Battered Not Broken

by Rose, Ranae

  She’d bet a Saturday night’s prize money purse that he hadn’t had to put any effort into looking perfectly masculine. He wore jeans and a black shirt that buttoned up the front. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. No tattoos there – only hard muscle. He’d foregone a jacket, which allowed her to see the way his shirt clung to his torso, exposing a little notched V of skin at the collar. Funny that the sight of it made her pulse skip even though she saw him shirtless several days a week.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked, his voice a powerful purr that reminded her of his car’s engine.

  “Let me just grab my handbag.” In the excitement of watching him approach the house, she’d forgotten about it. “Here, step inside so you don’t have to stand out in the cold.”

  He accepted her invitation and followed her when she slipped back into the house.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rivera.” His all-male voice resonated throughout the small entry room and kitchen, and he looked larger-than-life standing in front of the doorway.

  It had been a long time since their house had contained such an undeniably masculine presence. So long that a pang of something undeniable but pleasant sliced right through the core of Ally’s being. She couldn’t deny that she liked the sight of him standing there, his broad shoulders and even six-foot height putting the house into perspective. It wasn’t a big place, but it had sometimes seemed too large over the past several years.

  “Good evening – Ryan, right?” Maria was already back at work in the kitchen, but she paused to greet him.

  “That’s right.”

  She beamed, showing a wide smile to Melissa’s rescuer. “I’ve heard all about you from Ally and Melissa.”

  “I hope they’ve been telling you good things,” he said, returning her smile.

  “After what you did for Melissa, there’s nothing they could tell me that would make me think less of you.”

  What would Maria have thought if she’d known what Ryan had first said to Ally – the comment he’d made that first day at the gym? Ally mused privately but didn’t say anything. In exchange for her best friend’s safety, she could forgive him for being a flirt. Especially when that quality had an appeal of its own, though she normally didn’t appreciate that trait in men.

  A few moments later, Ally was following Ryan out the door.

  Up close, the mustang’s various details gleamed, drawing her eye. Like the silver cobra emblem that shone from the side of the car and the way the stark black racing stripes stood out against the car’s vivid blue coat of paint. The word Shelby stood out in raised letters on the hood, just above the grill.

  Ryan opened the car’s passenger-side door and held it for her, every bit the gentleman despite his past suggestive comment.

  Then he slid into his seat and turned the key in the ignition, bringing the car to life with a subdued mechanical roar.

  “I thought we could try out an Italian place I’ve heard of,” he said. “Does that sound good to you?”

  “It sounds great.” It did, but her mind wasn’t on food as he pulled away from the curb and started down the street. Riding away with him wasn’t like leaving on any of the other admittedly few dates she’d been on. Like she’d told him, she didn’t date strangers. Which meant that most of the men she’d felt comfortable enough to date in the past were people she’d known for a while – long-time acquaintances, friends of friends.

  But a consequence of knowing those guys so well had been that she’d felt more friendly toward them than romantically attracted. She’d felt comfortable in their presence, reasonably safe – but there had been no spark of attraction, no unexplainable heat when she’d met their eyes.

  Being around Ryan was a different story altogether. She was ever-aware of how his body was positioned and where his gaze was lingering. And she was a constant mess of flushing cheeks, deviant thoughts and belly-butterflies. She’d tried to ignore the deliciously-exhilarating feelings at first, knowing she’d probably never exchange more than a few words at the gym with him.

  But now… Giving herself permission to indulge in the thrill of being the center of his attention was a pleasure in and of itself.

  They rode to the tune of rock music turned down low enough to allow conversation. She couldn’t make out the lyrics to any of the songs, only the guitar riffs and drum beats that all seemed to pulse in time with her heart.

  “So is it just you and your mother,” he asked, “or do you have other family members living at home too?”

  “Just me and my mother.” She would have asked him a similar question, only she remembered him saying he lived alone.

  “I thought so.”

  She turned to study his face, searching for any clue as to why he’d automatically assumed she lived alone with her mother. It wasn’t like he knew anything about the circumstances that had torn half the Rivera family from the little white house. Unless Melissa had told him…

  No. It was ridiculous to even consider that she’d mention it to him.

  “The house looked too clean to have any male inhabitants.” He flashed her a grin. “Plus, there were only women’s shoes and coats by the door.”

  “Should I take that to mean that your place is a mess?” His car was clean – conspicuously clean. He didn’t seem like someone who’d live in a pig-sty.

  “My place is … Spartan. I don’t have too many belongings, so it doesn’t get very messy.”

  “Seems like a good strategy.”

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a predatory grace that was reminiscent of his skill in the ring. “Works for me.”

  Did he realize he moved like that all the time – like he was constantly primed for putting his gorgeous body to hard use, like combat, or maybe something just as intense but decidedly less violent…

  “This is a beautiful car,” she said, doing her best to crush that train of thought. “Are you sure you build roofs for a living?” His hard body said that he was used to physical labor, both inside and outside the gym. But the vehicle looked and moved like something way out of a manual laborer’s price range. Maybe it was a rude question, but it wasn’t as rude as the thoughts that were plaguing her – thoughts of how it might feel to be sandwiched between his body and one of the leather seats.

