Reckless Attraction Vol. 2

by JJ Knight

  I guess I could take a bus.

  I lift the phone to my face and press in my fingerprint to reactivate it. I’ll kill the ride and get a new one. To the beach. To my hotel. It doesn’t matter. It won’t be with Chloe.

  I need to face facts. She’s not interested.

  But to my surprise, her green dot is actually moving toward me. I stop walking and watch the circle slide along the gray lines of the streets. It’s comforting to watch her come nearer. Maybe she doesn’t hate me. She’s not on a date with someone else.

  She’s actually coming.

  Approximately three minutes until arrival.

  I have three minutes to figure out what I will say to her. But what? I’m sorry I’m a fighter? I wish my life was different?

  I don’t like the way we left things. I’m positive that if we can get past this one problem, we could be great together.

  Two minutes until arrival. That’s where the dot seems to slow down as she gets closer. She’s not at a red light. I can see the intersections. She’s just…slowing.

  Is she thinking about what she’s going to say to me, too? Her words from the other night still reverberate in my head. I can’t believe there is nothing we can do to make this work. Books and movies are filled with examples of star-crossed lovers who beat the odds. Romeo and Juliet. Wait. No. That is a terrible example.

  Rose and Jack from Titanic.

  Also bad.

  Hey, Rose and Jack’s names start with the same letters as Romeo and Juliet. Did somebody do that on purpose?

  I’m glad we’re H and C. That would have been way too much coincidence.

  The dot starts blinking rapidly as the little yellow Bug appears up the street. It’s really her.

  I stand on the curb and wait. Probably her phone looks about like mine. The static little dot that is me right in her path, ready for its collision course.

  The car stops right beside me. I wonder if she will lean over and roll down the window like she did that first day we met. But she doesn’t. I hear the transmission shift into park.

  After a few more seconds, I realize she expects me to get in. So I open the door.

  She looks very different from the first night. Her face is fresh and clean, not as made-up and exotic as then. Her long blond hair is piled on her head in a messy topknot.

  Still, it’s her. I feel like we’ve known each other for years and this is how I’m used to seeing her look when we’re relaxing at home. I like it both ways.

  I pack myself into Jonesie’s tiny passenger seat. When the door closes, Chloe puts the car into drive, her foot on the brake.

  “You called for me,” she says.

  “You came.”

  “You been all right?”

  “It’s been a good week,” I say. I don’t know what I can tell her about my week. It’s been filled with exactly the sort of activity she hates. Workouts. Sparring. So I say nothing else.

  She swipes at her phone, which is mounted to the dash. “Your destination doesn’t make a lot of sense,” she says. “What is that address for?”

  “I typed in something random.”

  “So you don’t know where you’re going?” Her face is in shadow. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or amused.

  There are lots of ways I want to answer her. That I would go anywhere with her. I don’t care as long as she is there. That I’m happy to stay right here.

  Instead, I say, “I guess I know about as much about my future as anyone.”

  Her eyes search my face. “You wanted to talk to me then?”

  “I was hoping to.”

  She taps the steering wheel, lost in thought. “There’s a park a few miles up. It’s a pretty chill spot. I doubt anyone will bother us.”

  “That sounds good. Thank you for picking me up after all.”

  She blushes a little at that. I can see it even in the dim light of the car. “I didn’t realize it was you at first,” she says. “I finally looked at the username.”

  Maybe that’s why she didn’t pick up my first request, not because she hated me, or was with some guy.

  This makes me feel a million times better. “Well, thank you.”

  She pulls away from the curb, and we ride along the quiet street.

  “Were you going to walk all the way to your hotel if I didn’t get you?” she asks.

  “It’s not that far. I do more miles than that every day.” As soon as I say it, I want to kick myself. I can’t make any references to my workouts.

  “I bet.”

  She falls silent again. Next to us, closed businesses turn into the open blocks of a park. On the opposite side of the street is a long line of condominiums. To attract residents for their higher rent, they’ve made this side of the park inviting and bright with lots of old-fashioned lamps and benches and a spongy running trail. I’ve run on it many times myself.

  We drive around the corner before we find a parking spot. There’s a fair number of joggers and people with dogs.

  When we’re out of the car, Chloe pockets her keys, and we wander along the trail.

  “It’s pretty,” Chloe says. “I should probably come over here and run occasionally.”

  “Do you like running?”

  “Not in the least,” she says with a laugh. “I’ll take my doughnuts, thank you very much.”

  I’m so relieved to see her laugh. Maybe all is not lost. Some of the tension eases between us.

  We settle into an easy pace, walking side-by-side. I want to take her hand, but it doesn’t feel right yet. It’s as though we had some terrible argument and are having to find a way to forgive each other. Which is weird, because we only met a week ago.

  But that’s part of what draws me to her. This sense that we’ve always known each other.

  “Have you heard from the lawyer?” I ask her.

  “I don’t think I gave him my number or anything,” Chloe says.

  “I think he gets it from the paperwork in the court.”

  “Oh, that makes sense. But no, I haven’t.”

