by S. Ann Cole
I’m in the foyer directing the delivery of new room furniture when Mama calls. “Hola, Mama.”
“There is talk,” she says after asking me a slew of welfare questions, “that you have money problems. Why did you not tell me this? Do you want money, mija? I can give you money. Salome Noa is doing much better now, si? Lots of customers. I have savings. I can give you—”
“Mama, no,” I curtail. “Who told you this? I’m fine. I bought that restaurant for you. You have a lot of people to provide for. Save your profits. Don’t worry about me.”
“¿Me estás mintiendo, Alexa Flores?”
Oh dear. She whipped out my full name. I fight back a smile. No one ever calls me Alexa, it’s been Lexi for as long as I can remember. But growing up, whenever Mama bellowed my real first name, it meant I was in serious trouble.
“No, Mama. I’m—Hey, hey, no, that goes upstairs. Second floor,” I break off to direct two of the delivery men. “Yeah, Mama. I’m not lying. I promise.”
“Okay then. Malditos chismosos,” she grumbles. “But your madre is here if you need anything, si?”
“Of course, Mama. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Hanging up, I jump out of the way just in time to dodge a toppling tower of boxes being carried by two paint-splattered arms.
“You break it, I’m docking it!” I yell to no one in particular as I turn and walk out the front door.
Maggie is by the fountain flirting with one of the workers. He’s ripped, tanned, and good-looking, so I can’t blame her. Walking over to her, I loop my arm through hers and pull her away. “So, remember when you said you were going to make us sandwiches?”
“Ah, shit. I got sidetracked.”
“I can see that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not by him.” Then she frowns. “But for the life of me I can’t remember what.”
“Whatever. I’m just gonna drive out to get something. I’m starving. Oversee the delivery until I get back.”
“Wait, how come Trent didn’t send you lunch today?”
Trent has been sending me lunch every day for the past two weeks. Like clockwork, his men in black would show up at 1:00 PM on the dot with a hot tasty meal and I would share it with Maggie.
Until now, I hadn’t thought about it, that no one brought me lunch today.
Where the heck is my lunch?
“Huh,” I say, getting out my phone from my back pocket. “I have no idea.”
Pulling up Trent’s number, I’m about to text him—as if he owes me anything—when a familiar black jeep comes speeding up the driveway.
With the front ground packed with cars, vans and delivery trucks, the jeep brakes half-way up. Michael jumps out, takeout bag in hand, and jogs toward me. I go to meet him.
“I’m really sorry for getting this to you late,” he tells me. “Traffic was shit.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him, taking the bag. “I was just about drive out and get something.”
Michael shakes his head, his eyes widening a fraction. “If you like me, Lexi, and you don’t want me to lose my job, please don’t tell him that.”
I raise a brow. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
He shakes more vigorously this time as he begins moving backward. “Believe me, I’m not.”
Maggie sidles up next to me as Michael jumps back into his jeep and reverse out. “What’s for lunch today?”
I lift the bag between us and sniff it. “Don’t know, but it smells delicious. Let’s go tear this bitch up.”
~
Later that night, I’m soaking my overworked and sleep-deprived body in a warm bath with Ten Towers spilling from my phone, on the verge of nodding off, when the music is interrupted by the signature chirp for text notifications.
Lazily, I dry my hands in a towel before reaching over the edge of the tub to pluck up the phone from the floor and check the screen.
Trent: What you doing?
Me: Soaking in Epsom Salt.
Me: And before you ask, NO, I won’t come keep you company if you’re bored on the job. You don’t keep snacks.
Trent: *laughing emoji* Not working tonight
Trent: Why are you soaking in salt? You hurt?
Me: No. Just achy muscles.
Me: By the way, this is A LOT of work. Pretty sure I’ve worked off 92k already. You should be paying me a salary now.
Trent: Have you ever worked a REAL job before? You know some people don’t even make 60k a year, even with two and three jobs? You haven’t even been at this for two months and already you feel cheated
Me: I’m used to working less for more. Sue me.
