Perfectly Unmatched (A Youngblood Book)

by Reinhardt, Liz

  Cormac tries to study his menu seriously, but the man’s smile is completely contagious. Cormac is smiling at the glossy menu pages, and I’m smiling at him over the top of my menu, and I feel perfectly content in this dark, cozy restaurant with him.

  When the waiter returns, Cormac busts out some truly awful Hungarian and haltingly orders us an appetizer of fritters and a Hungarian schnitzel plate for himself, and I order the vegetable pad thai.

  “You speak Hungarian beautifully. I assume. I mean, it sounds lovely. I have no real clue what you’re saying. Or maybe I do. Did you order ox hearts with lemons?” He opens my straw for me and dunks it in my cup.

  “Thank you. My grandmother lived with us when we were young, and we were only allowed to speak Hungarian at home. It freaked my parents out, because they were positive we’d wind up idiots at English. But it worked out. We’re only half-idiots at both.” I take a long sip of my soda and sigh. “Wine would be so nice right now.”

  “Oh, we can do wine later. I have a plan.” He winks, one green eye scrunched shut and opened again after a few seconds. I feel a weird, warm blush burst up from my chest. “So, your parents are native to Hungary?”

  “Mmmhmm. My father was given a share of his father’s business to take overseas when he was a teenager. He met my mother in Hungary, and they married really young.”

  “Arranged, I presume?” He leans back, and I notice just how wide his shoulders are. I know he was joking about how great his calves are, but those shoulders give me a tickle low down in my throat.

  It takes a minute to clear my head and answer him. “Arranged? No. They definitely did not have an arranged marriage. It’s kind of a funny story, actually. My father was supposed to marry a local man’s daughter, basically because she was the heiress to her dad’s logging business. But a fair came through, and my mother’s family owned the carnival rides, and he met her when she sold him tickets. It was, like, this instant romance.”

  “Really?” He opens his mouth to ask something more, but the fritters arrive, and he thanks the waiter, and prepares a little plate carefully, which he passes to me.

  “Thank you.” I take a bite of the crispy breaded cauliflower and love the tastes in my mouth. Almost as much as I love the quiet, sweet way Cormac takes care of me on this non-date.

  “So, if that had been my parents’ story, I would have been mooning around every fair that came through, gazing into ticket booth windows and hanging around at the Waltzer—”

  “The Waltzer?” I ask, and he pops a crunchy piece of broccoli in his mouth and presses some kind of peanut-based dipping sauce my way. I dip and eat, imaging a fair where couples waltz in slow circles, like in movies based on Jane Austen books.

  “Uh, you know it, the ride with the cars you sit in and the platform comes up and you kinda spin.” He uses his hands and some of the broccoli to illustrate.

  “Oh. You mean The Tilt-A-Whirl.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Did you take all the girls on the, er, Waltzer when the fair came through, Sir Sexy Calves?”

  Cormac chuckles. “If I could have gotten any girl to go anywhere with me when I was a lad, I would probably have fainted from sheer shock and excitement before I got anywhere near a Waltzer. By the way, the American name for it is much sexier. But, that’s usually the case with American names for things.”

  “So, you weren’t a ladies’ man?” I ask, but before he can answer, our plates arrive and the delicious smells make me start to salivate.

  “Did Mr. Average Calves skimp on dinner?” Cormac asks as I heap a huge forkful of delicious pad thai, still steaming, into my mouth.

  His words are perfectly civil, but his tone has the nasty bite of jealousy. Which should make me nervous.

  Instead I’m glad I detect it.

  “The date went a little haywire.” I take another bite and add, “I asked some questions he didn’t like, he got a little pissy, and when I tried to leave, he got a little rough so I had to—”

  “He what?”

  Cormac’s voice is smooth and soft. He’s put his fork down on the table, and there isn’t the remotest trace of a smile anywhere on his face. He’s all pure fury, and I’m so shocked, I can only stutter out my answer.

  “He got upset I guess and—”

  “‘Rough’ is what you said, Benelli. You said, ‘when I tried to leave, he got a little rough.’ Did I mishear you?”

