Flow (The Beat and the Pulse #6) (3 page)

“It wasn’t a pickup,” I complained.

“Exactly. Being mates with a chick might give you some insight.”

“Insight into what? The feminine mystique?”

Ash laughed like I’d delivered the punch line in a joke. “Nah, I meant you need to get out more. All you’ve ever done since I’ve known you is fight and chase women. Mostly Josie. I’ve never seen you take a beat, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” I said with a scowl, bristling at the mention of her name.

He rolled his eyes. “Trying to explain shit to you is like banging my head against a brick wall.”

“Are you sayin’ I’m stupid?”

“
Dude
, just be friends with the chick. Lori was always nice to me, and if she wants to be mates with the likes of you, then she’s got just as many balls as Ren does, and Ren’s got giant steel ones.”

Damn, he even knew her name. How had I been so self-absorbed all these years and never realized I was an elitist asshole? Here I was under the impression I was an ‘all for one and one for all’ kind of guy.

“Get up off your ass and go message the woman,” Ash said, shoving my shoulder. “I’ve got shit to do, anyway. Training those numskulls Cole and Ryan.”

“How’s that goin’?”

He laughed, shaking his head as he walked across the mats. “Did you not hear me say the word numskulls?”

Drawing in a deep breath, my chest rose to capacity, and then I let the air out in one big whoosh. Should I text Lori? I was mostly worried about the whole separation thing. I’d have to put a muzzle on my dick because it was hardwired to find the nearest female opening like a heat-seeking missile. Once it was locked on target, there was no stopping it.

Lori had been clear on what she wanted from me in five words or less. She was another kind of direct, and I liked her balls. She was a chick, she had all the parts that said she was, but her resolve seemed to be built like a steel wall. Maybe this friends thing could work. Maybe it would be good for me, all things considering.

Rising to my feet, I strode into the change rooms. I pulled my gym bag out of the locker I’d stashed it in and retrieved my phone. I knew it was probably too early to text since she worked nights and all, but I figured she’d wake up later and see my message then.

Taking a deep breath, I thought about what I should write. What did you say to women you were trying to be friends with? All I knew were pickup lines.

In the end, I went with,
Hey, it’s Hamish. You said to text if I wanted to talk. I’m texting.

Then I tossed my phone back into my bag and went back out into the gym, trying not to be the clingy asshole who checked his messages every two seconds, agonizing over getting a reply or not. Lori would text back, or she wouldn’t.

I’d reached out at her request, and now it was up to her.

I
didn’t hear
from Hamish after that fateful Sunday night.

A few days had passed since I gave him my number. I’d seen him at The Underground a few times, which just rubbed salt into the wound I’d opened to take a chance on him. He’d been fighting as per usual but hadn’t come back to the bar once. He hadn’t used my number either, and I began to think he was everything everyone said he was supposed to be—a macho male asshole who only looked at women when he wanted a good time.

Maybe he was worth knowing, or maybe he wasn’t. Who was I to pass judgment on a guy I only knew at face value.

I guess I was disappointed. My life revolved around this stupid bar and trying to scrape together enough coin to pay the rent. Not everyone who scored a gig in this hole was lucky enough to earn the big bucks.

Staring across the tiny kitchen of the little miner’s cottage in the depths of Clifton Hill, Melbourne—the little cottage that was so old it was falling down around us, but the landlord still charged a premium for—I jumped a mile when my housemate, Belinda, appeared in front of me.

“Shit, don’t do that,” I cursed.

“Do what?” she asked, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “Walk into the room?”

Bel was a stereotypical twenty-something with a trendy office job in the city, long mousy brown hair with bleached blonde tips, naturally tanned to perfection, tall and slender like a catwalk model and the wardrobe to match. She even had the bloody thigh gap that all women wanted because fashion magazines told them it was desirable. The first time I saw her stuff a double cheeseburger into her mouth like a football player was the moment I realized I could be jealous of another woman’s biological makeup.

