by T Steele
His rough hands come up to cup my jaw as he presses harder against my lips, then they tangle in my hair, pulling slightly, making me crane my head back a bit more for better access. Then his hands are traveling down to my hips where he gives a firm squeeze and as if on instinct, I arch into him, bringing our bodies flush against each other. Heat curls low in my belly and I respond to every little thing he’s giving me, and I’m so surprised that I don’t want him to stop. No one’s ever elicited feelings like this in me, and I feel touch-starved and hungry. Hungry for him and the way he’s making me feel. And then suddenly, he’s pulling away, our bodies still against each other.
“Do you still want to run away?” he whispers, lips a hair's breadth away from mine.
Embarrassment courses through me, swift and hot.
“Is that the only reason you did that?” I whisper back, not able to keep the hurt from my tone. Was he trying to prove some kind of point?
He doesn’t respond, only steps away from me, putting distance between us. His jaw works back and forth furiously, but his eyes travel down my body. I cross my arms, suddenly so insecure and tired. Just completely exhausted.
Finally, I scoff and walk into the building, passing Jake on my way. I try to smile at him, and it probably comes out as a grimace, but I don’t stop, just storm upstairs to my dorm.
Chapter 6
Nixon
The next day while I’m on my way to my mom’s house, all I can think about is the kiss I shared with Ella. After Jake had gotten back into the car, shaking his head at me, we’d driven to his dorm in silence. Once I’d dropped him off and gotten back home to my apartment, I’d barely slept the entire night.
I’m kicking my own ass.
For some reason, last night I wanted to pretend like I was the hero trying to save the fairytale princess by getting her home safely. I feel like a jackass for practically manhandling her on the way out of the warehouse.
And then I fucking kissed her. I kissed her perfect, plump lips causing me to feel all kinds of sexual frustration. But the worst thing was the expression on her face after I’d done it. The hurt and rejection in her wide blue eyes only served to prove the fact that I was a worthless piece of shit. She’s already been hurt too many times, and I'm not good enough for her. Nothing but a fucking dumb ass.
She’s off-limits. Especially to someone like me, and I need to remember that.
Ella has power over me. Power I can’t afford to let anyone have. Somehow, I still feel like I owe her for that day in the lunch line, but haven't I paid the price for that?
I basically went to prison for her, and although she doesn’t know that, I do, and I’ll never fucking forget it. But I also don’t know how to get her out of my system. I’d like to think that I could just fuck her and be done with her. As if her perfect body could cure my ails, but that’s not it. There’s something that’s pulling me to her. Demanding that I protect her at all costs. Demanding I fucking take her and mark her as mine, then kill anyone who thinks differently. But with her, it’s not that simple. Her eyes hold so much inside them. They’re soul-baring. And it’s a sucker punch to the gut because I should hate her, but I simply fucking can’t.
***
When I pull into the driveway at my mom's cozy little condo, I sigh in relief. It’s always a good feeling when I arrive at her house with the money that I know is going to get her by for a while. After my fights, the money is directly transferred into my bank account. Thank God for modern person to person banking apps, because they make all the money much harder to trace as it changes hands. So, I only have to go to the ATM and get cash out for her.
Mom’s condo is a nice place in Portland, only about 20 minutes from my apartment in Eugene. It was important to me when she bought it that she lived in a safe neighborhood. Even though my fucking sperm donor is dead, I still fear for my mom’s safety every day, something I’ll likely never get over.
The condo consists of three stories. Brick covers the bottom section, with white stucco on the top half. Each home has its own private balcony, and you can see a snow-capped Mount Hood in the distance. My mom is on the third floor. She claims she feels freer up there, and that she likes the view. “Looks like heaven,” she always says.
I open the door and walk straight to the elevator, punching in the number three. I stare at myself in the elevator mirror, but then I look away scowling. The older I get, the more I look like my father. The only thing that separates me from appearing like his twin is all my tats, which is one of the main reasons I have them. It’s something I’m not too proud to admit. But it’s turned into therapy now—taking an undesirable canvas and transforming it into something I can face daily in the mirror. Ink therapy is definitely a thing I’ve become addicted to.
The doors open and I walk out and stride up to the door with the number twenty on it. I have my hand raised to knock, but then the door swings open, and my tiny little mom squeezes me to her instantly.
“You don’t visit me enough,” she complains, already starting with the mom-guilt before I’m even in the door.
“Nice to see you too, Mom.”
“It damn well better be nice to see me.” She lets me go and ushers me in and leads me to the breakfast nook, the dining area separated from the kitchen by a bar-top counter. Her place is decorated nicely and it’s always sparkling clean, like she’s taking care of every item as if it’s a precious jewel. And I guess to her, they are, because she’s never had anything nice like this. It makes me furious whenever I think of the way things used to be or how hard we fought—literally—to get here, but I take a calming breath and smile at my mom.
She smiles back and kisses my forehead like I’m seven.
“You’re working too hard, honey. You look worn out,” my mom says, eyeing me critically.
“I’m fine, mom,” I say, waving her off. Then, I pull out my wallet from my pocket and open it, handing her $5,000.
