by T Steele
At first, I had argued with him, but the more he begged and spoke of Nixon being there, the more curious I’d become.
It turned out that Jake and I had economics class together. Naturally, when he’d spotted me, he’d given me a smile that told me he was nothing but trouble and sat beside me.
“Nix is performing tonight,” he’d said.
“He’s a performer?” I’d replied before I could stop myself. God, why was I being so transparent? I needed to play it cooler when it came to Nixon.
A slow smile spread across his face before he’d nodded. “You could say that. . . anyway, I think you should come and watch him.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“Well! To be entertained, of course!” he’d answered ecstatically.
When I had only furrowed my brows, he’d cleared his throat and muttered something about me being a “tough crowd” before continuing. “Didn’t you know him in high school? It might be nice for him to have an old friend there for support.”
That’s where he’d got me because I’d felt guilty since meeting him that I had no idea who Nixon was. His name didn’t ring a bell, and maybe he did need support? He seemed like kind of a loner. And I was trying to put myself out there more now that I was in college.
So, I’d come, dumb as it may be. I’ve shown up with Waverly, my new roommate. She’s just as paranoid as I am, and though we haven’t known each other very long, she insisted on coming with me for safety.
When we arrived, I’d had no idea what to expect based on the industrial-looking building and Jake’s cryptic invitation. As soon as we walk in, I find myself flinching at every loud bang or scream, completely overwhelmed by the scene before me. There must be hundreds of people here. Their voices flood together, some screaming, some laughing or cheering for who they want to win. The bass from the fast beat of the music thumps loudly, making it feel like there’s an actual earthquake.
My eyes find Nixon immediately up in the ring. It’s so surreal, and a little terrifying seeing him like this. I swear, every pound of his fists against flesh echos louder than the other noises blaring in the background. Nixon’s body is a force to be reckoned with. It’s like a hard slab of concrete. Solid and powerful. His movements are fast and precise. It’s like an art he’s mastered perfectly.
“Holy shit,” Waverly says, clearly as bewildered as I am. “Shouldn’t they be wearing, like, safety gear or something?”
“I don’t think these are those kinds of fights. . .” I trail off.
I stare open-mouthed at the two men fighting. That’s when Jake finds us in the crowd, waving and calling out as he jogs over.
“I knew you’d come,” Jake says when he reaches us, and then he eyes Waverly. “You even brought a friend!” he says, looking very proud of himself as he ushers us forward, so we are front row to the ring.
“You said he was an entertainer!” I say, trying to be heard over the music.
“Technically he is.”
“Technically he is.”
Waverly and Jake speak at the same time, and he smiles while she scowls at him.
Suddenly, Nixon’s eyes fly up to mine.
“Uh-oh,” Jake says.
I turn to him with narrowed eyes. “He didn’t know I was coming, did he?”
Jake smiles and cocks his head to the side like a proud father. “You’re so smart, sweetie.”
I furrow my brows, anger barreling through me. This guy has serious issues, but why did I even come? This is my own fault. Deep down, though, I know I just wanted to see Nixon again.
I turn my head back to him. Shock registers on his face and the opponent takes the opportunity to get in a solid hit. I wince, my fingernails digging into my palms nervously. What if he gets hurt? What if he doesn't win?
Rage crosses Nixon’s already hard features. Then, his fists are pummeling into the guy beneath him so fast, that it’s almost hard to keep track of. His opponent’s face splits with oozing blood, and he taps out. Nixon stops immediately, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his ripped muscles.
Jake hops into the ring and grabs hold of his hand, helping him stand then holding it above their heads in triumph. The announcer’s voice booms through the venue, barely audible over the screams and cheering of the spectators. “The Annihilator has won once again!”
He continues speaking, but I can’t hear him over the crowd.
“Are you okay?” Waverly yells in my ear, trying to be heard over the chaos.
Meanwhile, Nixon looks anything but happy even though he just won. He stares at me, eyes boring into mine, and I see the question there: Why did you come?
