Stay: A Second Chance Badboy Romance Page 16

  I race toward it, my hand on my gun.

  “Bald guy is milling around the lobby,” one of my men says into the earpiece.

  I tear down the hallway, my gun still holstered. This fucker still thinks he’s going to catch Winchester.

  I open the door to the garage and do an overly exaggerated sweep, looking left, right, and then forward. “Alright, Dr. Winchester,” I say, facing the empty doorway. “It’s all clear.”

  I grab my gun, pull it out of my jacket, and throw it across the floor, pretending I dropped it. It slides across the ground, and I dive toward it, as if I’m a fumbling and incompetent bodyguard.

  I hear footsteps moving toward the door. I spin around, my hand on my taser, and I get sight of the guy.

  In the fluorescent lights of the garage, I can definitely see that it’s him. He’s drawing his gun, but I’ve already fired the taser.

  The coils hit him, and he shakes and convulses. His gun goes off, but misses wildly, and then he drops it.

  I drop the taser and rush the guy, kicking him in the head a few times until he’s out cold.

  I speak into my earpiece, telling one of my guys to bring Winchester in through the garage. He’s still in danger, but once I get this asshole to the cops, he’ll take a plea deal. He’ll bury Nicola, and my asshole client will be safe.

  I get Winchester home just in time to head to the hospital for Sophie’s ultrasound.

  Hank is there, too, visiting from Tuckett Bay.

  “I didn’t miss it, did I?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Sophie says, smiling. “We’re waiting for the ultrasound tech to come back. How was work?”

  I’m still sore from cuffing that asshole and dragging his dead weight out to the road for the cops to pick him up.

  “It was fine,” I say. “Another boring day.”

  I really don’t want Sophie worrying about me. I can take care of myself, and her, and our kid.

  “How you feeling, Hank?” I ask.

  “Good enough to go shooting again,” he says. “You two should come back next weekend. I can make you lasagna.”

  I look over toward Sophie.

  “I’m kind of buried in this project...but fine, that’s what weekends are for. Taking breaks, right?”

  Hank smiles wide. “That’s right! Now I get to nag you about taking care of yourself, Sophie. You can’t work too hard without taking breaks, not with the baby on the way.”

  I nod in agreement. “I nag her, too, Hank, don’t worry.”

  Sophie sighs. “I already said I’d go, no need to keep nagging me.”

  I pull her in and kiss her. We both smile, and I put a hand on her stomach. “You think it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Sophie shrugs. “Women say they can tell, but I think that’s just wishful thinking. I read a study on it, and—”

  “No one wants to hear about studies,” Hank says. “Guess! Boy or a girl?”

  Sophie shrugs. “Girl? Boy? Feels like either to me.”

  “Boring,” Hank says. “What do you think, Mason?”

  “It will be our kid,” I say, grinning. “That’s what I think, and that’s all that matters to me. Boy or girl.”

  “Ah!” Hank grunts. “You guys are boring. I want a boy!”

  “Why’s that?” I ask.

  “I told you before, Mason. There’s always been a woman in my life, getting on my case. I want a grandson!”

  Sophie laughs. “Alright, Dad, I’ll do my best to give you a grandson who won’t get on your case.”

  There’s a knock on the door, and the ultrasound technician comes into the room.

  She looks at me. “Oh, you’re the husband?”

  I nod.

  “Lucky lady,” she says, looking over at Sophie. “We ready?”

  All three of us nod.

  The technician gets the gel tube out.

  “Is this going to be freezing cold?” Sophie asks.

  “Nope,” the technician says. “It’s pressurized and warmed these days.”

  “Ah!” Sophie says, eyes widening as the gel hits her. “That is warm, it feels almost like—”

  She puts a hand over her mouth. The technician laughs, and Hank’s face burns red.

  “Let’s see what we got here,” the technician says. “I knew I had a girl even before I got an ultrasound. Women just know. What do you think it is?”

  Sophie gives me a wide-eyed look, and I stifle laughter.

  “Grandpa wants a boy,” Sophie says, avoiding the question.

