Page 2 of Forgotten Comeback (Parisi Family #5)

Chapter

One

Taylor

“Bill. Bill. Bill.” Each unopened envelope gets tossed on the kitchen counter. Opening them would ruin my day, and it’s way too early for that.

“Bonnie, you’re going to have to start earning your keep around here,” I tell my potted cactus.

Checking the soil, it’s looking a bit dry, so I fill up a glass and give her a drink.

“Ouch.” My thumb receives a prick, and I jerk back the water glass.

“On second thought, you just sit there and look pretty.” She’s living up to her Orange Crown Cactus name: fiery orange flowers in full bloom.

Not that I’d tell her that; she’s pretty vain.

Or that I would tell anyone I have conversations with my opinionated house plant.

“Bye, Bonnie. I’m going to the gym.” I grab my bag and keys, locking up behind me.

Sliding behind the wheel of my car, I get my audiobook pulled up on my phone and continue from where I left off.

Oh, yes, Fathers!

My brows furrow. “Hold up. I need a diagram for all those body parts. Like, where is Father Paul’s dick in all this?”

All three enter me, and I welcome the delicious bite of pain.

“Welp, that answers my question. Girl, better you than me.” No way three well-endowed dicks are parking in my single-car garage.

Everyone in the book arrives, and I arrive…at the gym. Good thing I brought an extra change of panties, because even with the physics-defying group sex scene, it was still hot as hell.

“Lick her clean, Father Paul orders his brethren.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I nearly jump out of my skin, giving Russell a little wave as I fumble for my phone. It goes flying across the floorboard of the passenger seat.

“Now spit that big load of cum in her mouth.”

No!

Unbuckling, I lunge for my phone and slam the pause button.

“Hey, Russell.” My cheeks flame as I open my door and join my trainer, pretending it’s no biggie. It’s that, or die of embarrassment, and dammit, it’s still too early for this day to be ruined.

“Hey. Sorry to startle you.”

“No worries,” I say, and bless him, if he heard any of that, he pretends he didn’t as we walk to the front of Ace’s Wild Boxing Club.

Russel scans his card and holds open the door for me. “I don’t have you down for training today,” he warns.

“Oh, I know; I’m putting in a solo session this morning.” I’ve never considered myself particularly athletic, but now that I’ve gotten a taste of those feel-good workout endorphins, I’m hooked.

“Like the enthusiasm.” He gives me a thumbs up. “Hey, while I’ve got you, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” I say, praying it’s not the title of my audiobook. While my trainer is an attractive man, he’s not my type, and I’d hate for things to get weird between us.

“Would you be interested in helping me out in the front office a few days a week? I’m stretched a bit thin,” he admits.

No is on the tip of my tongue. I’m supposed to be prioritizing rest on my days off from the casino.

“Twenty bucks an hour,” he continues. “Cash under the table. Plus, I’ll comp your membership each month.”

“Thirty an hour, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I find myself saying, the extra cash too good to pass up.

“I can do that.” He holds out his fist, and I give him a bump with mine.

“Once I get my schedule for the Diamond this week, I’ll text you which days I can come in.”

“Perfect. Enjoy your workout. Remember, guard that face.” He demonstrates as he bobs and weaves with his fists up.

“I’m not sparring with anyone—”

“Still want good form, even with solo bag work.” He points at me.

“Yes, Coach.”

After a quick trip to the locker room to stash my bag, I enter the main floor. It’s a busy morning, but I spot an empty corner and hustle to stake my claim.

Grabbing a jump rope, I set a timer on my phone as I warm up.

The first time I skipped rope, I felt like an uncoordinated oaf, but I’m getting better.

The timer goes off, and my heart’s already pumping as I get to work wrapping my hands.

I’m not a pro at this either, but I get the job done and slip on my boxing gloves.

There’s only one available bag, and I stake my claim as I begin throwing punches.

Jab. Hook. Uppercut.

So satisfying, each thud of my gloved fist with the bag.

“Hey, beautiful, I need this bag.” A deep voice sounds from the other side of the bag, masculine hands holding it steady.

Annoyance flares through me. I’m about to school this guy on proper gym etiquette when he rounds the bag, my gaze locking with his. My breath hitches, and I resist doing a double take. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. Gray, with a ring of gold around each iris.

Tearing my eyes away from his exotic ones, I’d guess every bit of six feet tall, with an obvious boxer’s build.

Wide shoulders. A slim waist. Trim muscles.

Nice square jaw. No clue who he is, but I’ve seen him sparring in the ring a few times; he’s usually cheered on by a group of fangirls who could double for fitness models.

“Not my name, and sure, when I get finished,” I say, throwing another hook. I’m neither his fangirl nor a fitness model; he can wait his turn like everybody else.

He reaches above my head and unhooks the bag, crossing the gym in effortless strides.

“What the hell!” After picking my jaw off the mat, I chase him down. “I was using that bag.”

“And now you’re not.” He winks at me as he hoists the bag above his head, attaching it to a hook.

“And now you’re not.” I resume punching my bag, refusing to be swayed by his ridiculous good looks.

“You’re cute,” he says with laughter in his voice as he slips on his gloves.

