Page 10 of Drive Me Home (Drive Me #3)

TEN

CHARLOTTE

We’re sitting so close to the ring—not the stage, I’m told—that there’s a 90 percent chance we’ll be hit with either blood or sweat from the boxers. The security escort who led us to our seats made it sound like an honor rather than an expensive dry-cleaning bill. Thank God I wore the black shirt and not the white .

As Lucas takes a photo with a few fans who approached him, I squint against the blinding glare of the overhead lights and take in the arena. Nearly every seat is filled, and the crowd is chanting and roaring for their favored fighter. The announcer practically shouts into the mic, his booming voice over the loudspeaker hyping them up. The massive screens hanging from the ceiling will broadcast the fight and real-time stats, but for now, trainers and cameramen swarm the ring, prepping for the boxers’ introductions.

As Lucas sinks into the empty seat beside me, I get right down to business. “So which fighter has the cooler nickname?”

Resting his forearms on his thighs, he tips forward, head turned my way, and grins. “You tell me. We’ve got Daniel ‘the Polka Puncher’ Novák versus Aaron ‘the Toybreaker’ Zale. ”

I tap my fingers against my chin. “Hmm… tough call. Maybe I’ll just cheer for them both. Spread the love and all that.”

Lucas straightens, looking appalled by my suggestion. “You can’t root for both opponents, Roo. That defeats the whole purpose.”

I raise a brow and shift so I’m facing him. “Why not? I root for both you and Theo.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, though his voice is adorably uncertain. “That’s… well, that’s not how it works.”

“Do you not remember when I told you that you were the number one pick for Holy Walker-Moly?”

He takes a swig of the beer he ordered, doing a poor job of hiding the way his cheeks have reddened. “Point taken.”

The lights suddenly dim, and the attention of every person in the place is diverted to the ring, the only area still illuminated under the spotlights. The announcer standing in the center, microphone in hand, speaks, his deep voice echoing through the arena. I don’t speak Portuguese, so I have no idea what he’s saying, but there’s a commentator from America, as the match is being broadcast there. When the crowd erupts, the sound nearly shaking the foundations of the building, and every person gets to their feet, I don’t need the English-speaking commentator to tell me that the fighters are being announced. With our ringside seats, we get an up-close-and-personal view of the Toybreaker’s muscular frame and the Polka Puncher’s confident swagger as they climb through the ropes.

The fight is relatively anti-climactic to start. The two men circle each other, looking for weaknesses or an in. Then, out of nowhere, bam . The Toybreaker charges forward like a man with a vendetta. I watch in stunned silence as the fight plays out in front of us. By the third round, I’m truly clueless as to why people subject themselves to this. I complain when I sleep wrong and wake with a small kink in my neck, yet these men are voluntarily pummeling and injuring each other for fun.

The bloke next to me screams something that I don’t think is anatomically possible. I mean, maybe if the fighter were double-jointed, but even then, it’d be pushing it. I step an inch closer to Lucas, hoping to avoid the man’s spittle. He’s making my middle finger twitchy, and the last thing we need is me telling him to lower his voice. I can’t see that ending well for anyone.

Lucas tears his attention away from the ring and regards me with a concerned expression. “You good?”

“If he doesn’t stop shouting ‘get him a body bag,’ there’s a very high chance I’ll try to put him in one.”

I’m only half kidding .

As if on cue, the guy screams his signature line. It was funny the first few times, but now that he’s uttered the phrase one hundred and eight times, it’s lost the bulk of its charm. I widen my eyes at Lucas, silently saying “see?”

Lucas stifles a laugh, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. In a move that surprises the hell out of me, he wraps his arm around my waist and gently tugs me over until I’m parked in front of him. I wait for him to switch spots with me, but nope, he stays right where he is, his chest brushing against my back. It’s intimate in the best kind of way.

“Better?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.

A shiver of raw desire flows through me like lava, but I will my body to remain relaxed. “Mm-hmm.”

I can’t say I was paying super close attention to the match before, but now? It’s background noise. How am I supposed to focus when Lucas’s tattooed forearms keep brushing against my waist and the rumbles of his cheers for the Toybreaker vibrate through me?

Needing to break the tension, one that’s probably completely one-sided, I ask, “Why do they call it a boxing ring if it’s actually square?”

“No idea.” Lucas shrugs. “I’m sure Kelsey would know. I can shoot him a text.”

Kelsey Wells, a very badarse boxer who owns a private high-profile gym, ventured into the hospitality scene last year, and Theo’s girlfriend, Josie, heads up his marketing team. He’s built like a brick house, though he’s not as big as Mitchell. Lucas’s manager is still in a league of his own.

“How’d you get Kelsey to train you?” I ask over the noise. “Not that he shouldn’t train you, but I can’t imagine you plan to go pro or anything. You’re more of a boxing… hobbyist? Enthusiast? Amateur?”