  Definitely not the sort of thing she’d ever thought about on a first date before.

  The way he smiled made it seem like he didn’t mind her question. “It’s my one indulgence. I’m glad you like it – you have good taste.”

  He diverted his gaze from the road to her for just a moment, and the gleam visible in his eyes forced her to wonder whether he’d read her mind.

  Ridiculous, but she couldn’t shake the notion that their thoughts were on the same deviant page. Beneath her sweater, her nipples tightened, pricking against the cups of her bra. No one had ever done that to her with just a look before – a fact she was extremely aware of as he guided the car around a turn.

  “I’ve never seen this car around the gym,” she said. Maybe small talk would distract her from the little shivers that kept racing down her spine. “I wasn’t sure who’d arrived when you pulled up in front of the house.”

  “It was in the shop for a week. I walked almost everywhere while it was being repaired. Just got it back.”

  “That’s lucky. Not about your car being damaged – that you were walking. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been there to help Melissa.”

  He nodded, the seductive gleam gone from his eyes. “It was worth all the walking – I hate to think what might’ve happened if no one had been there.” He drove in silence for half a moment, then the gleam returned to his eyes. “Plus, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have agreed to this date if I hadn’t helped your friend.”

  A slight flush of self-consciousness colored her cheeks. It wasn’t like she could deny what he’d said – it was the truth. “I like to know I can trust someone before I go out with them.”

  “You trust m
e?”

  “Enough to go to dinner and a movie with you.”

  “That’s a start.” He pulled the car into a parking lot in front of a red brick building, killing the engine. “Here we are.”

  Bright yellow light spilled out of the restaurant’s wide front windows, making the inside look warm and inviting. It was a relief to see that the place was casual enough for her jeans and sweater, though it was unlikely that anyone would notice her, let alone her clothing, when she was standing beside Ryan.

  She followed him through the door, feeling warm inside his shadow.

  The hostess looked twice at Ryan before seating them. Who wouldn’t?

  When they were settled at their table, Ally propped a menu open on the red and white checkered tablecloth and pretended to study it. “Have you ever been here before?”

  “No,” he said, opening his own menu. “A co-worker of mine told me about this place.”

  She made an honest effort to read the menu’s offerings and dish descriptions, but the words seemed to jumble together, becoming one big Italian blur. When the waitress arrived, she ordered the chicken parmesan out of sheer habit.

  “How about a bottle of wine?” Ryan asked after placing his own order.

  “Okay,” Ally agreed, her mouth watering at the thought of something rich and red sliding over her taste buds and warming her from the inside.

  He ordered a bottle of Chianti Riserva.

  Ally was no wine connoisseur and was a little surprised that he was able to order after a quick glance at the restaurant’s wine menu, but the way the words rolled off his tongue convinced her that his selection would be delicious.

  He handed his menu to the waitress without sparing her a glance. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, his eyes never leaving Ally. “Do you work? Other than competing in Cameron’s events.”

  Ally nodded. “My aunt owns a beauty salon. I’m a nail technician there.” Normally, she glanced at her nails when telling people what she did – a habit borne of guilt. She never manicured her own nails. The hot, sweaty interiors of fighting gloves were too hard on them to justify the time and effort. But she didn’t look down this time – instead, she held Ryan’s gaze.

  “Do you like it?”

  She shrugged. “It pays the bills.” Mostly. What it didn’t pay, she did her best to make up for with fighting prize money. “And it makes it easy for me to spend time with my family. My aunt opened the place before I was born and my mother is a hair stylist there.”

  She’d more or less been ushered into the family salon during her teenage years. One of her older cousins had trained her to do nails. Now, they split shifts so that one of them was always there during working hours.

  “You make it sound like there’s something else you’d rather be doing.”

  She shrugged again. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do if I could choose – if I’d had the chance to go to college, or learn another trade. It was never really an option, you know?” Her late teen years had been a time of turmoil and loss – she couldn’t have stomached the thought of abandoning her mother to attend college, even if they’d somehow been able to afford it. Even now, several years later, her mother needed her. “Is there something you would do if you had a chance – something besides building roofs?”

  He leaned back in his chair, flexing one well-muscled forearm absent-mindedly as he drummed his fingers against the tablecloth. “I don’t know what I’d choose, either. Sometimes I wish I did. The only thing I really seem to enjoy doing is fighting.”

  “You’re in a different league than most of the guys who show up at Cameron’s events. Have you ever thought of trying your hand in some higher-profile circuits?”

  “Thought about it? Yeah. But I don’t think anything like a professional career is in the cards for me.”

  The set of his mouth quelled her natural desire to ask why not. Maybe it was that his normally quick-to-smile lips were turned down slightly at the corners, or maybe it was that she recognized the look in his eyes – one that said he was looking into the past instead of at the far wall he’d shifted his gaze to. Either way, she didn’t press.

  It was a welcome change of pace when the food arrived a moment later.

  The chicken parmesan was good, but not as good as the same dish at Annalisa’s.

