Thresh: Alpha One Security: Book 2 (5 page)

BOOK: Thresh: Alpha One Security: Book 2
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“True. All right, I’ll talk to you later, meat-head.”
 

“Bye.” I hung up, laughing.
 

I call Lear nerd-boy because it’s funny, and it’s true, although Lear does have an adrenaline-junkie aspect to his personality that’s entirely un-nerd-like. He’s freaky smart, freaky-fast with the computer magic, and entirely lacking in any common sense when it comes to doing stupid-dangerous shit that can get him killed just for the shits and giggles of it. I mean, I’m a mercenary—I get into gun battles for a living. But that’s different, since I get paid to risk my neck. That crazy asshole does it for fun. Fuckin’ weirdo nerd.
 

And, for the record, I don’t use steroids. That’s all part of the inside joke between Lear and me. Just…you know, to be clear. People take one look at me and assume that either I use steroids, or I’m stupid, and usually both. Truth is I don’t and never have used ’roids, no matter how big I am, and I’m far from stupid, although I’m nowhere near as smart as guys like Puck or Lear.
 

I pulled her address up in Google Maps on my phone—a thirty-minute walk from here, and there were several good restaurants in the area.
 

I decided to grab some shut-eye; I don’t sleep well in hospitals, never have.

It was barely noon, so I slept for a few hours, then headed out to hunt down some clean clothes, came back for a shower, and then it was time to start wooing the good doctor.
 

Or maybe ‘seducing’ was the more apropos term…

4: JUST ONE KISS

Friday was my day off, and it was also laundry day, and heavy lifting day at the gym. This meant I slept in late—till eight a.m, which, in a doctor’s world, is late—ate a big breakfast, gathered up every last stitch of clothing I owned, except for a pair of skin-tight workout shorts, my tightest sports bra, and a long, loose tank top.
 

I started a load of laundry and then headed over to the gym. I worked the free weights until I was jelly all over, hit Jamba Juice for a big protein shake, switched loads…and headed to lunch. Usually on Fridays I caught a movie between lunch and the rest of the laundry, but today I didn’t feel like it.
 

I was restless.

I worked out harder than I ever had, pushing myself until I couldn’t physically bang out even one more rep, even if my life had depended on it.
 

The whole time I was tossing clothes from washer to dryer and folding dry clothes, I was conflicted mentally. I’ve had a rule since my residency that I never ever think about work when I’m off—I don’t ever bring work home with me. It’s the only way to stay sane. The problem today, though, was that if I didn’t think about work, I’d be thinking about Thresh.

And that was a
bad
idea.

I didn’t dare think about what his torso had looked like, after I cut his bloody shirt off. How massive his biceps were, how thick his pectorals were. How flat and hard and defined his abs were. God, definitely do
NOT
think about that stupid, beautiful V where his abs grooved in and angled under his desert camo military pants. I don’t know what they’re called, camos? Uniform pants? Whatever. The V disappeared under that waistband like an arrow pointing the way to the Promised Land.

Only… I DON’T WANT TO GO THERE.

I don’t.

Really fucking
really
, I don’t.
 

But I just couldn’t stop thinking about him.

That growl, his voice in my ear…so full of sexual hunger and lascivious promise. His eyes on me. The fact that his expression, never mind his words, tells me he really does find me attractive.
 

Okay, fine, so I’ve got a bit of an issue with self-confidence. There’s a reason, though, and it’s not really about how I’m built. I work my fucking ass off to stay in shape. I’m strong as hell—I’m just not small. No part of me is small. I’ve got thick thighs, thick arms, and my waist isn’t waif-thin. But my arms are thick with muscle, and my thighs too. My tits are pretty much perfect, which even I can admit—assuming you like huge knockers. And my ass is—yes, big—but also round and taut and pretty damn firm, but with just enough jiggle and sway to it to remind you that I’m all woman.

I work
hard
to look the way I do.

I’m just…not thin.
 

But this is not the problem I have, mentally and emotionally, with myself. I don’t care about being thin, I swear. I love myself, I love my body, and I have no desire or need to lose weight.
 

