by Mia Sosa
Too bad I like him too much as a friend to quit him altogether. He’s nice, and witty, and hardworking, and funny. So, so funny. And he’s a devoted son. Has this great rapport with his father that makes me happy just watching them together. Plus, he’s a feast not only for my eyes, but also for other parts of my body. And oh God, hearing him say he regularly strokes himself to sleep thinking of us together just about made me want to dissolve into a shameless puddle of want. Fact is, if I could surgically remove the part of his brain that cooked up his foolish edict on sex, love, and dating, he’d be damn near perfect.
I’m dusting the chandelier above my ridiculously small dining table when it hits me, my heart beginning to thump wildly in my chest to match the base pounding through my Bluetooth speakers.
Oh shit.
No, no, no, no.
How did this happen?
I don’t like Anthony as a friend. I’m interested in him romantically. What that means exactly is beyond my mental capacity to determine at the moment, but regardless, this is all kinds of fucked up for one fundamental reason: Although Anthony probably wouldn’t mind if I got up close and personal with his dick, he doesn’t want me anywhere near his heart.
I can’t deal. Not now. So I set aside my inconvenient feelings and lose myself in the music, singing and dancing around my apartment and using my feather duster as my microphone. When Missy Elliott’s “WTF (Where They From)” blasts through the speakers, I pretend I’m one of Missy’s backup dancers. And when Pharrell’s rap solo begins, I slide across the room—and trip over the coffee table.
A sharp pain travels from my tibia to my knee, and as I awkwardly try to right myself, I twist my left ankle. Wincing from the intense ache that throbs in triple time each time I take a step, I stumble to the couch and collapse onto it in a pathetic heap.
My stomach knots as I inspect my swollen ankle and pray it’s not broken or sprained. Dammit, can a sports injury get any more humiliating than this? Does this even qualify as a sports injury? No, this could only be described as a your-stupid-ass-shouldn’t-have-tried-it injury. Which is also known as a no-one-will-ever-know-about-this injury.
Le big fucking sigh.
Chapter Twenty
Anthony
I’m sitting in EST’s office thinking of the sign on Eva’s apartment door: No Negative Energy Allowed. That sign’s an excellent reminder that I can’t control the people around me, but I can manage my own reaction to them. People like the irate applicant currently berating me over the phone because he didn’t get into the next training session. He’s trying my patience, but I’m not going to let him mess with my positive energy.
“I refuse to believe I’m not a good candidate,” he says, his voice low and angry. “What am I lacking?”
“Discipline.”
“What the hell?” he says. “How can you tell that from my application?”
“You described speed racing on LA’s streets as a skill, Mario. Running a red light and avoiding a collision isn’t part of a stunt person’s regular bag of tricks. You’re reckless. That’s the worst type of person for this kind of training.”
“Man, you don’t know what you’re talking about. This is bullshit.”
I sigh, irritated with myself for even indulging this guy after he called me “shit-for-brains.” What an asshole. “Look, you’re entitled to your opinion, but here’s what I do know. The stuff you described in your application? It’s illegal. Period. So why don’t we call it a day and part ways now?”
He yells “fuck you” into the phone and hangs up.
Good riddance, Mario.
I’m in the middle of responding to an email when the phone rings yet again. Maybe I’ll get through my inbox someday, but today’s not that day. “Elite Stunt Training, how may I help you?”
“Anthony?”
I recognize her voice immediately and sit up straighter. It’s been four days of radio silence between us, mostly because I wanted to give her the space to deal with our last conversation in whatever way she saw fit. Apparently, she’s choosing not to deal with it at all. “Hey, Eva, everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I think I’m coming down with something, though. A cold, maybe?” She coughs to emphasize her point. “So I was just calling to let you know that I’m using my one excused absence. I’ll be ready to go again for next Wednesday’s class.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches as I listen to her flimsy justification for not attending the training session. It makes no sense. A cold? “Eva, this is the third class of the program. We’re finishing up air ram work. It’s a little early to be taking an excused absence.”
“I . . . I thought we could take an excused absence at any point in the program? Kurt never mentioned that we needed to have a certain number of classes under our belt before we could make use of it.”
She has a point, and yet I’m still irritated.
“No, no, you’re right,” I tell her. “But what if something else comes up in the next four weeks? It would make more sense to save your excused absence for a time when you’re really sick or something, not just when you have a minor cold or can’t be bothered.”
She pounces as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Can’t be bothered? Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said anything about not wanting to be bothered with coming to class?”
This is escalating in a way I never intended, all because I’m in my feelings about her not showing up for one class. It’s up to me to deescalate the situation. “You’re right. You didn’t. I’ll make a note that this is your one excused absence. I’ll see you next class, okay? Take care.”
“Fine . . . bye.”
As I sit there going over our conversation in my head, I realize in this instance I’m the negative energy. Biting her head off like that served no good purpose. Shame spirals through me as I clench and unclench my fists, the memory of Eva’s confusion intensifying my surly mood. After class, I’ll go for a run. That always helps me decompress. Why it’s necessary is a question I don’t want to answer.
