Hollywood Rebel by Misti Murphy

Chapter Seven

 

Summer

“You can’t be serious.” I grasp the shorts and tank that he threw in my face the moment we entered his home gym. Which coincidentally is bigger than the actual gym I joined when I first moved to L.A.

I should probably cancel my membership because I still have yet to go once. I’m not really a structured exercise kind of girl. I’m a run around like a headless chicken, dance until four a.m., arm wrestle with my brothers sort of girl. Well, perhaps not the party hard part lately, or that last part either, but I’m fairly certain I could still beat Jett with a little sneaky maneuvering. And possibly Storm. Owen too, but only because my eldest brother has always treated me like a baby. That’s probably the hardest part of being the only girl with so many older brothers. They assume you can’t fend for yourself until you prove them wrong. Even then they think your business is theirs.

“Put them on,” Rebel barks at me over his shoulder. “You want to work with me, you’re going to work for it.”

“I thought I already had,” I say under my breath as I eyeball the clothes that I can already tell carry his musk and spice scent despite the overtone of clean linen. I’m half tempted to stick it to my nose and inhale, before I remember it doesn’t matter how good someone smells if they have the personality of a hemorrhoid.

“Surely it would be more useful to you if I were to set up my laptop and work on what we’re going to do for your campaign. For instance, we could use this gym session to take photos for your Insta.” Putting him on people’s radar in a positive way is going to be half of the battle. Well, maybe not half. It seems like the main battle is getting him to cooperate in the first place, but I know I can wrangle him. I just need to be patient. If only patience came naturally… “We need to start the discussion with your fans about coming out of seclusion.”

“Sounds like you have it all figured out.” He grunts. His feet thud rhythmically on the moving mat as he speeds up the pace. “Now do what you’re told. Throw on the gear. And get your ass on a treadmill.”

Fine. I might as well accept that Rebel Maddox is a grade-A asshole. But if I’m going to do this… “Where is my stuff?”

“Your stuff?” He raises a brow in askance.

“My clothes. The things I had in my tent.” My cosmetics and hair products. I had to use my roommate’s detangler this morning and she is not set up to deal with my curls.

“The stuff’s in the garage. The clothes I sent out for cleaning.” He shrugs. “Just wear mine.”

“They’re huge on me,” I argue.

“Fine.”

Thank the Big Man Upstairs, he’s actually going to be reasonable.

“Run in your bra and panties.” He smirks. “Actually, I think I would prefer that.”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” I screw up my nose at the clothes in my hand. There’s no way I’m going to strip down to my underwear for him. I’m sure other women do it all the time. Throw themselves at him. I can see the appeal. He’s gorgeous and bossy and charismatic. But like I told him on Friday, I won’t. Well, other than in the fantasy I indulged in after he dropped me home from our negotiations at the strip club.

There was something in his gaze as he told me to strip for him that I hadn’t been able to shake. The heat and weight of it had my breath catching in my throat. The delicious electricity that hummed along my skin made my insides clench.

I’d imagined him watching me as I took my clothes off in the bathroom prior to my shower with its scalding hot water. His steel blues demanded more of my flesh for his perusal. I’d touched myself to that little daydream. Swung my hips like Candy and tossed my hair like Bambi. Cupped my breasts and trailed my fingers between my legs… and well, it had gotten a little wild after that. I hadn’t even needed to fish my vibrator out of the drawer by my bed.

I’d given in to the same fantasy again this morning.

“Summer Heart, I will not tell you again.” His voice rolls through my reverie like thunder. “Change, strip, or get out of my house.”

Yeah, there is no amount of Preparation H to make me like this raging asshole enough to take off my clothes in front of him. “Where should I change?”

“Through there.” He points at an alcove off the main room. “Don’t take long.”

“I won’t.” I huff as I march between machines to the second room, which turns out to be a full bathroom with a shower and vanity and counter space that puts the dinky bathroom in my apartment to shame. In fact, my entire bedroom and bathroom could fit in this space.

I peel out of my dress and pull on the shorts, tying them off as tight as I can. Then drag on the tank. Unlike the other night, I don’t have an extra hair tie in easy reach, so I knot the material at my waist and give myself a quick once over. The hot pink lace of a bra that is not made for sports peeks out of the collar, but there’s not much I can do about that except fake a level of confidence I’m not feeling.