  “So you said your aunt opened her salon here before you were born,” Ryan said, a fork gripped in one hand. “Have you always lived in Baltimore?”

  Ally nodded. “My mother was born here too. My father moved here from Mexico when he was a kid. What about you?”

  “New York. Grew up in the city. I’ve moved around some since then and wound up here.”

  “How do you like it here?” She could only imagine how Baltimore compared to New York – she’d never been to the Empire State.

  “I’d rather be here than in New York.”

  That seemed like high praise – New York had everything, didn’t it? “I like it here too. But I’m definitely biased.”

  They talked about the gym and the weekend fights as they ate. When the subject of how Melissa had coached Ally’s kicks came up, he offered to work with her the next time they were at the gym together.

  “I used to have the same problem,” he said.

  “You telegraphing your kicks? That’s hard to imagine.” He moved with a grace that defied the idea of his technique ever having been clumsy.

  His mouth quirked in a half smile that erased the memory of his recent frown. “It was a long time ago.” A hint of the cockiness he’d displayed the first time they’d spoken entered his voice, but now that she’d had a chance to become acquainted with his expressions, it was obvious that he was teasing her.

  “Well if you have any wisdom to impart next time I see you at the gym, feel free to grace me with your expertise.”

  He grinned. “Any time. And even if Melissa really did straighten out your technique, I won’t mind watching you throw a few kicks to verify.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she said, trying for a dry tone but failing. It was easy to remember the way his gaze had felt between her shoulder blades when he’d watched her work with Melissa. At a loss for what else to say, she reached for her wine. She’d already had a few sips and had quickly come to savor the fruity red. Hints of plum teased her taste buds as it slid over her tongue and cooled her throat.

  By the time they finished their meals and left the restaurant, her head was buzzing faintly. The slight intoxication wasn’t something she normally would have allowed herself on a first date, but beside Ryan, she felt safer than she could remember ever feeling in the presence of a boyfriend or date.

  Ryan, on the other hand, had barely touched his wine, presumably because he had to drive. Instead, he’d had the waitress close and wrap what remained in the bottle and was taking it home. Ally hadn’t intended to overindulge, but had sipped from her glass when she’d felt nervous or at a loss for what to say, which had been more often than she cared to admit.

  When he touched the small of her back, butterflies burst into flight in her stomach, fluttering erratically as if they too had been affected by the Chianti Riserva. His touch was light – respectful, even – but powerful nonetheless. Only his fingertips made contact with her jacket, but she could feel the promise of solid muscle and power that they imparted.

  “There should be an action movie starting around the time we arrive,” he said as he opened the passenger-side door for her, “if that’s all right with you.”

  “Sure.” Who cared what movie they saw? The idea of sitting close beside him in the dark for an hour and a half had her nerves buzzing in a way that told her she wouldn’t remember much of the film by the time they left the theater.

  The leather seat was cool against her thighs, sending a slight chill through the denim of her jeans. As Ryan drove, it began to absorb her body heat as the entire car hummed with the purr of the engine. It was a beautiful machine, powerful, smooth and a show-stopping shade of blue, just like
Ryan’s eyes.

  When they reached the theater, he guided her to its doors just as he’d guided her from the restaurant – with his hand just barely touching the small of her back. She was almost sorry when they reached the darkened interior of the building and settled down into two seats.

  Light and shadow danced across the room as previews played out on the screen.

  It was hard to pay attention to the explosions, highly-unlikely fight scenes and flashes of almost-nudity that made up the two-minute teasers for various action films that would be debuting over the next year or so. Ryan’s thigh was just barely touching her knee, and that simple contact trumped the multi-million dollar special effects that kept exploding across the screen.

  The actual movie began with similar content and maintained a steady stream of detonations, broken bones and dramatic shootings throughout. The hero dodged blows and bullets with impossible agility, somehow emerging victorious at the end of the film. Whether it was because his feats had been so fantastic or because of Ryan’s distracting presence, it was difficult to understand how the hero had survived past the second scene, let alone until the conclusion of the story.

  But it didn’t matter. What really mattered was that Ryan’s fingertips brushed her shoulder as she rose from her seat, then slid down the length of her arm, settling on her elbow. He maintained contact, guiding her from the darkened theater as credits scrolled across the screen.

  In the main lobby, the lights were surprisingly bright after an hour and a half of darkness. She missed the deep shadows that had hidden the constant blush that burnt in her cheeks. Could everyone see it now?

  Or what about the way her nipples had stiffened when he’d touched her, becoming hard pebbles beneath several layers of clothing? It was ridiculous to think that anyone else could possibly see – her jacket alone was thick enough to hide the tingling buds – but she was so incredibly aware that she feared her body would somehow betray her by cluing Ryan in on her excitement.

  He had to have at least a vague idea of the response his touch incited, didn’t he? She’d watched him gauge and predict his opponents’ actions and reactions in the ring, timing his own movements around his judgments and building an entire strategy based off of his instant observations. Someone who could do that so flawlessly had to know what his hands were capable of in all situations, not just a fight.