Page 11 of It Takes a Thief (Ring of Thieves #2)

M aybe I’m crazy for wanting to take Merritt to an underground fight, but a part of me wants to share it with her. To give her a little glimpse into what I did and what I love. I may not be in the cage anymore, but fighting is in my blood.

Plus, she’ll be with me, so I know she’ll be safe.

Not to be arrogant, but I’m a bit of a local celebrity back in the old neighborhood.

No one will dare bother Merritt if she walks in on my arm.

And if someone is stupid enough to try, I’ll have an army of some of the most brutal fighters at my back.

I’ve fixed all the holes in her security system and even got my hands on the footage of the building’s CCTV, courtesy of Ryder.

Conveniently, the entire thing went offline during the time an intruder broke into Mer’s place.

Am I surprised? No, not really. It just tells me someone knows exactly what he’s doing.

Glancing down at my watch, I wonder what she’s doing? She’s been upstairs for a while now. How long does it take to put on a pair of jeans? Then again, women always take forever. They have to put on makeup, play with their hair, and generally fart around in front of the mirror doing God-knows-what.

Kind of a waste of time, if you ask me. Mer is beautiful without any of that extra primping. She possesses a natural beauty that would make anyone stop in their tracks.

As I jog up the steps, I abruptly jerk to a stop. When the hell did I start calling her Mer?

Maybe after that amazing kiss. Talk about memorable, and it had only been one kiss. Arguably restrained, too.

The thought catches me completely off guard.

Because I never remember kisses. I’ve kissed a lot of women during my life, and they’ve each been enjoyable in the moment, but not one has stood apart from the others and lodged itself in my mind like this one.

I can’t stop thinking about how soft her lips felt, about the moment they parted and invited me inside.

“Fuck.” I slide a hand over my head and down to squeeze the back of my neck. This whole thing could turn into a really big problem. Or a really pleasant diversion. Because if I can’t stop thinking about one kiss, what would happen if we did more?

Giving my head a hard shake, I climb the rest of the way up and head down to her room. It’s pretty and feminine just like her. Standing in the doorway, I rap my knuckles against the doorframe.

“Mer?” I call.

“In here!”

I cross her room and stop right outside the bathroom. She’s messing with her hair, and I take a moment to appreciate the long brown locks streaked with gold. So full and thick. My fingers curl into my palms, wanting to slide through that massive waterfall of lustrous hair.

“I’m almost ready,” she announces. “I just can’t get this side to cooperate.”

Mesmerized, I watch her trying to maneuver the curling iron behind her head and wrap a long strand around the wand.

“Let me,” I grunt, reaching for it.

With a surprised look, she allows me to take it. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“I figured.” My fingers slide through her soft hair and section off a smaller piece.

Very carefully, I wrap it around the iron, wait a few seconds and then release it.

A perfect spiral falls down her back and, of course, my attention drops to her perfect ass encased in a pair of fitted jeans.

That outstanding backside is giving me all sorts of filthy ideas.

Like sinking my teeth into a firm cheek and marking her.

“Wow, thank you.” She turns, checking out her hair in the mirror. “Can you do this piece, too?”

She lifts another strand, and I take it, my fingers brushing against hers.

That simple touch sends a jolt through my body.

Trying to ignore it—yeah, right, as if I could—I curl that piece.

My hands might be big, but my fingers are nimble.

Very agile when it comes to a delicate job.

And that applies to cracking a safe, pleasing a woman and, apparently, curling hair.

“Hang on,” I murmur, and re-do a few more.

She leans her head back, and although I’ve never done this before in my life, I’m enjoying it.

A strange sense of intimacy passes between us.

I draw it out as long as possible, toying with a few more strands, then step back before it gets weird. “Okay, all set.”

She lifts a small mirror and turns, checking out my handiwork. “I think you may have missed your calling” —I arch a brow— “as a celebrity stylist.”

I laugh. “I don’t think so, but if you need help again, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Linc.”

“Welcome,” I return gruffly. Suddenly, the bathroom feels incredibly small, and I shift from one booted foot to the other. “We should get going.”

