14. Rhys
CHAPTER 14
RHYS
Rhys:
Checking in. How are you?
Tabby:
You’re not here. So… poor and happy, I guess?
“Do you guys own guns?”
West, Ford, and Bash stare back at me like I’ve grown a second head. Okay, not Bash. He looks at me like you look at gum that’s stuck to the bottom of your shoe before responding with, “I have a hunting rifle. It stays in a locked cabinet in the basement. Why?”
I shrug. It’s been another two weeks since I was last here, and all I did was worry about Tabitha and Milo while I was away. It’s fucking insane.
I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night questioning if they were safe. Wondering if Tabitha’s burned hand is okay. The only saving grace is that she texted me photos of Milo. Never many words, though. Which means I know they’re alive, but not how they’re doing.
Not that I should expect much else after the way I left things.
Flaunting my money and saying shit I shouldn’t have while keeping her completely in the dark was a real dick move. But hashing things out is not my forte. I’m well aware that I’m no open book. Sharing things about myself is a quality that people drummed out of me many, many years ago. And the truth is, I don’t know what to do about Milo and the guardianship.
It’s clear I’m not needed. Yet, I feel contractually bound. And what’s worse is that, for some unknown reason, I’m eager to get back to them. As long and inconvenient as the trip to Rose Hill may be, I’m always relieved when I see Tabitha roll her eyes at me and hear Milo’s tiny footfalls running my way.
I think deep down I dread the thought of never seeing them again—adding them to the list of families I was never welcome to join.
So I keep coming back. However, this time my relief at walking up to that front door got overshadowed by finding it unlocked. Again .
Which turned into another clash between Tabitha and me.
I pride myself on being cool, calm, and collected—even if I have a scrappy streak. But she just… she fires me up.
What are you going to do? Punish me? Bend me over…
I swallow and brush the memory aside.
“Tabitha is always leaving her door open,” I say.
“Stupid,” Bash mumbles, reaching for his pint while shaking his head.
“See? You get it.”
West looks more confused. “Like open-open? Aren’t bugs an issue?”
“No, intruders are, you idiot.” Bash takes the words right out of my mouth.
“Perhaps an alarm system is a happy medium between an arsenal of guns and an unlocked door?” Ford suggests dryly. His delivery makes it hard to tell if he’s mocking me or offering a serious solution.
An alarm system. I don’t hate the idea, but before I can ask any further questions about it, all the guys’ heads turn to the front of the bowling alley. And I don’t just mean our team of four. I mean every head in the house turns to face three women who’ve entered the building. And leading the charge is none other than Tabitha.
She doesn’t spare anyone a single glance except the bartender, Frankie, who she greets with more joy than I’ve ever seen her give anyone other than Milo. I assume he’s with her parents tonight, but I don’t know because we don’t talk, and I have to fight the urge to rush over and ask her.
What holds me back more than anything is that somehow, tonight, she looks lighter . She takes a seat at the bar, and I soak her in.
She’s fucking stunning. She always is, but the heavier eye makeup and lively flush on her cheeks, paired with the way her hair falls down her back in a shiny, dark curtain, stops me in my tracks.
Usually, I see her looking casual, and that already makes my dick hard. So imagine his excitement when she strolls into Rose Valley Alley wearing leather pants, a cropped Rolling Stones T-shirt, and a pair of strappy black stilettos. The heels are pointy enough that I’m sure she’s at least considered attempting to murder me with them later. And it’s as I mull this over and try not to gawk that her friends join her at the bar.
One of them has dirty-blond hair and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. The other is Skylar Stone, a famous country-pop star. And based on the way Ford and West immediately migrate in their direction, I quickly figure out who’s who.
Tabitha, Rosie, and Skylar are out for drinks. It’s not that difficult to identify the women based on Ford and West’s constant chatter about them.
But the sly wink Tabitha just sent my way tells me they didn’t end up here by accident. From that fuckable mouth to the red tips of her toes peeping out of her heels, she’s got trouble written all over her.
She looks younger, and it’s got me wondering just how young she might be. I wrack my brain, trying to remember Erika’s age and figure out the gap between them.