Leaving my heels and dress in the bathroom, I make my way to the treadmill next to his and start her up. It’s awkward to get my rhythm at first. I don’t hate running, but I prefer running shoes and solid ground and my own forward propulsion.

Rebel peers over at my display to check out my pace. It’s slower than his, but it looks like I’m the Road Runner to his steady jogging pace. I catch the flicker of his lips. He’s enjoying this…my discomfort.

“How long are we running for?” I ask, already a little breathy. At this rate I’m not going to be able to ask any questions. I’m too busy concentrating on my breathing pattern. In. One. Two. Out. One. Two. Three.

“Until I tell you to stop,” he says.

“And then you’ll let me do my job?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

Thirty minutes later something like that turns into several sets of mountain climbers and burpees. And if you’ve ever done a burpee then you know this particular exercise was made for self-flagellation.

I push my sweat dripping hair out of my face after we complete the last one. All this exercise is great, but it isn’t going to garner me any points with Bernadette. Or prove that I can do my job. Or win Rebel any love with Hollywood. In fact, this morning, on my way over here, I gave myself a pep talk about behaving more professionally. “Can we please focus on why I’m here now?”

“Hmm.” He yanks his tank over his head and uses the material to mop the sweat that’s dripping down his glorious chest. The burpees have pumped up his muscles and the sweat has made him glossy, and he might not be a Hemsworth, but my girl bits do not care.

My mouth is damper than those ridges in his abs as my gaze cascades over his bronze torso.

He smirks.

I hear it before I see it. That cocky hum of amusement.

When I drag my attention to his face, he’s looking at me like I’m the fly to his spider. Gotcha.

Ugh, he’s so… arrogant, pushy, conniving.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Why not?”

“I haven’t finished my workout.”

I glance around at the weights in the room. He keeps his physique in tip-top condition, so it makes sense that we’ve only covered his warmup. But if he thinks I’m going to lift heavy metal… that’s not my job. “Why don’t you continue your workout and I’ll work on your campaign to make you Hollywood’s favorite redemption story?”

His jaw sharpens. Pops on one side. His blue eyes turn to ice. “I don’t need to be redeemed.”

I honestly don’t know how I’m going to mend his reputation if he won’t work with me. “You almost killed someone. You are one bad behavior in public story after another. Whether you think you need to be redeemed…” I step into his space because he needs to understand how serious this is. “You are persona non grata. You’re done. Over.”

There is the tiniest flash of something in his eye. Recognition, because he knows I’m right? Respect that I’m willing to go up against him? I’m not sure, but it’s enough to give me hope. Hmm, maybe not hope exactly. More like a positive notion that if I keep wearing down the stone, I might eventually get blood out of it.

“Are you done?” he asks.

“Are you ready to give me something to work with?” I step back and tug on the end of my ponytail. I might be a little cocky because before my brain can stop me I add, “Although you could always get a job as a personal trainer, I suppose.”

The tightness in his jaw disappears and the fine lines around his eyes deepens.

“I’m sorry.” My face grows hot, the blush traveling all the way down to my hot pink bra that’s probably pale compared to the glow I am sure I am emitting. “That was uncalled for.”

Before I can say anything more, he throws his head back and laughs. His whole chest shakes with it. “Fuck, Red, don’t ever change.”

“What?” I gape at him.

“I’ll tell you what.” He alley-oops his wifebeater into a hamper before collecting a couple bottles of water from the fridge I noticed on my way to change clothes. “I’ll skip weights and you can spend the rest of the day bossing me around.”

Finally. He’s starting to see sense. “Great.”

“If you win against me in a wrestling match.”

Everything with him has to come with a catch. “You want me to… wrestle you? Besides the fact that it’s completely unprofessional—”

“Red, you lost any professional credibility when you wobbled across my lawn in a penguin onesie.”

“Sometimes it’s about doing everything in your power to achieve your goals,” I snap before I can wrap my lips around my teeth. I take a breath and expel it slowly. He bothers me more than he should, and I need to find a way to deal with that. Remember the goal. Follow the plan, no matter what it takes.

Save the rebel from himself. Impress Bernadette. End my run as gofer and take up my place as publicist with Knightly PR. Work with some of the biggest clients on the West Coast. Prove to everyone back home that I can make it in this big bad world alone. I am strong enough.