  Another couple about our age jogs toward us, a small white fluffy Pomeranian scampering in between them.

  Something about them makes me wish we could jump ahead to those days. A relationship, an easy Friday night taking a run with our dog.

  But we have a lot to work through before that can happen.

  Like an actual date, maybe.

  “How did things work out with your boss?” I ask.

  “Oh, she came to get me the next day. I had to tell her I was already out.”

  “What did she think about that?”

  “I guess she’s happy she didn’t have to pay for it,” she says.

  “So your job is okay and everything?”

  Her gaze flickers away. I don’t know how to interpret that. Is she worried about losing it if she’s seen with me? Or that she’ll have to bust me again sometime in the future?

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  The path leads us out toward the opposite corner of the park. There’s a row of new businesses there, all still open. An ice cream shop. A small pub. A tiny restaurant that looks to be Italian. There are outdoor tables, set up boardwalk-style for all three of them. The pub patio is surrounded with rails.

  “These places look great,” I say. “Would you like a drink at the pub? Have you had dinner?”

  Chloe looks at the tables. Then she glances down at her sweatpants and T-shirt. “I don’t think I’m dressed for any of those things.”

  “You look perfect,” I say. “But certainly people who’ve been running stop for ice cream all the time in their workout clothes.”

  The world is with me on this, because at that very moment, the door to the ice cream shop opens and out come three girls dressed in pajama bottoms and T-shirts, their hair in sloppy ponytails.

  “See, you’re wearing the official attire of Pandemonium Ice Cream. I’m dying to know your favorite flavor.”

  And to watch her lick it off a cone. But I don’t s
ay that part.

  She looks from the store to me and back to the store again.

  “Wait,” I say. “Are you embarrassed because you’re a vanilla girl in a rocky road world?”

  That gets me a scrunchy face. “I’m not!”

  I lead her to the door. It opens with a jingle.

  “Then prove it.”

  Her face scrunches again, but she steps inside.

  I’ve got her a little longer.

  Life is good.

  Chapter 11: Chloe

  I can’t believe I’m sitting here licking ice cream off a spoon with Hudson. After a lot of debate about the strange flavors created by this trendy but not very practical ice cream shop, we settle on a simple banana split shared between us.

  “I still think we should have gone with the spinach mocha crunch,” Hudson says.

  “No way,” I say. “I keep my desserts free of greens.”

  “I was sort of partial to the quinoa and lemongrass freeze,” he says with a wink.

  God, he is so cute and charming when we talk like this. For the thousandth time in five minutes, I question why we have to be on opposite sides of the mat.

  “Of course you would like that,” I say. “It’s ice cream for health nuts.”

  He laughs. “You did accuse me of having lemongrass for breakfast. I still owe you doughnuts.”

  I swirl my spoon in the melting pool on my side of the dish. That night at the beach feels like ages ago. If only we could go back to that bliss of not knowing.

  Hudson taps my spoon with his. “You got serious all of a sudden.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t return your texts. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “We have a shadow hanging over us.”

  Around us, couples with a lot less baggage laugh and talk. Some of them sit outside the ice cream shop. Others go in and out of the pub next door.

  Across the road, happy people walk and jog along the trail. Maybe they have their problems too. How do you know what’s insurmountable and what can be dealt with?

  It’s interesting to see him dress so differently. Tonight he’s in jeans that fit him perfectly. He tops it with a smooth T-shirt covered by an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt. I can see his pecs through the thin material. I already know about his arms. I can still picture him up in the cage, shirtless and strong.

  I divert my mind away from thoughts of him fighting, using his fists and legs to hurt someone else.

  “So what else do you do?” I ask. “Save kittens from trees? Foster three-legged puppies?”

  This gets me another one of his quirky half-smiles. I could stare all day at the way his eyes crinkle.

  “You might laugh,” he says, “because one of my other occupations is sort of old-fashioned.”

  “Hmmm. Let me guess. Old-fashioned. Do you churn butter?” I ask.

  “No, but that’s a good one.”

  I love hearing the smile in his voice. “Blacksmithing?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you tool leather or blow glass?”

  “You’re giving me some life goals,” he says with a chuckle. “You want to keep guessing?”

  “I could do this all night. Candle making? Maybe you jar up preserves.”

  “My mom does that,” he says. “Back in Honolulu. Some of my favorite foods from Hawaii you can’t get over here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Poi for one. My Tutu, which is what we call my grandmother, makes a sweet poi that is to die for. When my sister first returned home, we gave her some to try, but my aunt gave her regular poi first. She almost spit it out. But she loved the sweet poi.”

  “I’ve never heard of it. What’s it like?”

  “It’s sort of like a thick porridge. Many variations are savory, and straight up purple poi would be very hard to describe. But the sweet poi is my favorite.”

  “I’d love to try it sometime.”

  “It might be hard to find here,” he says. “The ingredients might not be available. Taro isn’t a common plant. I’ve tried tons of restaurants that claim to make it, but they don’t get it close.”

  “So, about these old-fashioned hobbies of yours.”

  “I have five pen pals.”

