Gripped (Prescott #2) Read online

  At least, I hoped they would.

  • • •

  Before I knew it, my alarm went off and it was time to get up.

  Today was going to be a great day. There was no better feeling than helping deserving people who needed it, and this shelter needed a lot of help. Contractors had been hired to fix the aged and dilapidated exterior, but the interior still left a lot to be desired. It was a warehouse before being converted into a place to keep families warm and safe. Makeshift walls were painted a boring white, and the carpeting was merely remnants donated by local businesses.

  After I put on a pair of old jeans and a black T-shirt, I pulled my hair into a ponytail. Normally, I wouldn’t have put makeup on to go work at the shelter like this, but I figured what’s the harm in a bit of foundation and blush? Okay, I did my eyes and lips too, but I needed balance. At least, that was what I told myself as I stared at my reflection.

  I was making myself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang, and a smile spread across my face. With my cup in one hand and the other opening and closing with nerves, I made my way to the door. After a cleansing breath, I opened it to find the most handsome man standing on my doorstep.

  “Good morning, gorgeous. I’m reporting for duty.”

  Dane’s toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile made my stomach flutter. His worn jeans that hugged his hips didn’t help, nor did the tight-fitting navy T-shirt that clearly defined his abs beneath its clinging cotton.

  He looked at my mug. “Is that coffee?”

  Sweeping inside, he kissed me on the side of my head. After I steadied myself, I closed the door and followed behind him.

  “Yes, would you like a cup?”

  “If we have time.”

  Again with that smile. I clenched my thighs together, praying I could make it to the kitchen without embarrassing myself.

  “We have time.” It took concentration, but I managed to make him a cup. As I waited for my one-cup brewer to fill his mug, I asked, “Cream or sugar?”

  “Nope. Black is fine with me.”

  I handed him his coffee and we sat at the kitchen table.

  “Thank you for coming today,” I said over the rim of my mug. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  “It’s my pleasure. My family—well, mostly my brother Drake and his girlfriend—are very involved with local charities back home. It’s what we do. If I had more time, I’d do it more often, so this is a pleasure for me.”

  “Your brother and his girlfriend sound great.”

  “They are; they’re good people. And they’re a great couple.”

  We finished our morning caffeine and left to go to the shelter.

  • • •

  Four walls down and five to go. Sweat poured off me as I moved the paint roller up and down. The walls were now a bright yellow, so much cheerier than the drab white they were before. I’d lost count of how many times I’d gone up and down the ladder today, and was sure I’d need to soak my muscles later on.

  “This place is huge.” Dane wiped his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, exposing his well-formed torso.

  Thankfully, I was on the ground and not six rungs high on a ladder, or I probably would have fallen.

  “It is. There’s so much that needs to be done. The carpet for instance,” I said, and Dane glanced down. “It’s worn and thin. When the kids sit for their reading circle, it must feel like sitting right on the concrete. But we don’t have money to buy anything better, so we’re thankful for what we have.”

  His head bowed as he stared at the carpet, he asked, “How much do you need?”

  Dane’s question surprised me. I studied him as he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. This is a large space, but for the reading room, maybe a couple thousand square feet.” My parents had donated the carpet, table, and the chairs for the art room, but I had no idea how much that had cost. “I’m just guessing, though,” I said with a shrug.

  Dane grabbed his phone and called someone, turning away from me so I couldn’t hear the conversation. But when he laughed, my heart swelled. He sounded happy, and I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe a female was responsible for it.

  He slid his phone into his back pocket and turned to me. “You’ll have five thousand dollars by tomorrow for the carpet.” As I stared at him in disbelief, he took a swig of water and tipped the bottle toward me. “Want some?”

  “Can you please repeat that?”

  “Want some?”

  “No, not that.” I shook my head. “Did you say five thousand dollars?”

  “I did. Now, don’t start slacking. Grab that can of paint and let’s get moving.”