Trent: And look where that got you
Me: Did you need something?
Trent: What are your plans for the night?
Me: Wine and zzzZZZzzz
Trent: Come to Venice with me tonight
Me: What’s in Venice?
Trent: Tripp. He has a fight
Me: A fight?
Trent: Yeah. He does MMA
Me: Whoa. Dope!
Trent: Fucking hate the sport. I’ve never been to any of his fights and he’s got a beef with me about it. So I was thinking of trying tonight.
Me: I’d love to watch Tripp fight, but I really need to get some shut-eye.
Me: But Maggie’s been complaining of boredom so I’m sure she’d love to go with you.
Trent: It’s a forty-minute drive, you can nap on the way
Trent: Please?
Trent: *GIF of puppy dog eyes*
Me: You’re so manipulative.
Trent: *GIF of cute begging cat*
Me: OK. Jeez. I’ll come. What time is the fight?
Trent: Nine. Will pick you up in an hour.
“Goddamn Trent,” I mutter as I set the phone down and sink lower into the bathtub. Thankfully, tomorrow is Sunday so I’ll be able to sleep in.
After another fifteen or so minutes of relaxation to the point of dozing off, I climb out of the tub, wrap a towel around me, and pad to Maggie’s room. She’s nude as usual, reading a book with her head hanging off the bed.
“Hey, get dressed. Trent’s taking us to Venice to watch Tripp fight.”
Her face lights up at the prospect of finally going out. “Oh, thank God, I’m s—” She breaks off and frown. “Wait, did Trent invite me or just you?”
“Both of us.” It’s a lie, but I can’t leave her here knowing how much she wants to go out. She’s been hounding me to go out with her for two weekends now, but these days it feels as if I’m never not tired. “He’ll be here in an hour.”
As she bounds to her feet all aflutter, I pad to my room to put together an outfit. My savings account might no longer hold five figures, but I do still own a lot of nice clothes and jewelry. Some valuable stuff, too, that I probably should consider throwing up on eBay and cash out.
Hmm. I jot down a mental note to do just that.
By the time Trent’s headlights brightens the driveway, Maggie and I are ready and waiting on the front steps, sucking on vape pens.
“You’re so sexy,” Maggie whines around a cloud of smoke. “If only I had the curves and flesh for an outfit like that.”
Figuring an MMA fight event would be crowded and rowdy, we both went for comfy-sexy. Maggie’s in lace-up crop-top shorts set and ankle boots, and I’m wearing chunky-heeled thigh-highs with a wine-red bodycon romper jumpsuit.
“Stop it,” I admonish. “Your body is perfect.”
“Yeah, if I was trying to become a freaking Victoria Secret model.” She rolls her eyes and makes a miserable noise. “I can’t gain weight no matter what I do.”
“Skinny girl problems,” I mumble, bumping her shoulder to nudge her down the steps as Trent’s jeep pulls to a stop. “You take the front. I need the space in the back.”
There’s a small pillow tucked under my arm, because I one hundred percent intend on sleeping on the drive. I need that nap because I’m damn near running on E right now.
>
“Hey, boo thang,” Maggie teases Trent as we get into the jeep. “Thanks for the invite. Used-to-be-fun Lexi has turned into a snore of an old woman now. I can’t get her to go anywhere.”
“Uh, yeah, no prob.” He twists around to eye me in the backseat as I fluff the pillow and get comfortable. Those dark eyes narrow to slits, but I’m too tired to care what he’s displeased with me about this time.
I’m also preoccupied with trying to deaden the flutters that have revived from being in his presence.
“Drive slow so the ride takes longer,” I say with a saccharine smile. “And play some soft music, por favor.”
His glare on me promises retribution. For what, I don’t know.
Or maybe I do know.
Maybe, subconsciously, I invited Maggie to use her as barrier between him and whatever the hell these inexplicable butterflies are all about.
