Hammer: A Dark Romance Read online

  Hammer

  By

  Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Renard, Loki

  Hammer

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Image by iStock/MRBIG_PHOTOGRAPHY

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

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  Chapter One

  Jazz

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  I don’t usually curse at my neighbors, but when one of them walks in covered in cuts, bruises, and remnants of dried blood that may or may not be his caking in various places, I’m going to take notice. Swearily.

  He’s obviously been in a fight, not that he looks beaten up. Far from it. He looks triumphant. Sexy. Hot. As. Fucking. Hell.

  Even on a normal, non-bloodied day, Jake is someone to notice. He’s huge, for starters. Seven foot tall at least. Or maybe not quite that tall. I’m not a walking measuring stick. All I know is that he has to duck under every doorway he encounters, and he has to put his back to the wall to let people by in the narrow, shitty halls we have in this apartment block.

  Right now, it’s four in the morning. I’m just getting back from my shift at the bar. He’s coming in from... fuck knows what. Could be a riot. Could be a robbery.

  “Did you get mugged? Are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?”

  This is the first time I’ve talked to Jake Lister. I’ve wanted to ever since he moved in, but I’ve never dared before. It’s not safe to start a conversation with most of the guys in this apartment block. This is a place where desperate people crash land, either on their way down to rock bottom, or on their way back up. The elevator works twice a month, not that I’d ever use it because it smells like a special concoction of rancid human fluids. I know Jake’s name because I’ve seen it on his mailbox. He put a new lock on it when he moved in and it shines brightly among all the weathered, scratched, and defaced boxes out in the hall we share.

  “I’m fine,” he smiles. At least, I think he smiles. It might be a grimace. One of his eyes is half closed, swollen and black. It looks nasty and painful, not that he’s showing any signs of being in pain. If I get a paper cut I make more of a fuss than he’s making.

  “Who hurt you?”

  “Nobody who wasn’t supposed to.”

  “What do you mean? Are you some kind of...” I lower my voice, “...masochist?”

  Now he’s definitely grinning, even though it looks like it has to hurt. “Now why does a girl like you know words like that?”

  “Uh...” I pause. “I have a dictionary.”

  “Mhm.” He steps past me and starts heading inside, toward the stairs. I follow him, wondering what happened to turn this massive beast of a man into a bloody mess.

  “Seriously. You should see a doctor.” I’m bothering him, probably. After weeks of furtive glances, I just became the weird girl in the next apartment who won’t leave him be. We both step around the soggy stain on the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. It’s always wet. There’s no leak above, so I don’t even want to know why.

  “It was a fight,” he says, stopping dead so fast I run into the back of him. Every part of him is hard, even the rounds of his ass, which just met my lower belly.

  I back off quickly.

  “A fight?”

  “Professional fight,” he clarifies.

  “I didn’t know you were a professional fighter. Then, I guess, I didn’t know anything about you, so why would I know that?” I am babbling, nervous. “My name is Jazz, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jazz,” he says, reaching out a hand to shake mine. I look at it as I grasp it. His knuckles are cracked and they look like they were bloodied before he was cleaned up and sent home like a goddamn gladiator. I wonder if the Romans gladiators got better accommodation than he does.

  “You lived here long?”

  He’s making conversation. Oh, god.

  “Uhm, I moved in about a month before you, so about nine months?”

  Eight months we’ve been neighbors. That’s a long time to check someone out but never actually talk to them. I noticed him the day he moved in. He’s pretty hard to miss, and so were his buddies. There were half a dozen of them at least, all massive ex-military dudes, covered in tattoos, but not the gangster kind I see around here a lot. Nothing on the face, nothing on the neck, just big sleeves and if I had to guess, chest and back work.

  “That’s a long time in a place like this.”

  “I know, right,” I smile, glancing up toward his face, but not quite daring to meet his eyes. He has nice eyes. They’re blue. I can’t see one them now, but I’ve caught flashes of them when we’ve hurried past each other in the past.

  It’s not that I’ve been avoiding him. When he first moved in, I was in a relationship that was in the process of tanking. Since the breakup, I’ve been trying to hold it together as a single lady. Strong, independent, all that bullshit you tell yourself in the lonely hours of the night. My job means I get to watch people hook up all the time and wonder if that’s ever going to happen to me again. Probably not. I have the worst possible taste in men, and these days I’m always busy, trying to claw my way out of debt I managed to accumulate over several years of bad decisions. Every bit of money I earn over and above what I need to live goes to service loans that somehow get bigger no matter how much I put on them. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for making eye contact with the kind of guy I’m wildly attracted to, but have learned to be wary of. Hot guys with tats and apartments in my neighborhood are rarely good news. On weekends this place vibrates with the sound of illicit sex, drugs, and the wails of the unfortunate who are produced from it.

  I tried to make friends when I moved in, Most people here think I’m a stuck-up bitch, because I won’t spot them a ten for a dime bag, or because I won’t share my nonexistent stash. And then there’s the ones who want me to give them free drinks at the bar. In the end, I just stopped socializing.