Her brow furrows and I see the all too familiar shame entering her eyes, it’s the same shame I feel. We go through this every time.
“Are you sure I can have all this?” she asks softly. “You don’t need to save any?”
“No, Mom. You know I’m doing fine.” I smile at her. “It’s okay.”
“Thanks, baby,” my mom says, hugging me once more. “You’re too good to me.”
“Nah, you deserve it, Mom.”
She shakes her head sadly. “You gotta start being easier on yourself.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She lightly swats at my arm. “You’re not him, Nix, and you never will be,” she says, and I avert my eyes. The only place I can be slightly vulnerable is with my mom. The him she’s referring to is obviously my father, a subject we rarely speak of.
“How do you know?” I ask quietly. “How do you know I’m not going to make the same mistakes?”
“Because I know, Nixon. Because you wake up every day and make the conscious choice that you’re going to be good. That you’re going to do better with what you were dealt. I’m so proud of you, baby. You’ve worked so hard and have turned your life around. You’re a good man, and I can’t wait to see you do great things.”
Her words are like a sucker punch to the gut, yet comforting all at the same time. A part of me thinks: “Well, she’s my mom, so she has to say that.” But the other part, the rational part, knows my mom wouldn’t sugarcoat anything for me, especially not after all we’ve been through together.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say gruffly, clearing my throat.
“Of course, baby. Now let me get you some food. Guess what I made?”
***
Two days have passed since my fight. My knuckles are still a bit sore, but I revel in the pain. It makes me feel proud and accomplished. I’ve never found a problem I couldn’t solve with my fists, and what do you know, in a way, my fists have solved a lot of my problems. It’s an outlet for me, an appropriate place to dump my rage so that I’m not going around beating the shit out of everyone.
A win-win for everyone, really. Plus, it gives me a goal, drive, something that I need while also giving me money to provide for myself.
I turn the knob of the stereo up as I drive, and the heat from the leather steering wheel seeping into my skin is a comfort. I drive a lot to all of my odd jobs, and I find that it’s one of the only things that help me relax. Other than beating the shit out of people and fucking.
Everyone has their vices.
I’m on my way to the campus library, because that’s where they want me today. I work as an alternate for the University, and that means I work where I’m needed, doing odd jobs as part of my community service. Basically, if they need a janitor—I’m their guy. If they need someone to clean up after football games, they call me, and so on and so forth.
And I don’t get paid for it.
My part-time night shift job at a warehouse allows me to afford my small apartment. The loans for college will come after I graduate, but that’s where my fight money will come in if I play my cards right. Right now I still need to be careful about how much money I spend, so I don’t draw attention. But hopefully, once I’m out of college and my community service is over, I won’t have the microscope of the State of Oregon on me anymore.
Sneaking around fucking sucks, but when you’re used to it as much as I am, you don’t bat an eye. It’s second nature now.
I pull up to the University library and put my car in park. Pulling the handle, I open the door, then slam it shut.
I pass a few college students on my way to the doors of the library. It’s dark out, and most of the people I pass won’t look me in the eye, and I’m reminded that I’ll always have a bad reputation everywhere I go. That I’ll always look like the villain instead of the knight or the prince. The women walking alone, though, I can’t say I blame them. They’re smart to be wary of me.
I walk inside and it’s mostly empty, just like it always is this time of day, right before closing time.
Then, I stop dead in my tracks. Ella sits at the front desk behind a computer. Does she work here now? I wonder.
Her red waves are extra messy today, giving the appearance of lava gliding down a volcano. She wears a baggy yellow crop top, but it doesn’t hide her curves, and I curse inwardly for noticing.
As if she feels my stare, her light eyes pop up to mine and hold. Then they widen before she looks away and busies her hands.
I want to walk over to her and crowd her space. I make her nervous, and I’m glad that I do. The sick fuck in me revels in the fact that I intimidate her. But then the protective side of my nature rears its head, and another thought hits me. What’s she doing here by herself this late at night?
I stomp over to her desk and her shoulders tense before she looks up.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“You shouldn’t be here by yourself at night,” I say.
She scowls at me. “I can do whatever I want.”
I clench my jaw, turning and walking away before I say something stupid. Maybe it’s because I know what happened to her back then, but I can’t help but feel insanely protective of her. It has me wondering what she’s doing all day, if she’s safe, and that angers me. I can’t be worrying about her because if I do, it’ll consume me.
I’ve already been burned by her once in the past, but I’ve managed to piece my life back together and I’m finally on the right track. I don’t want to be an asshole toward her, but I have to fight this feeling, this attraction, whatever it is we have for each other.
I pretend to ignore her and walk over to a desk to pick up some books. On the weekends, I help closing up the library, usually with janitorial work.
I put the books back on the shelf forcefully, agitated at myself. At her. At the whole situation. Then I feel her presence behind me. When I turn around she’s studiously trying to ignore me. I see her holding two books, and I glance at them. Forcing Fate by Payton Black and Beautiful Legend by Waverly Alexander.
I smirk at her, “Catching up on the latest erotic novels, hmm?”
