Conflict (Black Hearts MMA, #2)

by Kylie Hillman

  “Shit.” When Nate moves in to look at my phone, I hold up a finger to stop him and press redial. The call connects on the second ring. “Simone. What’s wrong?”

  “Max is awake, and I have an eight-thirty class this morning. Where are you?” she replies.

  The disapproval that laces her words sets my mum guilt on edge. A lump forms in my throat. A sick whooshing begins in my stomach, nausea taking hold. My nerve endings jangle, swinging in the breeze of my own internal condemnation over my actions last night. The remnants of my pleasurable night evaporate instantaneously. Like a puff of smoke the ache between my legs and the languid aftereffects of my many orgasms disappear with barely a trace.

  “I’m—I’m... fifteen minutes away,” I stammer once I’ve managed to swallow hard enough to find my voice. “I’m sorry for messing with your school.”

  “It’s fine,” she states. I hear Max asking about me in the background and the lump returns. “Just get here soon. I need to be gone in half an hour, at the very latest.”

  I can’t speak so I nod like the mute idiot I am and end the call.

  “All good in the hood?” Nate quips. I can see the unease on his face, I hear it in the higher than necessary pitch of his voice, and I know that he’s feeling the same thing I am.

  Reality crashing down around us.

  While his juvenile turn of phrase is not exactly a sin, I use it to harden my heart anyway. He’s young. I’m a mum. He still calls home a hood. I have a mortgage on my house. It’s the reminder I need. This is purely physical. Feelings aren’t welcome—or even invited—in this scenario.

  Plastering a wide smile on my face, I nod. “Yep. All good. Just need to get home and relieve my sitter.”

  The nervous energy surrounding him increases. He shuffles from foot to foot, scuffing the edges of his boots on the concrete beneath our feet.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon. Hope you get some sleep.”

  Nate turns away from me and heads for his bike. With his shoulders stooped, the usual exuberance I’ve come to expect from him is missing. A conundrum grows within me—part of me wishes I could spend all day with him while the other is rueing my decision to go home with him.

  In the end, I take the path that’s served me best since Jon died.

  I dig inside me and pull free my favourite mask.

  Happy, oblivious Amy.

  “Ride safely,” I call after him. “And don’t get up to anything I wouldn’t. Steve will be pissed if he needs to bail his new manager out.”

  His steps falter for half an instant, then he raises his hand without turning to look at me, and waves.

  I wave back at him until I remember that he can’t see me. My hand returns to my side, feeling extra heavy as it serves as yet another reminder of my ridiculousness, and I climb into my car. The sound of Nate’s motorcycle fills the garage. The revving of the engine sends adrenaline surging through me and I quickly start my car and drive out of the parking garage while he’s still putting on his helmet.

  Racing through gap left by the mesh door as it rises, I accelerate to catch the green light in front of me.

  As luck would have it, I catch it just as it turns amber. Nate stops on the red. I turn left and he puts on his righthand indicator. The irony of the situation I’m in is clear.

  My journey home is taking me in the opposite direction to Nate’s.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Nate

  When Amy turns left at the stop lights and I turn right, I allow the breath I was holding to escape between my teeth. I tried my hardest not to let my frustration at the way she pulled away from me after the phone call with her sitter to get the better of me.

  I think I mostly pulled it off.

  Things got a bit weird and I let my guard slip a bit, but our parting wasn’t completely awkward.

  Playing nonchalant isn’t my forte at the best of times. With Amy it’s even harder. She calls to my obsessive tendencies. Her essence drives a compulsion within me that’s tempered only by the knowledge of how easily I could fuck this up by pushing her too hard.

  She’s a mum. I learned enough from watching my Aunt Mari and Hooligan to know that Amy will be weighing up whether I’m worthy of her kid. That’s a bigger challenge than getting her back into my bed again as soon as I’m able.

  As much as I want her again, already.

  One day at a time is my current mantra—the ode I’m singing to my malfunction-prone brain.