  He leaned over to pour the paint into a tray, and when he stood, I grabbed his arm. “Wait, how? Who? I mean, where is the money coming from?”

  “JP Enterprises.” He rolled the roller in the tray and stood up to glide it against the wall.

  Again I stopped him. “Who are they?”

  “JP is my brother, Jack Prescott.” Dane leaned over and kissed my nose.

  In stunned silence, I focused my attention on finishing the wall we had been working on, ever so often glancing at the wonderful man who continued to surprise me.

  • • •

  When we were done, we stood back and admired our handiwork. Thankfully, we had about fifteen volunteers who’d showed up to help, so even after we took a quick lunch break, we were able to finish before four o’clock.

  Dane nodded as he scanned the room, his hands on his hips. “The place looks great,” he said, and pride laced his words.

  “It does. I can’t wait for everyone to see it once we get it put back together.”

  Another crew of volunteers were coming tomorrow once the walls were dry to set up the rooms that were ready. I couldn’t wait to let the director know about the donation, but wanted to wait until the check was in my hand.

  I glanced down, noting that Dane’s jeans were splattered with yellow, as were mine. “I hope this is dry so we don’t get paint on your seats.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think my humble car would mind.”

  “Yeah, I never did peg you for a Jeep guy.”

  “No?” He opened the front door and I inhaled the fresh air, which was much better than paint fumes. “Nope. I figured you’d have a flashy sports car.”

  “My clubs don’t fit very well in the trunk of a small car, so I opted for this.”

  “I like it.” I climbed in, and Dane shut my door before sliding into the driver’s seat. “Please thank your brother for the donation.”

  Just as we pulled out of the parking lot, a ringing sound came from the car’s speakers. Dane pressed a button and an unfamiliar baritone voice filled the cab of the Jeep.

  “Wow, twice in one day.”

  “Hi, Jack. I’m here with Beverly.” Dane glanced at me and smiled.

  “Um . . . hi, Jack,” I said, my voice shaking a little as I spoke. “I wanted to thank you for the donation you made today. It will be put to good use, and I’ll send you a receipt for taxes.”

  “Hello, Beverly. It’s good to hear the voice of the woman I’ve heard so much about.” At that, Dane’s head snapped toward me and I could feel the blood rush to my face. “It’s not often my brother speaks of a lady friend of his, and I honestly don’t recall him remembering many names.” As Jack laughed, Dane’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about a receipt; I’ll use the canceled check.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks again.” Something about the way Dane’s mannerisms changed when his brother made that comment made me curious.

  Dane took over the conversation. “Thanks for outing me, bro. Next time, I’ll call Drake.”

  Jack’s hearty chuckle echoed through the speakers. “Anytime, little brother. ’Bye, Beverly.”

  Dane pushed a button on the steering wheel to end the call. “He’s a great guy, and good-looking too. That is, until I punch him in the nose when I see him.”


  “So, you don’t remember names?” I asked as he pulled into the parking lot of a diner.

  “Not generally,” he said with a shrug. “You hungry?”

  And just like that, the no-name conversation ended. But I still wondered how many no-names Dane had been with, and if I honestly wanted to know that number.

  CHAPTER 11

  ~ Dane ~

  I loved Sundays. It was my day to relax on the course and not worry about lessons. When I set up my tee time today, I sneaked in with a threesome that had an opening.

  As I approached the range to warm up, I realized my partners for the day were Matthew and Vance, the two guys from the kickoff event last month. I’d played with Matthew’s father before, but not Matthew. Part of me wished the dad were here today rather than his son.

  “Well, look who we have here,” Vance said with a grin. “Doesn’t seem like we’ll be winning any cash today.” He walked over to shake my hand, and Matthew followed. “Our handicaps are higher than yours, so to be fair, you’ll be giving strokes today, right? If not, you’ll take us to the cleaners.”

  “I don’t play for money,” I said, “but if you want strokes to make yourself feel better, sure. I’ll give you five on each side.”

