by Katy Evans
“That’s beautiful body art.”
He frowns a little, thoughtfully. Then he smiles to himself and turns around.
What? Am I missing something here?
He throws me a set of gloves. I put one on, and then struggle with the other one. “Here. I’ll do yours,” he says.
I’m nervous when we stand so close. I could touch him from here. His hands wrap the glove around my wrist, and I’m vulnerable and feel like rambling, even though I don’t like to talk a lot.
He’s watching me.
He turns away, exhales softly, then stalks to the bags. I see his tattoo again, amazed by how much of his back it covers. A massive bird with its wings outstretched spreads out toward his shoulder blades, the tail trailing down Maverick’s spine. Some sort of ominous black shape sits on the bird’s back, while fire consumes the tips of the bird’s feathers.
I feel as if he’s giving me something. A glimpse of something no one in the gym has ever seen. I stare at it, thirsty for it, my eyes taking in every inch of that tattoo while the muscles of Maverick’s back work beneath it.
He’s punching.
He seethes with energy, mounting with every hit.
It’s just me in the gym.
And Maverick.
And my dirty thoughts about Maverick.
I hate the thought and scowl at myself.
But there is no extra space in the whole gym. It seems like he takes up more than his body occupies—a world more.
When he shifts to hit the bag on the other side, the bird’s wings flare with every ripple of his back muscles as he slams the punching bag. Pow, wham, pow.
I decide to test myself against a speed bag, all the while wondering where he gets the force that drives him.
I work out on the bag for about half an hour, then come settle down on the bench closest to him and lie down on my side and sigh, close my eyes in exhaustion, and hear silence.
I open my eyes, and he’s staring at me with the most puzzled expression. He looks away and exhales.
When he starts back up, his hits become fiercer. I’m feeling agitated. My brain fixating on the way he moves. The lock of hair that falls on his forehead when he slams. The way he braces his feet and swings. The look on his face that makes me imagine him being this concentrated doing something else.
Doing something to me.
Oh god, this is not what I meant when I signed up for a Summer to a Better Reese.
I get up on my feet, surprised that my body feels as substantial as liquid. “I’m going to leave, I have somewhere I need to be.”
His eyes slide to me in surprise, and suddenly, blatantly, his gaze dips downward and he stares at a spot of sweat under my throat, above and centered between my breasts. He scans my chest and then jerks his eyes upward, with a flash of frustration sparking in their depths. “I’m staying until I’m worn.”
Did he just check out my breasts?
Right in front of me?
“Okay. I’ll . . . see you. I guess. Teach me how to remove the first glove with both on?”
I walk over to get him to show me, but oh. Mistake. He smells delicious. Of sweat and guy. Like he just took a shower and now with the heat of his body, his soap and shampoo smell strongest.
I inhale deeply, looking at his face to see him staring at me.
God, did he notice?
For a moment there, I think I see heat in his eyes.
He speaks then, his voice low. “Use your teeth on the Velcro. Tuck the glove under your other arm and pull your hand free.”
I try it, tightening the glove under my arm as I pull, and manage to succeed. “Oh. Neat trick.”
I go hang up the gloves and hear him start punching again as I leave. I step out of the gym and look inside, but the windows are frosted, blocking him from view.
EIGHT
COMPULSIONS
Reese
I once read that external inconsistencies create compulsive actions. Performing the same action and getting different results, a positive and a nil or a negative, causes people to more compulsively perform the acts in search of another positive.
This must be why I’m compulsively spending time at the gym. At the Tates’ home there’s a pool, tennis court, sports court, and home gym. But have I used any of that? No. I keep telling Brooke it’s because of the sun, but the truth is, I have an odd compulsion every morning to go to the gym.
And look for him. At the door, waiting for me. Inside by the speed bag, the heavy bag, the ring. But nothing.
Today, I’ve run five miles. I’ve sweated buckets and need to leave for Racer in ten minutes, but I compulsively wait at a side bench, drinking a sports drink, wondering if I will never ever see him again.
