Raw

by Katy Evans

  THIRTY-TWO

  COME WITH ME

  Reese

  “He was training with Maverick,” Brooke says offhandedly as we head three blocks down to the inflatable kiddie party place.

  My heart does a double dip and a pirouette and other stuff I don’t even know the names of.

  I almost stop walking.

  “Oh” is all I say though. So cool, I sound.

  But wow. That’s all you can say, Reese?

  Because I want to say so much more. Ask so much more.

  “Mavewick is my fwend,” Racer says, puffing out his little chest.

  “How do you know Maverick? You’ve seen him twice,” Brooke taunts Racer, rumpling his hair.

  “Uh-uh,” Racer denies, shaking his head.

  “We’d bumped into him at the park before,” I hurriedly say.

  Please, please, Racer, don’t say anything about Maverick kissing Reese on the cheek in the park.

  Please don’t mention Reese sleeping in Maverick’s arms while he looked after you. . . .

  I will be your slave storyteller FOREVER!

  And push you hard in the stroller no matter how much my butt bounces and EVEN if Maverick is watching.

  Racer is thankfully too busy keeping his eye out for our destination to say anything else.

  “At the park? Really?” Brooke asks him. Then she eyes me and I feel a telling heat inside that climbs all the way up to my ears, which are thankfully covered by my hair today. “He is absolutely as gorgeous as they come,” she says with a female sigh.

  And I think the small, painful little groan I just heard was mine. “God, I know.”

  Her brows shoot up to her hairline in alarm. And cautiously, she adds, “He’s also dangerous. We don’t really know much about him. His intentions.”

  “I know, but . . .” I try to find words. “Sometimes you just know. Someone. Don’t you think?”

  “True.” She nods and purses her lips thoughtfully. “I do sometimes wish Remington would just finish this season in peace. Why does he want to . . .” She shakes her head, pursing her lips even tighter and then sighing. “Coach Lupe says he’s helping Scorpion’s legacy. But the truth is, Reese”—she drops her voice—“Remington believes in Maverick. Remy wants to make sure that his legacy is Maverick.”

  I’m burning inside. I’m burning with hope for Maverick. For me. For us.

  I want to tell Brooke that I have never felt like this before.

  I want to tell her that I feel like a light when I’m with him.

  That I don’t feel shy.

  Or judged.

  That I feel alive and bursting and free and accepted and understood.

  And so female.

  And so good.

  And so pretty just because of the ways Maverick Cage looks at me.

  And . . . I think it’s love.

  They say love is a chemical thing, a brain thing, a hormone thing.

  Call it whatever you want to call it.

  I’m buzzing and obsessed, without sleep, without appetite, without want of anything but to be with him, talk to him, think of him.

  I’m really, for the first time in my life, in love.

  Not calm love, like with Miles, where it made sense to try to be in love.

  This love makes no sense. It’s complicated and confusing and scary and I still have it bad for him and I still feel it. And I know it’s rushed and I know it’s dangerous and I know it’s maybe a little bit doomed, but I also know it’s true.

  I want to say all that, but I’m afraid of her not understanding. This. Me. Us. I’m afraid nobody understands but Maverick.

  I stay quiet as we head into the inflatable indoor playground.

  And instead I ask, “How long will they train for?”

  “All day for sure.” She stops to get us tickets inside. “Though Remington promised to run early with me today. He should be home by seven. The gym is booked for the day though. Do you want to use it?” She leads Racer inside, looking at me over her shoulder as I follow. “I can take Racer in the stroller with us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Make use of it.”

  So I do.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  IT’S 7:11 P.M. when I get there. The gym lights are low, and there’s no background music. Instead, I’m greeted by the rhythmic sounds of the speed bag being hit at lightning speed far away. A part of me wonders if Remy decided to stay, but when I peer past the weights and the ring, to the far corner, it’s not Remy killing the speed bag. Oh, he’s dark-haired and tall, all right, and muscled like there’s no tomorrow, but the guy at the speed bag is Maverick.

  He’s bare-chested, wearing nothing but his low-slung sweatpants. His tattoo is alive, rippling in all its winged glory as he hits. Biceps flexing. Shoulders clenching. Abs gripping.

  Am I hurting you . . ?

  Flashes of him mounting me swim in my head. Flashes of his hands all over me. My nipple disappearing into his mouth. Me, being filled. Being taken. Being reckless. Being free.

  I watch Maverick for a moment in silence. In awe. All that male power, perfectly controlled as he measures his punches. Each landing on the spot where he wants it to land, hitting precisely, expertly, one arm rolling after the other.

  I don’t get many opportunities to look at him—not really, because when I do, I’m usually seized by the fact that Maverick is looking at me.

  But now he’s concentrating on the speed bag, the same guy in the hoodie I met weeks ago who piggybacked on me at that gym.

