Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (3 page)

I shrug and pick up another flat rock. I get in position, but he calls out “Wait!” from behind me. He walks forward so that he’s standing parallel to me. “Okay, now go.”

I arch a questioning eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Your ass
is
very
distracting.”

I burst out laughing. “At least you’re honest. I’ll give you that.” I adjust my feet and get back in position. “Okay. So, once you’re here, flick your wrist as fast as you can, so that the rock spins like this.” This time, I get six skips. “See? Easy.”

His eyes light up. “Yeah. Let me try.” He searches for a rock and picks one up.

I shake my head. “Too bulky.”

He reaches for another.

“Too stubby.”

He shoots me a look and mumbles something incoherent under his breath.

Finally, I pick one that I know will skip with ease and hand it to him. He gets into position. I watch his form and the way he moves his arm; he pitches it forward like he’s throwing a right hook, releasing the rock too early.

“Well, shit,” he exclaims, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. The tips of his ears turn red.

“Here, try again,” I say, selecting another stone and holding it out to him with an encouraging smile.

And so he does. Over and over again. And again. Each time, I give him tips on the things he’s doing wrong. After his twenty-first try, I finally say, “Okay. Stop. Stop.
Stop
.”

He looks at me, his expression defeated. It’s so adorably cute, I might just give him that ten rating after all. The way his shoulders slouch slightly reminds me of the time I started teaching Vincent’s youngest brother, Chucky, how to skip stones. We’d spent almost two hours trying to get his rock to skip. But when his last one sank, he stared up at me with big round eyes and fell to ground, crying his little heart out.

I guess when it comes to disappointment and failure, age really doesn’t change much.

“Okay, let’s see.” I pace back and forth, tapping my chin as I think. With the little Gallos I pretty much had to hold their hands and guide them. But this guy isn’t exactly a kid, and that would definitely not be in my comfort zone.

For a second, I consider calling it a day. After all, why do I care if a complete stranger can’t skip rocks?

But then I shake my head. No. That’s just my fear talking. I’m fine, it’s just a little hand holding. It’s not a big deal. I
can
do this. I’m not afraid.

So I pick up a handful of good rocks and pocket them. “Okay, we’re gonna try something a little different. Give me your hand.”

He looks at me, his head tilted, that cocky smirk playing across his lips and mischief dancing in those bright hazel eyes.

“Just trust me, okay? I’ve done this before. I’m going to guide you,” I explain, pointing to his hand.

His grin widens, a small dimple appearing at the corner of his lips.

Why is he smiling like that? I rehash the last sentence I said, twice, before I see how not-so-innocent it sounded. My cheeks heat up and I momentarily look down. Then I force myself to stand up tall and look him straight in the eye. Well, as much as I can, given that he’s a giant next to me. “Get your head out of the gutter, pervert.”

“Hey, now. No need to throw insults,” he says. “I’ll have you know, plenty of women have left my bed fully satisfied.”

“Um . . .” Awkward.

“Seriously, most of them couldn’t stop grinning for a month after . . .” He thrusts his hips forward with a wink.

I groan. “Is that the kind of pick-up line that usually gets you laid?”

He grins. “I don’t need a pick-up line to get laid, sweetheart. Have you seen this?” He gestures to himself. “I usually have a line of women falling at my feet—”

“Well, I don’t see anyone lining up now,” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?” Harrington asks, leaning in with a hand to his ear and an expression that clearly says he heard me. “I couldn’t hear you over all that jealousy.”

I feel heat flush through my cheeks. God, this boy is annoying.
Cute
. But oh so annoying. And that smirk. I just want to knock it right off his face.

He blinks, innocently. And then blinks again, clearly waiting for me to say or do something.

“Right. Okay. Where were we? Right.” I grab his hand, pull open his palm, and place the stone in it, positioning it against his smooth skin. Then I turn his body to the side and place my hand over his huge one. And by “huge,” I mean, mine’s engulfed inside his. I can’t help but think about that old adage about the size of a man’s hand reflecting the size of his—

No!
Stop it
.
Do
not
think about that
.
Focus
,
Jess
.
Focus
.

“Now,” I say, pulling his arm back and trying to ignore the way my cheeks flame. Everything feels so out of place. We stand in this weird position where I can barely see what’s in front of me and I realize the flaw in my plan—Harrington isn’t a little kid.

“Okay, this isn’t working.” I sigh, frustrated, and step away from him. I rub my forehead with one hand and place the other over my hip, trying to figure out another way.

“I thought you said you’d done this before,” he says, turning to face me.

