Hale (The Beckett Boys, Book Seven) Read online

  HALE

  The Beckett Boys, Book Seven

  Olivia Chase

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Contents

  NOTE

  Want To Be In The Know?

  HALE (The Beckett Boys, Book Seven) by Olivia Chase

  1. Phoebe

  2. Hale

  3. Phoebe

  4. Hale

  5. Phoebe

  6. Hale

  7. Phoebe

  8. Hale

  9. Phoebe

  10. Hale

  Epilogue

  Bonus Content: His Property by Hannah Ford

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  NOTE

  This edition of HALE (The Beckett Boys, Book Seven) contains the following bonus content: His Property by Hannah Ford

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  HALE (The Beckett Boys, Book Seven) by Olivia Chase

  Phoebe

  A bunch of sweaty meathead guys beating the crap out of each other is so not my idea of a good time.

  But I don’t really have much choice in the matter.

  This, after all, appears to be part of my job description at the moment.

  “Phoebe!” my boss Diane calls out. An errant strand of dark brown hair coming loose from her French twist is the only sign she feels the pressure.

  She waves me over and hands me a few pieces of paper. “I need you to make copies of these forms and make sure they get distributed to all the fighters via their staff within the next hour.” Her smile is polite, not quite reaching her eyes; she and I have never really warmed to each other since I started working for her a few months ago after graduating.

  “Yup, I’m on it,” I reply, trying to sound more chipper than I feel.

  “You excited to see the fight? Great crowd out there.”

  I glance around the auditorium, which is packed, even though the first qualifying match doesn’t start for a while. Men and women are drinking beer, laughing loudly and chatting over the music playing through the loudspeakers. Diane sure knows how to do her job. As the event planner for this two-week boxing tournament, she worked the hell out of promoting it, and it’s paid off. I give a wan smile in return—I’m not jazzed about boxing, but I’m glad to see the event is a success, regardless of my lukewarm opinion of the sport. “I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”

  “Okay, go get those papers done.” She nods and strolls off to talk to someone, her heels clacking with her exit.

  Why didn’t she get the forms to me earlier if they were so important? Eh, whatever. Diane runs on her own schedule, and I’ve learned to not argue, just to do the task.

  I tuck the papers into my bag and scurry back to the office to make copies, since the photocopier in the auditorium is on the fritz. By the time I return, the parking lot is just about filled to capacity, and I end up taking a parking spot on the street a couple of blocks away.

  I tighten my jacket around me and stroll quickly; spring in Rock Bridge can still bring a briskness you thought was left behind back in winter.

  The wind whips in a sudden gust as if to affirm my thoughts, and my cheeks grow cold.

  When I get back inside the venue, it’s warm, and I sigh in relief, tugging off my coat and hanging it back in the office. I review the list of fighters signed up to participate in the elimination bouts and then one by one, approach their managers or trainers.

  Tight, muscular men are taping their hands, practicing punches in the air, doing various warm-ups while bouncing on their feet.

  Admittedly, I don’t get the appeal of this barbaric sport. I’m not interested in watching a bunch of men beat the shit out of each other. Swollen eyes, broken noses, blood spurting from wounds. Anger vibrating right beneath their skin as they fight to win. No thanks. I suppress a shudder thinking about the violence and continue making the rounds.

  But I’m here to do my job, which right now just so happens to be helping Diane run this prestigious amateur tournament. The winner will get a boxing contract with a large professional boxing promoter, which I understand is supposed to be a big deal. Two weeks—I can handle doing this assignment for that long. It’ll be great experience in helping me move up in event planning and eventually start handling more big occasions myself.

  That thought bolsters me. I can get through this. I don’t have to watch the fights if I don’t want to; I can focus on my tasks, on studying Diane and learning from her, how she manages to deal with the fast pace and high demands in such a cool manner. I don’t have to like the woman to gain good experience in this industry.

  I finish my assignment as best as I can, since a couple of boxers who signed up still haven’t made it yet, and linger in the main hall, where the boxing will take place. There’s a boxing ring set up in the center, chairs circling it on the floor and then several rows of risers surrounding those chairs. I see a table of judges near the ring whispering among themselves. Photographers and videographers are setting up their equipment.

  There’s a hum in the room. I can feel excitement building. Despite myself, anticipation starts flooding me too. I have to admit, the energy is contagious.

  “Mac O’Reilly is gonna KO this one for sure,” one of the photographers near me says. He’s covered in tattoos and has huge gauges in his ears. “This Beckett guy he’s fighting is a total nobody. Gonna be a cake walk for O’Reilly to make it into the tourney.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” the guy on his left muses, rubbing his scruffy chin. “Wanna make a wager on that, though? Twenty bucks says Beckett wins their fight and qualifies.”

  The first guy shoves him in the shoulder. “Sure, man, if you like losing. But let’s make it fifty, just to keep it fun.”

  “You’re on, fucker.”