Right on cue, a blush forms at her neck and travels up her face, and I want to know what it looks like against her breasts.
“So what if I like reading these types of novels?” Her voice comes out high, but I realize her voice must be another thing I’m attracted to, because I want to make her keep speaking.
She lifts her chin a bit, though I can still see her body is tense with nerves. A part of me feels guilty messing with her so much, but the other part, the fucked up part, feels excitement and wants to rile her up. Ella is shy and quiet, but I want her to be loud. I want to see that part of her that I know she keeps buried deep inside.
“Are those books making up for something that’s lacking in your life? Is the little fox looking for passion?” I ask, once again trying to rile her when I should be running the other fucking way.
“N-no!” she sputters.
Satisfaction fills me with the fact that I got exactly what I wanted.
When I only smile, she continues, “I’ll have you know I have plenty of hot sex. All the time. As much as I want. Plenty of men are lined up at my door.” She puts her hands on her hips, and I finally turn my body to face her fully, towering over her.
I smirk down at her, knowing damn well she’s lying. “So if I were to fuck you right now, there’d be no barrier? I could just slam into you as hard as I want because you’re already used to it. Is that right?”
Her mouth hangs open, and I see her throat bob. I smile once more and pat her on the head as I pass, making my way to clean up another section of the library. “That’s what I thought.”
That should keep her away from me, and if it doesn’t, I’m screwed. Literally. Because when I’m around Ella Black, all I can do is think with my cock, and it’s demanding only one thing: that I claim her as mine.
But then she speaks up, surprising me. “Why did you tell that guy at the fight the other night that I was yours?”
Her voice is low and clipped, but I can hear the embarrassment in her tone, and I clench my fists.
“If people think that they won’t fuck with you.”
“Why would you care if people ‘fucked’ with me or not?” Her cheeks redden, and I imagine she doesn’t say fuck a lot. I want to laugh, but I feel my anger mounting.
“You know, you could just say ‘thank you’ for saving you from that asshat,” I grit out.
“Wow, thank you so much,” she says sarcastically, but she looks defeated and sad and once again, guilt gnaws at my stomach.
But then she continues speaking and my guilt instantly vanishes. “I just don't think you should be saying ‘I’m yours’. That will start rumors.”
“Why? Don’t want people to think goody two shoes, little Miss Prim and Proper Ella should be seen with someone like me?”
The thought burns through me, angering me even more. Of course, she would feel that way. We’re from completely different worlds. It might as well be different planets. She’s not like my regular fuck buddies—not that she was a fuck buddy at all, but she doesn’t want a walk on the wild side just to see how quickly I can make her cum. And fuck if that thought doesn’t have me wondering what she would like in the bedroom. What would her face look like on the verge of orgasm? What would she do if I buried my face between her legs?
I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood.
“It’s just not true, is all. And you don’t even like me anyway,” she says, and her voice is flat now. Like she’s pushing all her emotions down.
I bark out a deep chuckle. She doesn’t have a clue, but I’m glad that pushing her away is working, at least on her end. I need to keep this up and hope like hell it works because I can’t afford to let Ella Black take up any more space in my brain.
Chapter 7
Ella
Two weeks have passed since the night at the underground fighting ring. My bus is pulling up to the Ranger Station at Willamette Park, and I’m so nervous to see Nixon.
Again.
Now that I’ve taken a job at the library, working every other weekend for extra cash, I’ve seen him literally every day. He’s everywhere. I go to the Willamette to work, he’s there. I go to the library to work, he’s there. Even after the football game Saturday I saw him watching me. I couldn’t help the small slither of satisfaction that I felt when I realized his eyes had been glued to me while I was on the field in my band uniform playing the flute. He hadn’t even glanced at the cheerleaders.
We’d only had a few short conversations since he’d said those crude words to me in the library. The words I couldn’t get out of my head. The words that made me want to do filthy things with him.
We did most of our talking when we were working at the park. I had to drive the Gator, he had to give directions.
He had stared at me intently, though, when he thought I couldn’t see him. I don’t know if he thinks he’s being sneaky, or if he wants me to know, but I always feel when his eyes are on me. My body is hyper-aware of his, and it seems there's nothing I can do about it.
I’ve mostly hid and watched him. I’ve watched the way his muscles flexed even when he was moving slowly and meticulously, as if he was conscious of his every move. Like he was used to being destructive, always messing things up, and now was being extra careful not to repeat the same mistake.
I still don't know how I don’t remember him from high school.
I know that he had been a senior when I was only a freshman, but still. I just feel like I wouldn’t forget a man like him. . . But then again, I blocked out a lot of high school, and maybe that’s why I don’t remember.
And I’m flabbergasted that I’m so attracted to him, because it’s so unlike me. Even my old boyfriend could never make me feel the way Nixon does. There were a few times when I’d almost let him touch me there. Had almost let him see me, all of me. It’s not like I haven’t wondered what it would feel like, but I never felt truly comfortable with him, therefore it was almost impossible for me to become aroused. The truth is, I’ve never even had an orgasm, and I was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with me. After the incident in high school, I never really felt desire for anyone. . . until Nixon.