Maybe I need her here as a reminder as to why I cannot and should not be feeling flutters of any kind for him. He’s her ex. And she’s my friend.
Also, he’s an ass.
As the flutters stubbornly continue to tickle my belly, my throat, and the outskirts of my heart, I flip around so my back is to him and my face is to the leather.
Then, with a quiet but frustrated sigh, I close my eyes and sleep.
Chapter FIFTEEN
“Always so crabby with me.”
Lexi
Someone is drawing circles on my face.
“Leave me alone,” I mumble, lethargically smacking the offending hand away.
“Lexi…”
Hmm. I know that voice. I like that voice.
“We’re here, Hellcat.”
Grudgingly, I stir and shift from my side onto my back. As my eyes sluggishly flutter open, Trent’s irritatingly handsome face blooms into view. He’s leaned in and over me from the passenger door, and my heart starts racing out of nowhere, with no purpose or reason.
He smells like a morning sunrise on a perfect day.
“I thought I told you to drive slow,” I grouse.
He laughs, resting his hands on my thighs. “I did. Even took the longest route here.”
A brief shock zips through me from his touch, as causal as it is. “Well, it wasn’t long enough.”
Grasping my wrists, he pulls me up to sitting position. “We won’t be here long. Maybe about an hour or so then you can go back to dreamland.”
I go to rub the bleariness from my eyes then remember my mascara and eyeliner, so I make a few wide blinks instead which no doubt looks comical to Trent. “Where’s Maggie?”
“Buying tickets.”
“Oh. How do I look? Did I mess up my hair or makeup?”
His gaze lingers on me for several heartbeats before he reaches up and gives my high ponytail a gentle tug. “What you look like”—his hands move to finger the tendrils hanging down both sides of my face—”is danger, Hellcat.”
“What?” I throw him an irritated scowl. “What kind of answer is that?”
With unconcealed and unapologetic intensity, he stares down at me, and once again, something happens inside me. Something even bigger this time. A something too acute to ignore.
“It means you’re dangerously perfect.” He steps back and gives my thigh a light slap. “Come on, let’s go.”
I shift along the seat to the edge and he helps me out, then shuts the door and hits the key fob to auto-lock.
“Is this one of those fights you can bet on?”
“No clue,” he answers.
“It would be cool if I could bet and make a quick grand,” I muse as we walk through the packed parking lot toward a dome-shaped building with orange and blue running lights.
“You like fast money, don’t you?”
I snort. “Anyone who claims they don’t is a filthy liar.”
We find Maggie at the entrance of the building chatting up two thick-necked bouncers. “Got your tags,” she says, waving them in the air.
Trent takes them and secures one of the plastic tags around my wrist before putting the other on his.
“Does Tripp know we’re coming?” I ask as we enter the building. A rush of noise assaults us, growing louder the further in we get.
“Don’t think so.”
Taking my hand, he tucks me to his side, which I’m grateful for because the crowd in here is thicker than the bouncers’ necks. A fight seems to be in session at the moment, as there are intermittent blasts of cheers mixed with boos along with echoing commentary.
“Is this one of those official kind of professional fights—like UFC—or is it a just-for-entertainment thing?”
“The latter.”
After a rough and bumpy navigation, we eventually make it to our section. A long stretch of space raised about two feet above normal level, sectioned off by a low gate and a guard that had to be at least 300 pounds. There are tables and chairs and only a scatter of patrons.
“V.I.P., baby!” Maggie exclaims over the noise. “Thanks for letting me get the good tickets, Trent, because down there does not look fun.”
“Or safe,” I add, taking a seat at one of the small tables.
“Exactly why I don’t come to these things,” Trent complains as he moves to stand behind my chair, almost protectively.
A tall, tattooed man, the kind that looks like he could handle himself against a group of bandits in a dark alley, comes up to our table and asks us if we’re having beers. He’s wearing a shirt with the same logo that’s on the building outside and flipping an empty tray, so I assume he’s staff.
