Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
gunner
I race to the corner of the racquetball court, running down the ball that my brother just hit. Swinging my racquet, I hit a kill shot to end the rally.
“Fuck!” Maverick yells in frustration.
I grin, pointing my racquet at him. “I own you, son.”
He scowls and flips me off.
Chuckling, I pick up the rolling blue ball and toss it to him. “Your serve.”
He wipes sweat from his brow and then smashes the ball with his racquet. It bounces on the floor and ricochets off the back wall before rocketing toward me.
I smack the ball hard and high, sending it hurtling into the front wall.
Maverick misses the return shot and unleashes a string of obscenities that make me laugh.
It’s Thursday afternoon and we’re halfway through the third game of our racquetball match. We play against each other once a week, sometimes more depending on our schedules. It’s a great way to clear our heads, burn off steam and keep the adrenaline pumping during a busy workday. We also enjoy kicking each other’s asses, a time-honored tradition dating back to childhood.
No matter what game we were playing, no matter how high or low the stakes, we always tried our best to dominate each other. We were so fiercely competitive that we often ended up rolling on the ground throwing punches until our father intervened. Torn between laughter and exasperation, he’d pry us apart and make us shake hands. Within five minutes, we’d be laughing and joking again, arms slung around each other’s necks.
Nothing can ever destroy the unbreakable bond we forged in our mother’s womb. But we both hate to lose and we’re so evenly matched that even now, as grown men, a friendly game of racquetball can turn into bloodsport.
Maverick bounces the ball on the hardwood floor, catching his breath. “So how’re things going at the love nest?”
“They’re good. C’mon, let’s fucking go.”
We rally back and forth, driving the ball off the front wall and down the sides, sweating and grunting with every shot.
“I’ve been thinking about that night at the bar,” Maverick pants as we wrestle for control of center court.
I backhand the ball. “What night?”
“The night you met Marlowe.” His explosive shot thwacks into the side wall.
“What about that night?” I grit out.
He grins. “She would’ve been mine if I’d gotten there first.”
My racquet swishes through the air, missing the ball by a mile.
Maverick does a fist pump and laughs.
I glare at him. “Bitch ass.”
He laughs harder.
I don’t let him gloat for long. Winning the next rally with ease, I smirk at him and crow, “Match point.”
His scowl returns with a vengeance. “Serve, asshole.”
I bounce the ball and take a swing, smashing a low shot into the back corner that he doesn’t reach in time.
“Game, motherfucker!”
Maverick hurls his racquet at a wall in disgust.
Ripping off my soaked shirt, I throw back my head and let out a victory roar that reverberates around the court.
Maverick scowls at me. “I don’t know why you’re acting like you just won Olympic gold.”
I laugh, slinging my shirt over my shoulder. “Don’t be mad ’cause I wiped the floor with your sorry ass.”
“Whatever,” he grumbles. “You caught me on an off day.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” I taunt, following him off the court.
After toweling off our faces and necks, we stuff our racquets into our bags and chug from our water bottles.
Pantheon’s fitness center boasts eight racquetball courts, a basketball court, an Olympic-sized pool, sauna and steam rooms, and a state-of-the-art gym. Our employees are encouraged to utilize the facilities, and most of them do.
Maverick jabs a finger at me. “I want a rematch.”
“No shit.” After an hour of hard play, I could still go a few more rounds. But I’ve got meetings to attend and a company to run, so Mav will have to exact his revenge another day.
I slap his sweaty back. “Playtime’s over. Back to work.”
“Aye, aye, boss.”
We grab our gym bags and head for the nearby elevators. After our matches, we prefer to shower and change in our private bathrooms so we can dive right back into work.
On the way to the elevators, we pass the glass-fronted gym full of people diligently sweating their way through lunchtime workouts. It’s hard to miss the hot black girl in thong leggings doing squats on a Smith machine.
She spots us walking by and smiles flirtatiously. Maverick winks at her.
When he seems inclined to linger, I give him a hard shoulder check to keep him moving.
He lets out a low wolf whistle. “Holy shit. Did you see the ass on that babe?”
“Jesus,” I mutter in disgust. “You’re the COO and joint owner of this building. Show some decorum.”
He laughs unabashedly. “I know you’re spoken for, bro, but don’t expect me to believe you didn’t peep that big ass booty.”
Arriving at the bank of elevators, I swipe my keycard to access the restricted top floor. “I saw it.”
Maverick grins. “And?”
My lips twitch. “What do you want me to say? It was a nice ass.”
Maverick chuckles fiendishly and bumps his shoulder against mine.
During the elevator ride up to our floor, we pull out our phones to check for missed calls or messages. My screen is filled with notifications, but I zero in on three texts from Marlowe.
The first one reads: Hope you’re having a wonderful day.
The simple message with the heart emoji makes me grin like a schoolboy experiencing his first crush.
The second message reads: This was us last night.
There’s a picture attached, an image of a couple sitting across from each other with a candlelit birthday cake glowing between them. I recognize the popular shot from Sixteen Candles , an old eighties flick with Molly Ringwald and some guy whose name I couldn’t tell you without googling it.
A warm laugh escapes me when I see that Marlowe photoshopped our faces onto the actors’ bodies.
“Aww,” Maverick coos, reading over my shoulder. He makes an obnoxious smooching noise and singsongs, “Gunner and Marlowe sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g?—”
“Fuck off.” But I’m grinning. I can’t help myself.
This thing with Marlowe . . . I don’t even know how to define it. The way I feel about her is uncharted territory. I’d kill for her without batting an eye. I’d die for her. Rot in a Siberian prison for her.
I’m absolutely and totally addicted. She’s like a drug pumped into my veins, flooding my bloodstream and jolting my heart in the most intense thrill rush.
I can’t get enough of her, and I don’t know if I ever will.
Which means I’m eternally, royally fucked.
Leaning back against the elevator wall, I respond to her messages: Can’t wait to come home to you . . .
I hover over the send button, just for a few seconds, no more than five. Then I punch it with my finger and glance over at my brother. He’s texting on his phone, thumbs flying over the keypad.
“Mav.”
He grunts distractedly.
“I need you to hold down the fort for a few days. Think you can handle that?”
“Don’t I always?”
I nod. “Point taken.”
He looks at me, one brow cocked. “You going somewhere?”
I gaze down at my phone screen, tracing Marlowe’s beautiful face with my finger.
“Yeah,” I murmur almost to myself. “I’m going somewhere.”