I turn, sit down, and decide to retie my shoes just to keep from engaging with her. Bash is unbothered by the other guys’ departure, and he doesn’t follow suit, just sips his beer and scrolls through his phone.
The chatter from the bar on the other side of the swinging gate filters my way. I can hear Tabitha giving West hell for something or other. In response, West recounts how the bowling team is named the Ball Busters in honor of Tabitha.
She gives him more hell. He gets a kick out of it, and everything between them is incredibly good-natured.
Once, I thought there was something there. Now all I hear is two people bantering like siblings.
It’s nothing like the jabs she and I exchange. Not even close.
With my shoes unnecessarily and meticulously retied, the movement of a tall, lanky form striding past draws my attention. It’s the guy all the others call Stretch. He gives off slimy vibes, and it doesn’t surprise me that no one likes him. I’ve known my fair share of guys like him. Hell, I work for a guy like him.
He approaches Tabitha, eyes leering, mouth twisted in a suggestive smirk. Where West is playful, this guy is not.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like him .
I absently start a list of men I want to kill for looking at Tabitha like she’s their next meal. It’s irrational and out of character.
But here I am, behaving irrationally and out of character.
My steps are quiet and metered as I approach him. Years of training have made me more agile than I have any right to be at my size.
“Strikes me that if you wanted to name the team after Tabitha, you could have called it the Tongue Twisters,” Stretch says as I get close to hear. “Can you still tie a knot in a cherry stem?”
My teeth clamp and my muscles tense as I measure him from behind. I’m sure he’s accustomed to being the biggest guy in the room, but not anymore.
Tabitha looks him over, eyes moving down and then back up like she finds him pathetic, and amusing, and entirely lacking. The way she looks at him hands me back a couple of shreds of my dignity that I threw away when I decided to march over here and interrupt them.
All I know is that I don’t want him near her. And she doesn’t want him near her either.
“Still dreaming about the only blow job you ever got, Terence? Was that tenth grade? Shame that you peaked so young.”
Blow job . She says it with a confident smile. Jealousy licks at my spine. It’s both unwelcome and undeniable. I am jealous of every fucker who so much as glances in Tabitha’s direction, let alone one who’s had his dick in her mouth.
The smarmy loser starts to talk again. “You know?—”
But I don’t let him get far. With two steps, I’m behind him, and my hand is on his neck. Casually, of course. But I could squeeze and make things a hell of a lot less casual. I use my best stage voice. Speed, clarity, volume, poise, stance—my stance is slightly off to one side. From behind, people might think we’re old friends, but everyone facing us knows better when I drop my face down beside his.
“You know what I could tie a knot in? This long fucking neck. And then no one would have to tolerate your presence here.” I don’t bother keeping my voice quiet. This guy’s small-dick shit talk has me riled. “Anyone have any objections?”
Tabitha’s eyes flash to mine, wide and alarmed. Then they turn upward as though she’s found something especially interesting about the shape of the stain on the ceiling tiles.
The guy ducks and runs, slinking away like the coward he is. Chatter breaks out around us. I register voices saying something about hating that guy and something about girls’ night. I don’t know, and I don’t care. It all falls away, and I only hear generalities, because Tabitha’s dark eyes are back on mine. They hold as she wraps her lips around the edge of the cheap rocks glass and takes a swig of pale gold liquor.
She’s taunting me. And it works.
So before I do something crazy like drag her out of here and beg her to let me fuck her, I spin on my heel and walk back to our bowling lane.
Bash calls the other guys over, and the game begins, but I’m too agitated to finesse a single thing. Instead of pins, I see Stretch’s stupid face, and I throw the ball like I’m taking his head clean off.
“Goddamn, you’ve got a hell of an arm on ya,” West comments, fully amused, right as Bash grumbles, “Calm the fuck down. This isn’t a World’s Strongest Man contest.”
Ford chuckles and shakes his head as he regards me. I think he might be more observant than the others, which means he could be onto me and my wayward crush on Tabitha Garrison.
The one that just fucking blindsided me in the middle of a shitty dive bar. The one I’ve been ignoring for weeks to avoid all the complications that come with it. The one that’s one hundred percent doomed, because crushing on a girl who hates your guts is a recipe for disaster.
