What Happens In Denver . . .
A/N: I don't know where this came from or what I'm doing with it. But it was nagging at me to be written and it seems the muse bunny has spoken.
Disclaimer: I don't own Make It Or Break It
Summary: "I'm not interested," he told her with certainty. She just smiled smugly. "You will be." Kelly Parker/Nicky Russo drabble.
What Happens In Denver . . .
"Do you have some weird, kinky, girls-on-top, power fetish thing?" she asked in her abrupt, I-don't-care-if-I-offend-your-ass, Kelly Parker way, smirking in anticipation of his response. They were the first words she'd ever said to him and they'd been training at the same gym for nearly a month now. He had been starting to doubt whether she would ever deem him cleansed of 'Rock-cooties' and safely allow him out of quarantine to associate with her and the other Denver Elite gymnasts.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Parker?" Nicky replied with a narrowed look. He resisted the snide add-on to the conversation 'why can't you just say 'hi' like a normal person', while seriously doubting her interpersonal skills.
She rolled her eyes. "Oh please," she muttered, assuming he was feigning ignorance and not genuinely confused/disturbed by her question. "First you're all wistful looks at Keeler and now everyone's saying the reason you're here is because things turned sour with Kaylie Cruz.
"So is that your thing?" she asked again. "Do you only go for girls that are better at gymnastics than you?" Her intent to hurt was clear, the silver-tongued devil that she was. Her eyes flashed maliciously as she added sarcastically, "It makes a lot of sense you going after Kaylie. It's not like you're ever going to beat Austin Tucker – bar some career ending injury – so you might as well live vicariously through her National title."
His jaw clenched at the comment, fighting the urge to lash out at the harsh jibe. He knew she was only trying to get a rise out of him – probably even trying to get him kicked out of the gym so that her lair wouldn't be contaminated by his presence. He wouldn't let her get to him. He had left Boulder to get away from the drama, and he wouldn't let Kelly Parker of all people drive him back begging Sasha Belov to let him back in.
"Did this conversation have a point?" he muttered harshly, his expression tight with annoyance.
"Sure," she replied with a cruel smile. "I just wanted to let you know I'm not interested."
He raised an eyebrow at her sceptically, unsure whether he was hearing her right. "I'm not interested either," he replied drolly, glaring at the burnet.
She scoffed, giving him a smug smile as she turned to leave.
"You will be."
"I'm still not interested," she told him breathlessly, pulling her lips from his for a moment to catch her breath and make her point.
"Neither," he responded automatically, kissing along her cheeks, her jaw, her neck – really any expanse of exposed skin he could reach in their current position, crammed in a closet in North Greenwich Arena. He ran his fingers through her hair as best he could, undoing her horns and letting himself believe for a moment that he wasn't making out with the devil herself.
"You still suck at gymnastics," she insisted with a shudder as she dragged at his clothes, her hands balling in his singlet and slipping the tracksuit jacket off his shoulders.
"You got beat by Payson," he answered indifferently.
"And Austin Tucker wiped the floor with you," she threw back. "I don't even like you, Russo," she whispered lowly in his ear, pressing her body close to his.
"Neither."
"Well good," she said surely, "just as long as we're on the same page."
And there they were. The number two gymnasts in the country in a closet . . .
In London . . .
Still not interested.