The first thing I see when I reenter the warehouse after my run is Eva flying like a superhero and landing on the large mat in the center of the room.
Nothing about this woman will ever surprise me.
The door clicks shut behind me, and she scrambles up and hops off the mat. Chest heaving, she closes her eyes and tries to catch her breath. The overheads shine a spotlight on the sheen of sweat on her well-defined arms. When she opens her lids again, her gaze is fierce, determination apparent from the set of her shoulders and the wideness of her stance. She’s a warrior goddess in vintage Adidas, and I pray she doesn’t use them to kick my ass.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask. “Class is over.”
“I’m practicing air ram maneuvers,” she says curtly, her eyes narrowed on me in defiance. “Someone thinks I’m not taking this course seriously, so I’m trying to apply myself. Is that a problem?”
Oh, she’s the one bringing the bad energy now. And as much as I’d like to diffuse the situation, I’d be a poor instructor if I didn’t point out what’s obvious to me. “Eva, you signed a waiver acknowledging the risks associated with stunt training and agreeing not to perform any skills without appropriate supervision. You shouldn’t be doing this alone, so yes, it’s a problem.”
The look she gives me could extinguish a forest fire. I’m fucking frozen on the inside. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if my veins had turned into icicles.
“Fine. I was finished anyway, Mr. Castillo.”
She says my name like she’s relishing the opportunity to be naughty, like I’m her superior but she’s looking forward to defying my orders. The way my body reacts to the taunt, you’d think she just whispered dirty words in my ear. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told her I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Every night before bed, I think about what she looks like when she’s aroused, the noises she makes when she comes, what she tastes like. It’s my new nighttime routine: shower, brush my teeth,
think about Eva, lights out. Now that she’s in front of me, her body pulsing with tension and her eyes simmering with annoyance, I want to break the dam that’s been building between us.
“Do you need a ride home?” I ask.
“No,” she says, her gaze distant and cold.
I shake my head at her, wishing I could revisit our telephone conversation earlier and self-edit like she’s suggested. “Eva, c’mon. Let me drive you.”
She swipes her hoodie off the floor and heads for the door. “I’ll see you next class. I’m taking the bus.”
“Eva. Wait.”
She stops midstride, but she doesn’t turn around.
I hurt her. I can see that plain as day. In the tension in her shoulders. In the dejected way she hangs her head, as though she wants to battle it out with me but is too exhausted to do anything other than listen. I need to give her an apology worthy of her time. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you earlier. I should have been more understanding. I know you’ve got a lot going on, and I shouldn’t have assumed that you were missing the class for a superficial reason. I was way out of line and I apologize.”
She spins around, her eyes searching mine. “You were so dismissive. Why?”
I try to weasel out of the truth, not ready to acknowledge it myself, let alone share it with her. “I was just tired and irritated. It wasn’t you specifically.”
She narrows her eyes at me, probably because she has the supernatural power to detect my bullshit from miles away. We’re standing a few feet apart, so this probably isn’t all that challenging to her.
“Try again,” she says. “I deserve better.”
I blow out a harsh breath. She’s right. She does deserve better. But now comes the hard part: Explaining my reaction even though it exposes me as a self-absorbed ass. “Okay, here it is. I’d been looking forward to seeing you, okay? Had a few minor squabbles about equipment deliveries this morning. A rejected applicant tried to tear me a new butthole. But I didn’t let any of that get to me. Why? Because I kept thinking about seeing you this afternoon. Then you called to say you wouldn’t be coming to class. There’s no other way to describe it. I was disappointed.”
I take a few steps toward her, and she takes a corresponding number of steps back, her gaze cloudy.
“You were disappointed in me?” she asks, her head tilted to the side.
The sadness in her voice is like a thousand paper cuts to my chest. I shake my head, hating that she’s asking the correct follow-up questions, the ones that leave no place to hide. “No, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be seeing you.”
Dios. This is why I don’t date. This is why I run from relationships. Start fucking around with feelings and someone’s bound to get hurt. Emotions aren’t static. They ebb and flow for each person. Maybe the person likes me, but not as much as I like them. Maybe I care for them, but caring isn’t enough, and they want more. Or maybe the person fools you into falling in love with them, only to snatch that love away because they never fell in love themselves. Like I told Eva before, relationships are messy. My instinct is to take no part in them.
She nods as though she’s satisfied with my explanation. “Your disappointment. It scared you, didn’t it?”
I stare at my feet when I answer. “Yeah. And I took my frustration out on you. I won’t do it again.”
She peers at me for several seconds, her expression neutral. “Good.” She continues to stare at me, leaving no question that I’m being assessed in some way, although I don’t know the parameters of the evaluation. “You know, Anthony. I’m not asking you to change in any way. If you want to remain friends, that’s what we’ll be. I just want you to be honest with me. So that if there’s something to figure out, we can figure it out together. Okay?”
I nod, stunned by this woman’s patience. “I like you, Eva. A lot. As a person. As a friend. And I’m attracted to you. My goal here is to not play games. But those are my truths. Anything else would be a lie.”