  The technician turns the screen toward us. “I think everyone’s going to be happy then.”

  “You didn’t even ask Mason if he wanted a boy or a girl,” Hank says. “How do you know?”

  The technician points to the screen. I lean in, squinting. I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. There’s too much on the screen, too much for just a baby.

  “Twins,” the technician says. “One boy, one girl.”

  Hank jumps up and fist pumps, and I fall back against my chair, my mouth gaping wide.

  Sophie laughs.

  “Twins,” I whisper. “A boy and a girl…”

  Sophie grabs my hand, and she looks at me with gleaming lips and glittering eyes. Something washes over me. An intense feeling of well-being, and I realize what it is. I haven’t had a family in over a decade, and now—because of Sophie and Hank—I have a family again. I have a home, and no matter what happens or where we go together, that home will always stay with me.

  Preview of Jacked: A Secret Baby Romance

  1

  Jack

  We bring in our haul for the day on the truck. All the lumber is bound tightly together as we dump it into the loading bay at the mill.

  I spot Jake Ornsley talking to the foreman. Ornsley owns a big furniture store chain with a bunch of stores all over Oregon and Seattle, and as soon as me and the other lumberjacks get out of the truck, he locks his eyes on us.

  He starts approaching us with a big smile on his face. I don’t think the guy has ever even spared a glance toward us, but now he looks like he’s ready to be our best friend.

  “Good evening,” he says, grinning wide as he approaches us.

  Me, Hutch, and Sawyer give each other confused looks with furrowed brows. Then we stare stone-faced at Jake Ornsley.

  “Yeah?” I ask, speaking for the other two.

  “Any of you ever done competitive lumberjacking?”

  “Competitive?” Hutch scoffs. “We ain’t some Disneyland performers, we’re professionals.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “Professional…” Ornsley says, stroking his chin. “That means that you make money, right?”

  “Damn right we do,” Sawyer says. “Good money for honest work. No need to turn our trade into a performance.”

  “Well,” Ornsley says, “I’m sponsoring this tournament to promote my store. A free trip to Seattle--”

  I laugh. “None of us wanna go to Seattle. You keep making furniture, and we keep chopping wood. That’s how it works.”

  “$30,000 for first prize,” Ornsley says, “$10,000 for second.”

  We all start licking our lips. Our objections melting away.

  “And $5,000 for each of us to participate,” I say, without thinking.

  Hutch and Sawyer’s eyes bulge.

  “$2,500,” Ornsley says.

  “Five,” I say, crossing my arms.

  “Fine,” he says, “You got a month to get ready.”

  One month later, and the three of us are all in Seattle. We’ve trained hard together. If the competition were just who could chop trees down the fastest, I’d win for sure. But it’s not that. A lumberjack tournament has a bunch of other bullshit that no real lumberjack ever has to do. You’ve got axe throwing, log rolling, underhand chops, all kinds of other shit none of us has ever done in a real forest.

  But we trained hard in the month we had. We figured if we trained together, we maximized our chances of one of us hitting that $30,000 jack
pot.

  We drive together from our hotels up to where the tournament is. I made Ornsley get us each our own room, a nice swanky place with a full kitchen and living room area. I didn’t come all the way to Seattle to shack up with smelly ass Hutch and Sawyer. I get my own place, but I’m not planning to sleep alone.

  We reach the tournament grounds, which is right near the woods outside of the city. There’s a bunch of shit all setup for each cut, and women in low-cut Bavarian style dresses with frilly white aprons. They’re all carrying huge glasses of beer by the half-dozen to thirsty spectators.

  There’s a big banner that reads Choptoberfest.

  “Chop-fucking-toberfest,” Sawyer says, “Can you believe we’re really doing this?”

  I grin. I’m fucking ready to do this. I’m here to win.

  My first event is speed climbing. I’m up against two guys from Canada--so I had better not fucking lose--who stare me down as we hook our belts around the trunk.

