Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series)

by J. B. Salsbury

  How could he do this? He had sex with me this afternoon, and now he’s with someone else. The little voice inside my head says I saw this coming all along. It shouts that I should’ve known after he didn’t walk me to my door. This is what bad boys do, and to expect anything else is naive. The voice reminds me I can’t get my heart broken. It’s impossible. But damn, why does it feel like it’s breaking now?

  Act like a slut, I’ll treat you like a slut.

  Shut up!

  Best thing you have to offer is what’s between your legs.

  “Stop it,” I say, and grip my ears, praying it’ll help force back his taunts.

  I turn to make my escape, but I’m pushed up against the wall outside Blake’s doorway.

  “What’s going on in your head?” he growls against my neck.

  His huge, sweaty body pressing in close makes me dizzy.

  “Nothing. I get it. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Fuck.” His hands move over my hips and waist to cup my bottom. “Who said I wanted you to leave me alone?”

  My treacherous body responds to his touch, and I lean into his hold. “I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.” I can’t believe he thinks he can grab me like this when he has another woman in his bed. Asshole.

  He pins me with his hips and moves his hands to my face. “You are not dumb or stupid. You hear me?”

  “Blake, you have a girl in your room and you’re out here arguing with me about—”

  Abruptly, he steps away, leaving me swaying on my feet. I’m grateful to have the wall at my back to keep me from falling.

  His eyes form tight slits. “What the fuck did you say?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday.” I point to the open door of his condo. “You have a woman in there.”

  He looks around then aims his daggered glare back at me. “You think I’ve got a chick in my bed?” Propping his hands low on his hips, he drops his head. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  I push off from the wall. “What am I supposed to think, Blake? I show up and you’re…” My arms motion from his fly to his face. “All sweaty and shirtless, looking like warm sex and orgasms.”

  His gaze shoots to mine, this time wide. “Sex and orgasms?”

  I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. “You heard me.”

  His lips twitch and a look simmers in his eyes, so dark and arousing that I have to lean back against the wall. “Come here, Mouse.”

  “Ha. No way.” But hell if my feet aren’t burning to run to him.

  Holding one hand out, he tilts his head with that same look. “Come.”

  Damn him. I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

  “Rebel,” he mumbles, and drops his hand. “You show up at my place looking sexy as hell in your high socks, short ass shorts, and no bra—”

  Shit. I forgot to put on a bra. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “—I’ll come after you, sweetheart. But considering the way you acted after we had sex, I need you to come to me.”

  “How I acted?” I think back to this afternoon. “You’re the one who freaked out, probably nervous your number two would show up and catch me in your bed.”

  “Here you go again.” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath in, and exhales hard. “Every time I start to prove you wrong about me, you defense-up and throw that shit in my face.”

  He’s right. That’s exactly what I do. But why?

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it.” He moves one step toward me. “Something bigger than us fucking happened in my bed this afternoon, Mouse.” He closes in. “Had a few single-serving sex sessions in my life, and those don’t bring you back around. Yet, here you are.”

  Here I am.

  “Why’d you come back?” There’s hopefulness in his voice.

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “Answer the fucking question, Mouse. Why are you here?”

  “I just… wanted to see if you’d watch TV with me.”

  His lips pull into a spectacular smile that makes my heart drop into my stomach. I swallow hard at the gleam in his eye.

  “Good answer.” He erases the space between us. “You win.” His fingers sift through my hair, and he studies my face.

  I lock my hands behind his neck. He leans in to bring his lips to mine, but an unresolved issue turns my face away.

  He groans and drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Fuck, what now?”

  “Why are you half naked and sweaty?”

  He gives me some space but won’t meet my eyes.

  “And why are your jeans unbuttoned?”

  A grimace twists his expression into one of shame.

  He never denied there being a woman in his house with him. Nausea rolls my stomach. “Is there or is there not a woman in your house?”

