No Limits (The Fighter Series Book 6) Page 2

  Her giggle causes my dick to throb harder.

  In an attempt to contain my thoughts and settle my raging hard-on, I switch the subject. “Tell me about your tattoo. Did you design it?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. I sat in the chair and told the artist I didn’t want butterflies or skulls and that I liked lace and some flowers. The rest was up to him. We’ve known each other since…” she looks to her fingers, but then shrugs. “I don’t know. Since my brother screwed his sister.”

  My mouth drops. “And you trusted him?”

  “Why not? He didn’t have beef with me, just my brother. Plus, what a great way to get back at my brother by defiling his sister’s skin with a gorgeous tattoo. He knew it would piss him off and it did.”

  “What did your brother do?”

  She laughs at the memory. “Ran off and married his sister. Spite marriage.” She rolls her eyes. “You know that didn’t go well. Five years later, she ran off with some schmuck and got hooked on coke. Not sure the winner of the maturity battle there.”

  As we eat, our chat slows, but doesn’t stop. She tells me more about her brother’s reaction to her tattoo, which was priceless in her words, and asks about mine. I don’t have a great story like she does. I knew what I wanted and got it done. No one freaked out and ran off to marry anyone.

  After paying for the meal, we head back to the truck. “Back to the club?” I ask, knowing she was the DD for her friend.

  She tightens her lips and shakes her head. “Scarlett said they’d Uber home.”

  “Can I take you home?” And explore more of your lips…I keep that thought to myself.

  “If it’s not too much, please? It’s not too far.” For the first time since meeting her, she sounds nervous.

  My reply comes in the form of opening the truck door for her.

  After she tells me where to go, the rest of the ride is quiet until I pull up to the curb in old downtown. The stores and buildings around us look like they still have their original brick façade from hundreds of years ago with updated windows and awnings.

  “Tell me the truth. How much farther do you live from here?” I ask, pretty damn doubtful she lives around here.

  She blinks to me. “Not far.”

  “Jolie. I’m not—”

  “I’ve got it from here,” she interrupts me.

  “You sure? I don’t mind—”

  “I’ve walked this a million times. I’m fine.”

  Understanding she really doesn’t know me, I let it go, but not without taking her phone from her hand and shooting myself a text. I smile up to her. “Call me tomorrow so I can hear your smartassery some more.” And know that you’re okay.

  She slips out of the truck, looking back at me. “I know what you’re trying to do, but I need you to know it’s not going to happen. You’re pretty fucking hot, but I’m really not interested. Most single guys like you have this mentality of morphing into an asshole.”

  “I’ve been anything but. Besides, my single could mean I’m waiting on Ms. Right.” Technically it’s not a lie.

  “Or you have a freakishly little dick. Either way, don’t expect me to call. Thank you for everything tonight.”

  She shuts the door and my mouth falls open with a cackle.

  I like her mouth in more ways than one.

  Also, challenge accepted.

  Chapter 3

  Sunlight funnels through the blinds, plowing through the fabric of my navy blue curtains and straight onto my face waking me up. I groan, pulling the pillow out from under my head and over my eyes. I purposefully went with dark colored curtains to keep the light out and the dark in. Under the spell of sleep, there are no obligations or deadlines, and I prefer to squeeze in as much sleep as I can before my day kicks in.

  Yet, the sun is relentless and reminds me today is here, whether I’m ready or not. I stand, stretching my body, and head for the shower so I can wake up and get to the gym.

  Hot water batters my body, waking my thoughts. Immediately, flashing images of the gorgeous tattooed smartassed woman I was lucky enough to spend some time with last night travel to my dick and wake his ass up too.

  Gripping my shaft, I stroke. Jolie’s lush lips wrap around my cock and she takes me, hitting the back of her throat. A groan vibrates from me and I squeeze tighter as I pump harder. My stomach tightens. My nuts constrict. She rolls her eyes up to me and grins like it’s a pleasure to please me before swirling her tongue around the crown. She deep throats me again. I fuck my hand faster, my climax approaching fast with her in my sights. My breath rushes out of me and I moan, jerking my dick to empty every last drop while picturing Jolie sucking me dry.

