by Mj Fields
I keep my head down. I don’t need to make eye contact with anyone. They might think I want to talk. I don’t want to talk. I want to be left the hell alone. I am not approachable. I am not friendly, kind, or willing to engage in mindless chatter. I need caffeine. I need a jolt... in life and in getting through this morning.
I ask the nerdy kid behind the counter to hit me with the strongest thing in his arsenal, and after the normal jaw drop, slight tremor, and a throat clearing, he forces a smile, to which I then nod and say, “Double it.”
“The lighter the roast, the higher the caffeine count.” His voice trembles, and I sigh. Then he clears his throat. “Longer roasting takes the caffeine out.” His words are now rushed, and I can see his hand tremble.
“I don’t give a damn about the process. I just need something to keep me awake so I can get through my day,” I grumble under my breath, wanting nothing but a cup of something to wake me up.
From behind me, I hear a slight giggle. Then, before I can turn around, I hear a voice say, “Hit the big guy with a double shot of espresso, followed by your strongest iced coffee. Make two of each. I’ll take the same.”
I don’t want to look back, but fuck if I don’t like the sound of her voice. It’s raspy, like the woman either smokes a pack a day or she is having the same kind of morning as me.
When I look back at her, I instantly regret it. She’s tall for a woman—I would guess five-foot-eight—and thin, wearing a black, shapeless dress that would normally not flatter a woman, yet her legs seem endless. She has thick, shoulder-length black hair, brown eyes, and her lips are pink. I like pink lips.
She smirks. Fucking smirks at me, and I can’t help staring at her. Only when she seems to get a tad bit uncomfortable do I look away.
I look at the kid and nod. “Sounds good.”
I hear her let out a breath, but I don’t look back again. I look straight ahead and see her reflection in the mirror. Her head is cocked to the side as she stares at me, seeming to be in deep thought, and her eyes call to me. They are like a wide-open space that a caged man could wander through aimlessly, freely, easily. A man like me craves that.
When the beverages are in front of me, the guy rings me up for everything, and I pay without question and turn toward her.
“Thanks.”
Her eyes aren’t the same as they were in the mirror. She is not carefree. She is no longer an island to wander around on. She looks at me like I could do something for her. There is a hunger there. Not the kind I’m used to. This isn’t about lust; this is raw in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like it, so I quickly walk past her and make my way toward the exit, tossing back the double espresso then shooting the cup in the garbage before walking out the door.
All day, I am jittery. Hell, I even let some of the young punks I train land jabs that they sure as hell shouldn’t be able to. I’m not used to something this strong. Now I can only hope to hell it will wear off soon. Otherwise, I will need another pill tonight, and I don’t have the rations for that.
My routine is much the same as any other night. I close up, head to my apartment, wash off, and pray I can crash.
I lay in bed, and for some reason, sleep is so close, but still a tad out of reach. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the pain my body felt today, and see something unwelcoming.
Her eyes.
Fuck.
Within seconds, I start to think of her pink lips, and my cock starts to thicken. I haven’t been out to get a release in a couple of weeks. Haven’t felt the need. Right now, I feel need.
I reach down, push the sheet aside, and take a firm grip. Keeping my eyes closed, I concentrate on the memory of her eyes and her lips. Fuck, her legs, too. Her long legs that went on for days.
When the pain pools in my balls, I grip harder and stroke faster. With my free hand, I reach for the towel next to the mattress and, within minutes, finish myself off.
The next morning, I sit up, feeling rested for the first time in a long time. It seems that yesterday’s newfound formula for sleep worked. I hold on to the hope it will continue.
I stand up off the mattress and grab my dark gray sweatpants, a t-shirt, and throw them on. Then I head into the bathroom and run my hand through my still damp hair before tying it up in a knot on top of my head. Brushing my teeth, I look at them in the mirror. Fuckers are perfect, compliments of Michigan State. I no longer have a damn cavity in my head, and the two teeth knocked out the night that my entire life changed have been replaced.
When I’m done with my morning routine, I head toward the stairs as I pull on a pair of socks and stuff my feet in my tennis shoes before heading out for my run.
My pace is slow until I get to the river. Then I pick up speed, stopping at The Bean again. Today, I am about fifth in line.
I hold my finger to my wrist and check my pulse as I rest and, out of the corner of my eye, I see Legs sitting in the corner with a journal, writing something. Her hair is all pulled up in a knot, and she’s wearing glasses. She has on a t-shirt that clings to her more than the short, loose-fitting dress did yesterday, and a pair of what looks like army green cargo pants. On her feet are a pair of chucks. No, I’m not up on fashion, but I remember my sister Maria got a pair for Christmas. Same damn color, too. Red.
She looks up, and I quickly look away. For some reason, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I decide it’s better than my cock and go about trying to ignore the fact that I feel the weight of her eyes on me.
When I get up to the counter, the kid seems a little less affected by my presence.
“Same thing as yesterday?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
When he hands me my order, I try to give him cash, but he nods toward the corner and says, “She took care of it.”