  I swallow hard and my stomach drops a little. Cormac would make the most amazing teacher. He’s got that whole quiet authority thing on lockdown.

  “I did say that.” I rub my arm where Akos grabbed it, and Cormac hones in on my absent-minded gesture.

  “May I see?” His voice is so unlike it usually is, so cold and severe, I don’t really think before I let my hoodie slide slowly off my shoulder and down my arm.

  I follow the line of his sight to the blotchy purplish marks that dot my arm where Akos’s hand ringed it.

  His eyes blaze and he grits his teeth hard. “He did this to you? The construction foreman? The big bad Akos Miklós did this to you on a date?”

  “Cormac, he didn’t mean to. He grabbed me, and I yanked my arm away. That’s all.”

  I’m nervous now and wish I’d just kept my mouth shut. I’ve ruined dinner, and I have a terrible feeling that Cormac might try to confront Akos, which would be a disaster. Akos could crush Cormac in a second if he wanted to and wouldn’t think twice about doing just that.

  “I apologize. I do, truly, but I’ve lost my appetite. Do you mind if we box this?” Cormac asks.

  I do mind.

  I just left the single worst date of my life, and I couldn’t imagine the night improving at all. Then I threw a few rocks at Cormac’s window, and everything changed. I was having an amazing time with him, and I don’t want it to end.

  But I realize his question was just a courtesy, because he’s already got the waiter hurrying over, and he’s attempting to assure the man that there’s nothing wrong, but he’s definitely talking about the weather.

  I’m willing to bet Cormac’s grandmother will not be getting that birthday card.

  He pays for the meal before I can offer to pitch in and walks me home, his steps long and quick, his mood edgy and punctuated by occasional kicks at the cobblestones.

  When we get to my door, he hands me my to-go box and gives me a tight smile, but I put a hand on his wrist before he can leave.

  “I’m really sorry. I was just venting about the night. Akos didn’t really hurt me, and I really, really want you to stay out of it, okay? He’s…he’s a rough guy, and he’s not going to back down if he’s confronted. I promise you, it’s taken care of.”

  “Of course,” he soothes, and I don’t believe his voice for a second, because I can read the rage still jabbing in his eyes. “I would never do anything stupid, Benelli. And please know how much I enjoyed dinner. I really hope to do this again with you. Soon.”

  He swallows so hard, I can see every tendon in his neck stand out, then he takes two solid steps backward, his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

  I inch into the doorway of my aunt’s house when he whirls back.

  “Wait.” He stares down at the ground and breathes deep, his shoulders rising and falling. “In answer to your question from before, no, I was never a ladies’ man. Never. I was a bullied, smart-mouthed runt. I never had the arrogance or cruelty that’s the birthright of guys like Akos Miklós. And I know guys like Akos are appealing to girls, even though I have no clue why.” He holds a hand up when I try to interrupt, tell him he’s wrong, tell him I can’t stand Akos and guys like him, but he shakes his head and I keep my lips buttoned, mostly because I want to know what he’s going to say next.

  “We barely know each other, and we probably only have a few weeks together this summer before you make the single biggest decision of your life. As a friend, I’m begging you, please value yourself in this decision. Please…please choose wisely.”

  He leans forward, so close, our lips could
skim, our breath hitches and mingles in the space between us. I can smell him, books and ferocious man, two smells I never imagined co-mingling, but now realize have combined to create my new favorite smell in the world.

  He puts one hand up, close to my face, his body leaned inches from mine, then whips back, fast, turns on his heel, and walks away.

  A few blocks from my house he turns and gives me half a smile.

  I wish so hard that I could see the other half of that smile back in place, the wish morphs into an ache.

  Cormac 2I’m scared shitless of that bastard Akos Miklós. He’s got a good four inches and eighty pounds of hulking muscle on me. I’m not a fighter. Never have been, never will be. The best I can do if I have a serious opponent to defeat is talk him into the ground.

