by Nikki Castle
I nod as I gulp down more water. "Okay, I'll call her when I leave here. Is that the place that's kind of upscale compared to the typical hipster bars in that area? Do I need to dress up?"
"It's not upscale but yeah, it's not an oversized tee and beanie kind of place. Just wear your usual jeans and combat boots but pick a sexy top or something. You don't have to go crazy."
I nod. "I can do that. What time are you going?"
"Let's just say 9:00. Does that work for you?"
I nod again. "I'm going to go home and take the world's biggest nap and then I'll get Hailey and meet you there."
"Perfect." She pauses and then glowers at me. "And tell Hailey it would be great if she didn't show us all up with her perfect outfits for once. It's not fair that she demands all the male—and female—attention in the bars. She already has a boyfriend, she shouldn't even need the attention."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "That's like telling her not to breathe. She can't even help it, it’s disgusting. But I'll try to get her to tone down the unassumingly gorgeous vibe." I roll my eyes, already knowing that task is a nearly impossible one.
Lucy grins. "That's all I ask."
I lean down to grab my bag with a groan. "I might regret this. Let's hope my nap is a miracle one that reinvigorates my body and soothes all of its aches and pains."
She claps me on the back, ignoring my sound of protest. "You're fine. Just throw down a couple of tequila shots and you'll be good as new."
A few hours later I've showered, eaten, and napped. I feel like a brand new person.
"I will never understand how naps act like an electroshock for you," Hailey grumbles from where she's sifting through the closet. "You close your eyes for fifteen minutes and down a Red Bull and it's like you got a full eight hours of sleep. It's inhuman."
I take a sip of said Red Bull and lean back against Jax's headboard with a content smile. "What can I say, it's a gift."
As Hailey shakes her head in disbelief, her attention seems to lock on something hanging in the closet. She pulls out a little black dress.
"This is perfect," she decides with a smile. "Simple, subtle, but sexy as fuck. You can wear those black heels you have from Ally's wedding."
I look suspiciously at the dress she's holding. It really is a simple and beautiful black dress: it's got thin straps, a neckline just scandalous enough that it will show the curve of my cleavage, and it fits tight against my body until it reaches the top of my thighs. It's the perfect LBD.
"Lucy said I should just wear jeans and a nice top," I argue. I wear enough skirts at work that I try to dress comfortably when I'm not in the office. Jeans and combat boots are my preferred outfit.
Hailey rolls her eyes. "Lucy doesn't know what she's talking about. Either that, or she thinks that's the extent of you dressing up."
I sigh. "Probably the latter. Okay, I'll wear it. But there's not a chance in hell I'm doing heels. I'll wear my combat boots."
Hailey shakes her head as she turns to hang the dress on the closet door. "Fine, but wear the high heeled combat boots instead of your normal flat ones. You could afford to at least try to look like a woman instead of a KGB spy."
I raise an eyebrow and point to the dress. "That dress is barely long enough to cover my ass. I assure you, I will look like a woman regardless of the height of my shoes."
I hear her chuckle even as she pulls her own outfit from her bag. I peek curiously at the clothes she pulls on.
She’s wearing black high-waisted jeans and a dark gray long sleeve shirt that has extra fabric connecting the arms to the body of the shirt. It’s thin and flowy and would look cute if it was tight, but it’s so loose that it looks more like a poncho than a top. Between the dark colors and the fit of the clothes themselves, Hailey’s body is completely hidden. The icing on the cake is when Hailey hides away her beautiful hair by pulling it into a ponytail.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I think about how I can ask my next question without sounding like a total judgmental ass. "That's… pretty conservative for what you usually wear when we go out. What's going on?"
Hailey fidgets with the zipper on her bag, avoiding eye contact. "Steve's not really comfortable with me wearing what I usually wear," she finally mumbles. "I figured I'd tone it down a bit and cover up more. No big deal."
My frown deepens as her words sink in. I'm all for toning down the hooker outfits once a girl has a boyfriend, but Hailey's never dressed provocatively. She's just naturally so beautiful that any nice outfit she wears automatically makes her beauty stand out. Right now, it seems like she's actually trying to cover herself up. The only thing more conservative would be a turtleneck.
My eyes widen when a thought occurs to me. "Did he tell you that you could only go out if you cover up?"
Hailey's head snaps toward mine, her eyes wide. "N-no, of course not," she stammers, and I immediately see through her lie.
I can feel my fury start to boil in my veins. I always had a suspicion that Steve was controlling, but this is now officially at an unacceptable level. I've noticed changes in my sister over the past few weeks, changes in her confidence and how she spends her time. She barely sees her friends anymore and where before she was a strong-willed, independent woman, she now seems to need Steve's input for everything. I knew he was changing her even before she described their issues to me; this just confirms it.
I take a deep breath to calm myself. I myself have never been in a controlling relationship, but I’ve known plenty of strong women that have found themselves in similar situations. There’s something about manipulative men that can get through to even the strongest women, so I know it can happen to anyone—even my sister.
"Hailey," I start softly. "You know I love you, and I'll support any decision you make. But Steve shouldn't be giving you ultimatums. You should be able to wear whatever the fuck you want."