  Today, I already have a plan. I’m gonna try and catch a few Z’s if I can turn my whirlwind of a mind off long enough, hit the gym with Hooligan and Jep, then work out the best way to show Amy that I’m not going to be scared off her having a kid. My best ally in this mission is Steve. He seems to care about her more than a normal boss. He’s my way into Amy’s inner sanctum.

  When the light turns green, I smile. I’m happy in my plan. Twisting the accelerator harder than necessary, I speed off through the early morning traffic in the direction of my home. As I ride, I marvel at the world around me. The reddish-orange glow on the horizon and the residual coolness from the night that still lingers in the air invigorates me. The wind in my face is the slap of reality I need to keep running from the constant stream of thoughts that try to override my game plan. The power of the engine beneath me makes me feel invincible.

  I can feel it, right down deep in my marrow, that I am strong enough to fight off the voices in my head.

  Day four without meds is off to a great start.

  Amy is proving to be the only treatment I need.

  Kicking down my stand, I dismount my Harley and jog inside the house. Jep is awake, kicking back on the couch with a cup of coffee balanced on his knee and the PlayStation controller in his hand.

  “Romeo returns,” he taunts when I stand in front of the TV. Swiping his coffee, I gulp it down in two mouthfuls then replace it on his knee. Jep picks his cup up and tilts it. Shaking his head, he curses me, “Oi, fucker. You better be refilling that.”

  “Nope,” I throw my response over my shoulder as I head to my bedroom. “Romeo doesn’t do domestic duties.”

  When I go to close my bedroom door, I pause then turn to look at him. “Cheers for the new door.”

  Jep puts his coffee cup on the floor next to his feet and tosses the video game controller onto the coffee table. “I’m glad I did. Can’t imagine how loud you and Amy, oh, Amy would’ve been without it.”

  He throws his head back and simulates blowing his load over himself—complete with wanking hand motion and orgasm face—at the same time as he mimics my voice saying Amy’s name over and over.

  I pick up one of my boots and peg it at him. It hits him in the chest, and he catches it before it rolls down his chest to the floor. Laughing his arse off, he throws it back at me. Once I’ve caught it mid-air and he can see that I’m not going to toss it back at him, his expression turns from humour to the closest approximation of seriousness I’ve ever seen him show.

  “So the Asian chick? Thought she was fucking Steve?”

  It takes me a moment to remember the bullshit I fed him at Nitro’s a few nights ago, and when that memory returns to my head, I offer him a half-grin and shrug in response.

  “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  My best friend’s eyes remain clouded with worry. “Just be careful, hey? You’ve been pretty fucking erratic these past few days. Two days ago you were still trying to get into Gabbi’s pants, and you went toe to toe with Hooligan over her... now you’re fucking her friend? Maybe concentrate on getting your meds straight before jumping into anything serious.”

  Annoyance burns a path up my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it remains—acidic and scalding. A reminder of the ultimatum he gave me yesterday before I left for work. Hiding my shaking hands behind my back, I dig my nails into my palms and try to concentrate on the pain instead of my urge to tear his head off.

  “You’re seeing shit where there’s nothing to see,” I scoff. My voice is
slightly higher than it should be, but it gets better the longer I speak. Jep lifts an eyebrow and stares at me hard. With a sick feeling invading my gut because he’s right and Amy would kick my arse to the kerb if she ever found out how close she came to overlapping with Gabbi in my bed—if her friend had been susceptible to my moves—I sling more bullshit his way to get him off the scent. “I’m only interested in a good time with Amy and my meds are fucking fine. I’ve got an appointment on Wednesday. You can come with me if you don’t believe me?”

  As bluffs go, it’s not my finest. I know Jep wouldn’t voluntarily put himself out to go to this fictious appointment with me, but he might just tip off Hooligan who could turn up unannounced.

  My uncle makes it his mission to keep me on an even keel.

  “Nah, man. I’m sure you’ve got it covered,” Jep replies. His face loses most of his skepticism. He stands and points in the direction of the main bathroom. “Gonna have a quick shower then head over to Black Hearts MMA. What time are you due in today?”