  I can’t help but smile. The last few weeks, I’ve done a crash course on boxing so I can keep up with what’s going on. I’ve learned terminology, basics on scoring…and how much people love to bet on the matches.

  I’ve read the profiles on all the fighters entering the preliminary elimination round, since Diane asked me to be familiar with them. The stats on O’Reilly, from what I remember, show that he’s a well-known amateur fighter in Michigan who’s considered an up-and-comer by many in the field.

  There’s virtually nothing in the file on this Hale Beckett person though; he’s never been in a recorded amateur fight that I could tell and has no real stats. Total newbie to the boxing circuit.

  If I recall right, he doesn’t even have a trainer in his corner, much less a manager or promoter. Must be why he’s competing in this—wanting to score that big win and get in with a well-respected promotion company. I’m pretty sure he’s one of the boxers who hasn’t arrived yet…I still gotta get him to sign off on the document before he can step in the ring.

  I hope he doesn’t get creamed trying to make this happen. The idea of seeing a new guy get smashed up in the ring makes me wince.

  The first round is to find those qualifying for the tournament. After all, we had a lot of people requesting to fight, but not all of them are worthy of competing in this event. The forms I handed out to the fighters are standard in rega
rds to liability of our company, etc. for this initial match. If they manage to win their bout and make it in the tournament, they’ll sign even more paperwork.

  “Oh, there’s Beckett,” the photographer says, lifting his camera. In a sly voice, he says, “Gonna get a picture of his face before O’Reilly destroys it.”

  I look over in the direction indicated by the photographer, digging into my bag to get the form out, and when I spot the person in question, the air whooshes out of my lungs.

  Oh God.

  Like holy shit.

  I’m standing frozen for a moment in that cheesy way that only seems to happen in bad 80’s movies.

  He’s incredibly sexy. Ripped as hell, covered in tattoos, a little scruff on his jaw. His eyes are a brilliant blue, and his dark blond hair is sexily mussed. I swallow hard and urge myself to be professional as I approach him.

  When I near him, he sees me and slows. A wicked, cocky smirk spreads across his face, and I find my stomach tightening in response. This guy is dangerous, that much is clear.

  I put on my best professional smile. “I’m Phoebe—I work with the event planning company. Um, you’re Hale Beckett? I need you to sign a form for me before you can fight.” My voice is slightly breathy. Shit.

  He holds his hand out, and I give him the paper and a pen. A quick glance over the form, and then he signs it and hands it back. “Anything else, Phoebe?”

  Just hearing him say my name in that seductive, slow roll makes my skin hum and my core clench. I suck in a breath. “No, that’s all for now. You’re in the fourth bout, fighting O’Reilly.”

  “Thanks.” He shifts his bag up on his shoulder and walks off.

  I press a hand to my fluttering belly, forcing myself to not stare at his backside. I’ve never had a reaction to a man like that before. Like electricity was running through me, raw and rough and almost painful in its intensity.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” comes the announcer’s voice piping over the loudspeakers, and the crowd goes wild, cheering and hollering.

  It’s time.

  I head back into the office and sit behind the large, sleek black desk. Diane is probably out there running around and forming order out of chaos. She’ll text me if she needs me. In the meantime, I’m going to hide out in here.

  I’m not going to watch Hale Beckett fight.

  He’s just a total newcomer to the sport and I don’t want to watch him get pummeled into a heap of shame.

  I just can’t do it.

  I keep telling myself that as time passes. I can hear when the first two bouts end by the wild cheering and the announcer declaring the winners. Bout three begins. My lungs squeeze in anticipation.

  But I can’t help it. I want to watch him. Watch that lithe, almost naked body covered in sweat, those muscles working— Oh man, okay, time to admit that I’m really physically attracted to him. Doesn’t matter, though. He’s not my type.

  I’ll never allow myself to be around someone violent—not ever again.

  I eventually walk slowly out of the office and stand near the photographer who placed the jokey bet on the O’Reilly/Beckett fight. He’s snapping pictures, moving around the ring to get shots as blood and sweat flies with each punch. My stomach turns when the guy who’s clearly losing is knocked to his knees. He struggles to breathe and right himself, but the referee counts to ten, and the fight is over.

  There’s a brief break as the ring is prepped for the next match. I find myself shifting foot to foot, anticipating what’s about to happen. Finally, O’Reilly and Hale take their places in the ring.

  Hale Beckett struts back and forth exuding tension, like a coiled, dangerous spring, ready to explode. And yet there’s also a strange air of calm about him. His gaze makes him look as if he’s gone inside himself in some way.

  Like he’s looking in, not out.

  My stomach flutters. God, just let him survive the bout without getting knocked out or humiliated. That would be enough.

  The bout begins.

  O’Reilly is dancing around, giving tiny little punches in the air toward Hale, trying to encourage him to step closer. Hale moves slowly, almost plodding forward, while the other boxer glides, and then his fist flies and O’Reilly’s head snaps as he drops to the canvas.

  He’s out cold.