  I shook my head as I selected a club from my bag. Great, this is going to be a long round.

  After we were all warmed up, Vance and Matthew hopped into their cart and I drove mine. Apparently the fourth in our group wasn’t showing up, so I was stuck with these two tools.

  The round was going fine until we made the turn. Even after giving them strokes, I was still kicking their asses. Mostly Vance, who could stand to be knocked down a few pegs.

  When the cart girl came around, Vance and Matthew both grabbed a few beers, but I stuck with water. Alcohol and golf didn’t mix well for me. Playing gave me a high on its own, and since I needed to work on my game, I wanted a clear head.

  We had to wait to tee off on hole eleven, so we stood on the tee box while we waited for the foursome in front of us to finish and move ahead.

  “So, Beverly looked hot at the club. At the kickoff party, I mean.” Vance’s words caught my attention. “Remember her in high school, Matthew? No one wanted to tap that, but now . . .” He let out a wolf whistle.

  Matthew laughed. “No doubt. When I realized who she was, my zipper almost exploded off my pants.”

  “I’ve had my fill of Angelica,” Vance said. “You can only be in her so many times before getting bored.” He chuckled and glanced at me. “Hey, you left with Beverly. Was she any good? I’d love to take her for a ride on the Vance train.”

  When I realized he was talking to me, a red cloud blurred my vision. Was this dickhead for real? Sure, guys talked about this shit, and I got it. I’m a guy. But in my experience, if you felt the need to brag about your conquests, you didn’t have many.

  I stepped to the side and lowered my head, taking a practice swing so he couldn’t see my face. Pretty sure there was fire in my eyes right now, and I was trying to play nice.

  “Why don’t you concentrate on correcting your golf swing and not worry about my personal life?”

  Matthew chuckled and playfully shoved Vance. “He told you.”

  “Damn, Prescott, chill out. Be thankful she looks like she does now, and you can easily find her pussy.”

  Before I knew it, Vance was on his back in the grass, writhing in pain. Blood poured from his mouth, and my right hand hurt like a son of a bitch.

  “Are you nuts? What the fuck did you punch him for?” Matthew went to the cart and grabbed a towel, glaring at me as he tossed it to his flailing buddy.

  Vance wobbled at first, but stood and looked me square in the eye as he held the green terrycloth to his mouth to staunch the blood. “You know, you can get kicked out of the club for fighting. It’s in the rule book.”

  Narrowing my eyes on him, I said, “If that’s the case, I’ll finish the job and beat the shit out of you. If I ever hear you talking about a woman like that again, I won’t hesitate to knock your ass out. I don’t give a damn about you or your precious club.”

  And I didn’t. Hell, I was leaving soon anyway.

  Vance snorted. “Looks like I hit a nerve.” Glancing at his buddy, he said smugly, “Guess, we missed out, Matthew. Beverly must be a great fuck.”

  Without thinking, I drew my fist back only to have Matthew yank me away to stop me. There was so much I wanted to tell this piece of shit, but my hand had begun to throb and I needed to ice it.

  Turning my back on them without another word, I shook my head, got in the cart, and headed back to the pro shop. Once I was in my Jeep, I hit the dashboard with my bruised hand, which was the second stupid thing I’d done in the past few minutes.

  Those fucking assholes.

  Pain bloomed through my hand as I gingerly attempted to grip the steering wheel, and my knuckles were red and swollen.

  Son of a bitch! Hope this doesn’t affect my swing.

  Not sure if I should head to the ER or home, I opted for home. I’d ice my hand and hope that it was just bruised and not sprained, or worse. Ice, beer, and ibuprofen were three things I needed.

  When I got home, I filled a bowl with ice, popped open a beer, and downed two pain relievers. Then I settled myself on the sofa, trying to calm down.

  How dare those assholes talk about Beverly that way? No wonder she hated them. There was no way on earth I’d tell her what they’d said, but there was also no way those punks wouldn’t carry out their threat and get me kicked out of the club.