“No, I got it.” I know damn well who he’s talking about, but I’m not having a woman pay for my drink.
He looks at me like he wants to say something, but then he snaps his jaw shut and takes my money.
I don’t look at Legs as I walk out the door.
Rejection. She needs to know I’m not a predictable man. I’m not a man to expect. I’m not a man who will allow her to pay for my drink, because I will be damned if I owe a single soul a fucking dime.
The rest of the day is the same as before. I would be lying if I said the night was any different. I come hard and fast to her eyes, her pink lips, and those legs... again.
The next morning, I find myself going to The Bean again.
I shouldn’t.
I told myself I wouldn’t seek her out. This isn’t who I am. Yet, when I walk in, she’s not there.
Confusion fills me in a way I haven’t felt in long time. I know I don’t like the feeling I get in my chest, and I sure as fuck don’t understand it.
Am I pissed? Am I grateful? I decide it doesn’t matter one bit.
I pay for my drink and leave.
A block down the street, my hair once again stands up on the nape of my neck. I look around, trying to figure out what the hell is affecting me, and I see a black hoodie dart into an alley.
Prison.
Years locked away with a routine that was never deviated from, unless there was a shake down, resulting in a lockdown. Not a damn thing changed otherwise. It teaches a man to have eyes in the back of his head.
There isn’t a single person who will have your back in prison. Not a one. If someone does something for you, they are seeking something in return. The moment you owe a debt to anyone, you are their bitch.
I am never a bitch.
I stand there and wait for the person to pop back out. If it’s someone who wants a piece of me, I sure as fuck won’t scurry away like a little bitch.
When no one comes out, I finish off my drink, toss it in the nearby trash, and begin my jog back to Legacy. Maybe I should cut back on the caffeine if this is how I am going to feel.
When I walk in, Jagger and his wife, Tatiana, are sparring. Well, that’s what they ca
ll it. I call it foreplay. It’s the same scene every Wednesday. He peacocks, tapping her on the top of the head and jumping away from her strikes, and she laughs at him. It’s cute.
When her little female self-defense class comes in at ten, they chat as they warm up while Jagger and I watch. Well, he watches her. I watch the women who all have a story as to why they are here; none of which I want to know.
A little after ten, I tape up a young Buck, which isn’t his real name, just like Kid isn’t mine. Sometimes, though, we get stuck with a nickname. And sometimes, like the proverbial shoe, it fits.
I get that feeling again, like someone’s watching me. Fucking coffee is affecting me in some way. I definitely need to cut back on that shit.
The more I keep thinking it, the more determined I am that the java is my issue. After all, no one has a reason to follow a man like me.
With no time to waste, I pay it no mind.
“Ready?” I ask Buck.
He nods, shoving a mouth guard into his mouth. “Always,” he says as he then climbs in.
Once in the cage, I peel off my shirt and stretch a bit as he bounces around in the corner.
Buck is a tough kid. He has little to no restraint and an edge that can be dangerous. He has the potential to go far, yet he is inconsistent. We are working on that.
Before the night I took a man’s life, fighting was nothing I had ever experienced. The minute I stepped into the prison, because of my size, every motherfucker in the joint thought I was someone to knock down to prove they were badass.
They weren’t as bad as they thought, and when word got out that I was a stone-cold killer with a rage burning inside, the little bitches scurried back to their cells and left me the fuck alone... until the next inmate entered the facility. Then I had to prove myself all over again.
Seven fucking years of hell. I have had only a year of freedom, yet I don’t feel the least bit free.
I take a deep breath, stretch my neck, nod to Buck, and then step in. He storms at me, ready to attack.
“Footing.”
He growls and swings, and I easily take his legs out from under him. Then he hops up and swings with a left.
“Right,” I tell him before blocking his strike and tapping him in the face.
He grunts and swings with his right.
“Block,” I tell him as I tap his exposed face again.
“Fuck you!” he screams then lunges at me.
I push him off. “Bags. Now.”
“Fuck that!” he snaps.
“Control,” I tell him as I pull off my gloves.
Buck is pissed, livid, but he needs control just as much as I do. Fucked up thing is, I can control my rage in the cage. Hell, I can help him control his. Outside of the cage, however, there is no way.
I know this about myself.
Chapter Four
Tatum
I watch the man in the cage who looks like a Greek statue... with hair. He’s not a muse, nor a model used as the subject. He is the entire finished statue, one that should sit in the middle of a park, because he’s too big for a museum.
I watch as he toys with the kid, who is not a kid but definitely a younger man, in the ring. His opponent is not small by any stretch of the imagination; he’s over six feet.
The statute is now peeling off his shirt...
For the lust of all things unholy, he’s... glorious.
I shift my eyes away from the ocean of ripples. It makes me feel like the heroine Annie in the book I’m writing. Then I force my eyes back to his face.
His hair is thick and pulled up in a manbun. It’s thick and damp with sweat from his run. His cheekbones and jaw... Hell, his whole face is strong, chiseled, and perfect. His lips are red and swollen like he just spent ten minutes kissing the hell out of someone at a middle school party who chose dare over truth. He smirks at the kid, and I see a dimple underneath the scruff. I feel my breath catch in my chest.
