Pushing the Limits

by Jennifer Snow

  He remembered the first day he’d walked into the gym, eyes black from his recent fight, his toes poking through holes in his running shoes because they were two sizes too small and he knew there was no point asking for a new pair. His mother’s disorder always made him question whether she cared about him enough to have bought him new shoes even if she’d had the money.

  An older man had been inside a boxing ring with a kid a little older than him and they’d stopped as he approached. “Let me guess. You want to learn how to defend yourself against whoever did that to your face?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dane had said.

  “Well, go find a self-defense class or buy a gun like everyone else in this neighborhood,” the man said, turning back to the kid he was training.

  “But I was hoping to just learn how to fight.”

  “I only train people who want to fight to compete here at this gym.”

  Dane had hesitated. He was done getting beat on, so the last thing he wanted to do was willingly climb into a fight. And he knew his mother would lose her shit if he told her he was even in the gym in the first place. “I’ll train to compete,” he said after a long pause.

  The man had studied him for a long moment. “You’re Melinda Hardy’s son, right?”

  His jaw had clenched at the mention of his mother. Her reputation around the neighborhood as the crazy lady was one of the main reasons he was picked on. “Yes, sir.”

  He’d nodded. “Then I guess you have no other options,” he’d said. “Go grab a set of training gloves.”

  At the time, he’d had no idea what the man meant when he’d said he had no other options, but now, looking back on his childhood, he knew Frank had been right and had given him a future. One he’d clung to, despite his mother’s constant yelling and demanding that he quit, despite the beatings he continued to take inside and outside of the cage . . . and despite the fact that as Melinda Hardy’s no-good son, he had no other options.

  It didn’t matter. He’d only needed one.

  He shook the memories away as he pulled back out onto the street, took three right turns, and pulled into the driveway of his mother’s run-down home near Mojave Road. Nothing had changed here either. Paint still peeling from the same places, the same missing window shutter, the broken stair leading up to the front door where the screen hung loose, detached from one corner. The lawn was overgrown and his mother’s old Chevy sedan sat in the driveway, a flat tire on the driver’s side.

  Not that it mattered. Her depression had been more frequent than the manic episodes over the last few years and he knew she rarely left the house. Reluctantly, he climbed out of the truck and went to the door. He took a deep breath as he knocked and simultaneously tried the handle. The door opened and his jaw tightened.

  Their house had been broken into twice because his mother always forgot to lock the damn door. The first time, his Nintendo system and small television he’d bought with the money he’d saved for a year from his paper route had been stolen, and the second time his training gear had disappeared.

  His mother had nothing of value; therefore, both times, her few possessions had remained untouched.

  “Mom!” he called as he kicked a pile of mail and flyers out of the way and entered the house. Obviously she hadn’t gone anywhere near the front door in a while. Overdue notices caught his eye. Envelopes with red PAST DUE lettering were not an uncommon sight in their home, but it angered him that his mother refused to accept what she called “blood money” from his fight paydays to help her stay on top of things.

  “Mom,” he said again as he made his way down the hallway toward her bedroom.

  The door was closed and the faint sound of a radio could be heard from within. “Mom!” he called again, knocking once on the door and slowly turning the knob.

  Inside, she was in bed, her eyes closed. Her hair was a mess and makeup streaks stained her cheeks. Next to her on the bedside table were used tissues, glasses of water, and bottles of prescription pills.

  Yet another far-too-familiar sight.

  One that made him want to turn around and leave and never look back again. Forget about his past, this neighborhood, this house, and this woman who’d never been there for him. But Colby had been right. He needed to face all of this again. It was just another thing from his past that would always continue to haunt him if he didn’t.

  He moved closer and touched his mother’s shoulder, shaking gently. “Mom.”

  She rolled over and her eyes opened slowly. “Dane?”

  “Hi.”

  She sat up and ran a hand through her unruly, tangled red hair. “What are you doing here? Did the neighbors call you again?” Her eyes narrowed and immediately she looked ready to tear someone apart.

  He was the fighter, yet he had nothing on her anger or fighting spirit. “No, they didn’t. Why? What happened this time?” The last time the neighbors had called him, his mother had taken their cat hostage for the return of her ladder, which they’d supposedly borrowed and never returned.

  He’d freed the cat and found the ladder, broken in the back of the shed behind the house. When asked, his mother couldn’t even remember why she’d needed it in the first place.

  She tossed the sheet aside, and swinging her too-thin legs over the side of the bed, she reached for her cigarettes. She lived on cigarettes, stale bread, and weak coffee. As a child, he’d had to fend for himself. The sight of her with a smoke between her lips was truly the only image of her he could call to mind, and it had always angered him that somehow there had always been enough money to accommodate her chain-smoking habit.

  She lit one and took a long draw before speaking. “They were having a party last weekend—loud music, lots of people—until three a.m. All I could hear was the sound of hip-hop music making my walls vibrate.” She blew a puff of smoke toward him.

  He waved the disgusting smell of menthol away. “So, what did you do?” A normal person would ask them to keep the noise down or even call the police past twelve o’clock.