  “What?”

  “Pen pals. Like with pen and paper. Writing letters.”

  “Doesn’t email make more sense?”

  “Pen pals aren’t so much about what you say. Well, it is about what we say. But it’s also about the aesthetics. The paper. The writing. The stamps. Imagining that this piece of correspondence drove in trucks over strange land, went on a boat, and traveled a great distance to reach you. There’s something beautiful in that.”

  “How did you get started?”

  “I learned to read and write about the same time as my mom turned back up. When we moved to Honolulu, I was in first grade. And at that time, our teacher encouraged us to write little letters to our family members. I don’t think they really thought about what that was like for people who had lost almost everyone.”

  “I can imagine,” I say.

  “I started writing my sister even though we hadn’t found her. I knew she was a lot older than me, so I tried to sound all grown up. I actually amassed quite a few letters at one point.”

  “Did you ever get them to her?”

  “I don’t think they still exist. I’m pretty sure I destroyed them.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say.

  “When I was in third grade, our teacher had our class exchange letters with another class in China,” he says. “When I got that paper addressed to me, that had come from so far away, it was like a revelation. This guy didn’t know I was some poor fatherless kid whose sister went missing. He wasn’t whispering with his friends about what happened to my mother. Writing to someone far away became sort of an escape.”

  “Do you still write that boy?”

  “Sadly, no. A lot of the childhood pen pals, particularly the boys, eventually got to where they quit responding. I do have a girl from sixth grade I still write.”

  “Have you ever met her? Have you looked her up? Is she on Facebook or Snapchat?” I picture some beautiful exotic Chinese girl.

  He shakes his head. “No, we respect the pen and paper. We don’t write each other very often. Maybe once or twice a year. She got married two years ago and works as a teacher. Which might explain why she still believes in pen pals.”

  “Who else do you write?” I ask.

  “There is a guy in Singapore,” he says. “A man and a woman in the military stationed in Afghanistan. Military people also make great pen pals. And I recently started with a girl from Australia.”

  “How do you find pen pals now?”

  “There are websites for it. Whenever I lose a pen pal, I generally go look for another one.”

  “That’s commitment.”

  “So what about you? What are your hobbies and passions?”

  His body, I almost say. “You mean when I’m not changing the world?”

  “I guess there might not be much time after all that.” His grin could melt a girl’s panties off. I feel mine sizzling. I suddenly wonder how this evening will end.

  I can’t see more of him. It’s impossible.

  I have a job. A job to make him miserable.

  “Did you have any hobbies before you got so busy?” He takes a bite of banana from the dish.

  “I dabble in makeup, the kind that takes hours.” I rub my thumb across my eyebrow self consciously. I don’t have so much as lip gloss on at the moment. “I started in high school, and I still do it sometimes.”

  “Really? You look perfectly beautiful without it.”

  “Well, maybe, but it’s a fun pastime. My roommate Zeba loves for me to make her over. There are so many different versions of yourself that you become. Natural. Dramatic. Goth. Retro. I particularly love vintage-style makeup and hair.”

  He points his spoon at me. “I know the perfect place for you to dress up retro,” he says.

&n
bsp; “What’s that?” I ask.

  “It’s part jazz bar, part dance hall, part time machine,” he says. “It’s called Hobo Speakeasy.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” I say.

  “It’s this huge secret. I only know because Parker and Maddie got married there, and I attended an anniversary party they hosted.”

  “Friends of yours?” I ask.

  Hudson would never win a poker game. The way his eyes drop to the ice cream, his spoon still in his hand, tells me that Parker and Maddie are people he knows from his fight world.

  “Parker was originally friends with my sister’s husband,” he says. “Now we all work out together.”

  I thought so.

  Hudson reaches across the table and places his hand on my wrist. “I think it would really be fun to go. Tell me about every outfit you have.”

  Well, that gets me. I immediately launch into a list of the fifties halter dresses, my favorite black and white houndstooth suit from the forties, and the sixties-era polka dot bikini. That’s something for him to think about.

  “You’re a terrible temptress,” he says. His voice has taken on this low, sexy quality. “I’m picturing you in every one of those.”

  I can actually feel his words on my body. Everything wakes up again, just like last Friday night when he kissed me senseless and sent me racing for more.

  But that was before I knew.

  Before the fights.

  His thumb caresses the tender bone in my wrist. “Your face tells me where your thoughts are going,” he says. “I’m not saying we can solve all our problems. But this place is magical. A retro ballroom, dressed in the jazz era, and each other’s company. It would be an escape from everything.”

  “So, will you dress up, too?” I ask. I’m trying to figure out if I can do this. If I should.

  “I have to. Hobo Speakeasy is very particular about keeping the illusion that you’re in the 1920s. You can’t take anything modern in with you or you’re ejected. Not even current money.”

  “That’s wild. So you have an outfit for it?”

  He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it, his eyes meeting mine. “I do.”

  My heart hammers. I think he’s right. There is no reason why we can’t have fun together. We can dress up and forget the present. Nowhere is it written that we have to reconcile our differences in one night.