No matter what a bad idea it is, it’s an idea all the same. One I can’t shake. Even bowling can’t clear my mind of her. Especially not when I know she’s here .
It’s my turn again, and we’re already losing. Our team is fun, but we suck. I can hear the girls taunting us from the bar. I’ve been trying not to look their way, but it’s been impossible to keep my eyes from wandering to Tabitha. Sometimes I catch her looking at me. Sometimes it’s the other women. But one thing is clear: they’re talking about me.
Seconds later, my hunch is confirmed.
“Your physique is too much like Jason Momoa, Rhys,” Skylar calls out, barely audible over the din of heavy balls and falling pins.
I ignore her. Based on the news highlights I’ve seen, she’s had a hard enough time lately without me snapping at her.
“The way you fill out those jeans is criminal, Rhys,” Rosie says. I like Ford too much to say anything, so I opt to ignore them even as they continue.
“Your hands don’t need to be that big, Rhys.”
“How dare you defend Tabby’s honor, Rhys? You piece of shit.”
Shaking my head in an attempt to clear it, I approach the lane and throw my ball. But there are too many eyes on me. My feelings are too jumbled. And when I release it, I fire it hard .
Straight into the gutter.
That’s when I hear what I’ve come to recognize as Rosie’s voice calling out the loudest of their jibes so far. “Hey, Rhys,” she shouts across the small space. “You’re supposed to aim for the pins. Get this man some bumpers, Frankie.”
The guys around me fail to hold back their chuckles.
West grins as he takes in the lane with hands propped on his hips. “I thought Tabby was the ball buster. I think Rosie might take the cake tonight though.”
It’s only Bash who gives me a reassuring slap on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a natural at something. It’s just not this.”
That only makes the guys laugh harder.
I turn my head to glare at the women, but all they do is dissolve into a fit of giggles. Tabitha’s face is beet red, and she’s practically hiding behind a glass of tequila. My lips wiggle, and I turn away to cover a smile. She’s having fun. It’s good for her. And if mocking me is what brings her joy, then whatever.
I can take it.
I splash water over my face and stare into the cracked mirror of the men’s washroom at Rose Valley Alley. My body is sore, and I look tired, but somehow I also look… relaxed. Maybe doing something other than working, performing, training, and holing up alone is good for me.
The Ball Busters lost. Again.
But I had fun. Again.
Even with the feel of Tabitha’s gaze hot and heavy on my back, I ended up enjoying myself. But when we wrapped, I felt the need to cool off, to take a moment of reprieve. Even if that reprieve comes by retreating to the run-down men’s room at the back of the building. On the mirror, someone has written “For a good time call…” followed by the number in Wite-Out, and there are random stickers plastered around the edges.
As I yank the door open and stroll out into the darkened, narrow back hall to join the guys, I’m pondering who thinks to bring Wite-Out to a dive like this. No man is just wandering around with office supplies shoved in his back pocket.
“Hey, watch—” The voice hits me right as I crash into another body. On instinct, my arms shoot out, and I turn into a roll, taking the person with me as my back hits the wall.
I know I’m holding Tabitha before I look down. It’s in the way the pads of my fingers tingle and how she’s too short to even show up in my line of vision.
“Sorry,” I breathe, looking down into her startled, slightly glassy eyes.
“Are you? Or is this your big plan to take me out?” She makes no move to leave my grip. Instead, she inches closer, the peep of red paint on her toes butting up against my dorky fucking two-tone bowling shoes.
This woman. She never backs down. Every time she pushes me, I just want to push back. Too much pushing and we’re going to break something.
I drop one hand to her hip, meeting her challenge as I tug her closer. “You can stop making jokes about me killing you any time now. They’re getting old.”
She scoffs. “You know what’s getting old? You waltzing in here full of fucking opinions about me and my house and how much money I have and how qualified I am to take care of Milo—like you’re the anointed expert on all things ever in the history of the world.”
“Tabitha.”
She shoves me, hard. Both palms curl into my shirt as she presses my back against the wall with an alarming level of strength.