  Breathless, I brace myself on the side of the shower. Water tumbles down my face and I can’t help but blow out a laugh. It’s a fucking shame the only action I’m getting is shower jerk-offs to imaginary women.

  After my shower , I slip into my gym clothes and then grab my phone to shoot a text to the star of my blow job.

  Kyce: I’m assuming you’re dead since I haven’t heard from you.

  Jolie: Pipe down, worrywart. It’s too early for that.

  Kyce: It’s 10am on Saturday. Don’t sleep your day away. Come spend it with me.

  Jolie: Aww. You’re cute.

  I laugh.

  Kyce: Think about it.

  Ryker, my most beloved asshat of a brother, is walking out of his office at the gym when I come striding in.

  “What’s up, little dick?” I call out, dropping my bag on the bench.

  His bulk of a body twists toward me and he smirks.

  The smirk is a Hayes thing. It comes naturally and is normally our answer to everything.

  “You up for some spar action?” he asks.

  “With who?”

  He spreads his arms to the side and—you guessed it—smirks.

  I’ve been sparring with Ryker since the beginning of his MMA days. Fought the shit out of him growing up too. Since becoming adults, we haven’t fought like we used to except for one time. It resulted in my ass bathing in my own blood, but I deserved every bit of it, including the scar hidden right above my eyebrow.

  I wrap my hands and meet him in the ring. He’s an intimidating sight for those who don’t know him or have to stand across from him in the cage. He’s a big sonofabitch, standing five inches taller than my five-eleven frame and is nearly eighty pounds heavier.

  All of us Hayes brothers boast Dad’s blue eyes and temper—Ryker with the palest and the shortest fuse, Jackson with the deepest and the most balanced temper, and me with the ocean blues and the restrained firecracker. That’s about where the similarities end.

  Jackson and Ryker were blessed with Dad’s stoic and powerful emotional strength. They can walk through a fire without the fear and pain showing on their faces. Where I was damned with Mom’s emotional side. I wouldn’t voice my fear, but you’d see that shit written all over my face.

  We trade punches, moving through defenses and stepping into offense combinations. He swings a right and I duck, countering with a left. He moves away from it. We pitch half-heavy but swift hits back and forth, seldomly sending in kicks.

  After thirty minutes, I’m beginning to get gassed out and decide to wrap him up to get his back on the mat. I lunge forward, my shoulder connecting with his stomach. My arms wind around his waist, and I yank, trying to move him off balance. He stumbles to the side, balances, and shoves a palm in my face, pushing me away with a laugh.

  “You may be good, but you’re not that good. You should pick on someone your own size,” he says.

  “I’ll get you down one of these days. You watch, asshat,” I say out of breath.

  Suddenly, he drops, sitting on his ass before lying down. “Okay. I’ve done the hard work. I’m ready.” He chuckles like the asshole he is.

  I shove his thigh with my foot. “Fuck you.”

  Dropping his arms out to the side, he closes his eyes. “I have faith you’ll drop me one day. I’ve got to tu
rn eighty before you. Right?”

  “You’re going to piss me off one day and I’m going to destroy you. Have you bathing in your blood.” My tone is joking, but I’m serious as hell.

  His chest rises and falls as he laughs under his breath. He lifts his head. “So what you’re saying is I’ve never pissed you off enough? Fuck…” He drops his head back and looks to the ceiling. “I’m slacking on my big brother skills.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass,” I mumble.

  Ryker gets to his feet and brings his fists back up, getting back into his fighter stance. The break is over.

  “How’s my favorite nephew?”

  “Growing. Since he started walking, he hasn’t stopped. And he gets into every fucking thing.” He swings and clocks me upside the head. “Like your dumbass.”

  I shake the rattle from my head and respond with a slurry of punches, landing three out of twenty. Ryker is a massive man with the swiftness of a damn gazelle.