“I did. With little kids that were less than half my size, so I could manipulate their movements.” I wave at him. “You . . . well, you’re too big.”

He grins. I can almost see the innuendo forming on his lips.

“Oh shut it,
Harry
,” I say dryly.

His grin fades. “Don’t call me that.”

“Call you what?
Harry
?”

“Yes. Though, if you’re into nicknames, I’d be happy to give you a list of them: Sex God, Stud, Best Night Ever . . . there are just so many to choose from!”

I throw my hands in the air. “You’re so damn
frustrating
. You know what? Forget it.” I whip around and walk away, just as I should have the first time.

“Wait!” Harrington calls after me. “Hey, wait.”

“What?” I ask, swiveling around. “What do you want?”

“Teach me how to skip stones,” he says. “Come on, I even used the right terminology. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

He has a point there.

I think on it for a second, watching him. He actually looks sincere, his face serious and open, pleading almost. “No more joking around.”

He mimes zipping his mouth and locks it, throwing away the key.

“And no more innuendos.”

He crosses his heart and grins. “I’ll be on the best of the bestest behavior.”

“Harr—”

“
Promise
.”

I stare at him for a moment, unsure why I can’t seem to just turn and walk away. What is it about him that’s keeping me from leaving? Finally, I relent, deciding to stick it out and see what happens. “Well, in that case . . .” I extend my hand. “I’m Jessica. Jessica Owens, not related to the movie actor.”

He slips his hand into mine and gives it a firm handshake, returning my smile. It’s the first genuine one I’ve seen from him, and I feel myself relax. “Nice to meet you, Jessica, Jessica Owens, who’s not related to the movie actor.”

I grin wider.
God I hope I don
’
t regret this
.

THESE PAST FEW weeks, I’ve been focused on only one important task: find Fisher and bring him home. I’ve used plenty of vacation time and devoted all of my off hours to finding leads that would get me closer to my missing best friend, and I’ve fought in two underground fights so far. But neither got me closer to the fighting ring where I suspect Fisher’s gone, well, fishing. And my frustration over that is what led me to the river, and Jess.

Now, I’ve been known to be a lot of things—complicated being one of them—but the thing that’s always shined brightest is my ability to annoy people. It’s the kind of reputation that took years to build. And Jess, she’d been an easy mark, with her innocence and seriousness over something as simple as skipping stones. At first, it was a just distraction, a way to get my mind off my nagging failure and kill time before the fight tonight. But there was something about her, an energy, a glow that’s been missing from my life for quite some time. Maybe that’s why I stopped her from walking away.

For those few moments, I had concentrated on something other than the tension, the anger, the need to punch myself—and others.

I don’t even care that I gave her my real name. I don’t care that I have so much at stake right now and need to keep things clean. I need to know her.

Caution is overrated, anyway.

Diving in head first has always been my go-to strategy. So why change now? Besides, it almost always works in my favor . . . well, okay, forty percent of the time. But I’ll take forty over thirty-nine any day.

I crack my knuckles and crane my neck, giving it a good stretch. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, like I’m being watched. My gaze slips from person to person, studying the crowd, searching faces and people as I watch the previous fight come to a conclusion.

Tonight is the night. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. And if tonight isn’t the night, well . . . at least I’ll get to punch someone. I crack my knuckles again. I’m good with punching faces.

“Anyone else?” the guy inside the ring yells, beating his sweaty chest.

I always thought I was a giant, seeing how I’m close to six-three, but this guy’s at least half a head taller than me and wears pants a size or five bigger than mine.

Things are about to get interesting
.

“Anyone else feeling lucky, hmm?” he yells into the crowd.

I look around as everyone takes a step back.

“Five to one,” the announcer says, raising the stakes.

Not a single person bats an eye.

I smirk, studying the fear in each profile. But I need to wait, let the stakes get a little higher . . .

“Ten to one. Who wants to test their luck tonight?”

“Or go to the morgue in a body bag?” someone else yells.

“Going once. Twice—”

That’s my cue. I step forward. All eyes fall to me, and the room goes silent.

“The
real
question is . . .” I use my arms to push up and over the short concrete wall of the ring and step into the fighting area. “How lucky do
you
feel?” I take out a handful of hundreds and throw them on the table to the right of the ring, where the guy curating the entrance fees sits. Given the way the previous fights have ended, he’s guarding quite the purse. Too bad he’s about to lose it.

For a full ten seconds, the room goes silent, filling with tension thicker than my opponent’s head. I stare at him, unblinking, as he does the same.

Intimidation tactics.

His fingers curl and uncurl, like he’s trying to control his need to strangle the living daylights out of me.

