway, fixed on a picture of me in a pale pink leotard and matching tutu. “That was my first recital. I was two.”

  He grins and grabs the frame to study it up close. “Cute.”

  “Yeah, well, it was a disaster. I sneezed and peed all over my leotard but kept dancing. That’s showbiz.” Setting the picture down, he takes a step forward and scans the wall of the staircase, which is basically a photo collage of my dance history. Dozens of pictures tell my story by photograph, showing my growth. He runs a finger over the latest addition. It was a showcase I did in Spain.

  “This is cool.”

  “It’s a little embarrassing. You would think I’m her only grandchild.”