by Cari Quinn
God, not her too. I’d skipped half my senior year and taken the G.E.D. as well, much to my Aunt Patty’s displeasure. But I’d been having serious issues with fitting in and I hadn’t been able to deal with cliques and all the usual high school BS on top of my PTSD. At least that’s what the school nurse had called it. I called it my general fuckedupness.
“But you told me your grades were okay.” I didn’t want to believe she was following in my footsteps. She had such a bright future ahead of her. Why would she mess it up?
“Those were my last quarter grades. I stayed in class until right before the test.”
“You dropped out?”
“You call it that. I call it getting paroled early.” She expelled a breath. “Look, Aunt Patty already read me the riot act. I didn’t come here to get it again. I want to be with you, Ame. Sisters shouldn’t be so far apart.” Her big blue eyes implored me silently, saying so much more than her lips.
You need me.
We both knew it was true. I was drowning, and she’d been able to see it even from hundreds of miles away. She’d tossed away the rest of her last year in high school to save me.
Tears puddled in my eyes and dropped, one by one, on the table. I couldn’t stop them from coming. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. That’s my job.”
“No, it’s not. You’re my sister, not my mom. And guess what, Sherlock? If it is your job to take care of me, then damn skippy it goes both ways. I love you and we’re a team. Aren’t we?”
The fierceness in her voice only made me sniffle harder.
“Aren’t we?” she repeated.
“Yeah.” I dashed away a tear with my knuckle. “It’s gonna be better, Car. I promise you. I’ll get better.”
“You’re already perfect. I know it. Fox knows it. He told me the other night when you were asleep that—” She shoved a fry in her mouth and started to choke, waving her hands at her throat like she was having a fit.
He’d been there when I was asleep? Which night? She’d said the other night, so she must have meant Friday.
The night of the fight.
My stomach clenched as tight as a fist. Had he stopped by to see if I was okay? Obviously, he hadn’t wanted me to know. Did that mean he…cared about me?
No. He just wanted to ensure he’d be in for a decent match when we squared off. That was all.
As insane as my reasoning was, I couldn’t keep from trying to explain everything away. He’d broken up with me—sort of—so how much could I truly matter to him?
Then I saw the gloves poking out of Carly’s jacket pocket.
Without thinking, I lurched over the table and pried them out, curling my fingers around the supple leather. If I’d been alone, I would have pulled the gloves up to my face and taken a big heady sniff. Not just because I liked the smell of cow hide—which I’d discovered I did—but because another scent would be all over them.
Fox.
He’d become my chemical addiction as much as my physical one. Smelling him affected me in a way that wouldn’t have made sense to me a month ago. Maybe my years spent in a gym had warped my nose to the point that I’d become accustomed to taking the measure of a man by his sweat molecules. Or perhaps I was more beast than human.
“Where did you get these, Carly?” Though I already knew.
A wisp of memory slid through my mind. Being held from behind, warm breath fluttering against my neck. Softly rumbled words that caused me to fall deeper into sleep. And then, when the memory tried to surface, I’d filed it away as a dream. One of the best I’d ever had.
But the truth was weighing down my hand.
My sister’s mouth opened and shut, then she went back to coughing and gesturing to her throat. “Sorry. Can’t…talk.”
“Uh-huh.” I fingered the price tag still tucked discreetly in the mouth of the sheepskin-lined glove. Thick and soft, just the way I liked them. “Next time he tells you to pretend something is yours, remind him to take off the price tag.”
She blinked at me, probably bracing herself for my reaction. Yeah, well, I was bracing myself too.
“Were you going to slide them in my bag and hope I didn’t notice? Or maybe slip them in the pocket of my hoodie and figure I’d be cold enough not to question where they came from?” I tugged at my hood and tried not to resent it because it wasn’t well-worn leather. I’d been tempted to wrap myself in Fox’s warmth, but I’d already grown too dependent on him chasing away the chill. Whether it was his arms or his coat, it didn’t matter.