  “I turned on the garden hose and sprayed them all,” she said with a shrug.

  He forced a steadying breath. “Mom, why didn’t you just call the police about the noise?”

  She waved a hand. “Police don’t come into this neighborhood unless we report a dead body, you know that. Anyway, I handled it. So, if you’re not here because of that, what do you want?”

  Coming here was a bad idea. She’d never approved of his fighting, and he’d done it anyway. Why was her approval so damn important now? He swallowed hard. “I’m fighting again.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him as she struggled with the cap of her pill bottle, her cigarette dangling dangerously between her fingers. She’d always smoked in bed and more than once he’d taken a still-lit cigarette from her fingers after she’d passed out from her sleeping pills. He’d always thought one day she would set the place on fire.

  He took the bottle and opened it. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, I heard you,” she said, tossing who knows how many pills into her mouth and taking a swig of the water, shivering as she swallowed it all. “What do you want from me?” She stood and left the room.

  He followed. “I want you to tell me . . .” What? That fighting was okay? That killing someone inside the octagon shouldn’t haunt him for the rest of his life? That she accepted who he was? He knew he’d never get any of that from her. And he still wasn’t sure he deserved it. His shoulders slumped. “I just wanted you to know.”

  She turned on the tap in the kitchen sink and filled an old, dirty-looking coffeepot. “I don’t know why. I’ve always made my feelings clear. You’ve always ignored them.”

  “I didn’t ignore them.” Didn’t his mother realize how her words, her lack of support, her criticism, and her turning her back on him had affected him? He rested a hand against the counter, blocking her access to the
coffeemaker. “But what other future did you possibly see for me?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t blame your lack of opportunities on me.”

  Who else should he blame? His absent father? The teachers at the school who treated him like he was stupid, when the truth was, he’d never been able to do his homework because his mother had refused to help him, calling him an idiot when he got something wrong? So he’d never done the assigned work, falling behind, and no one at the school cared enough to investigate the issue, labelling him a special-needs kid who would inevitably fall through the cracks. Were they the ones to blame? He’d been a child at the mercy of his circumstances. And he’d done what he could to survive.

  He moved out of her way and lowered his gaze to the torn linoleum. The faded flowers looked as desperate and pitiful as he felt. “Fine. Well, before I go, do you need anything?”

  She hit the button on the coffeemaker and snorted, gesturing at the cluttered, disorganized mess around them. “What more could I possibly need?”

  He nodded, the urge to flee overwhelming. “Okay.” He headed toward the front door and turned back when he reached it. “Will you at least start locking the door? Two break-ins—you’d think you would be worried about leaving it open.”

  She shot him her famous you-poor-stupid-boy look and he wished he’d kept going out the door. “You still believe that story, huh?”

  His breath caught in his chest. His unvoiced suspicions were confirmed, breaking off the last piece of the compassion he held for his mother.

  “How do you think I bought groceries that month . . . and, well, you should never have had the nerve to bring the training gear inside my house,” she said, reaching for another pack of cigarettes.

  Without a word, he left the house, knowing this would be the last time he walked out the front door.

  * * *

  The sound of her door buzzer woke her and, rolling to her side, Colby checked the time on her cell phone. Twenty after one? Probably one of her neighbors locked themselves out of the building again. They would buzz everyone until finally someone let them in. She contemplated letting it be someone else’s problem that night, but then, with a sigh, she tossed the sheets aside and headed toward the door. She was awake anyway. “Hello?” she said, suitably annoyed as she pressed and held the button.

  “Hey, it’s me.” Dane’s voice surprised her. “Can I come up?”

  “Of course,” she said, hitting the button to let him into the building. She rushed back into the bedroom and checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror, grabbing the bottle of mouthwash from under the sink. After gargling, she ran back out to the living room just in time to hear his knock.

  She opened the door. He stood in the hallway, wearing the pair of jeans she loved with the tear in the left knee and a white T-shirt that stretched across his biceps and chest. He leaned against the door frame and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. “Dane, it’s almost one thirty in the morning. What are you doing here?” Not that she minded a late-night visit from him, especially when he looked so freaking good, but she suspected this visit wasn’t prompted by something positive.

  He reached for her, drawing her into him, causing them both to sway slightly. “I wanted to see you.”

  The smell of whiskey nearly knocked her over. And she’d been worried about her breath? “Are you drunk?” she said, holding back away from him as he tried to kiss her.

  He smiled. “Little bit.”

  She sighed. “Come in.” Taking his hand, she led him into the apartment and locked the door.

  His arms were instantly around her again and his lips were on a mission.

  She placed a hand over his mouth. “Let’s talk first.” She knew he wasn’t a big drinker, especially when he was in training. Obviously something was bothering him.

  “I’d rather kiss you,” came his muffled reply from behind her hand.

  She shook her head. “Nope.” She led the way to the couch and he sat. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “No. That will sober me up. Do you know how long it took to get this buzz going?” he said.