“Yes, please,” Maggie answers.
From behind me, Trent asks, “Bottles or cups?”
“Cups,” the man answers. “For your safety, we don’t serve the bottles.”
“In that case, bring the beers here, un-opened, along with the cups. We’ll open and pour, and you can take the bottles back. Heineken.”
Tall and Tattooed doesn’t like this idea, judging from his small scowl. “I don’t think—”
“That’s what works for us,” Trent curtails. “Otherwise, no beers.”
With a tight smile, the man turns and leaves.
I twist in my chair to glare up at Trent. “Controlling much?”
He gives me a bored blink. “Think you’d know by now not to drink anything that wasn’t open and poured in front of you.”
For Pete’s sake. “What do think they do to the beers here, Trent?”
“I’d rather not find out.”
Maggie and I give up hope on getting boozed-up, thanks to Mr. Killjoy, and focus on the fight instead. We didn’t expect Tall and Tattooed to return, so we’re shocked when he actually does with a tray holding three Heinekens and three plastic cups, though he seems none too pleased about it.
Trent ignores the opener on the tray and retrieves his own from his back pocket, one of those compact knife things that also has wine and bottle openers. Quick and confident, he pops the caps, pours our beers, then forks over cash for them.
Tall and Tattooed leaves with the cash and empty bottles. I suppose, at the end of the day, the bar needs to make money as well. In a place this wild and rowdy, it would certainly be easy to get off with serving watered-down beer laced with God knows what.
So maybe Trent has a point. But still…ugh.
While Maggie and I chat about the fight that just ended, Trent positions himself behind my chair again. The roaring noise has died down to wild chatter and mid-level music, while two men clean up splattered blood from the fighting cage.
“We should have known Tripp would turn out to be a fighter,” Maggie says after taking a gulp of beer. “He was such a brawler and shit-starter in high school.”
“I know ri…” My words trail off in a hitch as the tips of Trent’s fingers make contact with the nape of my neck and gently drag in a slow circle.
Deliberately.
What the hell is he doing?
Goosebumps raise all over me. I don’t react, not wanting to draw Maggie’s attention t
o it. Also because, well, maybe I don’t want him to stop. Maybe the confusing things I’ve been feeling of late aren’t just me.
So, subtly, instead of pulling away, I lean back into the whisper of touches at my nape and carry on talking with Maggie as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. I allow myself to feel this time instead of fight.
Even if only temporarily.
Around ten minutes later, the building erupts in roars again as the next fight is announced. Randy “Krush Kid” Harper versus Tripp “Skull Bruiser” Garza.
Cue Maggie and me jumping up from our seats and rushing toward the railing overlooking the cage.
“Krush Kid” is introduced first, and he darts out through the crowd like a Tasmanian devil on crack while a heavy metal song blasts through the speakers. When he back flips into the cage, the crowd goes wild.
“Well, that one’s a scary ball of wild energy,” Maggie comments, eyes blown wide.
Tripp is introduced next, and he strolls out with far less energy than his contender. Ripped, mean, and unerringly confident, to Fall Out Boy’s My Song Knows What You Did in the Dark. The crowd goes nuts.
“Looks like he’s a favorite,” I mumble.
After he’s undressed and checked by his team, he just steps up into the cage without fanfare. Cool and collected.
Cocky ass Garza.
As the referee talks between the two fighters in the cage, Trent comes up behind me and his large, warm hands settle on my hips.
I don’t step out of his touch, but I don’t lean into it either. Without a doubt, something is happening here, between us, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Or if I should even want to feel anything.
The bell dings, the referee slices his hand through the air, and the fight begins. Krusher Kid is fast, but Tripp is calculating and traps him without fail every time.
Tripp wins the first round, but Krusher wins the second round with a pin to the ground that Tripp held out on without tapping out. Trent’s fingers dig into my skin the entire time, as though it’s hard for him to watch his brother being trapped like that. I resist the urge to place my hands over his and squeeze in assurance.
