Chapter Five
A t four o'clock, Serge walked out of his building holding the flowers that one of his clients had sent to the office that morning. Then he went home to his house in the Latah neighborhood, lifted weights, showered, and hoped he had worked off enough energy to keep himself out of Aubrey's bed.
He hardened at the thought of seeing her tonight. His goal was to skip the frills. The way she'd stood up to him amused him. He'd have fun showing her who had the final say in the relationship.
Other women had tried to control him, and nothing turned him off more. Aubrey fought him every step. But there was a difference. While she verbally tried to keep him at a distance, she lost the fight against her attraction to him. Her body had other ideas.
And unlike other women, she wasn't using sex to tie him down. It was all about pleasure.
He ran his hand through his hair, enjoying how she had him anticipating seeing her again. The change that came over her when he kissed her was like flipping a light switch on. She ceased denying herself pleasure and fully surrendered to him.
Because of her willingness to fuck him, he wanted to see how far he could push her.
She hid her sexuality behind her desire to succeed in running the shelter, but there was more to her. He rubbed his chest to ease the tightness growing in him. She was a challenge.
On his way out of the house, he grabbed the flowers and walked into the garage. He eyed the Harley-Davidson and climbed into the BMW. On another night, he'd take her for a ride. Maybe get her out of the city for a few hours. Tonight, he had other plans.
With rush hour over, he cruised toward the city center. By the time he hit Sprague Avenue, he had to turn his headlights on against the night. It surprised him that Aubrey lived in a modest neighborhood of historic homes.
Classy, running a non-profit, she lived trying to better other people's lives. He had nothing in common with her, but her attitude kept him interested. Her reaction to him in bed hooked him.
He needed someone strong enough to put up with him, and yet he needed someone who wouldn't run from his sexual needs. Someone who wasn't interested in his money.
Having lived on the streets until almost nineteen, he kept his private life separate from his business. He expected a woman involved with him to keep what they do behind closed doors. It was bad enough when the reporters came around when he got his first big break. He wasn't interested in sharing any more of his life.
Aubrey—he rubbed his jaw—he had a feeling she could handle the darkness inside of him.
For the first time in thirty-five years, he found a woman strong enough to have a vulnerable side. She would need it all to survive what he hoped would be a mutual relationship.
He pulled up in front of Aubrey's house. Lights were on in half the windows facing the street. He hesitated, pushing down the adrenaline lest he scare her too soon.
Shutting off the car, he walked up the cobblestone pathway to the front door with flowers in hand. In the quiet neighborhood, he pushed the buzzer and rocked back on his heels, feeling his chest tighten. Not even gaining a million-dollar contract filled him with the kind of rush he thrived on.
Several minutes passed, and he rang the bell again. Impatiently, he set the flowers on the porch chair and removed his cell phone from his pocket. From the background check he had done on Aubrey, he had her home number.
He heard the phone ring from outside the door. Come on, Bree. Pick up.
The call clicked on. "I'm unable to answer your call right now. Please—"
He disconnected and stepped over to pound on the door. "Aubrey. Open the door."
When she refused to answer, he paced the length of the porch. Once. Twice.
Disgusted with having to wait when Aubrey was clearly not going to come to the door, he walked away, leaving the flowers behind. Angered at his plans falling apart, he drove away without looking back. His foot grew heavy as he watched the speedometer climb. He squeezed and twisted his grip on the steering wheel. No one ever turned him down.
Every aspect of his life could be bought and paid for. However, he managed his personal life alone.
He punched his fist on the wheel and took the exit. In no mood to go home, he went back to where he was comfortable. He knew the dirty streets better than he knew the downtown business district.
In his old neighborhood, he drove straight to Billy's Gym. From the outside of the rundown building, all appeared dark and deserted, but he knew inside the lights were on and there was someone always willing to take a few rounds in the ring.
Here, he controlled the outcome. He could hurt others, and nobody gave him a second look. Here, he could escape the idea that Aubrey was untouchable to him.
He pushed through the back door, assaulted with the familiar scent of dank sweat, rubber, and piss from the alley. He stood inside, out of breath. Until he'd set foot in the building, he hadn't realized how much he was running. Running away from Aubrey. Running away from disappointment. Running away from the man he'd become.
"Hey, Ghost." Tank separated the ropes and stepped down from his spot in the ring.
Smoke from the cigar hanging from Tank's mouth curled around his head. His potbelly hung over his jeans, below his Gold Gym T-shirt. He grabbed the beefy hand the old boxer offered and let the big guy pull him in for a shoulder bump.
"How's it going?" he said.