  I’m dripping in sweat when I flick my wrist and place my hand on top of my head.

  I’m out of breath. Ryker’s fine.

  I’m gassed out. He could go another hour.

  “Where’s Carter?” I ask.

  “Had some shit to do with his mom while his step-father was out of town.” He rests his hands on his hips. “He’s not scheduled to fight for another few months.”

  “And you?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Guess with my last two bouts ending in the second round, the MMAP realizes they offer me no competition.”

  “You think they’ll line you up against Levi ever again?”

  “I fucking hope so,” he snaps.

  And…that’s as far as I’ll go with that conversation. Levi’s a double-edged sore subject. He’s Ryker’s biggest rival. Levi beat him at the championships, securing his spot in the pros while destroying Ryker’s chance. But my brother had that night coming to him. He stooped to an ignorant bastard in that fight, allowing his emotions to get the best of him.

  Ryker was lucky enough to get a second shot at the pros but on the night of the fight, he had to forfeit. A guy had bet his life savings on Ryker losing and in order to make sure it happened, he ended up beating the shit out of Whitney, Ryker’s fiancée. Unfortunately, Levi was the one who saved her and that was like acid eating away at Ryker. To add to the wound, the MMAP didn’t care the reason and denied Ryker ever gaining access to the pros.

  But guess who showed up to combat their decision? Levi.

  Together, the rivals were able to get the association to buckle, but not without conditions.

  Either way, Ryker abhors Levi, but is forever indebted to his enemy.

  Ryker shoves my shoulder. “Go take a shower and come spend time with Kaden. I’ll tell Whit to make enough dinner for you too. Not like you have anything else better to do.”

  How would he know? “And what if I do?” I bluff.

  His brow rises, his lips twisting to the side. “Nothing is better than me, my wife, or my son. See you this evening, shithead.”

  As he walks away, I laugh. He’s such an egotistical ass.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up late this morning and rushed around the apartment, scrambling to get ready. I tossed my hair half up, shrugged into a Twisted Motor Sports tank top and a pair of black skinny jeans with holes in the knees, and bolted out the door.

  My brother, Jordon, is going to have a mental breakdown if he catches me late. It’s the second time this week and the tenth time this month. My alarm clock and me? We don’t get along. I have a deep animosity for the thing, especially since I haven’t slept well in over a year.

  “You’re late,” Jordon bites as I dash through the door. He’s sitting in the chair behind my desk with his large arms crossed over his chest and his feet propped up on top of my desk.

  I drop my bag on the corner. “I need a new mattress.”

  “What’s that got to do with you being here on time?”

  “I’m sleep deprived. My mattress is killing me.”

  Not finding any humor in my slow death, his honey brown eyes narrow. “Then buy yourself a new mattress. And a fucking alarm clock. The phones have been ringing off the hook this morning.”

  His tone screeches down my spine, plucking my anger. “You forget how to answer them?”

  He jerks to his feet, raising to his full height of six-one, and levels a glower on me that chills my blood. “You forget I pay you to fucking answer them?” He storms past me.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I seethe. “Jesus, Jordon.”

  “Get to work,” he barks over his shoulder, stomping out of the office.

  My brother is hot and cold. Warm and scalding then iceberg cold when he’s not. I really do have a great brother even though he can be moody. When he’s dismal and pissy, I don’t mind plotting his death—slow and torturous. Angry, the man has no filter, or respect, or care, or reverence. Basically, it’s a “fuck you and everyone around you” mood. Thankfully, those types of outbursts don’t come often.

  He used to not be like that and only occasionally was a dickhead. That was before his wife Victoria left him four years ago. The last year of their relationship, they fought all the time and she’d pick fights over every damn thing. Five minutes late coming home from work and she rode his ass. At the end, they got along like gasoline fumes and a spark, and it turned him sour.