“No. They’re mine. Give them back.” She yanked the gloves away and started to slip them on her obviously way too small hands.
“If you get cheese on them, he won’t be able to return them.” I grabbed them again. “I don’t appreciate you being his flunky, by the way.”
“I’m no one’s flunky. He’s a nice guy.” She shrugged and snatched a fry dripping with cheese. “You need a nice guy in your life. One who screws you blind then sneaks over and holds you in the night and buys you pretty gloves.” She shrugged again. “So I peeked inside your room. I had to make sure he wasn’t murdering you in your sleep, didn’t I?”
A laugh escaped me, one I quickly smothered with my palm. I couldn’t let this go. I had to summon my inner bad ass before Tray Knox broke me completely.
“No more of this.” I slapped the gloves against my hand, savoring the crack of leather. “He said he didn’t want to see me anymore, and he’s right, we shouldn’t. There’s no reason to. So I’m not accepting his gifts or his late night visits or his—”
“Spooning?” She smirked.
Warmth climbed up my throat. “If he comes over, don’t let him in. I’m serious. He’s the guy I’m going to beat. That’s all.”
“Ame—”
“Don’t ‘Ame’ me. Do you want to have enough money to go to college or not?”
“No.” She averted her gaze. “I really don’t. And I especially don’t if you’re going to blow something that could really be good for you when I’m plenty old enough to make my own choices and pay my own way.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying stop hiding behind me.”
Carly’s eyes were bluer than I’d ever seen them. She so rarely got mad, unlike me. And judging from the tightness of her mouth, she was freaking pissed.
“Who’s hiding?” My voice had gone thin and high.
“You can make all the excuses you want for why you can’t have a real relationship, but I’ll be damned if I’m one of them.” She jerked to her feet and dumped the fries I’d barely touched in the garbage. “Let’s go. I’m sick of the mall.”
Rising stiffly, I grabbed my share of the bags and fought the swell of anger constricting my throat—and the wedgie trying to climb up my butt, thanks to the stupid boy shorts Carly had insisted I wear out of the store with my sexy-for-no-purpose bra.
I trudged beside my sister, ignoring the insistent pain in my foot. Fox was right about my tendency to block kicks with my feet. But that didn’t mean I needed his stupid trainer to set me straight. I’d handle my own training. And everything else too.
“Want fro yo?” I asked Carly as we passed Cool Creations. My sister had never turned down chocolate in her life.
She shook her head and sped up, practically leaving me and my broken foot in the dust.
So much for us having a fun, relaxing day.
I intended to speak to the reason we hadn’t shortly. And by the end of that conversation, he would get the message about staying away from me once and for all.
Chapter Twenty
Tray
What a clusterfuck this day had been.
“Trayherne, I’d be happy to contact my people at Princeton and Berkeley if you’d like to enroll at either university. Surely those would be more suitable choices than whatever place you’re considering.”
“Sports medicine? Why not go pre-med if you’re interested in the medical field? Do you want to be some kind of glorifie
d nurse?”
“Tray, pour your father a drink. He’s been stressed out with work all weekend and you’re not making it easier by arguing with him when he only wants to help.”
And that had all occurred after a full day working at the bar. Waiting on the public sucked. Waiting on the public when they were thirsty was even worse.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I gripped the edge of the glass-topped bar in the living room that I usually used for catch-all storage, like most of the other flat surfaces in my place. When my parents came over, however, I set up the row of decanters that made them believe my idea of tossing back a cold one was sipping twelve-year-old Glenfiddich on the rocks.
Who was I kidding that I’d broken away from the iron rule of my parents? I couldn’t even admit I’d sooner drink motor oil than my father’s prized scotch.
Whenever they came over, I hid every relic of my life as a fighter. Not because I cared that they didn’t approve, but because I didn’t want to hear their usual bitching about why I’d choose to participate in such a barbaric sport. My mother loved to examine my latest injuries and tut-tut under her breath, while my father shook his head and muttered about the cruel vagaries of fate that left him with a son instead of a daughter.