Lucas takes a sip of his beer, then sets it in his cupholder again. A bead of liquid lingers on his lip, but I hold myself back from angling in and licking it off for him. Self-control, baby .

“We were introduced at a poker game.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never met someone with so few tells.”

“Everyone has tells. You touch your eye or eyebrow when you’re irritated,” I inform him. “And you fiddle with your watch when you’re getting impatient. You have a nice watch collection, by the way. And eyes.” Though nerves skitter down my spine, there’s no stopping the flood of words escaping me. “They’re a good color; not super common. Sort of a pickle green. Gherkin, not the bread-and-butter kind.”

Lucas opens his mouth, but before he can speak, I gasp and spin to face him completely.

“Wait, did you say poker game? I knew there was a secret underground celebrity poker ring. You’ve seen Molly’s Game , right? The woman who ran high-stakes games?—”

“This was a charity poker game.” Lucas gives me a wry smile. “And I’m not a celebrity.”

With a huff, I roll my eyes. “And I’m not a serial shopper. Let’s be real, Lucas. You’re a public figure. Calvin Klein didn’t approach you to strip down and star in their latest campaign because you can win a grand prix.”

“I can’t believe Theo told you about that,” he grumbles, more to himself than me.

I try not to grin at his reaction. Actually, Theo told Josie, and Josie told me. Though I don’t tell him that. He’d probably dislike it more. “We’re getting off topic.”

“The story isn’t all that exciting,” Lucas warns me. “He invited me to check out Wells Gym, so I did.”

“And it was love at first punch?”

“Something like that. I was”—he pauses, his brows lowering—“going through a lot at the time. Needed an outlet, and boxing became that for me.”

My head jerks back. “You were angry?”

The closest I’ve ever seen Lucas to angry is when a reporter wouldn’t stop grilling him about a strategy gone wrong that resulted in him being unfairly red-flagged. He doesn’t lash out or say things in the heat of the moment. It’s more like controlled annoyance that never tips the scale to angry.

Sighing, he peers back at the ring, where the boxers are taking a break between rounds. It takes him so long to answer that when he finally says, “I had a falling-out with my brother,” I’ve all but forgotten the question I asked in the first place.

“That sucks,” I reply simply. It takes a lot of willpower to not ask a million questions, including who, what, where, when and why, but based on the way his expression has shuttered, it’s clear he wouldn’t welcome that line of inquiry.

He exhales, and his frown eases. “Yeah, it does.”

In my periphery, the boxers appear to be hugging. I spin and study them. “Is that the end?”

“Hmm?”

Tilting my head to the side, I confirm that I am not hallucinating. They’re indeed embracing. “They’re hugging. Is it a congratulatory hug? Like a ‘good job, man, you did great’ kind of thing?”

Lucas’s laugh rings louder than the bell that announces the end of a round. “It’s called cinching, but I see where you’re coming from. It’s a defensive technique.”

He walks me through a few more tactics as the next round begins. I don’t care a bit about the strategies, but I do love the way Lucas’s eyes light up and his smile widens as he talks about his second-favorite sport, so I do my best to absorb his words like a sponge.

“So you’re telling me,” I say with a hand in the air between us, interrupting him, “that it’s considered rude to punch someone in the dick?”

He takes a slow sip of his beer before responding. “It’s considered illegal, and it’ll earn you a five-minute breather.”

I roll my eyes. Men are such babies.

“You should do more of this,” I tell him, taking a swig of my water since watching men beat the living crap out of one another has me working up a sweat.

“More of what? Explaining boxing to you?” he says with a tilted grin.

“Spontaneous, fun activities in every city you visit,” I clarify. “I’ll gladly serve as your tour guide any time you want to tag along on my adventures.”

“Such a generous offer,” he teases, giving my hip a quick squeeze.

As my ovaries explode and my heart trips over itself, I glance toward the medics on standby, wondering if I should flag them over.

The match ends during the ninth round when the Toybreaker knocks the fuck out of the Polka Puncher. Not just a small knockout, but a lights-out, no one’s home and we should probably make sure he’s breathing knockout. Instantly, the press storms the ring to celebrate Aaron’s win. I don’t particularly care who the victor is; I’m just glad we made it through the match without being hit by bodily fluids.

Apparently, the tickets were courtesy of Aaron “the Toybreaker” Zale, or maybe his manager, so before we leave, we head to the locker room to congratulate him and say thanks.

Clearly assuming I’m nervous about this meet and greet, Lucas gently nudges me forward with a palm splayed over my lower back. In reality, I just don’t have a strong urge to spend an extended period of time in closed quarters that smell like sweat and liniment and have horrific fluorescent lighting.

Only moments after we’ve entered, thankfully, the Toybreaker stalks through the door with a towel slung over his shoulders. He’s mid-conversation with his trainer, but he stops in his tracks, and his expression morphs into first confusion, then surprise.

