by Nikki Castle
She sighs and meets my gaze with a resigned look on her face. "Six months."
My eyes widen in surprise. "You had a serious relationship in six months?"
"I see through people's bullshit pretty quickly," she mumbles with a shrug. "By the six month mark I already know if I'm going to get bored of them."
I frown when something occurs to me. “What about that pothead you dated a year ago? That seemed like it lasted a while.”
She turns to me with a slight frown, as if surprised that I remember that. I’m a little surprised, too, but I don’t take the question back.
“He… wasn’t really a pothead. He was actually crazy smart. But he had really bad ADHD and needed to tame his own brain with something.” Something flashes through my chest at her positive mention of the guy. I always knew she liked smart guys, so it shouldn’t exactly come as a shock, but for some reason hearing her confirm it makes me annoyed. Especially since I know most people think I’m an idiot.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, she continues her answer with a sigh as she drops her head back against the couch. “It was only six months, but it felt longer because he chased me for a while. In hindsight, it should’ve been a sign that he had to convince me to date him, but at the time, it felt nice to be chased. We ended up being really wrong for each other.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that with anything other than Good, so I just stay silent.
"Okay, last question," she says quietly, raising her eyes to look at me. Actually, it feels like she's looking into me. And when she asks her question, I understand why. "What's your favorite quality of your mom?"
I wince and rub my forehead. Family questions always make me uncomfortable, which is why I freaked out on Remy earlier when she asked me about them. It's no secret that I don't have a great relationship with my parents. Jax is the only one I swallowed my embarrassment for and vented to about my clusterfuck of a family dynamic, and I'm certain he wouldn't have shared it with anyone, even Remy.
Since I'm sure she at least knows the relationship is rocky, I wonder if her question is meant to carefully broach the subject while keeping a light spin on it by asking me to focus on the positives. I study Remy for a moment, debating how much I want to tell her.
"Her kindness," I eventually mutter. "She has the best heart. Even with all the bullshit with my parents—them not accepting my career and putting my shithead brother on a pedestal just for having a respectable job—it’s never come from a place of hate. She's just confused, and a lot worried." I laugh humorlessly. "In her own fucked up way, I think her hating fighting is actually her way of trying to protect me. She's only ever wanted what's best for me—even if she happens to be wrong. Her kindness is so all-consuming that she puts all of our needs in front of any of hers. There isn't a thing in this world that she wouldn't sacrifice if it somehow meant we could be happy."
I fidget with my beer as I avoid Remy's gaze. Even when I told Jax last year, we hadn't exactly sat around and talked about it. He just happened to catch me in a full-blown meltdown after my dad had called to tell me that he had no interest in coming to my upcoming fight. And oh 'when was I going to be done with this karate bullshit.' I still fume when I recall the memory.
"She'll come around," I hear Remy say quietly. I look up at her in surprise—I hadn't expected her to say anything. "I don't know your dad, so I can't speak for how much a douchebag he is or isn't, but if your mom is a good person then she'll figure it out eventually. She loves you. She just needs to see how important fighting is to you."
I feel a comforting warmth seep into my chest. I didn't realize how desperate I had been to hear someone tell me that until just now. I just assumed this is what it would always be like with my parents. But with Remy's words, I feel an ember of hope light inside of me.
Not wanting to ruin her declaration by responding to it, all I manage is a gruff—but appreciative—nod. I finish the rest of my beer as I mull over my final question for Remy.
I decide on a family question of my own. "Were you always close with your sister?"
Remy smiles and rests her cheek on the couch cushions. "Always. Ever since she was a baby and I helped take care of her. There may have been a brief time in my early teens where I preferred my friends over her, but that felt normal. She was always my best friend." She grins cheekily as she straightens up and pulls her feet beneath her. "It helps that my parents raised us well and we both ended up being cool as fuck. Because to this day she's still the best person I know."
I roll my eyes. "Arrogant much?" I ask with an amused drawl.
Her grin widens. "I am about this.”
I can’t help the smile that pulls at the edge of my lips. “She is pretty cool, though,” I admit. “Quiet, but seems like she has a good head on her shoulders.” I grin when a memory surfaces. “I remember her telling off a guy that was hitting on her at one of the fights. She must’ve been, like, 17, but basically told the guy she didn’t have enough time or patience for idiot boys. You almost bit the guy’s head off when he kept pushing.”
Remy practically growls next to me at the mention of it. “Damn right I did,” she mumbles. “Men are idiots.”
When I shake my head with a chuckle, she finishes the rest of her beer and turns to put the empty can on the table next to her. "OK, well my seven questions are up. I guess I'll—"
"What's your biggest struggle in life right now?" I blurt.
Her eyes widen. I mutter a curse, immediately regretting my outburst—not to mention the fact that I just broke several game rules—and begin searching my brain for a way to smooth it over.
But when I look up at her, she's opening and closing her mouth, each time trying to vocalize what I assume will be her answer. I guess she doesn't mind that I broke her rules. Maybe, because I opened up about my family, she feels like she can—or should—open up about this. I puzzle over what her answer might be.