He’s the cliché book boyfriend.
I allow my eyes to cast down his body and am mesmerized by how ridiculously perfect it is. His broad shoulders; his square deltoids; his hard, expansive chest; his—I count one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—eight pack abs. The V of his oblique’s accurately points like an arrow down into the waistband of his sweats. And through the sweats, I can actually see the rippling of his muscular legs.
I allow my mind to memorize every millimeter so I can detail this out later.
I feel my palms begin to sweat, causing the cup of iced coffee to begin to slip in my grasp.
His tattoos... so many of them. All dark, all seem to be a warning to anyone who wants to get too close. The Italian flag around his forearm seems nearly life-sized, wrapped around his arm the way a flag would wrap around a pole in the wind.
I watch his face as he and the other man spar. When the man swings at him, his eyebrow cocks like he’s amused. For some reason, it makes me smile.
When they are done, I realize I have been staring from the doorway. My face flushes, and I look around to see if anyone noticed. Thankfully, it seems that no one has.
When I look back up at him, I see that he sees me. The way he looks at me makes me wonder if he knows I have been watching him.
God, maybe this can really happen. Maybe I can use him as my muse.
As he stalks toward me, I rethink that thought, my sex clenching like it’s thinking the same thing.
I cast my eyes down to see his dick swaying as he walks. My sex and I are both terrified. How the hell would he fit?
When I look back up, he stops two feet in front of me, both eyebrows raised.
“Can I help you?” he practically growls.
He’s annoyed, and it annoys me.
My brain tells my hand to hold out the coffee I brought for him, but instead of stopping in time, it crashes against his abs and spills down his front.
“Damn, oh, damn,” I say as I begin wiping the cold coffee off his heated skin.
He releases a noise, a growl, and then a hiss. It’s a sound so incredibly sexual and animalistic that my universe feels skewed.
I stop moving my hand and look up at him, seeing he now looks pissed, which is scary and sexy at the same time.
Get your shit together, I tell myself.
I force out the words, “It was rude that you didn’t let me pay for your coffee yesterday.”
He doesn’t say anything, not one word. He just stares at my mouth, making me very uncomfortable.
“So, I brought you coffee.”
He tilts his head slightly to the side and looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to piece together.
“I’m not crazy. I’m paying it forward; returning an act of kindness.” I pause when I realize I’m rambling.
“Not necessary.”
“It is,” I counter.
“So, what? Because I declined, you decide to follow me to work and throw some coffee at me?” He reaches down and pushes my hand off his body.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was still...” I stop when I hear a man laugh.
Before I have a chance to see who it is or say anything, he grips my elbow and leads me out the door. Once outside, he releases me.
“You need to walk away and not come back here.”
“Excuse me?” I’m confused, embarrassed, shocked.
“I’m running a business, and I don’t need some woman following me around.”
“I’m a writer,” I say in a rush.
His eyes narrow. “There is no story here.”
“I don’t need a story. I need a muse.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize how much of a loon I sound. “I’m not crazy.”
Damn Melanie and damn the book world that I have to move my talents into unchartered territory. I did the research on romance novels and what the romance reader desires. I can do this. Like writing non-fiction, I can do this.
This man is a work of art. He has molded his body into perfection. How can I make him understand that
I’m not a lunatic? I’m a woman on a mission to get my job done and do it right.
“Is that an affirmation? You keep saying it, but you’re displaying the opposite behavior.”
My head is spinning. I need to rectify this situation.
“I am simply asking for a man like you to share a few nights with me.”
“Look, lady—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not a lady; I’m a writer.” I almost try to explain that I am a woman, too, but I need to shut up before I make things worse.
He looks utterly confused, and I am minutes from dying of embarrassment and a phone call away from changing my name and moving to the other side of the world.
“I write. I don’t speak,” I say, expecting him to understand that, as an author, it is more likely I make sense in text form than verbal communication.
“Do you have someone I can call to come and get you?”
“What!” I yell at him, knowing damn well he thinks I am totally nuts.
“A husband, a mother—”
“You have got to be kidding me,” comes out of my mouth.
“A facility...”
“Screw you! I told you, I’m not crazy.” I poke him in the chest, and he straightens up, looking shocked. “All I want is to write this book that I’m being forced to write—romance. I thought you looked like the perfect muse. All... hot and badass. The type of man who’d like a bang buddy.” I poke him again. “I just wanted to screw you for a month and walk away, but no, you have to... to... to be all angry man or whatever.” I stop, not needing to continue. Then I turn around, throw my hands in the air, and walk away as fast as I can.
I’m crazy. Totally freaking crazy. Why did I ever take on this project? How did I let myself think I could just have casual sex during the time it takes to write this freaking novel with a stranger? What the hell is going on with me?
Lust, fiction overtaking my mind and wishing it to be reality—I don’t know. All I know is that this whole project has tilted my world on its axis, and I simply want it to go back to the way it was before.