The real reason for my insecurity is…complicated. Delves deep into the most traumatic part of my past, to things I don’t think about, and certainly don’t ever, ever,
ever
talk about.

But Thresh didn’t know any of this. All he knew is that he liked what he saw. And he
wanted
what he saw.

But…what did I do about it?

Three years ago I swore that I’d never trust a male again. And I haven’t. There’s been interest. I’ve been asked out and hit on, guys at the gym trying to bring me home for casual sex, fellow doctors looking for more than casual sex…I rejected them all out of hand, didn’t even think twice. None of them so much as made me hesitate. Just no. Nope. No way. Not interested, thanks anyway.
 

But Thresh, god…he does something to me. To my head, to my body. Even my cold, dead heart seems to feel some kind of
something
when he’s around.
 

But how could I trust him? Even for something casual? God, perish the thought. I could never do casual. Never ever. Even before everything that happened to make me the way I am, I couldn’t have done casual. But now? Fuck no. Hell no, fuck no, oh my fucking god…
NO
.

So then where does that leave me, in terms of Thresh’s interest in me? No way is a guy like him looking for anything more than quick and casual. He flew in to Miami just to get me to fix him, which means he’s mobile. He can and will go anywhere, anytime, on a whim. I’m tied here, to Miami, to the hospital; it’s home, and I have no reason to leave.
 

Plus, he’s just bad news. Everything about him screams
player
, and it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I get played by another player.
 

Also, he treated getting shot
twice
like it was a common occurrence. More of an inconvenience than anything else, really, is how he acted. I got the feeling I could have treated his wounds without anesthetic if I’d had to, and he wouldn’t have flinched. A man only gets that kind of tough from long experience, and the scars I saw on his body told the story clearly enough.
 

He is, to put it in precise terms, a very, very dangerous man. I don’t need to know anything else about him to know that. He just exudes danger and threat, and it’s not just because of his size. I mean, yeah, he’s seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of pure muscle, but he just…it’s just his very essence. He’s deadly. It seeps from his very pores.
 

And that scares the spit out of me.
 

Literally, it leaves me dry-mouthed.

But then…the dry-mouth could also be from the potency of my attraction to him.

Which presents the problem.

I’m terrified of him. Attracted to him so powerfully that it scrambles my brain and leaves my hormones in turmoil.
 

But…I can’t trust him. He’s a man, for one thing. And he’s obviously a player used to getting what he wants on his own terms, and my feelings and my future won’t factor into that. Plus, he’s not from Miami, which means it doesn’t matter what either of us want or intend, it can’t amount to anything anyway.

All the evidence tells me to stay clear of him, keep away, shut him down, close him out, do what I do and don’t give him another thought.
 

But my brain doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to wisdom.
 

Because all damn day, my thoughts kept returning to goddamn Thresh.
 

By the time all of my laundry was washed and dried and folded, it was quarter to six in the evening and I was carrying my clothes home, lost in thought, fighting to keep Thresh off my mind. I was still in my workout shorts and tank top, and I never took a shower at the gym, so I stank like old sweat, my hair was a messy rat’s nest pulled back in a frizzy ponytail. I hauled my laundry up the stairs, because I vowed years ago to never use the elevator and that’s a vow I’ve kept.
 

By the time I reached my door, I was already looking forward to stripping off, taking a shower, pouring a bottle of wine into my favorite holds-a-whole-bottle wine glass, and watching stupid TV. I was sweating again, because I just carried six loads of laundry up three flights of stairs, and the strap of my tank top was coming off my shoulder, leaving pretty much my entire left breast exposed. I was juggling the laundry basket and my purse, trying to get my keys out without setting down the basket, not really looking where I was going, because why would I? My door was at the end of the hallway, so there wouldn’t ever be anyone coming toward me.
 

I bumped into something, bounced away, dropping my laundry basket, my purse, and my keys. My laundry exploded, everything unfolding and scattering all over the fucking floor, panties, bras, shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, blouses, all over the place. And my purse…upended. All my shit rolled over the floor. Tampons, pads, keys, wallet, gum, receipts, sunglasses, all the shit a woman keeps in her purse.
 