I wince, and she doesn’t miss it.
Before I get another word in, her hands have rushed down the front of my torso, gripped the hem of my gray T-shirt, and ripped it up to expose my stomach.
Her eyes scour me, and her lip curls when her gaze finds the welts on one side of my ribs. A forceful push into the turnbuckle caused the ropes to wrap around my back, leaving visible marks. Usually I’m not this banged up, but getting back into the swing of things after time off means selling it when I get my ass kicked in the ring. I can’t waltz straight into a title—I need to earn it.
Her palms stay flat, and warm, and distracting against my abs as she tears into me with renewed ferocity now that she’s seen the marks. “I’m done talking about me. Let’s talk about you , Rhys. Let’s talk about the bruises. Let’s talk about the secrecy. Let’s talk about how the hell you’ve gotten to a place where you’ve convinced yourself you’d be such a great guardian for a three-year-old when you have the emotional intelligence of a rock and a penchant for something that is clearly violent. You are one big red flag, my friend. And I don’t think being raised by a full-time staff will fix the damage you’ll do to Milo by forcing him to grow up in whatever fucked-up porno gangland world you live in.”
Good god, this woman is infuriating. I should tell her, just spit it out. But I’ve had it go south before. First, I had foster parents who made contact, which was borderline heartwarming until they asked for money. And the last time I was brave enough to tell a friend, it became a running joke I had to grin and bear. It niggled at me—embarrassed me. And I don’t trust Tabitha not to take this little tidbit and use it to hit me where it hurts.
Not telling her just feels like self-preservation at this point.
So instead, I grip her waist with both my hands and flip us again. Now it’s my turn to push her up against a wall. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with me being a porn star. If you want to see me fuck someone, the bathroom is right there. Drag me in there right now, and you can watch in the mirror while I bend you over.”
Her plush, pink mouth pops open, but no words come out. We’re both panting, our breath mingling between us. Hers smells like lime and tequila, mine adding something sweet from the cola I left at my table.
Her lips fall together, then curve up into a confident smile. She sways a bit, and I can tell she’s extra uninhibited right now. Something that becomes clearer when she reaches forward and grabs my rock-hard dick. She squeezes, and I hiss, propping an arm on the wall above us as my head drops down over her.
“I knew it,” she whispers, tilting her face up to mine. “It must be exhausting walking around my house with a raging hard-on all the time.”
My hips thrust forward into her grip, pressing closer and trapping her hand between us. A shiver races down my spine, and a whimper spills from her mouth. She’s too late biting down on it, but that doesn’t stop me from watching the way her teeth sink into the pillowy flesh of her bottom lip.
She doesn’t miss a beat though. Taking full advantage with her free hand, she trails her fingers over my obliques and around to my back. “Poor little Rhys. I’d feel bad for you, except I take comfort in knowing you want something that you can’t have.” Her fingers squeeze harder around my cock—almost too hard. “It’s like how I want you to just”—squeeze—“go”—squeeze—“away”—squeeze.
Fuck. If she keeps this up, I’m going to blow in my pants.
In a desperate attempt to take back a shred of control, my hand shoots up, wrapping around her dainty throat. Gentle, but firm enough to keep her eyes on me. “That’s adorable, Tabby. Especially since we both know you’re lying. I’ve seen the way you stare at me. I bet you’re fucking soaked right now.”
She stares back at me defiantly, our chests heaving with exertion. Everything about her is ferocious. Commanding. Fucking hot as hell. If she weren’t so drunk, I would drag her into the bathroom and follow through.
But she is, so I step away. Only for her to taunt me with a smug tip of her lips and a parting shot. “Too bad you’ll never get a chance to find out.”
It’s just as well. I have a feeling we’d hate-fuck this entire building to the ground. And truthfully, I don’t really want Tabitha to hate me. I wish she didn’t.
Plus, my flight out is tomorrow, and I suspect if I go that far with her, I won’t want to leave at all.
So instead, I turn around. Go back into the bathroom. Lock the door behind me. And fist my cock while imagining being inside Tabitha Garrison.
Just to take the edge off.