  Rolling his head back, he gazes at the sky before locking eyes with me. “You don’t understand.”

  My heart races, blood pumping so hard I can hear it in my ears. “Don’t understand? Then explain it, Blake.” I’m yelling and probably getting the attention of his neighbors, but I couldn’t care less. “You make it seem like I’m the one who treated you badly this afternoon, but how long did it take you to fill your bed? An hour? Two?”

  “Mouse—”

  “Don’t.” I turn and head to my car. He doesn’t stop me. Not when I’m past the condo wall, not when I get to the top of the stairs to the parking lot, and not when I’m halfway to my car. My eyes start to burn. What just happened? I thought he wanted me there, but… I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse to let the tears fall.

  Emotional and shaky, I fumble my keys at the Bronco door. They slip from my fingers. “Dammit.” I bend over to pick them up and move to shove the key in the door when two strong arms wrap tight around my waist from behind.

  “Shit!”

  He buries his face in my hair. “Don’t go. Please, sweetheart.” His arms grip tighter, clinging to me as if his life depends on my answer. “I’ll tell you anything. Just please… stay.”

  My heart clenches at the defenseless sound in his voice. I smooth my hand over his forearms, willing him to loosen his hold. “I’ll stay, Blake.”

  “It’s not a girl. I promise. I’d never do that to you. You have to believe me.” His words are rushed. The desperation in his voice makes him sound like a boy rather than the capable fighter, the man, I know him to be.

  “I believe you. Let’s go inside so we can talk.”

  He nods into my hair and releases his hold. Tugging my hand, he leads me back to his place. Once inside, he stops me in the foyer. His eyes dart around the room. Why is he so nervous?

  “Blake, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  “I have to show you something. I’ve never shown anyone and…” He looks over his shoulder and down the hallway.

  I tuck my clammy hands under my arms, adrenaline spiking. What could he possibly be hiding back there? “Does this have anything to do with what you were doing when I got here?”

  “It does. It is. What I was doing when you got here.”

  Something he’s never shared with anyone but me? My mind is my worst enemy as I imagine what he could be hiding.

  “I was born with…” He runs his hand over his cropped hair. “Far back as I can remember.” Again, he looks over his shoulder and back to me.

  As much as I want to reach out and touch him, to let him know I’m here in a physical way, his tense muscles and rigid frame tell me words will have to do. “It’s okay. You can trust me.”

  He studies my face through narrowed eyes for what seems like forever.

  “I’ve shared some really deep stuff about my past with you, Blake. I know what it means to have parts of you that don’t go public. You’re safe with me.”

  He rakes his teeth over his lip a few times before he grabs my hand to lead me down the hall. My stomach jumps when he stops at the closed door across from his bedroom. He maneuvers me so that I’m facing the door, his big body pressed in behind me. I turn my head
and peek up at him. His eyes stay glued straight ahead. Whatever’s in there is important to him. I only hope I can handle it.

  “Open the door,” he says against my ear.

  I nod and grab the door handle with a shaky hand. Steadying my breath, I turn the knob, and push it open. The light’s dim, but it’s bright enough that I can see the room’s contents. His body tenses against my back.

  Holy Mary Mother of God.

  Blake

  Keep breathing, man.

  For the first time since I filled this room, I let someone in. My stomach threatens to heave as I wait for Layla’s reaction. I hold my breath as she takes tentative steps into the room.

  “Oh my gosh, Blake,” she says breathlessly, her gaze swinging around the space.

  The wonder in her voice calms my racing heart. She moves around the room with the grace of an angel, and like the sun shining in a dark space for the first time, her presence chases away the shadows.

  “Can you play all these?”

  “Yeah. Every one.”

  Her mouth forms the word wow. She moves to the piano in the corner. “Even this?”

  I shrug and lean against the doorframe. “Especially that.”

  “Amazing.” Running her hand along the glossy black edge, she moves to the wall of guitars. “And these?”

  My answering nod drops her jaw. “I can play every instrument in this room.”