His nose wrinkles across the bridge and his blues soften. He runs his fingers over the stubble on his jaw. It’s thick, but not beard thick. It’s at that stage where it’s still kinda sexy. Well, it would be on anyone else. Someone with a better personality perhaps. “It was cute.”

Cute? As in… ugly but interesting? He’s insulting me now. “Gee, thanks.”

He snorts as he turns around and walks across the room to stand on one of the mats. “You’re outside of the box, which is the only…and I mean only…reason I signed the contract in the first place. Do you know how many times Bernadette approached me before she finally took the damn hint that I wasn’t interested in working with her?”

“Oh.” I had an inkling after the meeting where I so eloquently inserted my foot in my mouth, but the fact that she’d tried multiple times is news to me. “How many?”

“I didn’t keep count.” He shrugs as he tears the lid off his bottle and lifts it to his lips.

He’s like a damn porn gif as he tilts his head back and some of the water cascades over his chin, but that’s not what I’m interested in right now. Bernadette approached him more than a couple of times by the sound of it, and she couldn’t land him. But he’s willing to work with, erm scratch that, torture me. Thank you, universe. #Blessed. That’s me. I mentally roll my eyes. “Well, thank you, I guess.”

He scuffs his foot against the thick padding. Shoves his sweat dampened hair out of his face. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Red. We’re going to tussle.”

“You’re serious?”

“Unless you know kung fu or Muay Thai or karate.” He executes a few moves that I think are from one of his movies.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“What’s that about?” he asks, directing both our attention to the arm I have hugged across my chest and the way my shoulders curl in.

“What do you mean?” I frown, even as I lift my shoulders and drop my arm to my side. Change direction and play with my hair. I don’t have the best poker face, clearly. That kind of emotional containment usually comes with the ability to keep one’s mouth shut, but I don’t like to telegraph my feelings either. “I don’t think wrestling with you is worth my time. I’m smaller than you.”

“Weaker,” he corrects so matter-of-fact that I fist my hands by my sides.

Anyone observing this exchange would probably agree with him. I’m half his size and half as strong. The chances of me being able to win against him when he outdoes me in every physical way are slim, but what he doesn’t know is that I refuse to be the girl who can’t protect herself. I’ve taken self-defense lessons. And, well, I’ve played more games of stacks on as a kid than he would know what to do with. I have tactics his balls never want to encounter. “I’m not weak.”

“Sure, little girl.”

I press my lips together. “Will you quit it with that?”

He throws his arms out as he walks backward onto a big red mat. “Come make me.”

“What?”

He beckons to me with his fingers. One eyebrow lifts in an echo of the invitation. His shorts hang loosely at his hips, showing off his incredibly carved Adonis belt. “Get over here.”

Warmth floods me, but so does reason. This is a bad idea. “I don’t think so.”

“No more little girl,” he teases me. “All you have to do is get on the mat.”

I stare at the edge of the mat, mere inches from my toes, which need a new coat of polish because the Sunrise Orange is chipping. One step, and he’ll stop calling me little? It’s tempting. Sooooo tempting. But can I trust him to follow through?

“And if I win?” My voice is tiny and almost makes me jump. My throat is dry, and my palms are clammy. And this is a terribly bad idea.

“I will do whatever you want me to do.”

I furrow my brow. “You do realize that I only want you to do things that are in your best interest. To help you win over Hollywood again.”

“And again, you do realize that I don’t fucking care about fixing my reputation.”

“I-I don’t believe you.”

“Do you want my cooperation or not?”

I lift my foot to step on the mat, put it down again. “What if you win?”

A smirk turns his mouth up in both corners and stretches his cheeks. “Then you and I are going to do something naughty.”

My breath catches. He can’t be serious. My gaze flicks down to his hips again. It doesn’t matter how attractive he is, I’m not that kind of girl. And even…even if I were, or he was a Hemsworth…“I’m not doing that.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” He growls. “I wouldn’t fucking touch you like that. Not in a million years.”

I wince. Ouch. Not that I want him to be interested in me. I don’t. I’m not interested in dancing to the dating beat, or more likely, random coupling, but way to go and make me feel like a horror show. After what happened I’ve fought tooth and nail to be okay, but it takes nothing to put me back in that mind frame. Where I can never just be normal. I push down the insecurity that tries to rise up and swallow me. My voice comes out hard. “Okay, then what?”

