by Katy Evans
I’m so relieved when Racer is led out of day care—so I can stop thinking about Maverick now—that I drop to my knees and engulf him in a bear hug, smacking a kiss on his dimple. “How’s my favorite guy in the whole wide world?!”
“Hungwy,” he says moodily, scowling.
I laugh and take his hand in mine. “I’m hungry too.”
SIX
THE GREAT OZ
Maverick
It’s evening. On the second floor of an old extended-stay hotel, I head down the hall to 2F and knock on the door.
It opens an inch, a bloodshot eye peering at me through the slight crack the chained door allows.
Well, there he is. The great Oz.
“A word,” I say.
“Busy,” he replies.
He tries to shut the door in my face, but I’ve got some experience now, and I quickly stop the door with my foot.
“A word? Please.”
He narrows the eye. “Ease off on the foot, kid, and maybe we’ll talk.”
I clench my jaw, debate with myself silently, then ease back on the foot.
“Who are you and why are you here?” he demands.
Behind him, the place is a mess of empty bottles and pizza boxes.
“I need a trainer.”
“I need more vodka.” He slams the door in my face.
I grind my molars and raise my arm, prepared to bang, but the flat door staring me in the face really fucking bugs me. I’m so sick of staring at doors, I’d bang my fist straight through it if I thought it’d get me anywhere. I head to the stairway exit and stalk down the stairs instead, taking several at a time.
♥ ♥ ♥
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I knock again. He opens the door, with the same bloodshot eye at the crack.
“You,” he says in disgust.
“That’s right. Me.”
I turn around and jerk my hoodie off over my head. He might as well know now before he asks for a little private show. I wait, letting him get an eyeful of my tattoo, then I turn around to find the bloodshot eye wide open, regarding me.
“I need a trainer,” I repeat, and I lift the vodka bottle I bought.
The door shuts.
Then I hear the sound of chains. And for the first time—for real—the door of opportunity swings open for me.
♥ ♥ ♥
BY THE NEXT morning I’ve figured out the love of Oz’s life—before the booze replaced all his other loves—was named Wendy. When he calls people cowards, he calls them Wendys. “They’re fucking Wendys, the whole lot of them. Wendy’s my ex-wife. She couldn’t take me.”
“Maybe she had her reasons,” I said.
“Yeah. I worked too hard, and now I don’t work at all!”
I was prepping up my gloves, but he came over and yanked them away from me.
“We’re signing you up to the Underground today. No training.”
He stalked into his bathroom to change, and now he takes a swig of vodka, straight up, and tucks the flask into the inside pocket of his blazer as he readies himself to leave.
Exasperated, I drop my head on the back of the couch I’ve been sitting on while the lady readies herself. “Oz, it’s seven in the morning,” I groan.
He hunts through the mess for his key card until he finds it and pockets that too. “I’m an all-around-the-clock kind of man. Morning’s just an extension of evening.”
Oz guzzles alcohol like a regular person breathes.
“How come you were in town?” I ask him as we head down in the rickety elevator.
“Habit dies hard. I’ve always been in the city for the Underground inaugurals; I wanted to go watch and feel sorry for myself.”
Guess Oz is as unwanted as I am.
When we reach the Underground sign-up location—an old warehouse building set up with a pair of tables—he notices the silence. It catches like wildfire the moment we step into the room.
I start toward the lines for the sign-up tables when Oz’s voice stops me. “Hang back. We don’t know if there are any nukes hidden anywhere.”
Giving everyone in the line a lethal look, I lean against the wall and watch as Oz dutifully stands in the back. I’ve seen most of these fighters in videos, though the big ones—like Tate—sign up later in the day. Their spots are guaranteed anyway.
We’re the early birds, so we manage to get signed up in a half hour.
“If it isn’t the Wizard of Oz, this kid’s ticket home,” a group of three older fighters cackles.
I walk next to Oz, toward the exit, ignoring them. “They’re not making fun of you, they’re making fun of me.”
“Oh, they’re making fun of me all right.” He eyes me sideways. “I know who you are. Some of my competition might be looking for their golden boy. But my golden boy found me ’cause those dickheads were too scared to take him on.”
“Why did you?” He was drunk and I could see that. But still. I did let him get a fucking eyeful of my tattoo.
“Nothing to lose. Nothing left to lose.” He slaps my back and gives me my schedule. “That’s your first night. How do you feel about that?”
I scan the paper, verify that I fight at the inaugural. And I see what he’s dubbed me.
I laugh. “You’re so fucking dramatic,” I say, smacking him on the back of the head.
He smacks me back. “Really. Now live up to the name. Let’s bring some excitement around here. Show them what happens when two nobodies pair up—two nobodies against the world.”
“Hey,” I growl, taking exception, “we’re not nobodies. We’re somebodies. Everybody’s somebody.”
He takes a long swig from his flask as we step out into the sun. “Somebody’s not enough. Let’s be the champions.”