  The trunk goes up 60 feet, and we have to climb as fast as we can with a belt and boots. I tighten my belt and plant my boot into the trunk to get a feel for it. I pull on the belt and leverage myself up a few steps, then slide back down. It’s the same kind of wood I practiced on, and it feels just right.

  The three of us plant one foot on the ground--per the rules--and wait for the whistle. It blows, and I tear up the trunk like a fucking animal.

  I don’t even look over to see if I’m winning, I focus everything on climbing as fast as I can. My arms bulge, but I’m strong enough that I don’t even feel the strain. It feels mostly like I’m just running up the fucking tree. One step after another, I race up, and up, and up.

  I reach the top of the tree after what feels like only a few seconds, and I ring the bell to signal I reached the top.

  And now for the last part: the descent. I grip the belt so there is just enough friction to slow me enough that I don’t break my back, and I slide down. You’re not allowed to free-fall, so I kick off the tree as I slide down. I spare a second to look over. The fucking Canadians are just now ringing their bells, and I’m nearly on the ground.

  My boots slam into the ground, and I let out a loud roar.

  “Yeah!”

  I fist pump as the Canadians hit the ground. First place on my first event. The $30,000 is as good as mine.

  The crowd is roaring, and the announcer is screaming that it’s my first competition, and that I nearly broke the record for the 60-foot speed climb.

  I grin wide as the crowd cheers for me, and through the hundreds of people watching, I see one woman who really catches my eye.

  Her hair is dirty-blonde, and she has sharp features. She’s near the front row, and her green eyes cut right into me. But I don’t look too long at her eyes, as the rest of her body calls out to me. Sings for me.

  She’s all curves, and as I scan every inch of her body with my eyes, I imagine my hands on her skin, squeezing her. I lick my lips as I feel my cock harden. I don’t even hear the crowd or the announcer anymore. I just see her.

  And she sees me too. I see her smile. Those full lips part for me, revealing perfect teeth and deep dimples in her cheeks.

  I’m tempted to go and talk to her right now--more than talk to her--but the Canadians are walking over toward me.

  “Nice showing, buddy,” one says, smiling.

  “You too, bud,” I say, grinning. We shake hands, competing to see who can have the firmer grip. Our forearms bulge, and veins pop out on each of our forearms. We lock eyes, both trying as hard as possible not to look strained even as we threaten to crush each other’s hands.

  When it becomes clear that my grip is just that much stronger, the Canadian loosens his grip and nods. “Eh, buddy.”

  “Bud.”

  We let go.

  I look back over to find the woman, but she’s gone. Fuck, Canadian cockblock.

  I tear through the next few events, but I don’t see the woman anywhere. How could she leave after seeing my speed climbing performance? She must still be here somewhere.

  Before I can go look for her, I’m called to my next event, and the next, and the next. I tear through them, getting first place in all of them.

  I’m ex-military, so my strengths are well-rounded. A lot of these guys have just chopped wood all their lives, but I’ve done much more than that. I was fucking born for this.

  The axe throwing competition comes up. I used to be real good with throwing knives in the military, but until a month ago I’d never fucking thrown an axe. Not surprisingly, a lumberjack rarely has a need to throw his axe into a tree. I don’t even know why it’s part of the competition--it must be for show--but I’m fucking good at it, so I won’t complain.

  I’m up against an Alaskan this time. American, technically, but he might as well be Canadian to me.

  He leans into me and whispers, “You’re gonna get buried, bro.”

  Before I can respond, he whips an axe out of his jacket and throws it without hesitation. It thunks right into the bullseye on the tree.

  At least he didn’t say ‘buddy.’

  I smile at him.

  “That all you got?” He asks.

  Fuck if I’m going to show him how good I can throw before the competition even starts. Let him think I’m just some rookie.

  The judge steps up and turns toward me. “Will you be taking your practice throw?”

  I shake my head.

  “Contestants!” he shouts. “To the foul line!”

  The foul line is 20 feet from the target. If we step over the foul line on a throw, it’s a foul. Two fouls and we are disqualified from the event. There are a few schools of thought on the foul line. Some people like to practice throwing as close to the line as possible, risking the foul. Others like to back up so they can drive the throw as much as they can with a big step.

