Lady Killer (Tangled Desires Book 2)
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Authors: Misti Murphy
Lady Killer copyright © 2015 by Misti Murphy
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This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received a copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book.
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Edited by Tami Lund
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Tom
Running along the lake, I try to shake off the memory. The squeal of tires on asphalt, the sudden intense burst of pain in my leg as my body curves around the bumper of the car.
I put it behind me years ago. At least that’s what I try to tell myself when it grates at me.
I beat a path across the embankment and over the wooden railings on my way to the gym. There’s no point in going home when I’m locked into the ‘what ifs’ that were my short-lived boxing career. What if I hadn’t been struck by that car? What if I had been able to continue to fight? I could have been on top.
Another block, and I’m there, letting myself in the backdoor of the gym. My gym. The way I stay in the game, though I let the dream of fighting competitively fizzle and die. A runner up’s kind of prize. And it’s good, most of the time.
I flick on the floor lights and glance around my domain in its pre-dawn quiet. A couple hours from now the place will be a raucous cacophony of thumps and grunts, and my thoughts will clear. At least of that particular disappointment.
There’s still the anonymous package I received in the mail a month ago. Seeing that pregnancy test with two clear blue lines altered my life in a matter of seconds. Whoever sent it was clearly trying to tell me something important, only they forgot to tell me who the hell they were. It overshadows everything else while I try to find her. The mother of my child. My kid. Possibly. The idea of being a dad is mindboggling, to say the least.
Thank God, my best friend and another adopted stray of the Hadley clan, Chelsea Taylor, has been helping me search, because I’d probably go crazy if I had to face it alone.
I try to concentrate on the paper side of the business, but it’s not holding my attention the way it normally would, so I head into the back room and start cleaning up the space, propping open the door leading out to the alley so the room isn’t quite so stifling. It’s been a hot summer, and the start of autumn so far hasn’t brought a cool change.
Footsteps echo in the quiet space, and I call out, “Mace? You couldn’t sleep either?”
I almost jump out of my skin when a woman’s voice replies. “Sorry, are you open?”
This isn’t the first time a woman has rocked up at the gym this early. Some of them still think they can throw themselves at me. A couple months ago I ran an early personal training session from home with a redhead who asked to use my bathroom to change clothes. Of course, I’d said yes. That was a mental face palm moment. When she’d said change, she’d conveniently left off the part about climbing into my bed naked and hoping I’d join her.
That’s the kind of trouble I’m working to avoid right now. So I keep my back turned, giving her no reason to believe she has a chance of getting what most of them want from me. “Not for another hour.”
“Oh, okay,” she says softly. There’s an edge of disappointment, or desperation, to her voice. “Will it be busy then? Do I need to reserve a bag?”
“There’ll be one available.” It takes me a minute to come to the conclusion she’s not here for me, she’s here for the gym. I turn to tell her just this once she can have the gym floor to herself, before opening hours, because she’s obviously desperate to work some shit out with her fists, but she’s already walking out the door.
The glimpse of her tight ass and those slender legs, even if it’s mostly shadow, gets filed away in my mind for later use. Even if I have no intention of screwing anyone anytime soon, I’m not about to give up my fantasy relationship with my hand.
***
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Chelsea asks the same question she has each time before. My answer has changed only by how much enthusiasm I can muster. Finding out there was a possibility I’m a father—or going to be—was scary enough without the added complication of not having a fucking clue who the mother is. I mean, fuck, what kind of woman sends a pregnancy test in the mail without even attaching a note?
I unfold the list I tore from my notebook as we sit on the sun drenched concrete steps to the radio station where another potential baby momma works and stare at the slashes of ink across the first row of names. These lines of red are permanently marked in my mind.
The list was supposed to help find her, my pee-stick Cinderella, but each time I scan it, I see the crumbling of yet another block of my reputation. “Of course I am,” I mutter, more to myself than to Chelsea. “Although maybe I should wait.”
“You still haven’t heard anything?” She takes a bite out of the banana she just finished peeling.