  We’re walking up the stairs now, three flights between us and our apartments. I’m trying to think of something to say, because I don’t want the conversation to end.

  “Do you, uh, want ice?”

  “I’ve got ice,” he says. “Thanks.”

  “Of course you do, silly me,” I say, feeling immediately stupid. Of course he doesn’t need anything from me. He’s a professional fighter. He’ll have all that sort of stuff.

  Three flights of stairs later, I can’t think of anything to say. I’m kicking myself on the inside, racking my brains for something, but my mouth is dry and my head is empty.

  He stops at his door, flashes
me a smile, and cocks his head toward the interior. “Want to have a drink with me?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  Idiot! I berate myself immediately. Why the fuck did I say that? The hottest guy I ever met, one who I’ve wanted to get to know for months invites me into his apartment and I tell him I don’t drink. Jesus.

  “I was going to make a protein shake,” he says amicably. “I can make you a hot chocolate if you want?”

  “Oh. Uhm. Yes, please.”

  He opens his door and I follow him in, feeling that excited numb sensation you get when something way too good to be true is happening and you don’t know how to process it.

  His apartment is in the same state of disrepair as mine is. There’s only so much you can do with art when the wallpaper is stained, the paint is peeling, and mold from leaking pipes between floors turns the ceiling into a pastiche of colors. He’s cleaned his place up as much as it is really possible to do. The carpet has been pulled up and replaced with rugs, a smart move. His furniture is actually pretty nice too. He has a big, red, real leather couch right in the middle of the lounge.

  “You’re too good for this place.”

  “Huh?” He looks at me with a quizzical brow raised.

  “I mean... you’re a fighter. You have a nice couch. Don’t fighters get paid enough to live somewhere better than this?”

  “Depends,” he says, putting some water on to boil. “High level fighters, sure. But for every guy making a million-dollar payday, there are thousands cracking knuckles across skulls for less than a hundred. And the couch was a gift from my mom when she moved house.”

  “She has good taste. Fighting sounds like a hard way to make a living.”

  “There are harder ways.”

  He says it in a tone that makes me want to ask what harder ways there are, but strongly suggests I shouldn’t.

  He whips up his shake and a hot chocolate for me. I sit at the breakfast bar, grateful for the chance to rest my feet as he slides the mug over to me.

  “I don’t often get served,” I quip. “I could get used to this.”

  * * *

  Jake

  She’s adorable and hot. That’s a hard combination to pull off, but she’s doing it. She’s wearing tight black jeans, comfortable lace-up sneakers for those hours she spends on her feet, and a top with cut-outs all over it, showing stomach, that sinful curve under her breast, and of course, enough cleavage to encourage tips. I don’t blame her for that. The outfit looks damn good on her. Her dark hair is tied back in a tight ponytail. Simple, but sexy. She’s wearing just enough makeup to look put together: a red lip, dark eye that emphasizes her deep brown gaze, and the rest of her face is pale, almost goth-y, but not quite. She’s exactly my type. Before my life went to shit, I’d have been in her bar hitting on her every damn night.

  I’ve stayed away from her for a couple of reasons. One, she never makes eye contact, which in my experience means a woman isn’t interested in being approached, and two, I’ve got my own shit to deal with. Tonight was different. Tonight she talked to me. And I’m in a good mood. A five thousand dollar prize might not be mainstream money, but it will pay the rent for a good while.

  She sips her hot chocolate and I hear her toes tapping against the underside of the cabinets as her legs swing back and forth. She’s happy. Her eyes sparkle with the kind of mischief I like, a sexy proclivity to naughtiness that calls to me.

  “So you, uh, fight a lot?”

  She’s trying to make conversation, and I suddenly realize that I’ve been standing here, not drinking my shake, not saying anything, just staring at her.

  “I get bouts every now and then. After tonight, I should be up for a new one in a couple weeks.”

  “Wow. So when are you gonna be on the big screen, or the small screen or whatever?”

  She’s thinking of the shiny MMA you see on television. What I do isn’t that kind of fighting. I’m into underground prize fighting. Fewer rules. More money, on average, but more risk too. Not that you’d know I made any money at all by the state of this place. Every dollar I earn has to go to... other responsibilities. Debts I accumulated and might never pay off morally even if I pay every cent I earn financially.

  “Maybe one day,” I say, making no commitment and giving her no clarification.

  “I bet soon,” she says with more enthusiasm than I deserve.

  “Maybe.”

  * * *

  Jazz

  It makes me so fucking nervous. Ever since he moved in he’s been this presence in the building. I would be embarrassed to tell him, but I’ve felt safer knowing he’s next door. I’ve had some less than healthy relationships in the past, so I’m not keen to get into another, but having a guy around who knows how to handle himself and hasn’t been creepy toward me is nice. It’s even nicer to be in his place, but I guess I should be going back to mine now. I don’t want to hang around and annoy him.