  I take big steps. I won’t lose $30,000 on a fucking foul.

  The tradeoff is that 20 feet is already far away. Each inch past that, and it gets exponentially more difficult to throw accurately.

  Chase, my opponent, is first.

  He takes his jacket off and showboats a bit to the crowd, flipping the axe up in his hand and catching the handle.

  The judge glares at him, “Foul line!”

  Chase grins and steps back up to the line, axe in hand and his flannel shirt fully exposed. He steps up toward the line, with his toe right on the line. He backs up slightly. He takes in a breath, cocks his arm and throws. His foot drives forward, and his toe just touches the line.

  The axe bites into the tree, hitting the third ring. Only three points--a bullseye is five.

  There is some polite clapping, but I can see Chase grinding his jaw.

  “Guess you used up all your juice on that practice throw,” I say.

  He doesn’t even look at me.

  “Jack,” the judge says, pointing toward me. “Foul line, take your throw!”

  I grasp the handle of my axe, step up about a foot away from the foul line. The crowd quiets, and I take another huge step back; I’m almost three feet from the line now. I hear the announcer going crazy.

  “Jack the lumberjack!” He shouts. “It’s this guy’s first competition, and he was born for this! He was born for it! HIs parents knew he would take the competitive lumberjacking scene by storm when they named him! And look at this, a completely unorthodox strategy! He’s at least three feet from the foul line, I’ve never seen--”

  I cut him off by cocking my arm and taking another step back.

  Then I run. It’s a quick burst of speed, and just before I reach the foul line, I throw the axe. With my extra speed, the axe races forward with that much more force and speed. It slams right into the bullseye. Five points.

  The crowd explodes, and as I look over into it, she catches my eye again.

  She’s slid up to the front row now, and where everyone else is clapping, she’s just staring right at me. She blows me a kiss.

  My cock goes rock-hard.

&n
bsp; Now I have to win.

  Chase takes his next throw, and it’s a bullseye.

  He’s at eight points now, with one throw left.

  I wind up and throw, but only hit the second ring. Four points.

  Nine to eight.

  Chase winds up for his third and last throw, and slams his axe into the bullseye. Thirteen points. That first throw is really hurting him, but I at least a second-ring hit to avoid a tie. And if I really want to impress my mystery woman in the crowd, I need a fucking bullseye.

  I force everything from my mind, even her. It’s an old trick I learned in Iraq, before going into battle. All that matters for the next ten seconds is this one shot, and it’s all that my mind is allowed to focus on. I don’t even hear the crowd as I sprint toward the line. My arm explodes forward, and every muscle in my body helps to propel the axe forward. It spins and cuts through the air, and it thwacks dead-center into the bullseye.

  Chase shouts. “Fuck!”

  The judge grabs his arm and hisses into his ear, and he stalks off.

  The judge grabs my hand and holds it up. The announcer goes crazy, shouting that I will be going into the grand finals against Paul Bunyan.

  I look over to see my woman, but she’s gone. Again.

  I know what kind of game she’s playing now though. She’ll be back to see me in the grand finals. I have no fear that she’s going to disappear on me. I haven’t even said a word to her yet, but my bed is waiting for her tonight, but first I need to win the $30,000.

  The final event is one that Ornsley invent himself for his tournament. It’s the ten-log standing block chop. Paul Bunyan and I will both have ten thick logs in front of us, all line up. We have to cut through all of them as fast as we can, using any chopping method we’d like. Whoever cuts through all then logs first will win the $30,000. The loser will walk away with a meager $10,000.

  Paul Bunyan, what kind of jack-ass lumberjack names himself that? I google him on my phone to see what he’s all about. His real name is apparently Clarence Vandermolen. Paul Bunyan my ass.

  He’s one of the top competitive lumberjacks in North America, and he’s won dozens of tournaments. Stupid fucking name or not, I’ve got my work cut out for me.