SEVEN
PARK
Reese
It’s midweek already, and I’m halfway through my workout when I get a text from Brooke:
Hey! Huge line at the Underground registration, might pick up lunch on our way back home. Don’t wait for us - lunch home w/Diane
Got it Will take Racer to park and meet you home ltr
I set my phone aside and scan the gym again. Some otherworldly impulse has me walking past the weights section. I cross the treadmills, bicycles, toward the mats at the end and the boxing bags. I scan the area where Maverick always works out. There are several guys at the bags now. None of them are as big, or mysterious. Or hot.
He’s gone.
Disappointment washes over me. I wait a bit, checking the time. Five minutes to leave for Racer.
Reese, you’re acting stupid.
“You’re looking for your friend? The one you come in with?”
“I . . . ah . . . yeah.”
“He hasn’t come in.”
“Right. Thanks.”
I head to pick up Racer from day care, meet Pete there with the stroller and our snacks, then sit Racer inside and push him to the park. There’s this spot I like under the shadow of a tree. I head there. “How was day care, Racer?”
“Okay.”
He’s scanning the park for dogs, I know.
“This is nice, isn’t it?”
I pull out his fruit bears and open them. He dives in.
“Racer, I ran extra hard today and I’m suddenly hungry. If I tell you an extra story tonight, would you give me one of your fruit bears?”
“Two stowies,” he negotiates.
“Okay, two stories, for two bears?” I shoot back.
He hesitates, then nods and lets me pull out two bears, examining my hand thoroughly. I let him open my palm.
“See? Two?”
He grins a dimpled grin that I could eat up, and then continues eating.
I shove them in my mouth and start to set up my blanket and stop in my tracks when I spot the figure doing pull-ups on the tree.
His T-shirt is riding upward due to the lifted position of his arms, and I can see the concrete-like squares of his abs perfectly.
His extraordinary eyes blaze and glow when
he spots me a few feet away, not far from the tree. He drops himself to the ground, lithe as a cat and surprisingly quiet, and as he stretches to his feet from the crouched position he landed in, his eyes are direct and interested and warm. No, not warm. More.
There’s a flip in my stomach when his lips curl a little. He ambles over and I have the oddest sensation that he was waiting for me. But . . . was he?
“Maverick,” I say softly to myself.
“Mavewick!” Racer repeats—embarrassingly loudly—and puts out his fist.
He bumps fists with Racer. “Dude. Cool cap.”
He taps Racer’s Yankees baseball cap. Then his eyes lift to meet mine.
My stomach feels unsettled, but it’s not from hunger, more like from nerves or something like . . . anticipation.
“Didn’t see you at the gym today,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I talked to Oz.”
“You did?”
He gives me this quiet, perfect smile and simply nods.
“That’s great.”
“Yeah.”
We smile for the most delicious few seconds.
“So you’re fighting during the inaugural?” I ask excitedly.
He pulls out a page from his jeans back pocket. “That’s me.”
I take and scan the page. It indicates his accepting the Underground terms and rules of engagement, states his coach’s name, and then his name. A dangerous little chill runs down my spine when I read:
Maverick “the Avenger” Cage
And Maverick “the Avenger” Cage is watching me read this paper, studying my reaction.
My palms are sweaty all of a sudden. “Well . . . wow.”
My stomach is quaking upon seeing his name; I don’t know why. Maverick Cage. His name is a conundrum. Maverick means “rebel,” and cage . . . But it looks like this maverick is coming out of his cage.
He tucks the page back into his jeans. “I had to tell someone.”
“And you came to tell me?” If I sound bewildered, it’s because I am.
He stares into me, a liquid look coming to his eyes. “It wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for you.”
“That’s totally not true.”
He glances down at the stroller. “I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t tell my buddy here.” He fist-bumps Racer again and Racer giggles at the attention.
“Mom and Dad are busy, so I get to keep him for an extra while,” I tell Maverick.
He stares at me. He has a very stubborn, arrogant face, but when he smiles, pleasure softens his granitelike features. And he’s smiling right now. Dear me. “So he’s not yours,” he says.
“God, no. I wish!”
I can’t think straight when he looks at me. I feel naked. As if he knows that I’ve missed him. As if he knows that just looking at him makes me feel odd. Odd and oddly sensual inside. Responding to him.
I open my blanket and bend over to smooth it on the ground. Then I realize my butt is sticking out, the Himalayas of butts out there for him to see. In tight exercise gear. Fuck.
He sits on his haunches at the edge of the blanket and opens his hand. “Share the blanket with me?”
His knuckles are still scarred. I can’t decide why I keep looking at them. I get a gut squeeze of empathy every time I see the bruises. His hands are huge. He plants them on the blanket, then shifts to lean back on his arms, stretching out his legs before him. Other couples are nearby on blankets. It feels intimate when I set my stuff down, and I feel myself go hot when I sense him watching me settle down next to it.
He spreads out just a little more and squints up at the tree, then looks at me in silence.
I search the picnic bag. “Want some . . . kid food? Or I’ve got . . .” I pull out my emergency Snickers bar, which I’m proud not to have touched yet, and I hand it over. “Plus one water and a drinking cup with a lid.”
I pass the drinking cup to Racer and hand Maverick the water. He takes it. “I’m good.” He opens the water bottle and hands it to me.
I shake my head. I’m not hungry, really. Or thirsty. My stomach feels full of butterflies again and it makes no sense, since I don’t even know him.