Sitting on the countertop, I dangled my legs over the edge and swung them back and forth while I waited for my phone to charge enough so I could turn it on and check the plethora of messages I would have gotten between two a.m. and eleven this morning. Which would be zero, but I was a compulsive checker ever since I recklessly gave my number to Hamish, the Goblin.

“Why aren’t you at work?” I asked as Bel opened the fridge and stared inside at the contents. Which was a carton of long-life milk and a couple of prepackaged cheese slices. “You feeling sick?”

“Hung over,” she replied. “I went on a bender with the girls last night. Can you believe that bitch Jane picked up the hot bartender at Dark? Bitch.” She rolled her eyes and slammed the fridge door closed.

I laughed to myself. Bel and I were housemates and friends to a certain point, but we couldn’t be any more different. Yin and Yang and all of that. She had her circle of friends who shopped at H&M and Topshop because it was the hipster thing to do, went out drinking fancy cocktails in six-inch heels and tiny dresses, and were in bitter competition with one another to see who could pick up the hottest guys they could find.

In stark contrast, I was tattooed up to the eyeballs, more interested in going to see punk and metal bands, drank cheap beer, shopped at Savers and secondhand stores, and avoided men like the plague. Until…well,
you know
.

“Is there any food in this house that’s not dairy?” Bel complained. “Like that’s not going to make me throw up.”

“I think there’s some bread and jam in the cupboard,” I said as I switched my phone on. As it came to life, it pinged with a message. I guess Hell did freeze over on occasion if I, of all people, was getting a message.

Hey, it’s Hamish. You said to text if I wanted to talk. I’m texting.

I hesitated, my inbuilt flight mode wanting to shut off the phone and ignore the little blue square of text. Checking the timestamp, I saw he’d sent it just after seven a.m. What was he doing at seven in the morning? He’d fought last night. I’d seen him at The Underground where he’d pretended the bar didn’t exist and had pegged our whole exchange as a one-time affair. I’d had a little spark of hope, but I knew all about not letting it turn into an uncontrollable wildfire. Now he was messaging me, and I didn’t know what to do. I’d been so full of bravado the other night it was almost unnatural.

I sat there watching Bel put some bread into the toaster and wondered what I should write back. What the hell did people talk about, anyway? Should I be clever, or nonchalant, or casual?

My finger hovered over the keyboard, and finally, I punched in,
I’m listening
.

Hours went by, and I cursed myself for being such a needy bitch. This wasn’t about romance. It was about the lost art of friendship. Everyone was so busy trying to get into each other’s pants to try out new positions to fuck in, they’d forgotten how to relate to one another. I just wanted to relate to someone who was like me. Problem was, I was just different enough not to fit into anyone’s idea of ‘like them,’ so I was basically screwed.

“Hey,” Bel said as I shuffled into the lounge room. “I thought you’d gone to work.”

No, I’d been in my room, headphones on and listening to angry music all afternoon. Hunger had been the only thing that had roused me from my stupid depression. I’d made myself vulnerable where Hamish was concerned, and I didn’t like it, being all needy and starved for attention within five minutes of meeting the guy. I was the tough rock chick who could play hardball like a pro with the big boys.

Truthfully, I was lonely…but was I ready to come out of my shell again?

“I’m not on shift tonight,” I said, flopping down onto the couch.

“Want to watch a really bad movie? I’m still pissed at Jane and need to wallow. She texted me to rub it in, the bitch. Apparently, the bartender was good. Like she actually got an orgasm good.
Ugh
.”

I was yet to meet a man outside of my ex who could give me an orgasm better than my right hand, so I just laughed and shook my head.

“Don’t laugh at me. I’m totally jealous,” she said. “So. Movie?”

“Depends on what it is.” Bel’s idea of bad movies were romantic comedies, which didn’t really float my boat being anti-love and all.

Her lips curled into a wicked grin. “Dirty Dancing!”

I slapped my palm against my forehead. “Oh God.”

“Shut up, you secretly love it,” she said, bouncing across the lounge room to retrieve the remote. As she lined up the movie on Netflix, I knew I had little say in the matter. Dirty Dancing it was.