“Odd, isn’t it? Why couldn’t she have just told me who she was? Left me a name, a number, a return address; anything?” It would have been a whole lot easier. Not knowing has been driving me crazy for weeks. I can only assume she doesn’t actually want me to know, and I can’t begin to understand why. I jiggle a knee, folding the paper and shoving it back in my pocket.
I can think of other reasons, too. A pregnancy test with no other information leaves this conundrum wide open. I’m making assumptions that she’s pregnant because who the hell mails something they’ve peed on? But really, I can’t rule out the possibility that she was afraid of how I would react, or she might have changed her mind about telling me long after she found out herself. Maybe not telling me was weighing on her conscience, and she needed to clear it, despite having no actual intention of me ever finding out who she is. Hell, there might not even be a baby at the end of this hunt, but a blackmailer, or some woman who thinks she can sink her hooks into me.
I catch a glimpse of Kate as she rounds the building and enters the carpark. It can’t be Kate. I’d slept with her once and she’d clung for weeks. I can’t imagine having to deal with her for the sake of a kid for the next twenty years, at least. “I guess it’s show time.”
Chelsea gives a light squeeze to my bicep. “What you’re doing is noble. You know that, right? You fucked up but you’re trying to fix it.”
I haul myself up and shrug. “You’re the only one who thinks so.”
It isn’t quite true. My sister, Claire, and my brothers, Mace and Razer, like to remind me I’m doing the right thing. After they give me shit for getting in this predicament in the first place. I’ve never had a problem with women. Never had to try. Since my days in the ring they’ve thrown themselves at me, and who the hell was I to say no?
Apparently a fucking idiot. That’s the only explanation for how I ended up approaching every woman I’ve ever slept with to ascertain whether they’re the mother of my child. Thank God I’m not the kind of guy to sleep with a new woman every single night. It’s like playing Russian roulette as it is. So many chances of getting shot down, one chance of finding the woman who sent me the pee stick. It was inevitable, really. I played the odds for years. Sure, I used protection every single time. I was never tempted to go without it, but there’s always a margin for error. Eventually my luck had to run out. The way it’s gone down makes my head spin.
I leave Chelsea to jog across the carpark, catching up with Kate before she gets in her car. “Katie, how are you?”
Her dark hair sways behind her shoulders as she turns at the sound of my voice, the slight hint of a smile, the kind that lights up her entire face, fades under a scowl. “Tom. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
This is the hard part. Each and every time. I rove my gaze down over her abdomen, still flat. But she’d only be about four months if memory serves. She might not show yet. How do you ask someone such a personal question without being blunt? “Uh … Just been wondering how you are.”
“I’m fine.” She unlocks the door and tosses her bag across to the opposite seat. “I’m seeing someone new.”
“Good for you.” I lean against the hood, perusing her body, but not in an ‘I wonder what you’ve got under your clothing’ way. “You look great.”
“What do you want, Tom?” She’s standing with the door between us, one foot inside the car.
I can’t see her being the one, but I have to ask anyway. Because not knowing is killing me, because each and every time I get yelled at, cussed at, physically abused by one of the girls I’ve fucked and never had any intention of seeing again, I get one step closer to finding out which one sent me the stick. “You wouldn’t happen to be pregnant would you? You’re not carrying my baby by any chance? I mean—”
She gasps, her cheeks going bright red as she hauls back and slaps me. It’s not the quick snap of her palm against my cheek or the accompanying sound that stings, but the embarrassment. The humiliation I’ve doled out to both of us. The anger in her glare, and the fact that there will probably be more of these incidents before I get to the bottom of who sent me the fucking pee stick. I rub at my jaw as I offer her a wry smile and a pathetic apology.
“Stay away from me.” She folds herself into the car and yanks the door shut, shaking her head.
I shove my hands in my pocket, bowing my head as I shuffle back to Chelsea while Kate drives away. Standing up, Chelsea brushes herself down with one hand and tosses the skin from the banana into the bin a couple feet away. She doesn’t laugh. Not like the first time. I guess there are only so many times she can watch me be punished for my crimes before the entertainment value is lost. That’s why I bring her with me, not one of my brothers. They’d be bent over double with laughter right now, while Chelsea just shuffles through her bag and hands me a red pen. “Only one today?”