Wondering why the thought makes me so sad. Like I lost something.
I’m finishing my drink when a tall fighter with a shiny shaved head and a chest of bloated muscles comes over. “Hey.”
I smile and pull out my phone in the hope he goes away.
“I’m Trenton.”
He seems to expect a reaction.
“Twister,” he adds finally.
Once again, I smile dismissively but worry I’m being rude, so I end up offering, “Reese.”
“Reese, I like it. How come I’ve never seen you before?” he asks, stepping forward.
He starts telling me he thinks I look Southern and that he lives here and fights in the Underground, and I’m nodding, which seems to encourage him, and he fills me in on how many years he’s been training when I feel a prick on the back of my neck, and then I feel something—someone—sit down right next to me.
A pair of jeans, a black crew-neck T-shirt, and a whole lot of Maverick Cage.
I try to ignore the feeling of his thigh against mine. His shoulder against mine. It’s impossible to concentrate on the conversation now. How can this guy sit here, without saying anything at all, and grab my attention more than all the noise? His quiet, his presence, and the way he’s staring at Trenton with a frown makes a bubble pop in my stomach.
Trenton’s voice trails off, his eyes flaring a little in annoyance when he spots Maverick, who’s taller, with a more compact body, but more intimidating than you’d imagine.
“We haven’t met,” Trenton says flatly.
“No,” Maverick says, just as flat.
“I’m Trenton,” the guy says proudly.
I don’t hear an answer. I steal a look at Maverick’s profile and he just sits there with a look that clearly emits the message Get lost. He’s staring unabashedly at the guy.
The guy narrows his eyes, but Maverick keeps staring him down, even when he’s sitting and the other guy is standing.
“Yeah, right. Well, nice to meet you,” he tells me in a tone that says he’s actually not so happy that we met, and he turns around and carries his balloonlike muscles to the other end of the gym.
Maverick is looking at me, and I’m such a coward, I can’t seem to find the courage to look at him just yet. I’m still . . . processing him. So near.
He doesn’t say a word to me, but I can feel him. He’s all I feel. Everywhere.
And I wonder if he can feel me. If he’s aware of me, even if in only a fraction of the way that I am aware of him. I turn and catch him staring, and the impulse to look away and pretend I just hadn’t checked him out is acute. But I don’t, so I stubbornly hold his gaze. Forever passes, and neither of us looks away. What is he thinking? And is it true the one who looks away submits?
“Where are you staying?” I ask in an extreme effort to sound casual.
“Just across the street.” He gestures to the hotel at the corner, and I nod. He leans closer, so it feels like we’re alone in a bubble, him and me. “You?”
“At my cousin’s house.”
Why do we want to know where the other is staying? Living? Sleeping?
I asked because I selfishly wanted to picture him, because wondering where he is and what he’s doing is driving me out of my mind. Maybe, once I know,
my mind will stop with these constant thoughts about him already.
We stare at each other a little longer, almost as if we haven’t ever seen each other before. His eyes seem starved for my face. I feel starved, but not for food, or anything else. For something I can’t name. And I have never wanted before.
He ducks his head closer to me, his voice dropping an octave. “During a fight . . . you can gauge someone’s next move by looking at his eyes,” he says softly.
“We’re not fighting.”
“No. We’re not.” He looks at me, so deep I feel found.
But I’m not found. Because his eyes are watching me as if he’s trying to figure me out.
“Maybe your opponent’s move depends on your move,” I say, voice getting raw. Ask me out. Or to the park. Or just tell me maybe, during the season, I’ll see you again. We leave in three days and I get the sense I might never see him again.
“Just any move?” he asks with a teasing note in his voice.
“Not any move.”
“You know, Reese”—he leans forward on his elbows, his shoulders straining the shirt covering those muscular shoulders as he looks sideways at me—“I’ve got moves,” he cockily informs me.