Yeah, well, I wished he’d had a daughter too. I also wished I had some fucking balls when it came to dealing with their crap. As much as I told myself I didn’t want to spend time arguing with them, the truth was, somewhere deep inside, I still longed for their approval.
I’d been longing for a while.
A low rumbling bark and a wet nudge against my calf made me glance down and grin. Veyron sat back on his haunches, tongue lolling out of his mouth. As soon as our eyes met, he launched himself at me, planting his paws on my lower stomach.
“Wanna get up, boy?”
His whine was all the answer I needed. I hauled him up into my arms and groaned under the weight—and from the bony back leg jabbing me in the ribs. German Shepherds were not the kind of dog that should be carried around, but tell that to Vey. As soon as he hit four months old in another couple weeks, he would be floor-bound for good.
In the meantime, he was giving me sloppy doggy kisses and making me laugh. At least until my buzzer rang and I sighed hard enough to ruffle one of his floppy ears. “Now what, Vey?” I juggled my wiggling, oversized parcel and headed to the front door. “Yes?”
“It’s Mia. I’m coming up.”
That husky, irritated voice erased my irritation and fatigue as if it had never existed. Even Vey stopped wriggling and slobbering over my cheek. Instead, he stared at me with wise brown eyes, his thick tail thumping steadily against my thigh.
I released the door. “Come on up.”
She didn’t say “thanks” or “on my way” or any of the other usual pleasantries. Not Mia. She’d be more likely to greet me with a punch than a smile.
What the hell was wrong with me that I found that so hot?
“You gotta get down, boy. I need to clean off the dog spit in case she—” I broke off, afraid to even dream. “Just in case.” I lowered Vey to the floor and he flopped over, paws in the air in total doggy defeat.
“Yeah, me too. Bit of personal advice, though. Cover your sac when this one shows up.”
I took a quick detour into the bathroom and soaped my face, finishing just as a sharp rap sounded at my door. Swiping my towel over my dripping jaw, I strode to answer it, unable to hold back my chuckle as she rapped again. Even her knocks conveyed her impatience.
Vey stood trembling at my side while I pulled open the door. I didn’t move, but Vey sure did. Before I could call him off, he’d launched himself into Mia’s waiting arms and assaulted her with an exceedingly wet French kiss that missed her mouth.
I sincerely hoped.
“This is your dog?”
The derision in her tone peeved me more than the hostile flash of her eyes. Hostility I could handle. Insulting Vey? Oh fuck no.
“Yes, this is Veyron. He usually has more manners, but he senses when he’s in the company of someone who lacks them.”
Much to my surprise, she grinned. Flat-out grinned.
“He’s so cute.” She rubbed her nose against Vey and one or both of them moaned with what sounded like pure delight. “Aren’t you, pretty boy? You don’t need a groomer. Not a beautiful boy like you.”
“Tell me that when I take him out for a walk and he manages to find the only puddle of mud in all of Brooklyn.”
“Pretty boys need to play, don’t they?” After she pressed a kiss to the spot between Vey’s eyes, he rolled over again, paws up, belly quivering.
I understood the feeling regarding Mia under normal circumstances. When she was making kissy-face with my dog? Hold me back.
“Get in here already,” I said gruffly, my knuckles going white where they gripped the door. “You’re letting in the cold air.”
It was a comment straight out of my mother’s mouth, and considering it was an interior hallway, there really wasn’t a ton of cold air to worry about. But I needed to get control of this situation somehow, and if I didn’t do it from the jump, she’d launch her offensive first.
Either we were fighting or fucking. Forget a happy medium. I supposed we could always try having a conversation like semi-reasonable people, but from her steely-eyed expression as she rose, that conversation would not be occurring tonight.
“Come on, boy,” I said to Vey, checking my impatience when he chose to lean against Mia’s leg and stare up at her as if she’d turned into a human-sized Milky-Bone. “Inside.”
Both Mia and the dog ignored me until I pivoted away and stalked into the living room. My destination? The fucking bar, for a much needed fucking drink.