She swallows nervously and tries again. I can barely make out her words, they're spoken so softly.
"I'm trying to decide if I should quit my stable, comfortable, and completely horrible job and pursue the career that I really want," she mutters eventually.
I hesitate—and then decide I've already broken the other rules, why not one more. "What do you want to be doing?"
When she looks up at me there's so much hope, so much vulnerability, that I suck in a sudden breath. I stare at her lips, desperate to hear her words. "I want to write novels," she finally admits.
I pause as I contemplate her answer. "And the self-employed part scares you?" I guess.
She looks back down, shaking her head. "I just don't know if I'm good enough. It seems insane to leave a stable job for something I'm not even sure I can do. But I hate what I do now. It seems like a bizarre alternate reality where I'm in the field I want to be in, only somewhere along the way I got lost and ended up in the worst possible version of the field. The writing I do daily is a mockery of the things I want to write."
She looks at me again, that same hope still shining through—this time mixed with a little bit of awe. "I've never told anyone that," she whispers, amazed.
"You've never told anyone you want to write books?"
She shakes her head, still wide-eyed and awestruck. "Not honestly. Sometimes I'll joke with Hailey that I write for fun here and there, but I've never actually admitted out loud that it's a real dream."
I think about her honest response when I told her about my mom a few minutes ago. I want so badly to appease her the way she did me, but I'm not exactly the motivational type. I'm not sure what to tell her right now.
I settle for the truth. "Well, you'll never know until you try. Would you rather live your life with definite regret that you never went after what you wanted, or would you rather live with some possible disappointment if you try but fail? That's really what it comes down to." I realize something and make a face at Remy. "Either way, your current job sounds like shit and you should probably quit anyway."
&n
bsp; A laugh explodes out of her and I grin, feeling good about my pep talk.
She glances at me in between her fading giggles. "You're right. I've just been too much of a pussy to actually do it." She straightens with a determined look on her face. "Next week, I'm dying my hair blonde and looking for publishers for my book."
I chuckle and give her hair a light tug. "Good girl," I murmur.
Her eyes light with delight before she sighs contentedly and curls into the couch cushions. Her attention lands on the black screen of the TV.
"I forgot we were watching fights when we started all this," she murmurs. She peeks up at me through lowered eyelashes. "Can we start them over?"
Without a word, I turn back to the TV and press play. I settle back into the couch as we slip easily into a comfortable silence.
I'm on the edge of consciousness, about to doze off, when I feel her against me. My eyes snap open and I turn to look at her. She's fallen asleep and without realizing it, is leaning into my body. As her head finds a comfortable spot on my shoulder she sighs contentedly and nuzzles further into my neck. I feel more of her weight settle on me as she falls into a deeper sleep.
I'm too surprised to even move. Tonight showed me what she looks like without furrowed brows and angry frown lines, but even a skeptically happy face is different from this. Now she looks peaceful. And breathtakingly beautiful.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I lift my hand to brush away the hair that's fallen into her face. I linger on her cheek, amazed at how warm she is, and how soft her skin feels. I feel like I'm stealing an intimate moment by looking at her in such a vulnerable state. But I can't help myself—I can't stop looking at her.
She's so different than what I thought she was. Before she moved in, I always thought she was Jax's annoying childhood friend who walked around with a stick up her ass. I always thought she was pretty hot but the bitchy comments and air of pretentiousness always far outweighed that fact. Especially after our first encounter, I never cared to take a closer look.
Now, I'm realizing my character analysis may have been all wrong.
She's not bitchy, she’s just defensive and protective. And she enjoys the banter with me, though she doesn’t want to believe it yet. Even after she admitted tonight that she doesn't hate me anymore, we still kept up the verbal sparring. I'm realizing I actually enjoy the challenge and entertainment of it.
When I remember my conversation with the bride at the bar last weekend—where I found myself wishing she would snap at me a little more—I realize my thought process is entirely accurate. I do enjoy the banter with Remy.
And I can't really fault her for thinking I'm a dumb brute. Everyone thinks that. It's just a casualty of being a professional fighter. That combined with the fact that I'm silent—or rarely talking about anything other than fighting—means I can't exactly hold that assumption against anyone. But once we got talking and Remy realized I don't quite fit that mold, I could actually see the pleasantly surprised admiration light in her eyes. Instead of the shocked disbelief that I usually get.
As I sit there, stroking her cheek and staring at her, I feel ridiculously happy that she instigated tonight. Despite getting initially defensive at the idea of any kind of get-to-know-me game, I'm glad I got to dig into Remy's life a little bit. Even if that meant letting her dig into mine.
But even sharing the bad parts felt completely natural with her. Opening up about my family was never something I even considered with anyone—let alone a female—but for some reason I didn't even hesitate with Remy. I wanted to tell her about my life. I really wanted her to know me as more than just Tristan the Fighter.