He shifts up higher on his arms, the flex of his torso’s muscles visible through the cotton of his shirt.
“I almost thought you’d arrived to the gym and got yourself kicked out,” I try.
“Not yet. There’s still tomorrow.” He smirks.
And there’s a tinge of merriment in his eyes.
“Wee, and the ducks?”
I jerk my attention back to Racer and my pending business with him. “Right. I promised we’d feed the ducks today.” I quickly pack our stuff and then push the stroller toward the lake. Maverick walks beside me.
I feel him watching me as I stop at the dispenser to fill up a cup of duck food.
“Mavewick, get me out,” Racer commands.
Maverick sweeps him up and sets him on his feet.
“Don’t go in the water, Racer, just stay on the edge, and don’t let them bite your finger. Do it like this. . . .” I show him how to cup his hand. “Or throw it in the water and watch them pick at it.”
He nods and starts throwing all over, sending the ducks after the nibbles.
I sit on the ground, the scent of damp grass surrounding us as Maverick sits beside me.
“Hey, I want to do something for you.”
“What?”
I can’t remember how to breathe.
I give him a moment to explain, but he’s not helping me out, only smiling. His face is open, friendly, his smile captivating. But his eyes are guarded, careful. I try to keep my voice indifferent.
“You mean for the gym?” I ask, a puzzled frown on my face.
He nods. “For that. And Oz.”
“Oh.” I shake my head, laughing softly. “It’s nothing, really.”
When he looks at me, he looks curious, and unsatisfied somehow. But a genuinely appreciative smile touches his eyes. “Trust me. It’s not nothing. It’s something, and I appreciate it.”
His open gratitude makes me so warm. He makes me feel impulsive.
“I’m in a healthy-living boot camp this summer. You’re meeting the new Reese,” I hear myself blurt out.
Wow. Did I just spew it out like that?
I’m so desperate for him to share bits of himself that I’m just totally baring myself to him without his even asking. Thank god he takes it in stride with an attractive little dance in his eyes.
“What was the old one like?” he asks easily.
I shrug and shake my head, not really wanting to get into that.
When he does nothing to fill the silence that settles between us, it leaves me with nothing to do but look up at him. I lift my lashes, and he’s staring at me with a look of total intrigue in his eyes. Wisps of hair tease my face, and I push them away, feeling really restless under that stare.
“Help me kick my own ass, and we’ll call it even,” I suddenly suggest.
He shakes his head with playful stubbornness. “We’re not even. I still owe you.” His eyes grow thoughtful, and he reaches into his pocket and extracts something. “Open your palm.”
He looks so intense that I open my palm and watch him drop something in it. “What’s this?”
“My IOU.”
I stare at the penny in my palm, then look up at him in confusion.
His voice sounds a little more harsh and textured all of a sudden. “I don’t have a lot right now, but I got this.”
“For a rainy day?” I ask.
“For any day.”
He sounds somber and he looks even more somber, if that’s even possible. His eyes are gloriously intense, and I am utterly dazzled and confused by this feeling of being utterly dazzled.
I don’t understand why he’s giving me this. My ears hot, I look down at the penny, then up at him. What I did for him was nothing, really. It looked like he really enjoyed working out, and I could tell he had talent.
&nb
sp; But his eyes are roiling with something forbidden and almost pleading. . . .
He needs me to take this penny.
He needs to know he can pay me back in some way.
I realize he’s got a pride as big as he is.
My chest aches a little. Nodding, I curl my fingers around the penny because something tells me Maverick “the Avenger” Cage never takes back what he gives. He looks like a guy who doesn’t budge, who doesn’t give in easy.
“I can get in after hours to the gym with my membership,” I hear myself say, surprised by how impulsive he makes me. “Do you want to come? When I go back home, I want to buy a new dress, one size smaller than what I wear.”
He looks at me, stays silent, and tightens his jaw, then stares out at the water. “I’m game.”
And we sit there, watching Racer giggle and try to pet the ducks as he feeds them.
And I like being here.
I really like being here.
♥ ♥ ♥
WE MEET AT the gym at 9:00 p.m. I had dinner with Racer, left him with his parents, and told Brooke I’d be back by eleven.
That night, the gym is completely empty. An odd something is in the air. It crackles between us. Around us. The silence only seems to magnify it.
Maverick unzips his hoodie and then, unexpectedly, takes off his shirt. He waits a moment, then walks to set his T-shirt aside. I stare at the body art on his back, transfixed by it. The lights are dim, but I can make out the shape of an open-winged bird. A bird with another symbol or letter or number I can’t make out on its back.
There’s something about tattoos, body art, that’s magical and intimate. A piece of art on your body that identifies who you are, what you believe in, even what you mock.
He turns and looks at me.
He seems to be waiting for me to say something.
But I can’t.
He’s beautiful in a way beautiful had never had a visible image for me except for things that felt surreal and perfect. He is perfection in an all-male way. He is surreal, like from a different species, exuding an air of a rebel and of someone implacable who will not be stopped.
He lifts his brows, as if he’s genuinely surprised I didn’t say anything at all.