“Okay.” She unplugs the curling iron, and we head to the stairs.

“After you.” I make a sweeping gesture with my hand, and she gives me a little smile as she passes. Am I being a gentleman? Sure. Am I also checking out her very tempting ass again? You bet. I also need to discreetly adjust myself because, yeah, her posterior is a thing of beauty.

After setting the newly-upgraded alarm and making sure the security cams I rigged are feeding directly to the app on my phone, we get in the elevator and go down to the car. No one is getting in her place without me knowing.

The drive to the warehouse should take about twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic. It’s not in a great neighborhood, but that’s all a part of its charm. It’s also where the paying customers are located.

“What time does it start?” Merritt asks.

“Doors open at seven, but the fight won’t start until eight or so. They’ll wait until the warehouse is packed.”

“Anything I should know?”

“The fights can get rowdy. Just stay with me and you’ll be fine.”

Since the fights move around, I doublecheck the address to make sure I know where I’m going. It shouldn’t take us long to get there, and Merritt takes control of the radio. She keeps flipping around, unable to settle on a song for longer than a minute.

“That was a good song,” I grumble after she turns the station yet again.

“Which one?” She starts backtracking, and I lay a hand over hers.

“Pick a song, serial flipper.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, fingers stilling.

“Someone who can’t listen to a song for more than thirty seconds.”

My hand still covers hers, and neither of us breaks the hold. Her skin is so soft, and I resist the urge to lace my fingers through hers, tug her hand over, and lay it on my thigh.

“I am not a serial flipper,” she denies. “I just always wonder what’s playing on the other stations.”

“Scared you’re missing out?”

Instead of answering, she pulls her hand back, and I miss the connection. I punch the button, find the song I like and turn the volume up.

“I think the better question is how can you like this song?” she asks, glossy lips twitching.

“You’re joking, right?” I glance over at her while “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses pumps through the speakers. “This is one of my favorite songs when I work out. It always gets me pumped up.”

She gives a dainty shrug.

“Let me guess. You prefer something a little more refined. Beethoven perhaps, Princess? Or maybe a little Mozart?” I ask in my most refined, completely stuffy and totally obnoxious voice.

She scrunches her nose up, punches my arm, and I chuckle. “No! I mostly like pop music.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Why do you say that?” She tilts her head, curious.

“Because they’re typically short songs,” I tease.

“You act like I have the attention span of a gnat.”

She’s eyeing the radio controls again, and I can’t help but grin. “You want to change the channel, don’t you?”

For a moment she doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I went too far. Right before I can apologize, she murmurs, “I usually sit in the back of cars and get chauffeured around. Being upfront and playing around with the radio is just a rare privilege and fun for me.”

“Welcome to the Jungle” ends and I look over at her. She’s so sincere and seems to take pleasure in the little things so many other people take for granted.

“Then flip away, my little serial flipper,” I say invitingly. She sends me a gorgeous smile and starts punching the buttons again.

Once I see the warehouse, I drive past and find parking a couple blocks away. If it gets busted and we need to make a fast getaway, I don’t want to be parked too close.

Of course, I don’t tell Mer that.

I seriously doubt anything will happen. Generally, the cops around here tend to leave us alone. Hell, some of them even attend and place bets like everyone else. They’ve been going on for as long as I can remember, and even though I’m not overly concerned, I still like to be prepared.

We get out of the SUV and walk up the street.

I can hear the raucous crowd inside as we reach the abandoned warehouse.

After paying the admission fee to the inked guy at the door, I reach down and wrap my hand around Mer’s much smaller one.

I notice the bouncer checking her out and I let out a warning growl as we pass.

“Remember, stay close,” I say. She nods, sending me a big smile, and I can feel the excitement thrumming through her. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze and we step into controlled chaos.

The smells of hay and damp concrete fill the air.

I take a moment to look around at all the people drinking beer from red plastic cups and talking excitedly about the upcoming fights.

The energy in the room is high. Hell, it’s like I never left the underground circuit, and a huge grin spreads across my face.

Mama, I’m home.