The craziest part is I enjoyed the non-sex just as much as the sex. It’s been a very long time since I’ve wanted to talk to a girl after an orgasm high died down, yet tonight I actually found myself looking forward to it. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy her blowjob or the times we had sex. Because in all honesty, I don't even think there's a word for the level of mind-blowing that our sexual chemistry is. I could probably fuck Remy for the rest of my life and never get tired of her little moans, or the way she feels coming on my fingers. I meant it when I told her we weren't going to stop this anytime soon—days later and I still can't stop jerking off to the thought of fucking her.
But once we sat on the couch and started talking, I stopped looking at her lips as something I'd like to see wrapped around my cock, and started looking at them to see what she would tell me about herself.
I can't remember the last time I wanted a girl for conversation instead of just sex.
It's an unsettling thought. For years I've only ever wanted women for the purpose of taking the edge off—I could never find one that I actually cared to listen to. Most women just see me as a hot athlete to fuck, or an up-and-coming fighter to latch onto for social status. No one's ever cared to actually get to know me.
But Remy cared to ask questions. She cared enough to initiate a game, to actually push me to talk about myself. She could've jumped me if she just wanted sex, or she could've walked away if she didn't want anything to do with me. I half expected her to go back upstairs when she saw me down here. But she didn't, and instead we spent hours just hanging out. Hours.
And the craziest part is, I don't know which I want to do more of: fuck her or talk to her.
Her quiet snore snaps me out of my introspective state. I swallow nervously and look around, trying to figure out how I can move her without waking her up. But by now she's so deeply snuggled into my side that she's almost on top of me. And judging by her dead weight I know she's in a deep sleep.
I know I should move her but something inside of me wants to let her sleep—to stay in this moment of peace just a little bit longer. So instead, I settle back into the couch with a sigh. My head drops gently onto hers just before I drift off to sleep.
14
Remy
I wake up with a content smile. I feel warm and tightly cocooned, like I'm wrapped in a cloud with the sun shining down on me. My body feels well-rested, too lazy still to fully wake up. I sit comfortably between the sleep and waking state. The whole sensation is so comfortable that I sigh happily and snuggle further into my cocoon.
The cloud tightens around me.
I frown, the sensation abruptly waking me. Do cocoons move?
I blink my eyes open. I'm still too close to whatever is wrapped around me, so I slowly pull back to analyze the wall in front of me.
My breath catches as I realize I'm staring up at Tristan's face only two inches from mine. He's snoring softly. His expression is so peaceful, so happy, that for a moment, I can't stop staring. It's such a different image from how I usually see him.
His arms tighten around me again and I realize that his body is my warm cocoon. He pulls me closer so all I can do is press my face into his chest. I feel his cheek against my hair.
I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. We must've fallen asleep during the fights last night and ended up tangled together on the couch. I'm shocked to be in this position but I'm even more shocked at how much my body is enjoying the feeling. I realize that the last thing I want to do is get up.
My relationship with Tristan has only ever consisted of arguments, sarcasm, and harsh insults. It feels bizarre to have a moment free of all that. With him unconscious, I'm free to experience him in a way that I've never even imagined. And my mind can't seem to wrap around it.
It suddenly dawns on me that I've been nuzzling into his chest for the past few minutes, entirely too comfortable with the feeling of his arms wrapped around me. I need to get up. I can't be in this position when he wakes up. It would be way too awkward for both of us.
I take a deep breath—ignoring the pang inside of me that hates that I'm about to pull myself away from this moment of perfection—and gently wriggle down and out of his arms. I roll off the couch, landing with a small thud. I jerk my head toward Tristan to see if the sound woke him up, but let out a sigh of relief when I see his eyes are stil
l closed.
I watch, curious, as the expression on his face changes. Where only a moment ago he looked peaceful, now his brow is furrowed, and the corners of his lips have turned down. He looks confused, even angry. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I think about how I hate this change in him, and that I wish he would be happy again.
I realize then that he's probably about to wake up. So, before he can spot me standing there staring at him, I bolt out of the room and head upstairs to get ready for work.
My workday is a clusterfuck of chaos. Between the constant stream of people stopping by my desk with nonsensical questions and my own jumble of distracted thoughts, I feel like I'm actually getting further behind on my work. By the time 5:00 comes around I'm ready to scream my frustration.
Typically, on days where I'm in a bad spot with my to do list at work, I stay as late as I need to in order to get comfortably caught up. But I feel so frustrated with work lately that I've officially reached a strong state of fuck-it.
Ignoring the surprised glances of my coworkers around me, I pack away my laptop and grab my gym bag from beneath my desk.
"Leaving already, Remy?" someone calls from behind me in a teasing tone.
I slow my determined march toward the exit and turn to see who called after me.
I realize from the lazy grin on his face that it was one of the sales guys. He's leaning against the front desk, clearly flirting with the giggling and doe-eyed secretary.
He straightens when he sees me turn around, his smirk still firmly in place. "I'm surprised. Isn't it a little early for you to be leaving?”
I continue to stare at him in sheer amazement at his set of brass balls. Even looking past his particular work habits, 5:00 is the official end of the workday. There's no reason anyone should be teased for leaving on the dot. Not to mention the company is flexible enough that plenty of people often leave at 4:30 or even 4:00—this asshole included.