  After a quick glance at the clock on my bedroom wall, I reply, “I’m due at midday. Tired as fuck, though, and need some sleep. Might text Hooligan and tell him I’m not feeling well.”

  “Romeo, Romeo, where for art though, Romeo?” Jep mocks me again once he’s vaulted the back of the couch and is safely out of the firing line of my boot. I didn’t pay much attention in High School, but I’m pretty sure he just fucked that line up epically. “Get some sleep, you skinny fucker. You’ll end up all cock and ribs if you keep spending your nights fucking and your days training. I’ll tell Hooligan you’ll be there later—say two?”

  “Sounds good.” I offer him a quick smile and try my hardest to look tired.

  The reality is that I’m too wired to sleep—the tranquility that momentarily overcame me during my ride home has been replaced by a manic need to talk to Steve about Amy before I go to sleep. Jep’s niggly little reminder about my almost mistake with Gabbi has pushed me over the edge. The intense way Amy has consumed my thoughts since I kissed her in her office is like nothing I’ve ever felt in my life.

  It’s for my own sanity that I make questioning Steve a priority.

  “Try not to jerk it too hard in the shower. You don’t moan quite as softly as you think you do. It comes straight through my wall.”

  “Just for you, I’ll pull extra hard,” Jep quips, taking the bait I’ve laid to distract him from questioning me further.

  He closes the bathroom door behind him, and I flip the lock on my bedroom door. I lay down on my bed and hold my pillow over my face. Amy’s scent remains. I drag it in through my nose and hold it in my lungs until they start to burn, and I’m forced to reluctantly let the final trace escape. The water pipes rattle in the wall and Jep goes out of his way to make as much noise as he can. I ignore him and attempt to marshal my thoughts into a cohesive sequence of questions to ask Steve about Amy.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity and a half, my head is straight and Jep leaves. His bike has barely roared off down the road before I’ve locked the house behind me and I’m riding back toward The Fitness Hub.

  The single-minded focus I’ve felt since I beat Steve at our first sparring session remains. Barely. It tries to wander—a couple times I find myself reliving the initial feeling of pressing my cock into Amy late last night only to be brought back to the present when a car horn blares and I discover I’ve wandered over the white line into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, I’m able to wrestle my bike back onto my side of the road and get my head back under control without too much effort.

  Illegally parking on the footpath out the front of The Fitness Hub, I let my helmet drop to the ground and powerwalk through the front doors toward the back of the building where the offices are housed. A few people greet me; however I offer them an incline of my head in acknowledgement and keep walking.

  I am a man on a mission.

  Steve is talking to his daytime assistant when I enter. They both turn to look at me. Their mouths drop open a little and the skin around their eyes tightens.

  Their reaction stops me in my tracks.

  In the reflection of the glass in Steve’s office door, I see that I’m a dishevelled mess. My hair sticks up everywhere and I have my fists clenched at my sides. The unnaturally straight set of my shoulders is intimidating and I’m basically vibrating with excess energy.

  I’ve made a huge error coming here.

  “Is everything all right, Nate?” Steve asks.

  Closing my eyes, I count backward from five in my head and press my fingertips together as I count, one at a time, starting with my thumb against my pointer finger and working back to my pinkie. It’s an old trick, one that my therapist taught me when I was first diagnosed.

  It works. When I reopen my eyes, the hyper focus has dulled enough for me to play off my impulsive visit as something benign.

  “I, um, forgot to find out what my roster is for this week.”

  Steve blinks a few times, then he peers at me for a moment too long. “Same hours as last night. Every week day unless otherwise arranged.”

  The daytime assistant starts fussing about. She’s older than Amy and nowhere near as attractive. She has a Mother Hen feel to her where my girl is more of a Madonna.

  “I can write it down if you’d like?”

  Indecision grips me before she’s finished her sentence. “Um, no that’s... yeah, actually, that would be good.”

  Steve continues to look at me funny while she writes down my schedule. When she hands it to me, she pats the back of my hand. “I’m Jules. It’s so nice to finally put a face to your name.”