My cheeks heat and I walk away before I see anymore.
Waverly follows while my mind is screaming at me. You can’t run away from this, it says. He’s seen you. This will make you look stupid.
I cringe. Too late, I think to myself.
I don’t quite know how to feel about what I just saw. I don’t like the environment of this place. It overwhelms me. The noises, lights, smells, and people are all too much. Way, way too much. But I didn’t hate watching Nixon fight. It was sorta mesmerizing. Watching how much power and strength he has is impressive. He knows exactly how to handle that strength, too, if his confidence in the ring was any indication.
I didn’t fear him. . . I actually liked the way his body moved. It was like a dance, a very violent dance, but a dance nonetheless. That thought was odd, though, because how could I not fear him? I feared most men, or at the very least felt uncomfortable around them. With Nixon, there was something else, something more than just his tough exterior and violent hobbies. Just looking at the facts, I should be terrified of him and running in the other direction. But there was something in his eyes that made me feel. . . different. Seen. It felt like with just one stare, he saw all my secrets and deepest desires, and instead of judging or laughing, he understood.
But he’s dangerous. Everything about him. And he clearly didn’t want anything to do with me. He’d shown me that already. He seemed annoyed by me, as if I were a little gnat that wouldn’t fly away.
He literally gave you the shirt off his back the other day, my inner voice speaks up.
True. But why does he seem angry now?
Just then, a bulky, giant of a man steps in front of me. “What’s a little thing like you doin’ at a place like this?” he asks gruffly, staring me up and down appreciatively.
I freeze. My heartbeat speeds up, and sweat forms on my brow.
“And this is why we should never leave our dorms,” Waverly says, rolling her eyes and flipping her brown hair out of her face. “We’re just heading out,” she says to the man, who is now blocking our escape route.
She sidesteps him and I go to follow, but he grabs my arm as I try to pass. I yelp in fear, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.
The man smirks down at me, amused by my reaction.
Then in the blink of an eye, he’s on the ground with Nixon standing over him, muscles flexing and ready to pounce, ready to fight again even though he must be hurting. His steel-blue eyes are narrowed while his jaw works back and forth, hair still damp with sweat. I hadn’t even seen him coming, he must’ve jumped from the ring and ran over here. The sight of him standing over the man who was harassing me gives me an odd sense of safety that I don’t know how to process.
Nixon is glowering down at him, and his anger is thick in the air. Like a living, breathing thing.
His eyes twitch and he clenches his fists at his sides before he stoops down, getting in the guy’s face.
“Don’t ever fucking touch her again.” Nixon’s voice is rough with fury.
I stand there frozen. The man clenches his jaw and stares daggers up at Nixon. He’s clearly in pain from Nixon’s aggressive takedown, but he’s trying hard not to show it.
Then his eyes meet mine. “I didn’t know she was yours,” the man says, voice full of rage but also fear.
Nixon growls. “Well, now you know,
so you better never fucking lay your hands on her ever again.”
Then he grabs my hand and walks toward the exit, practically dragging me behind him.
“You want me to pepper spray him?” Waverly jogs beside me, indicating Nixon.
“No,” I tell her.
“Just say the word,” she says. “I got my taser. I got my pepper spray. I even got a pocket knife in my boot.”
I stare at her wide-eyed, and Nixon starts walking faster, making it harder for Waverly to keep up with her short legs.
He walks me into a dark alley and abruptly stops before swiveling around to face me. His features are etched in fury.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he barks out, and I glare at him, trying not to let it show how intimidated I am.
“Why did you hit that man?” I ask, ignoring his question, my voice about three octaves above its normal volume.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you like him touching you?” he asks darkly.
“No! But that doesn’t mean you had to knock him out!” I say, yanking my hand from his grip, even though him coming in and saving the day had actually made me feel safe. I don’t even know why I’m behaving like this. Am I overreacting? It’s hard to think straight when he’s towering over me furiously. I don’t know why he’s so mad at me in the first place.