About ten minutes into the movie, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Glancing at Bel, she didn’t bat an eyelid as I pulled it out and checked the screen. That girl was like a hawk when it came to men. Give her a crumb and she’d track down the cake with predator-like accuracy.

Hamish:
You working tonight?

Despite everything I’d been telling myself, I began to tingle all over. Was I working? Did that mean he wanted to come talk to me in person again? Opening the message, I punched in an answer.

Me:
No. I’m off tonight. Back tomorrow.

Little dots appeared on the screen, letting me know he was typing a reply. I watched in anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning.

Hamish:
I’ve been training. Got a fight tonight.

Me:
Who against?

Hamish:
Sabre. He’s soft.

Me:
Don’t underestimate the guy. He’s won his last three fights. He came back strong after Steel pounded him one.

Hamish:
You worried about me?

Me:
Not at all.

Hamish:
I like your confidence in my ability.

“Who are you texting?” Bel asked, when she could take my vibrating phone no more.

“A friend…” I replied sheepishly. I’d thought she was enraptured with Patrick Swayze enough for me to fly under her radar.

Her eyes lit up, and she scooted across the couch, jamming right next to me so I couldn’t get away. “A friend? A hot male friend?”

“It’s just some guy I met at work,” I said, shielding my phone from her eagle eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“A guy from work? That fighting thing?” she asked, her mouth dropping open. “Lori! You’re seeing another fighter?”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” I complained.

She narrowed her eyes in disapproval. “You know what happened last time you dated a fighter from that shithole. They’re players, every single one of them. The only person who should be playing like that is the woman. Give those fuckers a taste of their own medicine.”

“I know, and I’m not seeing anyone.” How could I forget the crippling agony of a relationship gone bad? I had this uncanny thing with emotional scarring. The claw marks ran deep and never healed properly.

“We need to get you laid,” Bel declared. “By a real man. One with money, a proper job, and a really big cock.”

“A cock won’t solve my problems,” I retorted.

She rolled her eyes. “No, but it’ll help you unwind.”

“Maybe I’ll just go out and buy a really big dildo and shove that up me a few times. Will that work?”

Bel burst into laughter and fell back onto the couch. “Oh shit, Lori!”

“Like a man is the answer,” I said. “I don’t want to define myself by being in a relationship. I’m my own person.”

“Who said anything about a relationship? Fucking hell, Lori, all I’m talking about is getting some. Men sleep around all the time, so why can’t we? Stupid double standards say if we do it, we’re sluts. Well, men are the biggest whores out there.” She hit play on the remote, starting the movie up again. “Cock suckers.”

She was right. The world was male dominated, but it still didn’t mean I should go out and sleep with a guy just to pass the time. I was never like that when I was going through my wild partying phase, and I wasn’t like it now. The one time I’d had a quickie with a guy during a party, I’d felt dirty for a week.

Glad Bel had let the awkward cock talk drop, I turned back to my phone and typed a reply to Hamish.

Me:
So when do you want to do this talking thing in person?

A few minutes went by, and I began to panic I’d overstepped already.

Hamish:
I’ll see you at The Underground tomorrow.

He’ll see me at The Underground? I supposed that meant he’d seek me out at the bar again, which really wasn’t what I had in mind when I gave him my number. I didn’t want to be the therapist with the whisky bottle. That was a little ‘one-way street’ if you asked me.

Me:
You know where to find me.

There. The ball was back in his court where I liked it. I guessed I’d see which way things went tomorrow night.

Putting my phone away, I decided it was best not to continue on with that conversation. He’d be fighting soon anyway.

Staring at the TV, I watched the movie, but nothing really sank in. My mind went to Hamish, running over the first time I’d seen him at The Underground. I’d been standing behind the bar pouring a beer when he’d strode through the warehouse with a bevy of female admirers swooning in his wake. He’d been bare chested, his hands wrapped up, his shorts hanging low on his sculpted hips… He was damn fine, but he’d never looked in my direction.

One man had, but that was another story for another day when I wanted to mercilessly punish myself.

I really wasn’t sure what I was doing, but something about Hamish felt different enough to warrant opening up my walls a crack.

I hoped to hell my gut was pointing me in the right direction.