Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 (5 page)

“A few more feet and you might be able to beat Kilroy this year,” Michael murmured.

Julian scowled. The throw was a good one, but Duke Kilroy wasn’t his favorite method of measurement. Julian had always done well in the hammer throw and weight throw competitions, but he was still a good dozen feet away from even touching Kilroy’s record. It wasn’t until recently he’d begun placing in the major competitions. He’d always been a bit smaller than the other guys—leaner and more focused on precision than power—and he’d finally reached the right balance. The wins, complete with prize money, came more easily now.

Except when Kilroy was there. The bastard always managed to edge him out, and always with an entourage of cameramen right there to capture it. Ego and idiocy, wrapped up in a golden package of hair and teeth.

Michael stepped forward to take his own turn, and Julian watched appreciatively as his friend planted his feet in a firm stance and let loose the hammer. Michael always had more muscle behind the throw than Julian did, but he could never quite get the right discharge, and his hammer tended to lose some distance on the angle.

“If I do get a few more feet, I’ll be putting you to downright shame,” Julian said with a laugh as they went to retrieve the hammers. “Maybe you can try your luck at the sword dance this year. I think the same teenage girl wins every time. Maybe you can give her a run for her money.”

Michael offered a few country dance steps and a hearty laugh, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size.

They threw a few more times until the muscles all along Julian’s shoulders burned from the effort. As they walked off the field, he waved good-bye to the kids, stretching as he did.

“We’re going to be late,” Michael said. Behind them, the sun was dipping to the horizon, splaying streaks of orange and pink in all directions.

Julian sat and pulled off his shoes, a pair of cleats that helped him grip the turf and keep his balance, before checking his watch. Michael was right. He still needed to stop at his apartment to grab a shower and change, and Michael did have to be fed, or he’d start snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. It would be rude to show up late, but maybe that would put Kate on her guard and save him from having to decide whether or not she was worth pursuing. His body screamed yes, but his reason said no.

“Well, we’ll just have to be late, then, won’t we? Besides, we don’t want to look too eager.”

“’Course not, bro, but a couple of girls like that? In a fancy bar? They’re gonna be covered in men like a shithouse in flies.”

Julian reached over and punched his friend’s arm. He might not be sure what he was going to do about that woman yet, but he definitely wasn’t leaving her to his friend’s crudity. “Nice, Michael. Classy.”

“Thanks, bro. It’s all part of my charm.”

“Oh, shit. Are those dueling pianos?” Michael stopped on the sidewalk outside Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint, a downtown two-story building with a sleek black exterior broken only by the flashing neon sign of a martini glass.

Julian cocked his head. He could hear the thunderous pounding of a chord, followed by a lighter, musical tinkling. “I’m going to go with yes.”

“We’re really going in there?” Michael stilled him with one hand and surveyed the building doubtfully.

Julian couldn’t blame him. They were used to bars that served beer by the pint, ones that had union stickers plastered all over the walls and urinals caked with years of other men’s piss. A man’s bar, where the only pianists were the ones that existed in stale, dirty jokes.

“Dude, I know those chicks were pretty hot, but I think we should call it a night and get up early for practice tomorrow.” Michael gave Julian a pointed look. “This is where men go when they’re too wrapped up in their girlfriend’s tampon strings to remember where their balls are.”

Julian refused to rise to the bait, even though his friend was right. An early bedtime and an extra practice would have been a better plan under any other circumstances. But as he’d been getting dressed, he’d realized that, more than anything, he had to go meet Kate and
see
. Harold, his stepfather, always said that when it came to the right woman, opportunity didn’t knock or ring the doorbell—it battle-rammed in with a good, old-fashioned chunk of wood. Julian had been fourteen at the time, and the double entendre hadn’t been lost on him. Everything at that age had somehow been related to his cock.

Harold, though dead these six years, hadn’t been wrong about anything in Julian’s life. Not the Games. Not women. None of it. Opportunity was tightening in his groin, and Scottish Games or not, he needed to see this thing through. He was willing to discover what Kate might offer him, if that shy smile and heavy breathing meant what he thought they did. Hopefully, she’d understand that for the next month, the Games came first. No matter what.

And he’d be damned if he’d go into a piano bar alone. Julian offered a wide grin and slapped Michael on the back. “What? You? Fearing for your manhood? Whose balls are in question now?”

Julian strode inside without looking back. His friend would follow. Julian might be able to resist the bait, but Michael wouldn’t. Not on an issue as important as the size or placement of his testicles.

The bar itself was on the second floor, and the entryway contained only sleek marble pillars and a winding staircase leading upstairs. It was all very neat, simple and classy—a lot like Kate, actually. It was crowded, with a line heading almost all the way down the stairs, most of them women in short, glittery dresses and shoes that looked like they could be used as murder weapons.

He avoided the curious stares and got in line. Hopefully, it would move quickly. They were already pushing the limits of making a fashionably late entrance.

“Julian Wallace and Michael O’Leary? Hell must have gone and froze over.”

The bouncer at the top of the stairs waved at them, his arm a meaty appendage that Julian would recognize anywhere. It was Eric Peterson, another Scottish athlete. He was a burly six-and-a-half-foot bear of a man who sported a Mohawk and several faded tattoos along his neck, arms and legs. He didn’t do much in the professional circuit, mostly local Games a few times a year, but Julian had known him for years. They’d done their first weight toss together back when they were thirteen.

“You’re the last two I’d expect to see here. Come on up!”

Julian and Michael moved clumsily up the side of the stairs, muttering apologies along the way. He felt like a third-grader taking cuts in the lunch line, but no one said anything. Oversized friends had a way of compelling people to silence.