  She shakes her head in what looks like disbelief, and I take a step into the room. Looking at the drum kit, she studies it for a moment then looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah, I can play those.”

  “Blake, that’s…” Her head pivots as she takes in the room while turning slowly in a circle. “Incredible.” The last word is spoken on a breathy sigh that makes me breathe a little easier.

  I don’t know what I thought would happen. The shame I carry from my past about playing music is illogical. But it’s something that’s never needed to be shared with anyone else. There’s a deep-seated fear that if I let people in, I’d have to give it up again, just like when I was a kid.

  “When? Er… how…” Her words trail off as she absently strums the strings of the Fender Stratocaster hanging on the wall.

  “Started when I was two with my grandmother’s piano. I’d hear a song, climb up on the piano bench and pound it out.” It sounds simple, and it was. “Mom always said my brain worked backwards. I couldn’t take notes and piece them together to make a song. Instead, I’d hear the song as a whole and then break it down.”

  “Why don’t you play in a band? ”

  I move deeper into the room and sit on the couch, the only piece of furniture in here. Elbows on my knees, leaning forward, I summon the strength to tell her everything. Shit, I’ve come this far. I take a deep breath and turn to look at her. Her big, brown eyes search mine with a mixture of what looks like innocent admiration and curiosity. And damn if I wouldn’t tell her anything when she looks at me like that.

  “I played piano until the day my dad had me kidnapped and taken to military school. My mom, she loved that I could play. Called it my gift.” I look at the carpet between my feet, unable to hold her gaze. “My dad forbade it. Called me a pussy and a fag for doing what I loved. He’d get all over my mom for encouraging it. After years of watching him beat her down verbally, I begged her to stop sticking up for me. I was eleven. I tried to stop playing, but fuck.” Nothing calmed me like playing, and the memories of struggling to stay away from the music break to the surface. “I snuck around for a long time, until my mom ratted my ass out.” I shrug. “He shipped me off to a place with no instruments and corporal punishment.”

  She moves to the couch, but doesn’t sit. “What a dick.” Her tiny frame, looking cute as shit in her knee socks and short shorts, leans forward. She throws her hand out, motioning to the room. “He took your mother away from you and sent you to military school because you have a gift?” Her finger points at my face. “You better hope I never meet him, ’cause if I do, I’ll… I’ll…” She makes a fist and punches her palm.

  I can’t keep my hands off her when she’s all flustered, angry, and defending me. I pull her into my lap. “That’s quite a threat, Mouse. I’ll make sure you two never meet in a dark alley.”

  She smacks my chest. “I’m serious, Blake. I will kick his ass.”

  A laugh bursts free from my lips, so powerful and cathartic that releasing it makes me feel lighter. “Nah, that’s not necessary.” My laugh fades to a chuckle. “Military school was good for me. Plenty of combat training. That’s where I learned to fight.”

  Relaxing a bit into my arms, she grunts and crosses her arms over her chest. A few seconds of silence pass as we both look around the room. And fuck, it feels great having her in here.

  “But why hide it? I mean, you’re free from his rules, on your own.”

  “I guess it’s like you said. Old habits die hard. I’ve kept it to myself to, I don’t know, keep it safe?” It sounds stupid, but it’s the best way I can describe it.

  “I get that.” A soft smile tips her lips. “Do you write?”

  “No. Can’t. My head only works one way. Writing would be going the opposite.”

  “Can you play something for me?” The hopeful sound in her voice makes it impossible to say no. But saying yes means I have to play for her. The first person I’ve played for in over fifteen years.

  My heart kicks double time behind my ribs. “Now? Oh, uh…”

  “If you’re not ready or whatever, it’s fine.”

  “No, I mean, you’ve already seen the room. Might as well.” I lift her off my lap and set her on the couch.