“You’ve got limited moves and they all relate to punching. So I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me.” He nods with exaggerated meaning.
“Show me,” I dare, smiling.
He smiles too and straightens in his seat, but his eyes darken a little as he shakes his head. “Not here.”
There’s an odd look in his eyes as he looks at my lips for a beat. My ears get a little hot, and I drop my gaze to his chest. I’m frightened. I’m exhilarated. I need to change the topic, fast.
I flick my eyes back up to find those metallic eyes watching me. “How’s Oz?”
“Waiting for me.” He stays put next to me though. Doesn’t leave. Instead, he begins to frown and then is jerking his hard jaw in the direction of Twister. “I’m going to fuck him up at the inaugural this weekend, so don’t get too attached.”
I laugh and tsk under my breath. “You’re full of yourself.”
He smiles wider, but narrows his eyes warningly, his voice dark and raspy. “Laugh all you want. But I’m going to bust his nose, his jaw, and the rest of his face. Don’t get attached to any of those assholes. I don’t want to break your heart.”
“No way! And my heart is behind steel walls, promise.” I lift my fingers, crossed.
“Yeah right.” He mock-scowls, and then he just scowls. “Really. Don’t grow attached to any of these guys.”
I’d think he was jealous if he wasn’t so obsessed with fighting, plus I’m sure his jealousy is purely professional. He wants me to root for him, and a little part of me does, enough that I don’t want to tell him that I can root for no one but Remy. He’s part of my family.
So rather than promise, I frown and push him away as we both head to the exit. “Go away, you bully. Go bust your bags.”
With a curl of his lips, he holds the door open for me, and once outside, he turns to leave.
I feel puzzled and uncomfortable in my skin as I watch his back retreat and realize it’s because I don’t want him to go.
I watch him cross the street to his hotel, fighting the urge to call out his name. Maverick briefly glances back at me as he hits the opposite side of the street. He lifts his index finger in the air and circles it, and I realize it means—tomorrow.
Feeling a kick in my heart, I lift mine and do the same move, suddenly excited.
Tomorrow.
NINE
PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
Reese
Though I spent another sleepless night, dreaming of birds and sweaty male flesh with rippling bird feathers, I’m super motivated the next day. As if I’m being fueled by something other than sleep. Something like . . . anticipation? Excitement? Whatever it is, go, Reese. My whole life I’ve been wanting to change but resisting the effort to do so, maybe. Or maybe fearing who I can become. I’m changing now. It’s always been within reach, but I never wanted to become her until now.
Maybe it’s the penny.
Finding a penny is supposed to be lucky. But if there’s anything that feels luckier, it’s being given a penny as a blank check.
I look at the little copper coin in my palm with a happy prick in my chest.
“What is that?” Brooke asks.
“I found it,” I lie. I’m embarrassed to tell her that I met a guy. She’ll ask about him, who he is, and I don’t know anything, and it’s not like that. Not like that at all.
♥ ♥ ♥
WE MEET UP outside the gym entrance. My heart speeds up when I see him leaning against the gym windows, in dark sweatpants and an electric-blue hoodie, waiting.
He lifts his head, and under his hoodie, I see his eyes light up a little when he sees me.
We smile. And I swear this smile of mine comes straight from my heart.
“Ready?”
That’s all he says.
It’s only one word. One word in that deep, dark, deep, thunderous voice, which activates all my brain receptors and other, more embarrassing ones.
I nod, and when we walk into the gym, our shoulders brush a little and my receptors flood with something warm and hot and uncontrollable.
The sparring ring is busy, so I head to the treadmills and he heads to the mats. Determined to sweat, I walk and run at intervals, and I look at him—the only person out of dozens of sweaty people in here who I actually see—and I can’t get over the fact that he keeps looking every few minutes at me.
When I finish and go gather my things, he comes over. “My first fight is Sunday.” He looks at me with a wry smile and a happy gleam in his eyes. “I’ve got two days to train, I’ll be training with Oz.”