She nods as though she’s impressed with my frankness. “Thanks for your candor. I’m still taking the bus, though.”
I watch her pivot and stride toward the exit again. This time, though, I notice a limp in her step. “Eva, what’s wrong with your leg?”
She waves me away without turning around. “It’s nothing. I twisted my ankle. Went to Urgent Care. They took an X-ray and said the same thing.”
“Can I see it?”
“No,” she says, enunciating that one word with enough authority that it sounds ten syllables long.
“Eva, must you be stubborn about everything?”
I’m almost certain I know how she’ll answer this question.
“Yes, I must.”
Called it—in my head. I wish I could say I’m disappointed that she’s predictable, but honestly, nothing about Eva disappoints me. That’s the scariest part about all this. “Will you please let me make sure you’re okay?”
She spins around, rolls her eyes, and stomps across the floor, gritting her teeth in discomfort as a testament to her bullheadedness. With a dramatic huff, she stops directly in front of me and pulls up the left leg of her track pants. “See, it’s an ankle. A twisted one. I’m fine.”
Hell, above her twisted ankle is an orange-sized bruise, a splash of blue and purple that looks like the start of a watercolor painting. “Eva, this isn’t itty bitty, but yes, it’ll heal on its own. You need compression on that ankle, though, and a couple of painkillers.”
“All that’s not necessary.”
“It is if you want to heal in time for the next class.”
Sighing, she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Take me to your leader.”
The office is only twenty feet away. Halfway there, I realize my error. There’s not much square footage to it. Eva and I won’t function well in a small room like that. It’s the same reason I was on edge the few times I’ve driven her home. The cab of the truck forces us into a space that isn’t big enough to let my attraction to her bounce around comfortably. It’s confining. Suffocating.
I spin around and put my hand up. “You know what? You shouldn’t be walking any more than you need to. Why don’t you take a seat over there. I’ll bring it to you.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “The office is less than ten feet away. Don’t be absurd.”
This time, I’m trailing behind her, plodding toward certain doom. I flick the light switch on and search for a bandage, while Eva eases onto my desk and watches me.
Bandage located and in hand, I raise my arm in the air. “Found one.” I stand in front of her and reach for her leg. “Let’s get this sneaker off you for now. I’ll loosen the laces so you can put it back on when I’m done.”
“Fair warning. My feet probably stink.”
“Probably.”
She nudges my thigh with her foot, the hint of a smile fighting to emerge. “You’re such a pain.”
I remove her sock, revealing her toes. Like the rest of her, they’re pretty. “Blue polish suits you.”
“It’s my favorite,” she says with a small smile.
“Put your foot here so I can bandage it.”
She slowly lowers her heel onto my thigh, and I meet her unwavering gaze. I know when her foot lands on my thigh only by touch, because our eyes haven’t strayed from each other. If we string enough of these small moments together, we might generate enough sexual tension to supply power to a strip club.
When I begin the process of wrapping her foot, however, I’m efficient and focused, my hands turning over in small circles as I wrap the bandage from the top of her foot to above her ankle.
“Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, Dr. Castillo.”
“And why’s that, Ms. Montgomery?”
I don’t hazard a glance at her, choosing instead to remain hunched over, my gaze trained on the task. It doesn’t take much for Eva to distract me.
“You’re very clinical, I’d say. Detached. As though you want to be done with this as soon as
possible.”
Damn fucking right. That’s exactly what I want. “Just trying to do my job, ma’am.”
“Get in and get out, huh?”
My head snaps up to her face. She winks at me and gives me a wicked smile. Nope, not responding to that one.
“I get it,” she continues. “Sometimes a quickie really is the best way to go.”
It seems Eva has an inner maldita, too. “One more comment like that and I’m sending you to the naughty corner.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “Oh, all right. You’re no fun. And you’re making a big fuss over something that would have healed on its own.”
“That may be, but this will help it heal faster.”
“It was already healing,” she huffs.
“All right, you’re all done,” I say as soon as the last butterfly clip is in place.
She flutters her eyelashes at me and claps her hands in front of her chest. “You’re my hero.”
Standing to my full height, I give her a thumbs-up and a wink. “Glad to be of service, ma’am. And tell me this, how’d you twist it anyway? At work? In training?”
She mumbles a couple of words under her breath as she stands.
“What did you say?”
“At home,” she says with a lift of her chin. “If you must know, I was cleaning my apartment the other day and tried to reenact Tom Cruise’s slide across the floor in Risky Business.”
I cover my mouth with my fist. She’ll probably kick me in the face if I laugh at her. “Were you in a shirt and underwear, too?”
“Of course. That’s what gave me the idea. Socks, too. But they had grippers on the bottom, so I couldn’t achieve a smooth slide. Hence, the twisted ankle when I tripped over the coffee table.”
“Did you use a candle holder as a microphone?”
She smiles. “Feather duster.”
“This story gets better the more you talk. Keep going.”
She pushes me away, her eyes glistening all of a sudden. “It’s not funny, actually.”