Either way, I only have one thing to say:
Game on
,
bitch
.

“Well, well, well.” The MC breaks the silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, looks like we have another fight tonight. Place your bets.”

And just like that, my challenge has been accepted. It’s the unspoken procedure: guy challenges for new fighters, dude jumps into the ring and throws money into the pile, MC makes an announcement.

Wham
,
bam
,
time to get slamming
.

The dude’s fist comes right at my face, giving me half a second’s warning to duck under his arm. For a big guy, he sure as hell moves fast. He grabs a hold of my shirt, literally ripping the sleeve off my left arm.

“Aw, come on, man,” I say. “This is my favorite shirt.”

He grunts, punching his right fist into his left hand.

I motion in a “come and get it” gesture, adding a cocky grin for good measure. He roars as he run at me, his face turning red.

I sidestep, kneeing him in the gut. He doubles over, breathing loud. His face scrunches up like he ate something sour, and then he straightens to his full height. He rolls his shoulders and clenches his fists. I wait, perfectly content to play defense. He comes at me, throwing a right punch, then a left; I block each with a swipe. But I don’t see the sweep of his leg and before I know it, I’m on my back, staring at the white light above us. I see his leg start to come down and roll to the side, jumping to my feet and bouncing back on the balls of my feet.

“Is that all you got?” I taunt, wiping the sweat from my chin.

“You talk too much,” he grunts, and with that, he’s coming at me once more. We dance around each other, throwing punches and kicks, each trying to take the other down. I make the mistake of getting too close when I go for what should have been the final blow, and he wraps his arms around my midsection. He lifts me over his head and flings me across the ring. My back hits the concrete wall and I double over, my arm wrapping around my ribs as I wheeze. Yep, that hurt.

The room gets louder, people chanting at us to end the fight. End me. New bets are drawn—higher bets, bets in favor of the other guy.

“Fuck.” I spit blood to the side. “Okay.”

I run the back of my hand over my mouth. A streak of red paints over my light skin and I wipe it off on my shirt.

“Now . . .” I say, pushing up to my feet, using the wall behind me as support. “It’s my turn.”

I can feel the greed and lust for blood coming off the people around us in waves, and I use it to drive my strength. This time, when Colossus comes at me, I don’t move until the last second. He rams into the dusty wall, groaning. Before he can recover, I jump up and back kick him just above his hips, knocking him forward so his head slams against the concrete.

He groans in pain, falling to his knees. Dust from the floor puffs into the air around him. A red bruise has formed over his forehead, but I’m not done yet.

“You know, I’m not very good at forgiveness.” I run my thumb over my bottom lip and flick more blood to the side. “But I’ve been told that I’m
very
generous.”

His eyes widen as I open my arms, walking forward like I’m going to hug him. I stop just in front of him and with a smirk, I bring my hands together over his ears and bring his face forward to meet my knee, ending the fight with one fluid motion.

I let my opponent fall to the ground as blood gushes from his nose and mouth. Wiping the sweat and blood off my own face, I slowly look up. The room falls silent as I make a three hundred and sixty degree turn, studying the surprised looks on the audience’s faces. Some are in the middle of exchanging bet money. Others just look dumbfounded. And still others are obviously pissed.

I throw my fists in the air and the room bursts into a mixture of cheers and disappointed yells. A chant starts, and I slowly realize it’s directed toward me.

“Killshot. Killshot. Killshot.” The chanting gets louder and louder. I turn around, greeting my admirers with a fist pump and a roared “Yeah!” from time to time.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The announcer grabs my arm and jerks it up. “Killshot! Tonight’s big winner, walking away with fifteen thousand, six-hundred dollars.”

“Hell yeah!” I yell, before taking the load of cash he hands over. I take the bills and raise them to the ceiling, letting my admirers take part in my winnings. But as I do, I scan the crowd once more, wishing and hoping for that one person I’ve put so much of my life on hold for.

I catch the gaze of a guy in the upper level, off in the corner. There’s something about him that makes me believe I’ve found my mark, that he might be the person to help me get where I need to be. He pulls out a phone and dials, talking into it, his eyes on me the entire time.

I take my attention off him and continue to sweep the crowd, enjoying the adoration. Once I’ve made a full circle, I look again to the guy in the upper corner. He nods, finally hanging up the phone. He walks forward into the light and smiles.

I raise my hand with the money into the air and yell, goading the crowd on.

Finally, the easy part of the plan has come to an end.

Now it’s time to meet Constantine Stamos. Drug dealer and master of all things illegal in Florida. And then, hopefully, Fisher.