  How she knows who I am, I don’t know. And I’m not sticking around long enough to find out.

  The manic energy that powered my ride over here has deserted me. I’m tired as fuck, weak legged and battling the desire not to strangle the next person who speaks to me.

  Muttering something that approximates a friendly response in her general direction, I turn on my heel and sprint through the gym toward the exit.

  “Hey, Nate.” Gabbi says something to the guy she’s spotting on the weights bench, then runs over to me once she’s helped him re-rack the bar on the hooks above his head. “I wanted to say thank you. Will you be at Black—”

  With a flick of my hand, I dismiss her. “I’m busy. Gotta go.”

  Weary legs carry me back to my bike. Some do-gooder has picked up my helmet and sat it on my seat. I jam it back on my head and take off back to my house and ultimately my bed.

  It’s time to get some sleep before I collapse on the spot.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Amy

  I stand at the front door and watch Simone drive off down the street. She was gracious about my lapse in motherly judgement, but I still feel about two inches tall. I messed up last night. I let my enjoyment at spending time with Nate get the better of me and I flaked on what’s really important.

  My son.

  “Mama,” Maxie walks up behind me. “Wanna walk Olaf?”

  For a moment, my heart lightens. Our black puppy, a mix of Dachshund and an annoyingly hairy breed, wriggles in the tight hold of his arms. Yes, I am that mum—the one who allowed her then-two-year-old to name the new puppy and ended up with a dog named after the snowman from Frozen.

  Heading out for a walk in the last thing I feel like doing. I’m tired and muscles I haven’t used in years ache. My chest also hurts, but that’s a pain I’m not willing to examine right now. Regret about Nate tumbles around my skull with thoughts of Jon and rebukes about my failure as a mother joining forces to make my head a mess. Add my confusion to the ache in my heart and I’m one step away from complete meltdown.

  Until I can get my emotions under control, I’m intent on pretending none of my problems exist.

  “Of course,” I agree, chirpier than necessary. The dog startles and Max’s eyes widen. Forcing myself to breathe, I try again in a lower tone. “Let me change my shoes and grab Olaf’s lead, then we�
��ll go.”

  The walk doesn’t take long. The puppy’s little legs could go on and on for most of the day, but Max loses interest quickly. I encourage his change of focus and remind him that it’s a pre-school day. With that firmly in his head, he leads the march back home and runs inside to pick his clothes. I stop to inhale a cup of coffee or two, then trail him to his bedroom ready for the daily negotiations about his outfit and the nonviability of underwear paired with one sock and his superman cape for a busy day at big boy school.

  Surprisingly, after only a quick change of shoes—from his winter gumboots to his runners—he’s ready to go.

  Max fills the drive to school with his chatter. I half-heartedly nod and ooh and aah at the appropriate points in the conversation. After a quick chat with his teacher, I head back to my car and try to muster the energy for grocery shopping before I head back home for a nap. As much as I want to go to sleep now, it makes sense to stock the pantry while I’m already out and about, so I don’t have to get up early to do it before I pick up Max before work.

  Once I’ve grabbed the bare essentials from the supermarket, I allow myself to begin imagining my soft pillow beneath my head. I only have a ten-minute drive ahead of me til it’s sleep time. I’m not even going to bother putting the groceries away, I decide as I pull up at a set of stop lights. A loud motorcycle comes up behind me; the noisy engine interrupting my dreams about my bed.

  I’m the fourth car back from the stop line and I expect the bike to stay in its position behind me until the light turns green. Colour me surprised when the rider revs the engine, then splits the line between the two lanes of cars to push his way to the front.

  As he moves past me, I recognise the matte black paintwork and the leather jacket the rider is wearing.

  It’s Nate.

  When the light turns green, he takes off much too fast, making his back-wheel squeal. The sound of his motorcycle is the only thing I can hear. It pounds around my tired head, punctuating his reckless behaviour with its excessive noise. Switching lanes, I contemplate following him to the next set of lights so I can tell him to slow the hell down.