  She started the coffeemaker. “I’m not sure I understand why you need one. I thought you were training today.” She hadn’t heard from him all day, which was odd, and he hadn’t responded to her text earlier that evening, but she’d assumed Tyson was working him at the gym in preparation of the fight the following weekend.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?” Where had he been all day instead?

  “I saw my mom today.”

  His voice was devoid of emotion, but based on the state of him, she could guess how that meeting went. Returning to the living room, she sat facing him. “It didn’t go well?”

  His laugh was bitter and cold. A sound she’d never heard before. “Not really.”

  “I’m so sorry. I never should have suggested you go to see her,” Colby said. She shouldn’t have interfered with something she knew nothing about. Obviously it hadn’t helped. More than likely, it had only made things worse for him.

  He squeezed her hand. “No. You were right. I needed to get some closure. It may not have been the closure I wanted, but it was something.” His words slurred together slightly and she stood and went to the coffeemaker, pouring a cup quickly and handing it to him.

  He set it aside without drinking.

  She picked it up and forced it back into his hand. If they were going to talk, he needed to straighten himself up a little. “Drink it, please,” she said when he scowled at her.

  He took a tiny sip.

  “Did you tell her you were planning to fight again?” she asked.

  He nodded. Then he stared off into the distance, his expression hard. “But, you know . . . I’ve actually been thinking about it, and I don’t think I’ll go through with the fight.”

  Her mouth gaped. “You’ve been thinking? Since when? This afternoon after the visit . . . while you were getting stupid-drunk?”

  He turned to face her. “I never wanted to fight again.”

  “Yes, you did. You were just scared to get back inside the cage after what happened. That’s understandable . . . but you can’t let your mom get to you anymore.” She paused. Her own healthy relationship with her family had clouded her judgment regarding his. She hadn’t believed that things could be so terrible. That a mother could be so awful to her own son and have such a negative impact on him. She’d been wrong. “Look, suggesting that you go see her was the wrong advice. What I should have said is forget her. Fuck her. Move on with your life and never give a second thought to the person who should have been there for you and never was. The person who hurt you the most and continues to exert control over you with guilt and manipulation that she has no right to do.” She touched his face. “The ghosts of your past will haunt the rest of your future if you let them.”

  He pulled her onto his lap and the expression in his eyes was one of pure need and desire. “Why are you so good to me?” he growled.

  She swallowed her own betrayal, pushing it aside, knowing now was not the time to tell him the truth. He was drunk, he was hurting, his confidence was once again shaken, and he needed her to be there for him right now. Not be another source of conflict or pain.

  The thought that she could be either to him made her chest hurt. So instead of any more thinking or talking, she kissed him. Long and slow, torturing herself and him as she backed off slightly whenever he tried to deepen the kiss. Soon, she would have to tell him the truth, and that might be the end of things between them.

  But that night he needed her and she needed to fall asleep in his arms one more time.

  Giving in, she deepened the kiss, tasting the whiskey on his lips, and she felt his breath catch as she eased her hands down his belly to his bulging erection and cupped him through his jeans. “I want you,” she whispered in a voice she nearly didn’t reco
gnize as her own.

  He undid the button and zipper to his jeans and waited for her to take over. “I’m all yours,” he said huskily, lifting his hips slightly off of the couch.

  She pulled his jeans down his hips and, sliding a hand through the opening in his boxer briefs, she cupped him with her hand.

  He swore under his breath, his hold on her waist tightening.

  She wrapped her hand around his full, throbbing erection and started stroking.

  He moaned, allowing his head to roll back as his eyes closed.

  She kissed the base of his neck as she thumbed the moist tip of his cock, feeling it throb in her hand.

  Suddenly, he grabbed her hands and stopped her, his chest heaving. “Not here.” Lifting her as he stood, he carried her into her bedroom and dropped her onto the tangled sheets. Discarding his clothing faster than she’d ever seen him move, he fell on top of her, pushing her oversized T-shirt up over her body and pulling her panties down over the hips and legs.

  She wiggled them down her legs and kicked them off as his body crushed hers. The weight of his upper body pinning her to the bed made it hard to breathe. He thumbed both nipples in a tantalizing motion and her thighs clenched together. “Dane . . . I need you inside me,” she said.

  He stared deeply into her eyes for a long moment, searching for something, and for a brief moment she wondered if he knew the truth—if he knew that this thing between them could be over with just a confession—but then he placed a hungry kiss on her receptive mouth and she let all other thoughts go.

  He nudged her knees apart and settled himself heavily within the cradle of her thighs. Colby brought her knees up to accommodate him. He moaned, burying his face in her tangled hair, spread out on the pillow. He delved deeper into her with each rhythmic thrust and he kissed her cheek, her neck, and, as his thrusts grew more urgent, her mouth.

  She shuddered and clutched his shoulders for strength, losing herself in him. With every withdrawal, she arched her back to protest his abandonment, if only for the second.

  It felt excruciatingly long when he broke away to get a condom from the bathroom, and when he returned and entered her once more, she couldn’t contain the rippling sensations of pleasure any longer. Her whimpers grew louder, full of need, as her climax drew closer.