And this time, I went for my father’s choice of alcoholic lubrication. I just needed the burn in my gut. I didn’t care how I got it.
I splashed scotch into a short glass and tossed it back in two swallows, narrowing my eyes on the seascape print on the wall above the mantel. My mother had painted it for a nursery she’d only had for a short time, for my father’s unborn and cherished daughter. When I’d moved here, she’d fobbed it off on me though I’d always been a mountain hiking kind of guy. Beaches were for guys who worked on their tans and ate granola out of plastic baggies. Guys like Slater. Me, I wanted the smell of pine and hard-packed dirt under my feet as I climbed the steepest grades. Sweat burning my eyes, my muscles cramping from use.
Screw coconut oil and a hammock.
And now I was thinking about the Adirondacks and stupid watercolor beach prints rather than acknowledging the soft snick of the door and the stare I could feel radiating through my shoulder blades.
Turning, I gestured with my glass. That I’d given in and drunk my father’s preferred poison only made my smile that much sharper. “Can I offer you a beverage? I have milk, beer, and a pricey selection of spirits. Perhaps you’d prefer a Perrier?” I didn’t have Perrier but I enjoyed her sneer.
“No need. This isn’t a friendly visit.”
“Of course it’s not.” I jerked my arm, and my heavy watch rolled around my wrist. “I get it. You’d rather have my blood. That’s all you want from me, isn’t it?”
A hint of apprehension slid into her gaze. My black mood gloried in it.
“Is this a bad time, Fox?”
“Fucking Fox. That’s not my goddamn name.” I didn’t know why I was so furious. My parents’ visit hadn’t helped, but it was more than that. So much more. As my gaze zeroed in on her, I realized what part of the problem was.
She wasn’t wearing my jacket.
Why did I care? She’d been using it to keep warm, plain and simple. If she wanted to freeze to death in that thin piece of nothing instead, that was her choice. I couldn’t convince her to take care of herself.
“You must be cold.” And then I knew why she was there, with crystal-clear certainty. “This is about the gloves, isn’t it? She told you I bought them for you and then I sneaked in your room and
—” I couldn’t finish. Which made me sound like a creeper and a dick, because there was no damn reason for my voice to be so thick.
When she didn’t reply, I returned to the scotch. Amazingly enough, after it scalded through your throat lining it didn’t taste like warm piss anymore. Three sips in and I didn’t even care about the hangover I’d have during training tomorrow. Fight week meant I’d be ramping it up for the next four days, with Friday off. Woo-frigging-hoo.
Training. That was my life. I was a fighter. An emotionless shell bred to break bones and create wounds. No more, no less.
What had made me think sports medicine would be a good fit for me? I wanted to help people, had always wanted to, but I was no good at it. I hadn’t helped my mother get away from my father’s fists, and I couldn’t even help Mia find a little comfort.
She had one use for me. If I couldn’t hurt her, she wasn’t interested.
I tightened my fist, and the glass I held shattered. Just fucking exploded in my hand.
Blood spurted around the shards digging into my palm, opening up fissures that spider-walked over my skin. Instead of grabbing something to mop up the blood, I clenched my fingers and watched it squeeze out over my knuckles.
Mia’s gasp brought me out of my fog. She hurried forward and yanked down the sleeve of her hoodie, pressing it to my hand with surprising gentleness. I still didn’t open my fist, but just her touch steadied me.
“Open up, Fox,” she said through gritted teeth. “Tray.”
I did as she asked, and the pieces of glass I’d advertently driven farther into my hand fell to the floor. Along with a few more drops of red.
“God, what did you do?” She grabbed the nearest decanter on the bar and doused my hand in scotch before I could protest. Loudly. While sort of howling.
Holy mother of fucking hell, that hurt.
“Jesus, Mia, you ever hear of pouring scotch in the wound?”
Her brief look of horror morphed into a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-lip-twitch. “Thought that was salt?”
“Turns out scotch hurts worse. File that away in your book of torture tricks.”