“Okay.”
He looks at my mouth and starts back across the gym.
“Hey, I guess I won’t see you again,” I call out, stopping him. It’s disappointing, but I don’t know why. “Good luck, Maverick.”
Good luck, Avenger. . . .
Our eyes hold for forever and a half. Then Maverick gives me that slow, cocky nod of his, like he did the first day I met him, a nod that seems to mean thank you, and when he smiles at me with those lit-up metallic eyes, I smile and duck my head when my ears get a little hot.
I turn around and walk away, feeling happy for him and unexpectedly sad for me.
♥ ♥ ♥
THERE ARE CHANGES happening in my life. Good ones.
Miles texted recently. He wants to come visit. Maybe he’s been missing me. Taking me for granted and now missing me.
My body is absolutely sore from all the exercise I’ve been doing.
I have more energy and I’m losing a little bit of butt and I’m happy.
But it’s he who wanders into my thoughts tonight, when the house is so quiet I can hear the soft patter of rain on the rooftop as I lie in bed and wonder if I’ll see him again.
I was in private school. There were a total of 460 students enrolled, from middle school to high school. Every year was littered with circles, circles that I never quite fit into. I craved connection, but being shy didn’t help. Being quiet didn’t help. They mistake shy with uninterested or boring. Quiet with having nothing to say, and equating that with having nothing to feel. They saw me, quiet as a lamp, so I was a lamp to them. I never thought of myself as a lamp, maybe the lightbulb. But I never managed to find the switch until now.
I never thought there was another human who could be quiet enough that I feel like he can hear me. I never thought anyone else could help me find the switch but me.
Is that why he’s so intriguing to me? Why he’s a stranger and feels so familiar too? Why he makes me so aware? Of him? And me, my body? My heartbeat, my breath, my . . . sex! He hijacks everything.
It’s like my body’s not mine; it runs away from me. It’s reactive to every glance or smile or the sound of his voice. What’s wrong with me?
Miles and I would work. But Maverick is just so manly, and this is what happens when you don’t give out your V card by senior year, Reese.
It’s like being on a diet and craving what you can’t have. Exactly. This is why I’m so . . . warm lately. Maverick Cage oozes sex, and I’ve lived a sexless life. He’s like the Snickers bar I haven’t had in weeks.
And there were plenty of opportunities for sex before. In junior year. Sophomore year. Even in freshman year, and definitely in senior year. Some guys have wanted to sleep with me, Lex Kent, and Julian Parrish at senior prom. They wanted to sleep with me, on different occasions, of course, but I didn’t want to sleep with them.
They kissed and touched me and I felt a little bit used by them, and I didn’t want to be used.
I wanted to be understood, and I wanted to be known. And I wanted to be loved.
♥ ♥ ♥
FOR THE NEXT two days, the team is packing and getting ready for the first fight. Remy is hardly home. Brooke keeps texting me during the day: How’s Racer?
He’s fine! ;D We’re playing with the trains
Oh him and his trains. Hug him for me. I’ll try to be home before bedtime.
When Diane starts making dinner, she, Racer, and I are the only ones home. I’ve learned that she’s been with the team for over a decade, and she’s got such a warm, earthy vibe; she’s like everyone’s mother.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” Diane says as she shuffles around the kitchen and I help her chop the vegetables.
I smile. “I guess.”
“Reserved with strangers or just quiet?”
“Quiet.”
“Please stop me if I’m bugging you.”
“You’re not. Tell me about all this.” I signal at the kitchen island full of bright-colored food and vegetables and over half a dozen prime-grade rib eyes she’s marinating inside zipped bags.
“Remy gets more protein in a day than a normal person gets in a week. He trains all day and his nutrition is as important as the training,” she says as she takes out a tray and sets slices of sweet potato in two perfect lines, then drizzles them with olive oil and a dash of freshly crushed herbs.