“Only one,” I echo.
“How many names left on the list?” she asks.
“Too many,” I tell her, pulling the folded document from my pocket. “Half a dozen or so.”
“And then what? How far did you go back with the list anyway?” She tucks her blonde waves behind her ear.
"Does it matter?” I smooth the paper out on my knee and drag the tip of the pen over Kate’s name. “If I have to, I'm going to track down every woman I ever slept with until I find her. I have to know. This could be my kid we're talking about. My future."
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I do. I don’t have a choice. I can’t turn my back on the fact I might be a father.” I scrub my hands over my face.
“No one’s suggesting you turn your back on it.” She takes my hand. “No one is saying that. You’re too good a man to ignore this. Maybe be patient. Whoever it is might contact you again.”
“Perhaps,” I say. “I’m just so fucking tired. This is my life that’s on hold because some woman doesn’t have the guts to come out and tell me the truth to my face. Hell, it could be a piss poor attempt at blackmail, for all I know.”
She squeezes my hand. “It could be. We could stop looking and wait to see if whoever it is comes forward.”
“I’m not that guy,” I say. “If I am a father, I want to be involved. I have to keep looking.”
“You’re such a good guy.” She tucks her arm through mine as we walk to her car. “Too bad I know you too well to ever consider dating you.”
“That’s a club I would never want to join. Not since you dated Rush.”
“What a mistake that was,” she murmurs. “How about we go back to your place and watch a movie? Get some pizza. Relax for tonight. We can do another tomorrow. We’ll find her tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I slide into the passenger seat and fold my legs up near my ears in the tiny Mini Minor. What is it with girls and tiny cars?
She glances at me and flashes a soft smile. “I’m going to upgrade soon to something bigger.”
I snort. “Nah. Why would you want to do that? There’s something so enjoyable about riding around in a clown car.”
“Sure.” She dips a shoulder and the sleeve of her peasant top slips down her arm. She’s always been thin, but I swear she’s getting thinner.
I probably should say something about that, but I have no fucking clue what goes through a woman’s brain when it comes to things like skinny and fat. I rub my jaw, still aching from the last in a long line of slaps. I certainly don’t need to give my best friend a reason to hit me. She’s spent far too much of her life with us Hadleys not to have a mean right hook.
Turning out of the carpark, she continues, “She’s starting to fall apart, and I’m going to have to replace her.”
“Yeah.” I nod, turning to stare out the window. I wonder what it would be like to have to tote a kid around, lug all the crap that comes with it, even if it’s only part of the time. If I get the chance to meet my child in the first place. The more I think about her anonymity, the more I suspect whoever she is doesn’t want me to find her.
That’s not an option for me. I’m going to find her, and if I’m a daddy, I’m going to be involved as much as I can be. Not that I have the first idea of what that will entail, but I might need a more kid friendly car. At least I have an empty bedroom now, with Claire and Razer sharing. I could set that up with whatever it is kids need.
How the heck did my life turn out like this?
One thing I know is that the old me is crumbling. After this I’m not fucking around. Not even a little bit, which, I realize won’t be a problem. By the time Kate finishes expressing her opinion on the airwaves, I doubt any woman will touch me with a ten-foot pole. Which is fucking fine with me. In fact, it’s kind of liberating.
Gem
I race across the road, my bag bumping against my hip, and slide inside the glass door of the only fight gym I could find in Reverence.
Tom’s Gym.
I’d found this place a little earlier in the week, when I’d been desperate for an outlet, but hadn’t had a chance to get in a good work out until now.
Or maybe it was the sound of his voice that kept me away.
I hadn’t seen the owner’s face in the gray light of dawn that first morning I arrived in Reverence, but his tone had hummed over my skin anyway. It was a stupid reaction to have to a disembodied voice, especially one belonging to a male, but I’d recognized something in it.