  But this isn’t some schoolyard showdown. And Akos’s tiny brain probably can’t handle a complex argument, which means that I have to pull back from what I know I can do and hedge my bets on what I can probably maybe do.

  Emphasis on probably.

  Double emphasis on maybe.

  My father was a quiet, stern man, and he let me be who I was without reservations. His father was a sadistic, overbearing drunk who did things like throw me into the lake to ‘teach me’ to swim when I was a toddler. I hold out my hands and look at the scar the exact shape of a half moon on my lower palm. That was another of my grandfather’s little survival-of-the-fittest tests.

  I was two. I reached out to touch the side of a woodstove, so hot it was glowing orange.

  I remember howling with pain. My parents were furious with my grandfather.

  He said, “That’s how they learn in the animal kingdom.”

  My parents avoided him as much as they could, but my father’s sense of filial duty was deep-rooted. When my mother made the mistake of bragging that I took the lead in my posh school’s production of Oliver, Grandpa snuck me to the lot in the back of the woodshed, strapped old boxing gloves on my hands, and proceeded to beat the piss out of me.

  I remember his lined, sweat-soaked face, his green eyes gleaming with a psychopathic delight, spittle collecting at either side of his mouth as he nodded, bobbing and weaving before he delivered the occasional rough punch to the side of my head.

  “That’s a boy! Take it like a man! That’s it. No pantywastes come from my genes.” He threw punches that I ducked and a few that I couldn’t, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  What did the Allies learn from World War II? Never back down when you’re faced with an aggressor.

  Never.

  Grandpa was a bully, but he taught me to use my hands to fight, and, though I’d never dusted his mostly abusive lessons off and given them a go in the real world, now is the time to use my brawn over my brains.

  No matter that my brawn is significantly less spectacular than my brains. I have no choice except to use what will work best in the situation.

  I know, deep in the marrow of who I am, that I have a twisted, shithead pinch of bloodlusting bully that can, hopefully, help me give Akos a lesson he won’t soon forget.

  I just wish my rousing internal battle cry would tame the knocking of my knees.

  Whenever I feel particularly nervous about standing him down, I bring to mind the slow slide of Benelli’s jacket. There was a second where I sucked my breath in as, inch by gorgeous inch, she exposed more of that perfect caramel skin.

  And then there was the ring of bruises made by Akos’s fingers grabbing too violently against her skin.

  I would have stood up for any woman who’d told me she’d been mistreated. Any person, really. I don’t just read about heroes in the pages of books and then cower on the streets of life. I read about them and then get the incredibly stupid idea that I can slide those heroics into modern life and brandish all that bravado in the real world.

  And I’ve done it. Verbally. Many times. But verbally won’t cut it tonight.

  It’s not hard to guess where Akos might be. There’s only one place in town that serves some kind of underground bootleg vodka that’s locally distilled and has a ridiculous proof percentage.

  The bar is already screamingly loud and slightly out of control. There’s an abundance of pushing and yelling disguised as dancing and conversation, all layered over the ear-drum thrashing music. The jostling dance floor is a frenetic anarchy and the bar is a cloying thrust of arms and flirtations. Navigating this bar is like looking into the Strait of Messina and attempting to successfully pass between Scylla and Charybdis.

  As a student of Odysseus, I know the value of running into the six-headed monster and having some chance of defeat rather than being sucked into a whirlpool that spells out certain death. So I head to the bar and order the searing local vodka that will probably melt my stomach lining and down it, then immediately order a second. I grip shotglass number two tight in my hand and watch, waiting.

  Five minutes go by, then ten, then fifteen. Finally Akos stumbles off the dance floor, his arms around two young women, one blonde, one dark-haired, both scantily clad and full of giggles.

  I wonder if the have any idea what a hot-headed, abusive monster they’re clinging to.

  I down the shot and do not whimper, although I’m half sure I’ve lost three-quarters of my esophagus. Despite the loss of pieces of my vital organ, there are positives to chugging such a strong brew. I’m already unsteady on my feet and full of piss and vinegar.

  I stumble the length of the bar and swipe a hand on Akos’s shoulder.