“Still not my name,” I tell him flippantly.

“No, but let me guess.” Those exotic eyes take an entitled stroll up and down my body, leaving a tingling trail of annoyance in their wake.

“Red hair to match the fiery temperament. Resting bitch face to warn any man away from those dangerous curves—”

“And yet you’re not heeding the warning,” I say curtly, throwing another punch.

It’s true: I have a world-class resting bitch face.

It’s a combination of me being unable to hide my expression, coupled with my naturally frowning pout.

As for the dangerous curves comment, I refuse to be flattered by who I’m guessing is the gym’s resident player.

“You tell me, man-eater, is it worth the risk?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

“Man-eater?” I roll my eyes. “Lucky for you, fuckboys aren’t a part of my diet.”

He chuckles as he rises to full height and disappears behind the other side of the bag. There’s a thud, and the bag goes flying toward me and knocks me on my ass.

“Hey!”

He begins unleashing on the bag, and I ungracefully crab-walk backwards before standing, so as not to get knocked on my ass again.

“Dickhead,” I spit at him, storming off.

“Hate to see you go, but love to watch you walk away, man-eater,” he calls after me. “Thanks for the bag.”

Gavin

“Who’s the curvy redhead?” I throw a right jab, hitting the pad in my trainer’s left hand, followed by a left jab, hitting the pad in his right.

Russell narrows his eyes. “Nobody your dick needs to be concerned with. Focus.”

“My dick would focus if you told me who she was.” I throw an even harder right jab, left jab.

Russell sighs. “Taylor McKenna. Twenty-six-years-old. Casino dealer. Recently got into fitness.”

Right jab. Left jab.

“Single?” Not that I’m interested in being eaten alive; I prefer my women soft and sweet, not prickly and punchy.

Right jab. Left jab.

“Man, I don’t know what her relationship status is, and let’s keep it that way. She’s going to be helping out in the front office, and I’m not looking to get the club in a sexual harassment lawsuit. The boss would have my neck.”

Right jab. Left jab.

“The boss needs to get laid.” Maybe then John would get off my dick.

Right jab. Left jab.

“I’m not interested in anyone’s sex life,” he informs me.

Right jab. Left jab.

“Sounds like you need to get laid.”

“Focus!” Russell barks.

I fall into a zone as we work through combinations with the pads, moving over to bare-knuckles on the wooden dummy, and finishing with some bare-knuckle pushups. My arms quiver in protest as Russell counts, “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.”

My heart thuds wildly as my arms give out, and I pretend that eating the mat was my goal all along.

“Have you been putting in your cardio in the mornings?” my coach asks.

My chest heaves as I peel myself from the mat, resting my hands on my thighs.“Yeah.”

“Bullshit. You’re sucking wind.”

“So I may have missed a few sessions,” I mutter, rising to full height.

He shakes his head. “It’s more than that; I need you committed.”

Committed.

My hand wraps around Russell’s neck as I lift him to his toes. His eyes go wide with fear as I surge forward, slamming his body against the wall.

He frantically claws at my fingers wrapped around his windpipe. “Gavin,” he wheezes.

Coming to my senses, I release my hold and take a step back. Russell crumbles to the mat as I grab my keys and phone, storming out.

He calls after me, but I can’t hear his words over the noise in my head.

I need to smoke a joint. I need to pound someone’s skull. I need…

A reminder on my phone alerts, and I grit my teeth.

Anything other than a lecture from my brother.

I drive to John’s place and use the spare key to enter through the back. He’s not here yet, and I help myself to his shower, replaying the incident with Russell.

But somehow, a curvy redhead invades my mind. I lather up my hands and run them through my hair, recalling the way her big tits jiggled as she threw punches at the bag, and attitude at me…

I’m tempted to move my hand lower, but that line of thinking gets shut down fast; I need to be attracted to a woman like Taylor McKenna as much as I need a haymaker to the head. Which I might receive from my brother when he learns I nearly choked out his gym manager.

My head’s starting to hurt from thinking too damn much; fine, so it’s from the baby hangover I’m nursing. I step out of the shower and dry off, changing into extra clothes I stashed here.

Strolling to the kitchen, I grab a glass of water and down it, checking my phone. John’s fifteen minutes late.

I’m at your place. Where are you?

I walk to the living room and kick back on the sofa, scrolling through my messages.

Aren’t you missing these?

A pair of petite and perky tits. Not sure whose those belong to.

Who wouldn’t?

I open another message.

You have what I need.

Pussy lips spread wide. No clue who that vulva belongs to.

You know I do.

My scroll of doom continues as I open a picture of a full-body nude, the camera hiding the woman’s face. Couldn’t she give me a better hint?

Wyd?

Sadly, not you.

Bubbles appear, and with relief, I open the message from John.

Sorry about that. My meeting went long. Let’s huddle up next week.

I’m about to lay into him for wasting my damn time, but considering my bad behavior from earlier, I’m quick to agree.

No problem.

I go to pocket my phone, but another message appears.

Fuck you!

Middle finger. Hey, I know those nails!

It’s Brit. Or is it Bree?

Dammit, I give up.