I try not to sound patronizing or accusing, but she still gets defensive at my words. She glares at me. "He's not giving me ultimatums. I'm just being understanding of his concerns. We can't all just do whatever we want in relationships and not give a fuck about the other person."
I swallow and look down at my hands. I know she's just lashing out, but her words still hurt. I've always been the one to wear the pants in my relationships, partly because I'm an assertive bitch who knows what she wants, and partly because I've always been the one to care the least. Boyfriends have often accused me of being selfish and heartless.
Although if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve always thought it was just because I have yet to find someone worth caring about.
"I just don't want you to be unhappy," I say quietly. "You deserve the best, and I want you to be with someone that pushes you to go after your dreams, that makes you happy, that lets you be every bit of the confident, beautiful, intelligent woman that you are." I look up to see her eyes have softened. "If Steve is that for you, then I'll shut up. But I'm here if he's not."
She sighs and comes over to sit next to me on the bed. "You don't have to worry about that. Steve is good for me, and I'm happy. I'm just trying to compromise with him so we're both happy."
I nod, sensing that the conversation is over. I won't get any more out of her until she herself realizes that he's not who she thinks he is. Or maybe I'm wrong and they're actually good for each other. Who knows? I'd love to be wrong about this.
In a normal lovey-dovey family, I'd probably give her a big hug, but we're not that. Instead, she punches me in the arm. "Go get your curling iron. I'll grab the tequila and make us some drinks so we can start pregaming."
I grin at the word 'tequila' and bounce off the bed. I practically skip down the hallway to the bathroom.
But I pause when I pass Tristan's room. His door is wide open, and my gaze is drawn to his unmade bed. Suddenly I'm flashing back to the night that I caught him with a girl, when he was sitting half naked at the edge of said bed.
I feel my heart rate pick up. I can't help remembering
his toned chest, or the way he had been gripping the girl's waist. I can't help thinking about what they would've been doing a few minutes later if I hadn't interrupted them.
Then I remember his words to me that night. I promise I can fuck you better than whatever nerds you've slept with before.
I shiver at the memory. I know Tristan's reputation and I know the way my body reacted to him that night—I have no doubt that he could keep that promise.
I clench my legs against the growing ache between them at that thought.
I jump when I hear Hailey pass by me. She pauses at the top of the steps, her hand on the railing, and looks at me with confusion. "All good?"
I mentally shake myself out of my stupor. "Yeah, I—I just thought I left the curling iron in my room for a second."
She frowns. "No, I just saw it in the bathroom."
"Oh. Okay." Hailey starts down the stairs again as I turn toward the bathroom.
I spare one last glance at Tristan's room, banishing all thoughts of sex with him from my brain.
8
Tristan
I'm still breathing heavily as I roll away from Remy. Coach waves me over to do a round with him, and I mentally thank my strength and conditioning coach for driving me through his cardio workouts from hell to ensure my stamina is always next level. Fourteen minutes straight with Remy was no joke.
I had no idea she was so good. Even though I practically live at the gym, somehow our schedules never really align, so we rarely ever train at the same time. It's probably been close to a year since I've done jiu-jitsu with her, and back then she was still a white belt. Clearly, she's made big strides with her skills during that time.
I could feel that she knew what she was doing when we had the play match at the house before Jax left. Not only was she technical, but she actually implemented her techniques with aggression. Most of the time people are one or the other: either technical but too nice, or aggressive with no sense of grace or skill. It's always impressive when an athlete is able to combine both.
Or maybe she just hates you and wants to maim you.
I chuckle at the thought. Remy has always had violent tendencies toward me—ever since we met and started off on the wrong foot. I've always thought her threats were amusing. It also seems she's never been able to master the ability to be in my presence and not threaten some kind of bodily harm.
In all honesty I didn't think she'd have enough energy to actually threaten me. I’m surprised she even stepped on the mat. I always make it a point to put students through the wringer when I teach the cardio bagwork class, and this morning was definitely one of the harder workouts. I had fully expected everyone to be crawling out of the bag room.
But somehow, Remy not only stayed standing when everyone else collapsed around her, but she volunteered for another workout with students that were fresh and energized. That's the kind of fighter spirit that I rarely even see in, well, fighters. I know grown men who fight professionally that half-ass their workouts and talk more on social media than they put in real work. With what she showed today, Remy would put most grown men to shame on the work ethic scale.
I shake my awed thoughts of Remy and try to concentrate on the black belt that's currently working to rip my arm off. Even though I don't have a fight coming up, I still need to put 110% effort into my training in order to stay ready. Not falling into the mythical trap of "off season" is one of the reasons my name is launching through the ranks right now. Hopefully my next matchup is one that, when I win, will finally get me that call from the UFC.
I do a few more rounds before people start to call it quits. I roll until there are no partners left for me, and then I head to the treadmills in the corner to run three miles as fast as I can, burning every last ounce of energy in me. End of workout burnouts are undoubtedly some of the hardest workouts—they’re specifically designed to force you past every mental barrier that screams bloody murder at you to 'stop, please, for the love of God just stop.'