Waverly finally catches up to us, her chest heaving. She’s such a good friend that I want to run over and hug her. She hasn’t known me long at all, but she’s dropped everything to come here with me tonight to make sure I’m okay. And now she’s here defending me against Nixon, ready to pepper spray at my command.
“Come on, Ella,” Waverly says. “Let’s go.”
I scowl at Nixon and go to turn away, but he grabs my arm again.
“Stop it!” I snap. “And not that you deserve to know, but Jake invited me to come. I had no idea what it was I was being invited to.”
Then, I stomp off with Waverly, heading to the bus stop. Before exiting the alley, we see Jake standing there with a grimace on his face. “Uh, beautiful night, huh?” he says awkwardly.
“Yeah, we were just out stargazing,” Wavery replies sarcastically, and we pass him. I hear him mutter something to Nixon and then Nixon’s rough reply, but I’m not close enough to make out anything they’re saying. And then we’re getting closer to the bus stop.
We wait for a moment or two before a rough voice comes from nowhere.
Nixon.
“Bus won’t be here for another two hours,” he says, walking closer to us. “And I gotta ask. Why on earth would you listen to Jake when he asked you to come tonight? What if he had led you somewhere dangerous?”
“Hey!” Jake says indignantly.
“I brought a friend and why do you care? I’m leaving,” I say defensively, both of us ignoring Jake, and I’m pissed because he’s right. The thought had crossed my mind that it might not be a great plan to accept an invitation from a complete stranger, but a stupid, tiny little part of my brain had been excited knowing I would see Nixon again. And I did see him, just not in the way I thought.
“No, you’re not,” he growls out.
“Yes, I am,” I say quietly. My heart inside my chest is like a caged bird trying to escape. I don’t know why we’re both so angry. This is all a big misunderstanding. I know this in my mind, but how to tell Nixon this verbally is something I don't have the mental capacity for at the moment.
Waverly and Jake are standing next to us awkwardly. The dim lighting of street lights glows on the street, and there's one black bench at the bus stop. Will we really have to wait another two hours for a bus? I wonder.
“I was going to offer you guys a ride home,” Nixon says quietly. From the tone of his voice, it sounds as though he’s trying his hardest to make his voice soothing instead of the angry bark he was using before.
I take a deep breath. “Thank you,” I say, nodding my head.
“Jake—” Nixon starts.
“We know, dude. We heard the entire conversation,” Jake says, cutting him off. I look to Waverly, who gives a half-smile and a small shrug.
I smile back at her and mouth the words “sorry”. She swipes her hands in the air as if telling me not to worry about it, before her eyes widen and she points to her pocket, then mimics pepper spraying someone. I let out a strangled laugh, but when the guys look at me, I purse my lips to suppress it.
We walk along the sidewalk, Jake and Nixon leading the way to wherever his car is parked.
Nixon walks up to a lifted red truck and opens the door, then turns around to me and holds his hand out. I hesitate before taking it, but I do, and he helps me inside the back seat of the truck. It’s really nice, almost brand new, and I’m curious to know just how much money he’s making from this underground fighting.
Once I get in, Waverly is next, Nixon helping her as well and she awkwardly thanks him. All of a sudden, it’s like he’s transformed into the perfect gentleman.
“Is this the same guy we saw pulverizing that dude in the ring?” Waverly whispers in my ear, picking up on Nix’s transformation too. I shrug, wondering how everything had calmed down so quickly. Once the guys get inside the vehicle, sitting in the front together, Nixon starts the ignition and off we go.
Jake pushes the button that rolls down the window. Once it’s down, he lights up a blunt.
“Was your money transferred?” he asks.
Nixon glances quickly at him before nodding.
“How much you make?” Jake asks.
“One dollar,” Nixon says flatly.
“Damn, you could buy a whole sweet tea from McDonald’s with that.”
“Wow, how lucky am I?” Nixon asks with mock enthusiasm.