“I don’t know.” He crosses one arm to grip his elbow while he taps a finger to his mouth. “Whatever it is, be prepared to leave your comfort zone. Now, hurry up. You’re either in…or you’re fired.”

Is my job with Bernadette really worth having him as a client? I clench my jaw and my temples immediately throb. All I have to do is put him back on Hollywood’s radar and I can move on. Working with Bernadette has been my long-term goal. I can deal with him for a few months. Besides, I made a promise to my momma, and his threat to show me a new experience reminds me of that.

I step onto the mat and my feet sink into the surface. “Rules. If I tap out, you let go.”

“Got it.”

“If I tell you we’re done”—I swallow hard—“we’re done.”

“Want a safe word?” He doesn’t smile, there’s no joking tone in his voice. There’s a seriousness in his eyes that actually quells my nerves a little bit.

“This is wrestling.” I frown. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not the one making it weird,” he claps back.

“Fine.” I sigh. Maybe he’s right. A code word might be good, like when I used to have to say mercy to get my brothers to back off. “How about mercy?”

“Mercy it is.” He drops his hands to his sides as we start to circle each other.

“We’ll use the same one.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t need one.” His mouth is a smug curve.

“We’ll see.” I feint a lunge but manage to stay out of his grip. It starts the adrenaline pumping in my blood. My lips curve.               My heart booms. There’s a new bounce in my movements. Sure, I haven’t got a hope of winning this game, but the rush is still heady.

“Is that it?” he asks.

“I think so.” I hope so. I’m dancing with a criminal. There is no reason for me to trust him, and yet…in the moments when he isn’t being a jerk, there’s something about him that makes me want to believe he isn’t as bad as everyone says he is. Too damn stubborn, yes. More irritating than getting iodine in your eyes, sure. Committed to acting like an asshole, absolutely. And let’s not forget he almost beat the living daylights out of a man and possibly has a drinking problem. I have to be out of my mind to be playing his game like this.

“Ready?” he asks.

The things I will do for my career. “Ready.”

His speed shocks me. I’m flat on my back before I can squeal. My hands are captured in both of his, lifted above my head. His thighs are holding me down on the mat.

All those moves I learned in self-defense training don’t seem particularly useful in the moment. Especially since I can’t break his nose or grab him by the balls, though the thought does cross my mind.

“Ready to admit defeat?” he asks.

“What? No.” I squirm in his hold for a second before the obvious answer snaps into place. I thrust my hips up, throwing him forward. Wrap my arms around him until he unbalances so that I can trap his shoulder. I have him on his back in the position he had me in before he can speak another word.

His eyes widen. His lips—so firm and full—part. “Woah-oh.”

“Didn’t think I had it in me?” I ask sweetly as I push his hands into the foam.

“You haven’t won yet,” he says with the air of a man who is confident that I’m as dangerous to him as a feather.

“Really? Because it looks like I have you pinned to the mat.”

“No, I’m letting you pin me.” He smirks as his gaze drops to my chest. “I can see right down your shirt.”

I glance down between us at his bare torso and my gaping tank. He’s getting more than a hint of my pink bra.

“Quite the eyeful.”

“Stop it.” I let go of his hand to grasp the material to my cleavage.

He takes advantage of my dropped guard. I’m under him again before I can blink. “Never let your guard down, Red.”

“I know that,” I grind out between my teeth. My face grows hot. Why did I agree to this stupid idea again? I thrust and squirm, but it doesn’t do me any good. It doesn’t matter how much time passes or how independent I am or how hard I try, I’m still not strong enough.

“Deep breath,” he orders me.

I suck in a breath. Try to calm my racing heart. Cop a lungful of his sweaty masculine aroma and the faintest hint of his cologne. Almost choke on it.

“Red, just breathe.” His grip is tight, but his thumbs swipe back and forth over the pulse points of my wrists and for some reason it’s quieting.

“I am breathing,” I snap, managing to reign my freak-out in.