  “I’m going to grab a shower,” he says. My heart sinks. I guess I am annoying him.

  “Stay, though. I like talking to you,” he adds casually, making me grin. He likes talking to me! I try not to beam as hard as I feel like smiling. Men usually like me for various reasons, but my conversational skills are not at the top of the list.

  “I’ll be back in a couple minutes,” he says. “Get comfy.”

  Just like that, he leaves me unattended in his apartment. I hear the shower go on in the next room and I imagine what’s happening in there. He’s stripping off his clothing, getting naked. I can only dream of what he must look like without clothes on. From what I’ve seen, he’s hard and rippled, ridged for my pleasure.

  Jesus. I need to get my mind out of the gutter. My job gives me plenty of chances to watch women react to hot men and vice versa. From my experience, women are just as hungry as guys. Right now, I’m fucking starving. It has been months since I last got laid and Jake is so hot. He’s the kind of unobtainable hot you see in Instagram models. I never thought I’d get a chance to be with a guy like this, if that’s what’s happening and I think it is. Guys don’t invite girls to their place in the middle of the night and then take a shower for no reason.

  If I’m honest with myself, I’m waiting to get fucked. At least, I hope I am. No. Maybe he just wants someone to talk to. I get that a lot too, tending bar. Sometimes guys just want someone to listen. So maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe he’s just gone through a breakup and I seem like a nice person to talk to. I’ve got one of those faces where people just tell me things.

  But Jake doesn’t seem lonely. He doesn’t seem like he wants to talk. I don’t get any desperate vibes from him. I can’t imagine him being desperate. A guy like him, he could walk into any bar in this city and get his dick sucked within ten minutes.

  God, I’m crude.

  No. Crude isn’t the word. Trashy. That’s what my ex used to call me. Actually, that was one of the nicer things he called me. He was an asshole. A mind-fucker. By the time he left me, he’d made me think those things were true. After all, I do dress in relatively skimpy clothes and serve men alcohol all night long in a place where other girls get their bodies out. Being in proximity of strippers was enough to make him think I was the sort who would sell herself. He was wrong, much to his disappointment.

  I try to forget about the ex and focus on the man of the night. I want to get to know him better, but I don’t have the confidence to burst into the shower with him. I kind of wish I could just peel my clothes off and join him in the steamy nook... but that’s the kind of move that takes more confidence than I have. He offered me hot chocolate and conversation, not shower invasion.

  There aren’t a lot of personal effects in Jake’s place, but I do find some pictures of him with some guys. They’re all dressed in fatigues, so it’s not a huge leap to guess they’re people he served with.

  There’s a hammer in front of the picture. It’s weird. It doesn’t look used, like it was left for construction or anything. It looks almost lik
e a display piece, a trophy. It has a wooden handle, highly polished, and a silver head with an inscription on it. I lean in a little closer to try to read what’s written in flowery script.

  “H... ammer,” I read aloud, then let out a laugh. I mean, it is a hammer, but how fucking random to have a hammer with that inscribed on it. It must be some kind of inside military joke.

  I keep walking around his place. Not to be nosey. Just to see everything. Is that nosey? Maybe. I’m just so curious about him. Right now all I know is that he’s a super-hot ex-military guy who fights for money. And who makes a mean hot chocolate.

  “Hey, you.” Jake surprises me from behind.

  “I wasn’t touching!”

  He lets out a laugh as he emerges from the bathroom, a towel around his waist. Holy. Hell. His abdomen is a work of active art, all ridges and valleys, a muscular work of art. He gives me a lazy smile, one of his bright blue eyes catching mine, the other more closed than ever, but it doesn’t matter.

  “It’s not a museum, you can touch,” he winks.

  “Can I touch... everything?” I bite my lower lip and eye him suggestively. Fuck. Maybe I am trashy. Maybe I don’t care. Jake is hot and it’s late and there’s something in the air, something that happens between midnight and six in the morning, when anything and everything seems possible. At two o’clock in the afternoon, what I just said would be corny. Right now, those words ignite what has been between us from the beginning.

  There’s something primal about him, and the way I respond to him. It’s like from the moment we met we’ve been sniffing around each other, walking one another’s territory, getting closer and closer until tonight we collided.

  “Please do...” he says, dropping the towel.

  I stare. And then I speak.

  “...you’re a fucking god.”

  He lets out another one of those deeply sexy laughs. “You’re adorable.”

  I’m not trying to be cute. He really is built like Adonis. The way he’s put together, all muscles and sinew and brawn, from the V-line that leads down to his cock hanging heavy and already half-erect, to the musculature of his thighs, and his chest and oh god his abs... he has muscles I didn’t know men even had. He’s not just hot. I’ve seen plenty of hot in my time. He’s next level. Seeing him is like getting a shot of desire delivered right to the core of me. I’m going to do things I shouldn’t with this man. I’m going to be the kind of girl I swore I wasn’t.