And me? I landed on my ass on the floor, stunned, confused, and pissed.

When I looked up and saw Thresh leaning back against my door, arm in a sling across his body, good hand stuffed into the hip pocket of a pair of dark blue jeans, that hair of his in the ridiculous, amazing fucking mohawk, eyes like ice chips glinting amusement, and a black polo stretched across his chest and around his arms…god…dressed casually but so fucking sexy, almost preppy for a guy like him.
 

I just gaped at him for several seconds, staring, mouth working, brain spasming, trying and failing rather significantly to come up with something to say, some kind of appropriate response.

He beat me to it. “Evenin’, Doc.” He said this with a cocky grin, as if he knew exactly the effect he was having on me.
 

Bastard.

That got my cylinders all firing again. “What the fuck, Thresh?”

He had a massive watch on his wrist, a huge black rubber-encased thing, expensive looking, some kind of fancy tactical military chronograph, probably. “Just shy of six, and it’s Friday. We have a date.”
 

My mouth flapped open and closed a couple times. “No. We don’t.”

“Yes, we do. I told you before you left my room the other day that I’d pick you up today at six.”
 

I finally stood up, brushed my butt off, and then stomped over to stand in front of Thresh, staring up at him angrily. “That’s not how asking a girl out works, Thresh. You don’t
tell
her you’re going out. You ask, politely, and if she says yes, then you have a date. You gave orders, and I declined to respond. That means we
don’t
have a date.”
 

He just stared down at me, holding his ground, unperturbed. “You didn’t say no. You didn’t answer, and don’t make it out like you did that shit on purpose. You ran off like a skittish pony. Couldn’t handle the intensity of the moment.”
 

Fuck him and his truth.
 

I turned away, knelt down and started replacing the contents of my purse. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” I cut myself off with an angry huff, and then started over again. “So I’m a horse, now?”
 

“What I said was ‘like a skittish pony’, actually, which isn’t the same. But if you want to take it that way, sure.”
 

I stood up abruptly, whirling to face him, ready to deck him, foot of height difference and hundred and fifty pounds of muscle difference be damned. “Are you fucking serious?” I even went to slap him, but missed, on account of the fact that he was crouched a couple feet away, re-folding my clothes and putting them in the basket.
 

His big, rough, callused, powerful paws—clean, albeit, and yes, I noticed that his hands were clean—were all over my clothes. Rolling my size twelve panties into messy balls, stuffing one cup of my bra inside out and folding it in half…but not before checking the tag: 34DD. Folding my yoga pants into thirds, and folding my blouse sleeves in first, hem up, then collar down.
 

Folding my female clothes as if he knew exactly how to fold a woman’s clothes. An odd skill for a man like him to have. And kind of impressive, especially considering he was doing most of it one-handed, only occasionally using the hand of his wounded arm.

I watched in puzzled wonder for a moment, then remembered that I was angry at him, and also pissed and embarrassed that he was handling my clothes and checking the tags for sizes…

“Fuck off, Thresh. Get your dirty paws off my clothes, and quit checking the fucking tags, you goddamned asshole.” I snatched my favorite pencil skirt out of his hands and shoved him away. “You have the balls to call me a fucking horse, and then you’re gonna look at the tag on my bra? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
 

He stood up, unfolding himself like a tree growing in time-lapse. “You mistake me, Doc. Or, more accurately, you assume that being compared to a horse is a negative, that I’d mean it as an insult.” He stalked toward me on feet entirely too quiet, entirely too lithe and graceful for a man of his size. He stood in front of me, snatched the skirt from me, and folded it deftly, then stood towering over me, eyes fierce and serious. “Horses are incredible animals, Lola. They’re powerful, graceful, intelligent, and beautiful. It’s a compliment, to be compared to a horse. Yes, horses are bigger than people, but a horse is one of the most beautiful animals there is, Doc. So even if that’s what I
had
said to you, it would have been a compliment, not an insult.”
 

BOOK: Thresh: Alpha One Security: Book 2
9.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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