“Didn’t seem like it.” His touch is electrical. Tiny zings spark from the small circles he draws on my skin. They spread… everywhere. Yes, even there. His determined gaze doesn’t help either. There’s a reason he’s had the career he’s had despite his rebellious ways. He’s fire. On screen and off. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop?”

Christ, if I wanted to be electrocuted by a dick, I’d pull out my old plug-in wand with the faulty cord. I move my legs around, to ease the sensation. I won’t melt for him. I won’t. Even if my body is in the middle of trying to convince me otherwise.

My eyes sting, but I force them wider. If I give in, I have to do what he says. Which is inevitable, really. But if I give in so easily, then I’m letting myself down. I do not back down, and I do not tap out. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I will not fold to his strength. “Never.”

“Good girl.” His voice is gruff. Combined with the insistent tingling from his touch, it’s…hot.

I roll my gaze at him. “I don’t appreciate your condescension.”

“It wasn’t—”

I manage to knock him off balance again, and this time when I hook a leg around his shoulder and bring him to the ground, I scamper up his body so that I’m straddling his chest. Squeeze my knees into his damp armpits. Eww, gross. My heart races as I pin his big hands above his head and grin down at him. “Do you want to stop?”

He takes a deep breath, and his chest rises and falls underneath me. It shifts my whole body forward and I have to race to adjust my balance. Luckily for me, I’ve ridden horses since I was a kid, so he isn’t going to unseat me so easily. Still I’m propelled further forward than I would like.

His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate and he licks his lips before hooking the bottom one between his teeth. “I’m good.”

What is it with the Skadoosh? Yes, I’ve named his lip bite. No, I will never not think of it as the Kung Fu Panda move. It’s like a damn power up. The more he does it, the more power it seems to have. Like a finely honed weapon that melts panties with its nuclear blast.

Pfft. That’s not going to work on me. Not at all. I like my men with a personality that isn’t the metaphorical version of a cactus. Nice guys who haven’t done prison time and don’t have a track record of assaulting people and peeing on dogs. Right? That ring in his eyebrow and the shaved cut in it don’t do anything to my libido. Neither does the stud in his nose, or that faint white line on his lip.

My heart pounds. “Are you sure, because it seems to me, you have nowhere to go.”

“I’m just enjoying the feeling of being under a woman,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

Ugh, he’s disgusting. The fact that my body reacts to him the way it does is pathetic. I grind my weight down on his chest until he groans. Grip one of his nipples through his shirt and twist. That’s my power move, sucker! Just ask my brothers. “Want to repeat that?”

“Ouch. Okay, now that’s cheating.” He rips his hands out of my hold to capture mine in one of them. He grips one of my calves with the other. “I am enjoying having you right where I want you.”

“Wh-at?”

“Well, not quite where I want you,” he adds. His voice is rough like gravel, and demanding. “You can come up here to my face. Or move a little south.”

My insides tighten and a rush of warmth settles at the top of my thighs. But after what he said earlier about never touching me, I know this is war. His words, that my body so stupidly reacts to, are meant to knock me off guard. Unlucky for him I’m not one of those simpering idiots who fall for the charms of the Maddox boys. “Your psychological warfare isn’t going to work on me. How about we end this now?”

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re that eager to admit defeat let’s not waste any more time.”

Before he can make a single move, I do the only thing I can think of to give me the upper hand. I dig my fingers into his skin and tickle the hell out of him.

He bucks. He squirms. His whole body shakes with laughter as he arches off the mat. “Cheater. Stop it.”

“Say the word,” I crow.

“Stop tickling me.” His hands keep trying to recapture mine, but I’m fast and agile and I keep evading him.

“That’s not it,” I coo.

“Not happening.” He twists and jumps under me. “You’re breaking the rules.”

“There was no rule about tickling,” I remind him.

“There fucking should have been.” He squeals like a little girl as I dig my digits in between his ribs.

It’s all I can do to keep seated. I have to squeeze my knees to his ribs, but I am so close to getting him to actually work with me, there’s no way I’m letting the upper hand go. I ramp up the tickling. “Come on, baby. You know you want to give in to me.”

He groans as he throws an arm over his eyes. “Mercy. Mercy. Mercy. Just stop this torture.”

I poke the tip of my finger into his chest as I lean over him. Embrace the fact that normal, professional tact is never going to work with the Hollywood Rebel. “Your ass is mine. Get ready to work.”