“Adler,” he says through a bloody smile. “Thanks for coming out, man.”

Lucas dips his chin. “Thanks for having us.”

They do one of these complex masculine half handshake, half high five with a one-armed hug-slash-shoulder bump and a brief pat on the back.

“This is Charlotte,” Lucas says when he steps back. The man doesn’t need more brownie points, but he’s instantly earned them by introducing me as “Charlotte” rather than “Charlotte Walker, Theo’s younger sister.”

Unsure if I should hug him or high-five him or not touch him at all, I settle on a simple wave. “Hi. Congrats on your win.”

He takes me in from my head to my toes, a smile slowly building. “Hey, gorgeous. Nice to meet you.”

I’m too focused on the massive cut on his lip and the bruises forming under both of his eyes, not to mention the ones scattering his torso, for the compliment to register. “Um… do you need medical attention?”

He flexes his fingers and shakes his head. “Nah. I’m sure I’m fine, but thanks for worrying about me, sweetheart.”

“My friend didn’t initially get her sprained thumb checked out and nearly tore the ligament as a result,” I warn him. “To be fair, she didn’t realize it was sprained because, honestly, who in the bloody hell sprains their thumb at the nail salon? But the technician didn’t like when she fidgeted during her manicure and yanked it hard. So it’s always better to be safe than sorry and get checked out by a medical professional. Anyway, do you mind if I ask how you got your boxing nickname?”

The Toybreaker tilts his head and smirks as if I’m a magician and he’s trying to uncover my latest trick. “I like to play with my opponent before I go in for the kill.”

Um, okay . “Well, that… makes you sound like a bit of a sociopath, if I’m being completely honest.”

Lucas tucks his chin into his chest and snorts, but the Toybreaker is completely unperturbed by my comment. In fact, his grin gets even wider. Weirdo .

He invites us to celebrate with him and his team at some exclusive nightclub, and while that sounds like my version of hell on earth right now, I turn and silently defer to Lucas. I slept in, spent a couple of hours in a local market, and showed up just in time for the race. He’s the one who’s been up since six a.m. and raced for two hours straight. This is his adventurous night, anyway. I’m just along for the ride.

“Thanks, but I think we’ll head back to the hotel,” Lucas says with an apologetic smile. “It’s been a long day.”

Completely ignoring him, the Toybreaker turns his attention to me. “Why don’t you give me your number? If you change your mind, you can reach out, and we can play, just the two of us. ”

Did he seriously say that? Compared to Lucas, the guy has the sexual appeal of a cactus .

“I—”

“She’s not available,” Lucas bites out.

Mouth agape, I slowly turn and blink at him. I’m not available? There’s no way in hell I was giving him my number, considering he probably sends two to three dick pics a day and just referred to sex as playing , but that doesn’t give Lucas the right to make that decision for me.

The two of them have a silent conversation that involves narrowed eyes and clenched jaws. Then, as if that weird interlude never even happened, they go on to chitchat about the match, leaving me utterly stupefied.

By the time we’ve made it outside, my annoyance is simmering, on the verge of boiling over, and my thoughts have morphed from what just happened? to what just happened was completely unacceptable . As soon as we’re far from prying ears, I turn on my heel and cross my arms over my chest. “I can speak for myself, you know. I don’t need you stepping in.”

His jaw goes rigid, and his green eyes go hard. “Were you planning on giving him your number?”

I huff out an exaggerated breath. “That’s beside the point.”

“If you weren’t planning on it, I did you a favor.”

“So if a woman asked for your number, and I stepped in to turn her down on your behalf, without consulting you first, you’d be okay with that?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, as if this is the obvious answer. “Why would I care about other women when I’m out with you?”

Fists clenched at my sides, I let out a disgruntled noise. He’s still missing the entire point. “Next time, let me deal with it. I have a tried-and-true method for rejecting a guy without having to be mean about it, okay? ”

He cocks a brow. “Tried-and-true?”

“Yes. I simply tell them that they can have my number on the condition that they correctly answer a riddle,” I explain, propping a hand on my hip. It’s a technique I perfected in university and have been using ever since. It isn’t as if men ask for my number right and left, but it’s a nice technique to keep in my pocket, just in case. “Then I ask them a riddle that doesn’t actually have an answer because I made it up myself.”

Lucas stares at me for a beat before he doubles over, laughing. He’s so loud, and it goes on for so long that passersby start to stare. “The man you end up marrying will be one lucky guy, Roo.”

Usually, it’s the man you end up marrying is going to need a lot of patience or the man you end up marrying is in for it . But not for Lucas. I never have to worry that I’m too opinionated, too direct, too loud, too much . For him, I’m just enough. And shit if that doesn’t make me so warm and fuzzy I forget why I was even mad in the first place.