If I’m being honest, I am curious to know just how much he makes. Of course, I would never ask, but Waverly obviously didn’t have the same hang-ups because she leans over to me, whispering in my ear. “Should I ask him?”
I let out a quiet snicker.
“And just what are you girls laughing about?” Jake asks, his voice teasing and playful. I realize now he just talks like that, giving the impression that there’s always some sort of joke behind his actions and words.
“We were just wondering how many Jakes’ it would take to change a lightbulb,” I say before I can stop myself, and I see Nixon’s shoulders shake in what I can assume is a small laugh. I feel an odd sense of pride at this—making him laugh. Waverly beside me falls into hysterics while Jake snickers, taking a hit off his blunt.
“Four, to be exact,” he answers.
I grin at him, thankful my joke hadn’t actually hurt his feelings. Not that I thought it would, but when you’re socially awkward and have anxiety, these are things you worry about. I’ll probably remember this conversation ten years from now, cringing and wondering if it actually had hurt his feelings.
We continue to drive and I keep my eyes on the back of Nixon’s head, wondering what he’s thinking. I’m wondering if maybe, just maybe he’s secretly glad that I had shown up tonight.
When we pull up to the dorm, everyone exits from the truck and heads toward the door. Jake and Waverly enter first and hold the door open for us, but then Nixon gently tugs on my arm, pulling me back.
“Give us a minute,” Nixon says quietly.
Jake nods, shutting the door, and I wonder what he must be saying to Waverly to distract her from barging back out here to see what's going on.
Now it’s just the two of us. Alone.
“Why did you come tonight?” he asks. His voice is neutral, and I wonder if he’s angry with me. With only the light of the streetlamp outside our dorm, I can only see one side of his face clearly. The other half is mostly covered in shadows, making it difficult to read his expression.
“Curiosity?” I say, but my voice raises at the end, as if I’m asking a question. It’s not that what I said is a lie. I was curious, but I also wanted to see him and just be around him. It may have been a little bit of guilt as well, though. When Jake and I ta
lked in class, he acted as if Nixon needed the support and had brought up the past.
Which reminds me.
“Did we ever talk in high school?” I ask him. It’s something I’ve wondered about since we met.
“No, I only saw you a few times at football games with the band,” he shrugs. “Maybe once or twice in the hall. What brought that up?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask: Did you know him? My tormentor?
He steps closer to me. “I can see your pulse in your neck, either you’re lying or afraid.” His voice is low and gravelly, and his fingers grip my chin, angling my head back. “Or is it something else?”
“I was never afraid of you,” I say breathlessly.
He lets out a dark chuckle. “If that’s the case, you won’t mind if I kiss you, hmm?” he murmurs, staring at my lips.
My throat goes dry, and I find that it’s hard for me to form words for a response. Nixon leans in closer, his eyes staring into mine, then back to my lips.
“Did you like watching me tonight?” he asks quietly. His hand trails along my jawline down to my collarbone, rubbing soothingly along the pulse point at my throat. He’s easier to see now that he’s all up in my personal space, and with the way he’s staring at me, I feel that it’s almost impossible for me to lie to him.
I swallow thickly. “Yes,” I admit.
He gives me a wolfish grin. “You better say no now, if you don’t want me to taste you.”
Do I want him to kiss me? My eyes dart to his lips, then back to his eyes, which are dark and filled with want. And I know the answer is yes. Yes, I do want him to kiss me. It doesn’t make sense—this connection we have, but it’s there, explosive and out of control. Like gravity pulling me to him, and only him.
My heart pounds thunderously in my chest, and his lips come closer before finally landing on mine. A small noise escapes my throat, and then he’s swiping my bottom lip with his tongue, asking for permission to enter, and I open for him. His tongue is warm and soft as it touches mine, and I feel it all the way to my toes. I smell the sweat that still lingers on his body from his fight, and I find that I like it. He smells rough and manly with the lingering effects of some heady cologne. He tastes delicious and dangerous, like a cup of poison in disguise. Something I drink for the decadent taste but will be punished for later.