  After she left, his heartbreak was short-lived. He sulked for a week but then got back to his happy self. Part of me thinks he was glad the bitch was gone and he was finally free of her belittling. I know I was. I missed my brother—the guy Victoria stole from me. She would have reamed him for hiring me two years ago when I was in a bad situation and hurting for money.

  It was no thanks to my asshole ex-fiancé leaving me with a mountain of bills.

  Ah, young love and madly in debt. That’s the only way to live nowadays, right? Chris—the asshole—came from a wealthy family. I’m talking big-time money. We had to rack up credit cards to keep up with the Joneses…especially since his last name was Jones and he wanted to show his snooty ass parents we could make it.

  Except we couldn’t.

  I met Chris when I was sixteen, but we didn’t start dating then. I couldn’t stand him. To me, he was one of those affluent kids who walked, talked, and shit all the money he wanted. He was too preppy and the thought of having that much money repulsed me. But after two years of a hallway friendship and his persistence, I gave in and went on a date. Getting to know him on a different level made me fall, fast and hard. We loved each other as much as any eighteen-year-olds could. When we graduated, his parents, who despised me because I wasn’t classy enough for their darlin’ son, gave him a house and an entry level spot in the company law firm while he attended college to get his degree.

  I worked at a swanky coffee shop, so high-end I felt I was being robbed of fresh air below their noses. But Chris and I were so in love, so happy regardless of the stress and the late nights he pulled studying for his degree. I supported him.

  A few months later, he put a rock on my finger that needed its own body guard. I was so stupid, I said yes.

  Two years later, while in my wedding dress ready to walk toward the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, my mom informed me that Chris had walked out without saying a word. That asshole left me at the altar. I was stunned and devastated. Embarrassed and unable to face the guests, I changed out of my wedding dress and slipped out the back door.

  Confused and heartbroken, I went home looking for Chris, but was greeted by John, his brother. He was still in his tuxedo when he told me to pack my shit and get out without a drop of sorrow for the mascara and tears staining my cheeks.

  Come to find out, Chris was fucking a coworker from the firm and she gave him an ultimatum—either me or her. He went with the money. After finding out she was fifteen years older than him, I was crushed.

  But life is grand now. I’m slowly getting out of the black hole of debt. I�
��m down to three credit cards—one I had no clue about but is in my name—all totaling a whopping thirty thousand dollars. I went from a two-story, three thousand square foot home at the age of nineteen to living in a studio apartment on the fourth floor of a dilapidated building at twenty-three.

  Although mentally I’m over Chris, the situation left a horrible scar. I officially hate men to the point where switching sides sounds better if it weren’t for the fact I like dick too much.

  Jordon’s presence makes my skin crawl, like Lucifer himself is debating on stealing my soul. I haven’t seen him since this morning, and now he’s standing in the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the space. “You not taking a lunch?”

  I don’t look up from the papers in front of me. “No. I was late, so I wanted to make up for my mistake.”

  “Go eat, Jolie.”

  Finally, I give him a glance and rest back in my chair. “What’s with you? You’re more…” I roll my wrist. “A dickhead today.”

  His lips tic. “I’m fine.”

  “Is that the equivalent to a woman’s ‘I’m fine’? I’m not fluent in fuckface.” I point to the black leather couch that has seen its fair share of days. “Have a lie down. Tell me your problems,” I quip.

  Instead, he doesn’t move. “Did you know Victoria was back in town?”

  I’d like to think I keep a straight face, but my chin hitting the floor gives it away. “Are you serious?”

  “And guess who her first call was to?”

  I dig my fingers into the skin between my eyebrows, relieving some stress. “Please tell me you didn’t give in to her?”

  “No. I only answered because I didn’t know the number. She’s moved on from cocaine. Her newest and apparently cheaper habit is popping pills. She was pretty fucked up when she called and guess whose number she wanted.”

  Oh, my wonderful family tree has so many crooked branches.

  Jordon and I are the only successful members of the Newton family, with a slight exception for my mother. I swear he and I are the milkman’s babies because no way we came from the piece of shit we call a father. My father…I hate I have his nose.