  I wish this could be big and heroic and impressive, but it’s too loud and I’m only slightly drunk enough to go through with this. Once my buzz abates, I’m going to lose some of my backbone.

  I focus on the memory of Benelli, on her skin, purpled with bruises from his hand, and adrenaline whips my backbone into shape.

  “Akos!” I yell above the hubbub of the bar. “I have something to say to you. I think we best take it outside.”

  He looks at me with bleary eyes and snorts. “Say it here, schoolboy.” He pulls the two girls closer, nuzzling one alabaster neck, then another, before he adds, “Tonight wasn’t a great night for me. I’m just trying to unwind.”

  “It didn’t look like it was such a great night for Benelli either, mate. I would think a man would know better how to treat a woman he takes on a date.”

  I know exactly how a gazelle feels when he’s attracted the attention of a hungry tiger. My instinct is to run.

  Run like hell.

  Run like the devil’s chasing me, because that’s practically the case.

  But a man proves his courage by defying even the strongest instincts.

  Even the ones that make his calves twitch.

  Akos’s eyes glow with an evil, furious light, but he takes a few long, angry breaths, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s that’s been hooked one time too many.

  And I fear I’m much more likely to end up gored or trampled than brandishing my sword before the final, dramatic, bull-annihilating estocada.

  “You spoke to Benelli about our date?” he asks, his voice quiet but very clear, even in the raucous bar.

  “No. Yes. She didn’t say your name, but I knew that she had been planning a date with you. And she didn’t say anything about you. I just saw the bruises you left on her.” My rage is making me feel more in-control, and the possibility of stabbing my sword into his heart suddenly feels well within reach.

  “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  Those words could have played out so many ways. He could have been forlorn, dejected at physical harm he caused without meaning to. Or embarrassed at his own lack of control. Or truly repentant for hurting a creature as lovely and refreshing as Benelli Youngblood.

  Instead he seems flippant, defensive, and dismissive, and I don’t much like the tone of his remark.

  “You owe her an apology, and I’d demand one in person, but I don’t want her to have a single thing to do with you.” The space between us accordions, first expanding to inc
lude his whispers to the guy behind him and his winks to the two girls, then contracting until his face is only an inch or two from mine.

  “I won’t apologize for a misunderstanding her stubborn bullshit brought on. Benelli is a big girl. She can handle her own dates. You should back off, Professor, because, trust me, you don’t what to bite off more than you can chew where I’m concerned.”

  It’s like I can watch his muscles bulge and grow, like his veins are peppered with some kind of intensely potent rage-based natural steroid.

  “If you want to talk a big game, that’s fine. But if you think you can stand behind your words, we should take this outside,” I suggest, searching for the lowdown burn of the alcohol in my veins to fortify my bravado.

  One of the girls has her hands intimately spread over his thighs and they’re creeping up every second. Akos curls his lip, clearly reluctant to leave this romantic entanglement, but we’ve attracted the attention of a few other guys in the bar, guys he works with and socializes with on a regular basis. There’s no way he can let them see him get trounced by a scrawny foreign professor.

  He pounds the flat of his hand on the bar and gets a fresh shot, which he tosses back without a hint of a wince, then he booms something in Hungarian about ambulance, professor, and blood.

  There was a good deal more, but, luckily my Hungarian really is atrocious. Or else I’d probably lose my resolve.

  We stumble out of the bar into the warm, peaceful summer night. A ring of interested patrons forms around us, and any of them who are offering vocal support are offering it to the town’s golden son. I am, of course, nothing more than an interfering outsider.

  Part of me wants to make a stirring oration that will let them know I’m not, in fact, just looking to screw things up and herald a riot. But I don’t.

  First of all, I don’t speak enough Hungarian to do more than order a sandwich or ask for directions…directions I wouldn’t even have the capacity to understand once they’d been given.

  Secondly, this is not the time for fighting with my words. It’s the time for fighting with my fists. And feet and knees and forehead and anything else I might scrounge up or find lying around. Expecting a guy like Akos to fight fair is like expecting a cornered snake to coil up calmly.