  Fuck! I was going to have to tell her why I wasn’t working at the club any longer—if it came down to that.

  I took a long swig of beer before putting it down so I could soak my hand in the bowl. As the hard cubes made contact with my knuckles, I winced. Damn it! How was I going to play golf with a bum hand? This was why I never wanted to have feelings for anyone—it fucked with your life.

  I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t even know how I actually felt about Beverly. Granted, I enjoyed spending time with her and getting to know her, but that was it.

  Okay, I had to admit I liked the way she felt in my arms and how her lips felt pressed against mine, but right now the only thing I felt was pain and worry.

  • • •

  Cold water dripping on my leg startled me. I’d fallen asleep, and the ice had melted and dumped on me. I sat up quickly, my head spinning, and was able to catch the bowl to prevent it from crashing to the floor.

  Fear made me hesitate, but when I finally lifted my hand to check it, I was relieved to find the swelling seemed to have gone down. Thank God.

  My phone rang, and I used my good hand to answer.

  “Hello.”

  An unfamiliar voice asked, “Is this Dane Prescott?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “This is Dr. Whitfield. I’m on the board at the Royale Country Club, and it was brought to my attention there was an altercation today between you and Vance Freeman.”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Beverly’s father is calling me?

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is so. Mr. Underhill also backed up his claim.”

  Of course he did.

  Without pausing, Dr. Whitfield asked, “Are you refuting his statement and claim it’s false? So, you didn’t strike Mr. Freeman?”

  “If you’re referring to when I punched him because of his blatant disrespect of another member who happens to be a female, then I’m not refuting his statement. There was an altercation.”

  There was no way I was telling this man it was over his daughter. I couldn’t drag Beverly into this. She’d be mortified.

  He cleared his throat. “As stated in the club rules, section 6, subparagraph 2.1, any club employee not representing the club in a professional manner is to appear before the review committee with the possibility of having their club privileges revoked. You’re required to come before the board tomorrow at nine a.m.�
�

  “Fine. I’ll be there.”

  “I can’t tell you how disappointed I was to have to make this call.” Dr. Whitfield hesitated a moment. I wasn’t sure if he expected me to reply, so I didn’t. “See you in the morning.”

  He ended the call and my blood boiled. I turned my phone off, grabbed another beer, and watched a couple of shitty sci-fi flicks before heading to bed.

  • • •

  The club was closed on Mondays, so the only ones here were groundskeepers and those of us here for the meeting. I walked into the cherrywood-paneled entryway and made my way to the executive boardroom on the second floor. As I pulled open the boardroom door, I glanced at my hand. It looked fairly normal except for a slight blueish-green tinge across my knuckles.

  When I walked in, five men were sitting at the large oval table, including Beverly’s father.

  “Please have a seat,” Dr. Whitfield said to me. “We’re waiting for Mr. Freeman and Mr. Underhill.”

  Doesn’t anyone around here have a day job?

  I nodded and made sure to take a seat at the end of the table so I didn’t need to sit next to Vance or Matthew. When they walked in, Vance glared at me smugly, with a Band-Aid affixed to the side of his mouth and a bruised jaw.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for being here. We are here to discuss the matter of Mr. Prescott’s alleged altercation with Mr. Freeman.” Dr. Whitfield looked at Vance. “You stated formally that Mr. Prescott punched you yesterday while waiting to tee off on number eleven. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Vance nodded as he looked at me with disdain.

  “Mr. Underhill, do you corroborate his story?” Beverly’s father leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the table.

  “I do.”

  Interesting. Matthew almost looked guilty. If I weren’t involved myself, I might have thought he was lying.

  Dr. Whitfield slid two forms across the table to Vance and Matthew. A man to his left told us they were their statements and the forms needed to be signed. Once Vance and Matthew signed the forms, they were excused from the meeting.

  “Have a great day, Prescott,” Vance said smugly before he exited the room.