"Still alive." Tank removed his cigar. "Long time no see."
He peered around the gym. "Anyone looking for some time in the ring?"
Tank squinted, studying him. He fisted his hands. His reputation was well-known in the gym.
"Don't kill him." Tank stuck his dirty fingers in his mouth and whistled. "Romero, put on gloves."
A twenty-something year old built like a brick met his gaze and lifted his chin. Serge peeled off his coat and tossed it on an empty chair. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. "You still have my gloves?"
Tank's face split into a grin. "Hell, yeah. Still covered with the blood of your last partner. I'll get them."
He removed his shirt and set it on his coat, leaned down, and untied his boots. His muscles bunched along his back. Tense and ready to hit, he shook his arms and bounced in place. The fact that Aubrey refused to open her door disappointed and angered him.
Maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe she wasn't strong enough to handle him. Maybe she had everything she wanted wrapped up in that shelter she struggled to keep open.
He clenched his fists. Not many women aroused him at first sight. Coupled with how she came alive underneath him, he was sure she would accept his dark side.
He wanted her to beg. He wanted to see her fear him. He wanted her to experience everything he felt.
Until recently, he hadn't realized how much he wanted a permanent outlet.
A vessel for him to unleash his emotions.
A woman who'd fall and bounce back up, ready for more. A woman who would learn to love the pain he inflicted. To join him would be the only way to understand his needs.
To do that, he had to take everything from her and have her rely only on him.
"Hands up." Tank approached him, tossing the gloves on the floor and sticking the edge of the white tape he carried between his teeth.
He held his hands in front of him, palms toward him, flexing his fingers as Tank wrapped his knuckles. Old feelings resurfaced. He had already proven himself to the outside world, but in the gym, he started at the bottom. The other guy waiting to enter the ring knew nothing about him. But he'd learn.
Aubrey Haydon had no idea who she was dealing with. She, too, would learn.
Tank slipped the gloves on Serge's hands, stepped back, and pulled the ropes apart. "Try not to kill him."
He ducked his head and jumped into the ring.
Shorter than Serge by a few inches, Romero made up for the lack of height by outweighing Serge by a good twenty-five pounds. Not to mention, Romero was at least fifteen years his junior and had the cocky attitude he remembered having himself when he was younger. He lifted his gloves and danced around his opponent.
The first punch came to his stomach. He grunted, irritated at tightening up. He swung with his right and popped Romero on the chin. Fuck, that felt good.
Adrenaline fueled him forward. He lived for the combat, the pain, the exertion. Working up a sweat, hitting some flesh, and thinking nothing in the world could take him down.
Pain whipped his head around. He shook the hit off, punching his way out. One, two, three. Romero's uppercut clipped him under the chin. Flashes of light filled his vision, and he moved forward, hitting low, until arms circled his upper body.
He threw Romero off and jabbed him. He had no room in his life for Aubrey.
She could stay in the house, denying her attraction to him all she wanted. He swung a roundhouse before delivering a kidney punch that took Romero to his knees. He needed no one. He never had.
He continued swinging. Fuck Bree.
Over and over, he proved how he could do without her. He could have anyone, use anyone, and kill anyone. It was all about beating the darkness back, and he always found ways to let loose. One person wouldn't change him.
"Adams! End it." Tank threw a metal chair in the ring. "You're out."
He stepped back, breathing hard, and stared down at his opponent. Romero hung his head, resting on his hands and knees on the mat. Blood dripped from his head.
He rubbed his arm across his mouth. A streak of blood left a trail on his skin, and the sweet taste filled his mouth.
He ripped off his gloves, threw them out of the ring, and jumped down. He ignored Tank cussing him out and swept up his clothes. This was who he was.
He enjoyed causing pain, seeing blood, and watching someone cower at his feet. The euphoria filled him.
He'd forgotten himself the last couple of days. Thought he could be happy hanging around Aubrey. But he was only pretending. She'd run away fast if she could see him now. Hot from the fight, hanging out in a part of town filled with vagrants with drug houses on every corner.
He was no different than the homeless people she tried to save. Except, he needed no help.
Out of the building, he walked straight to his car and climbed in. His phone rang on his seat, and he picked it up without looking to see who was calling.
"What?" he snapped.
"Um, Serge? This is Aubrey." She paused. "I found your flowers. I was—"
"Are you at home now?" He put his keys in the car and started the engine.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Stay there." He disconnected the call.
If she wanted to play games, he'd show her who Serge Adams really was. A thug from the wrong side of town. A man who'd rather have her on her knees than love her. Maybe then, he could get her out of his head and get his life back on track.