It was funny, though—as much as Peterson glinted with steel and menace on the outside, Julian knew for a fact the man wouldn’t hurt anyone. He had two little girls at home and had been known to don a tutu and crown for a tea party on more than one occasion.

“I didn’t know you were working in security,” Julian said, taking Peterson’s proffered hand and shaking it with considerable force. Michael went straight for a huge bear hug.

“Oh, you know. I gotta pay the bills somehow. Both Sammy and Pris are in ballet this year—you know how much that shit costs?”

“Er…a lot?”

“Let’s just say if this keeps up, they may not get to go to college. But what can you do? They cried.”

Michael and Julian nodded knowingly. Feminine tears were so much more powerful when they came from tiny eyes.

“So, I hear you’ve got the coordinator spot this year,” Peterson said, changing the subject. “Can I put in a request right now for a bigger closing ceilidh? Last year, they ran out of single malt before most of us even finished the ceremonies. That was one dull party.”

“I’m already on it.” Julian laughed. Although running the administrative side of the Games had never been a goal of his, he’d been elected to the position of local SHS president last year after the other candidate injured his back. It was mostly a nominal title, since the Spokane members were pretty laid back and didn’t adhere to the monthly meetings, but it did mean he was in charge of coordinating the Highland Games this year—a much bigger task than he’d anticipated, and one that was already cutting into his schedule. But hard work and obligation had never stopped him before.

“I’ve managed to convince the Rockland Bluff Whisky executives to come up for the events,” Julian added, not even trying to hide the pride in his voice. It had taken months of phone calls and negotiations, but he’d done it. “They should be bringing plenty of samples with them.”

Peterson nodded. “Good. Good. They coming up to look at anyone?”

“Hell, yes, they are,” Michael interjected. “They’re coming to see Jules.”

Peterson gave a low whistle.

For most people, the SHS was a hobby, a passion. Making a living from it was almost impossible, since the Games ran only a few weekends out of the summer, and the prize money wasn’t always enough to even cover travel expenses. During the season, Julian spent most of his time on the road, driving between different cities hosting SHS Games, mailing whatever money he managed to win home to his mom. To make up for it, he had to spend the winter somewhere in the southwestern states, where construction jobs were easy to come by and the pay was high.

Julian always tried to come home to Spokane for a few extra weeks during the Games to spend time with his mother and sisters and to refocus his energies on what mattered.

This year, he’d taken a whole month off. He needed it. In addition to doing all the planning for the local Games, he was on the cusp of getting a life-changing sponsorship. A few smaller whisky companies and local businesses offered product placement commissions for the top athletes, but Rockland Bluff Whisky was recognized around the world as the leader of single malt Scotch.

Nike and golf. Home Depot and Nascar. Rockland Bluff Whisky and the Scottish Highland Games. It was a simple equation. Even one tiny logo on Julian’s Highland formal would set his mom and sisters up for years. No more construction jobs. No more long winters away from home. It was the culmination of everything he’d ever worked toward.

But Rockland Bluff didn’t offer their sponsorships lightly, and Julian knew for a fact that Kilroy had had his eye on it for years. When it came to media attention and putting on a good show, Kilroy had him beat. Julian was man enough to be able to admit that.

“Good luck,” Peterson said, shaking his head in awe. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“So, you guys want in?” Peterson thumbed over his shoulder to the dimly lit interior of the bar. From where they stood, they could see a dozen or so tables, men and women conversing over candlelit lanterns.

“If it’s not too much trouble.” Julian gestured to the line. “But I hate to step in front of all these people who’ve been waiting longer than us.”

“Aw, Jules. Always the gentleman.” Michael laughed.

Peterson leaned in. “Between you and me, there’s plenty of room in there. I’m making ’em wait a little to up the ante. Adds prestige, you know, gives me a little street cred.” He lifted the velvet rope with a laugh and gave them a wink. “Have a good time, boys. Drink a cosmopolitan for me.”

It took a few moments to get acclimated to the sounds and lighting in the bar. Julian’s only experience with dueling pianos was an old cartoon featuring Daffy and Donald Duck, and it turned out the real thing was much more refined—and loud. The pianists sat opposite one another, two shining baby grands back-to-back, one glossy black, the other a pearly white that sparkled under the lights directed at the stage. Half the time, the players tried to pick up on the tune the other musician was playing. The rest of the time, they simply tried to out-speed and out-volume one another, so the result was a crashing and chasing cacophony of sounds.

The pianists sure looked like they were having fun, sweat dripping over their flying fingertips. Julian could appreciate the sentiment behind it. It was, after all, just another kind of competition.

Despite the background distractions, it was easy to spot Kate and her friend. They weren’t, as Michael had ominously foretold, surrounded by men. Instead, they were seated at a round table near the back, where the music wasn’t quite as deafening, both of them sipping delicately at something with a piece of fruit floating in it.

“You came!” Kate smiled up at him as they approached, and Julian had to remind himself to smile back. Flash teeth and relax. Laugh and flirt. The serious, competitive warrior he was on the field had a tendency to take over even when the situation didn’t call for it. And this situation, with a woman like that looking up at him with genuine pleasure in her hazel eyes, most definitely didn’t call for it. She was everything he didn’t know he found attractive in a woman, with a small and delicate build, a nose that turned up just a little at the tip and the kind of softness that normally put him on his guard. Cute but not obvious. Quiet but not shy. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say she brought out his territorial instincts, but there was a definite urge to protect and serve.

So he smiled, pleased to find it didn’t feel quite as forced as he expected it to. “Sorry we’re late. Michael wanted to do his hair.”

Michael, whose longish, wavy hair almost always looked like it had been lifted straight off the pillow, grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m a vain man.”