  There’s a stunned silence as we all stare. The referee holds up Hale’s arm, declaring him the winner. The photographer drops his camera to hang around his neck, blinking in shock as he stares at the ring.

  No one expected that to happen. Hale just qualified for the tournament and spoiled the hopes of the man everyone thought was a serious contender for the big prize.

  Now the crowd is cheering, chanting Hale’s name.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short time watching boxing, it’s that fans love a knock out.

  Hale looks supremely confident and unsurprised by the outcome—he didn’t even break a sweat. He steps out of the ring, getting well-earned slaps on his shoulders, even a few requests for autographs.

  “Holy shit,” a breathy voice says from beside me. It’s Diane. I hadn’t even noticed her come up next to me. Her eyes are wide as she watches Hale leave the main room. “That man has potential to be huge.”

  “He did amazing,” I say in agreement. Hell, one punch, and his opponent was out cold. It was unbelievable.

  “We’re going to talk to him,” Diane says. I can hear something in her tone, a firmness I’ve grown to recognize as determination. She smooths her hair, then her business suit. “That man has charisma, star power. With his good looks and power and my connections… Yeah, we need to strike while the iron is hot. Before anyone else gets a chance to steal him out from under us.” When she takes off after Hale, I follow her. My heart is thrumming in anticipation of seeing him again.

  Diane is very wealthy and connected. She also doesn’t like to hear no for an answer. When she finds Hale sitting on a bench, unwrapping the tape around his wrists, she stands in front of him and smiles down, her face almost predatory. I know she’s seeing dollar signs in her head. I stand near the back of the room, out of the way.

  “Hale, I’m Diane Masters, the owner of Masters Event Planning. I watched your fight.” She chuckles. “Well, more like shut-out. You were amazing up there. Been a long time since I’ve seen a boxer with your raw skills.”

  He gives a curt nod. “Thanks. How can I help you?”

  “I want to make you a star,” she says bluntly. “You have the potential to win the whole thing. You just need someone with good connections and strong financing to help you become the big name you deserve to be, to use this tournament as a springboard to bigger and better things.”

  Hale stands and looks down at her, almost a foot taller and much bigger than her slender frame. “And you believe you’re the person to make this happen for me.”

  To her credit, Diane doesn’t cower; she stands firm and looks up at him. “Damn right I am,” she declares. “I have a good name, a strong reputation, and I’m rich.” No shyness on her part; I smother a laugh at her blatant self-congratulatory tone. “You’ve already made it into the tournament. Let me help you take it further.”

  He studies her for a long moment, silent. I can’t read his face.

  “It’s worth a try, Hale,” she coaxes. “How far do you think you can make it on your own? You might be able to win a few bouts, of course, but I can help you do better. I can help you get in the professional circuit after this, especially if you win. Bigger purses. Better matches.” She pauses. “A man like you works hard and should reap the benefits of his effort. I’ll get you where you want to be. You name it—the sky’s the limit.”

  I can see the shift in his body language as he ponders this. He’s lured in. “Okay, I’m interested,” he says slowly, and Diane claps with glee.

  “Excellent!” She shakes his hand. “You won’t regret this. I’m excited for our future. Phoebe will take you to the office to get the paperwork started, sign you up for the
main tournament, and collect your entry money.” Business Diane is back in place. She straightens her spine. “I’ve got to go check on things. I’ll be in touch. Leave Phoebe all of your contact information.” With that, she takes off.

  Finally he notices me, and with the weight of his gaze on me, I can feel myself flushing all over. “Um, follow me, please,” I say.

  The heat from his body almost sears me from behind, he’s so close as he stays right behind me to the office. My heartbeat is racing like crazy, and I clutch my bag so as not to give away my visceral reaction to him.

  I enter the room and hear the door click closed behind me. I take out the papers from my bag and put them on the desk, along with a pen, keeping my attention focused on the task I’m doing, not on the way he’s standing so close to me. I can smell the manliness of his skin, and it’s making me itch to get even closer, despite my brain screaming at me to keep my distance. “So, here’s the agreement with Diane—”

  My words are swallowed as Hale grips me, tugs me flush against his body, and covers my mouth in a searing kiss. I’m so stunned that I don’t move for a moment, shock freezing me in place. Then I push him away, reflex kicking in.

  My lips are warm. My whole body is flushed. I can feel how wet he got me from that kiss.

  My first real kiss. Oh my God.

  “What…what the heck are you doing?” I ask him, stepping away and trying to draw in steady breaths. My skin is vibrating for him, and I feel exposed and aroused, aching, despite the thread of fear beneath my vivid physical reactions. I never thought this kind of sexual response was possible.

  Hale’s brow quirks. “I just had a good win, so I felt like celebrating it.”

  Lust. That’s all I’m feeling, plain and simple. A chemical reaction. I can’t help how my body reacts to him. But I won’t allow myself to give in to it, given his inclination toward violence. “Don’t do that again,” I say in a breathy tone.