  I move to the piano and sit at the keys. My breathing is ragged. Sweat dampens my palms, and I swipe them on my jeans. Fuck, I hope I don’t throw up. “Um…” What in the hell should I play? My eyes meet hers across the room, and there’s nothing but acceptance and support radiating from her chocolate brown stare. Her hands are in her lap, and she sits on the edge of the couch, waiting.

  “Okay, name this tune.” My fingers move along the keys like second nature, and music fills the room. I allow myself a few measures before looking up to see her expression.

  She’s smiling her carefree grin and stomping her feet, laughing. “‘Brown-Eyed Girl’!”

  I stop playing the Van Morrison song and grin. “Yeah.”

  She claps and jumps up from the couch, moving to my side at the piano. I scoot over and pat the piano bench. “Here.”

  “Do another one.” She sits and bounces excitedly.

  “Another one. Hmm.” It’s not that I don’t have a million songs running through my head; it’s picking the right one. For her, in this moment of confessions and soul bearing.

  She gazes at me expectantly, and I marvel at how beautiful she is, with the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, her naturally pink lips, and all that long wavy hair. It’s as if every day I spend with her I discover something new that makes me like her more. That makes me fall harder.

  It’s on that thought, I think of the song.

  Again my fingers move across the keys, this time slower as I put everything I have into this one song. My chest feels like it’s going to explode, and I open my mouth and sing the lyrics. I can’t look at her. I won’t. If I do, I know I’ll screw it up.

  I concentrate, hearing it in my head and mimicking the notes and tempo. Even though I’m not looking at her, I can tell she’s not moving. She’s still and completely focused on me. I close my eyes and allow myself to fall into the song, just like I do when I’m alone. Pouring my soul out in lyrical form. Exhausting myself emotionally while my fingers dance along the keys and my foot works the pedals.

  Butterflies rip through my gut, as the words pour from my lips. The bridge picks up, and I lose myself in the meaning of it all. Opening this part of myself, of my life, and hoping the only girl I’ve ever cared about doesn’t reject me. I’m praying that this isn’t a dream, and when I open my eyes, she’s sitting
at my side.

  And if she’s not?

  My dad’s wrong. I’m not a pussy. I’m a fighter.

  If she walks away now, there’s no battle I wouldn’t wage to get her back.

  Twenty

  Layla

  This song is for me. I’m sure of it.

  Those may be someone else’s lyrics, but belted from Blake’s mouth, they’re his.

  Even seated, my legs feel weak. My chest tightens with the warmth of his words. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful in my life.

  His big hands dance along the keys with a grace that contrasts with his size. His eyes are closed, and I watch unashamed as the words flow from his lips and settle in my heart. And if that isn’t enough, his singing voice is breathtaking. Not angelic and benign, but dark with a hint of rasp that rubs against every nerve in an arousing caress.

  Arched forward, he sways along with the music, as if his body’s one with the piano. My stomach flips, and I swallow hard. He makes the piano’s elegance seem sexy and insanely masculine.

  The song slows to the final few bridges. The final note sounds, and he drops his hands to his lap, allowing the closing note to reverberate off the walls.

  I sit in the silence, mourning the loss.

  Studying his profile, I watch him stare at his lap. His strong square jaw flexes before he takes a deep breath and tilts his face to mine. He shrugs a shoulder and doesn’t look me in the eye.

  My heart cramps. “Blake, that was breathtaking. I mean… wow, you can sing. Like, really sing.”

  His shy smile is something I’ve never seen, and it’s even better than his cocky one. Or at least a strong second. “Yeah, not really.”

  “Yes, absolutely really. I’m… speechless.” I lick my lips, suddenly nervous to ask the question that’s been picking at my brain. “What song was that?”

  “‘Fall for You’ by Secondhand Serenade.” He runs his fingers along the keys. “It’s no ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls.’” An uncomfortable laugh escapes his lips.

  “I like the song you played better.”

  He finally meets my eyes, the smile wiped clean from his face. “You do?”

  “A lot, actually.”