But I don't. I push harder every time my brain says I can't. With every step past where I want to stop, I further condition my mind and body to accept a newly calibrated limit. Humans can go so much further than their brains think they can.
My lungs are on fire and I'm starting to get tunnel vision by the time I reach mile three. I sprint an additional quarter mile for good measure before slowing to a walk, desperately gulping deep breaths of air and trying to slow my heartrate back down.
Other than my legs still trembling from the brutal workout, my body's almost completely recovered by the time my phone rings. Mom lights up on my screen.
With my headphones already in my ears, I swipe the answer button. "Hey, Mom."
"Hi, honey. What are you up to?" she asks cheerfully.
"I just finished my workout. I'm about to head home."
"Oh, perfect. Why don't you come to the house? Your brother just stopped by so I thought it'd be nice if we could have everyone over, even for a little bit. What do you say?"
I wince and rub my temples. Spending time with my brother—and my dad—is not my idea of weekend relaxation.
But underneath everything I'm still a mama's boy at heart, and I can't ever refuse a request from my mother. Especially one to spend time with her.
"Yeah, okay, I'll come," I respond with a sigh. "Let me just shower and then I'll head over. I should be there in about half an hour."
"Great!" she chirps happily. "It makes me so happy when I have both you and your brother here together. He's going to be so excited to see you."
I roll my eyes. I can never tell if she recognizes her own lie, or if she's just oblivious to the tension between my brother and I. Either way, I'm sure my brother doesn’t give two shits about whether or not I come over.
"I'll see you soon, Mom."
"See you soon, honey. Drive safe."
I hang up the phone with a frustrated growl. Spending time with my family, even for only an hour, is not what I had planned for today. It's rare that I don't have private sessions scheduled into the afternoon on Saturdays, so I had been excited to nap and watch some fight footage today. So much for a relaxing Saturday.
I sigh and shut down the treadmill. I grab my gym bag and head toward the showers to clean up.
Thirty minutes later, I'm walking into my parents' house on the outskirts of the city. Everyone is in the formal sitting room, and they all look at me as I enter.
"Tristan, there you are!" my mom calls, clapping her hands together and rushing over to give me a hug. I squeeze her back, a small smile stretching across my face.
That smile quickly falls when I look over her shoulder to see my dad and brother staring at me with matching frowns. They're perched casually on the furniture across from each other, my brother very clearly the spitting image of our father.
"Tristan," my dad nods by way of greeting. My brother merely smirks at me.
"Hi, Dad." I walk over to sit on the other end of the couch from my brother, my mom once again taking up her place next to her husband.
"Scott and I were just talking about you," my dad drawls, staring directly at me. Without even hearing the words, I know what he's going to say. I can tell just by the condescending look in his eyes, the slight curl of disgust in his lip.
I guess we're jumping right into the usual fight, then.
"There's an opening in your brother's company for a financial analyst," he starts. "It's a new job posting, and they're probably looking to hire internally, but Scott can put in a good word for you and get you bumped to the top of the list. If need be, I can call the CEO, as well. He and I went to college together and still connect occasionally."
I exhale an angry breath and awkwardly rub the back of my neck. I know exactly how heated this argument is about to get, but I always think I can keep things calm if I can just answer politely.
"Dad, I'm not looking for a job," I say quietly. "I have a job. Several, actually. And I'm making good money. I probably make as much as Scott does."
My brother laughs from his spot on the couch next to me. He's lounging comfortably like he always does, one ankle resting on his opposite knee and his arms splayed out along the back of the couch. I don't think I've ever seen him tense or uncomfortable. Only obnoxiously arrogant.
I ignore his reaction to the thought that we might make the same amount of money doing such vastly different things—and with very different amounts of hard work.
My dad studies me with his usual frown. I can never decide what answers he's looking for when he glares at me like this. Why I don't want to follow in his footsteps? How I could possibly like fighting? How he failed so miserably with me?
I swallow roughly when I realize it could be any of those.
"When are you going to be done with this karate bullshit?" he finally asks me.
I can't help the wince that flashes across my face every time my father makes the cheap comparison. I never know if he does it intentionally or if he really thinks of me as the fucking Karate Kid.
"Not anytime soon," I say bluntly. I can feel myself nearing the end of my rope a lot sooner today than I usually do.
His lip curls in disgust as he shakes his head and looks away. That look hits me directly in the chest every time I see it—regardless of how many times I've been on the receiving end.
Like clockwork, my mom jumps in to try to ease the tension. She hates when Dad is irritated, and she always takes on the role of peacekeeper. Though I don't know if you can be considered a peacekeeper when you're very clearly supportive of one side and against the other. "Honey, wouldn't you rather have an easy 9-5 job where you're home at a normal time and you don't have to get hurt? You know it kills me when you get injured." She clasps her hands in her lap and looks at me with hopeful eyes.
I wince and lean forward to rub my temples. As much as I would love to have this out via a screaming match, I know that would break my mom's heart. For her, I try to gentle my words again. "Mom, I know you think that's the ideal job, but that kind of life is not for everyone. I would hate sitting on my ass and running numbers all day. It's just not for me. Can't you just accept that I love something you don't understand and support me for it anyway?"