  His muscles have grown a little. He looks a little tanner, maybe he’s been running outside? He looks corded. More male. More adult. More dangerous than any fighter I’ve ever seen—because there’s no one who has as much to prove to all his haters as he does.

  And I lean on the wall and watch the look of concentration on his profile. So lethal, so quiet. Every second that I watch, I feel this excruciatingly painful sensation of want mingled with happiness squeeze my chest.

  He stops hitting.

  Exhales.

  And slowly frowns, as if deep in thought.

  Did he sense me?

  He’s starting to turn.

  He sensed me.

  Because as he turns, his gaze slides, without stopping, and pins me in place. His eyes smolder the instant they connect with mine. And I smolder inside.

  “I’m on my way back to the hotel, I just wanted to say hi,” I nervously say. Even my voice sounds soft when I talk to him. All of me goes soft.

  I wait a beat, and while I wait, this gorgeous smile starts to pull at the sides of his lips.

  “So hi,” I finish, awkwardly lifting my hand.

  He pulls off his gloves with the opposite arms, never taking his eyes off me, and I slowly lower my hand.

  He starts approaching.

  “Hi,” he says. He walks with that swagger and that look in his eyes that says, without apology or hesitation or remorse . . . I remember you in my arms last night, Reese.

  Inhaling sharply at the memory, I need to cant my head back to meet his gaze, and when I do, he’s still smiling that powerhouse smile at me.

  I thought I wanted to be loved. But now I realize, I don’t just want to be loved. I want to be loved by one man. This man.

  He doesn’t look anxious or worried at all. He looks pleased, like a guy who’s just worked out as if he was born to sweat, and punch, and kick other men’s asses. Like a guy who knows he’s getting the girl at the end of the day—or like a guy who knows he already has her. Even if she hasn’t said “I love you” yet. Even if she’s with the Tates. And Miles is still out in the world somewhere.

  “When are you leaving for Boston?” he asks me, taking my chin—just like that—and kissing me on the lips—just like that.

  I gulp. “Tomorrow.”

  My knees.

  My poor tingling toes.

  “Would you come with me?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come wi
th me to Boston, Reese. For semifinals.”

  “Like . . . travel with you?”

  He nods.

  My eyes widen. “I . . . YES.”

  “Text me your traveling info when you get to the hotel. I’ll get us both on the noon flight.”

  Me and him, together.

  I don’t even know how I’m going to make this happen. I just know I’m making this happen. Brooke is always so understanding, and Racer always sticks by his dad when they’re on the plane. I can’t even fathom the Tates denying me.

  He strokes the back of my head, then fists my hair in one hand as he draws me an inch closer. “I’ll take you to dinner, someplace nice. And I’ll drop you off at your hotel after.”

  I find myself nodding. “Okay.”

  “I’ll send you the confirmation.”

  “I’ll send you my info.”

  I should really probably stay away, but instead I lean forward and he steps closer, lifts me in his arms so that my mouth is leveled to his. And he kisses me, a toe-curling kiss that twists up my panties.

  He sets me down and pats my butt. “Go then. Text me.”

  “I will.”

  I head to the doors. And I steal one last glance at him over my shoulder. Maverick is standing in the same spot, and when I catch him staring possessively at my ass, it makes me start to love the Himalayas like never before.

  When I get to the hotel, I wait in the living room for the Tates to come back from their run. I hear Racer chattering outside and swing the door open.

  “Hey, guys,” I say with a broad smile.

  “Reese.” Remy brushes past me, carrying Racer up over his shoulders. Brooke pushes in the stroller and I help her fold it.

  “Hey, is it okay if I go to Boston on my own? I’m meeting up with a friend,” I tell her.

  She carries the stroller to lean it against a corner wall. “When do you get there?”

  “To the hotel? By ten p.m. Maybe we’ll grab early dinner too.”

  “It’s fine with us. Just tell your mother and it’s absolutely fine.”

  “No,” Racer decrees from the kitchen where he and Remy are scouring for food.

  “Racer, come on, let Reese enjoy her friend,” Brooke says, then she smiles and eyes me speculatively. “A boyfriend?”

  “I . . . no. Just a friend.”

  She smiles knowingly. “The guy back home?”

  “Wee comes with me on Wemy’s plane,” Racer keeps protesting.

  “Dad,” Brooke specifies. She groans and sends me a what-will-I-do-with-this-kid? look. “He hears us all call him Remy and he’s determined to call him that too. I’m going to have to start to call my own husband Daddy to see if it sticks.”

  I laugh.

  “Right, Daddy?” she calls as Remy lifts his head.

  “That’s right,” he says as he fishes out a gallon of milk and pours Racer a small cup and himself a big glass.

  I smile when Brooke joins them, then take out my penny and head to my room, kissing my lucky penny like a dope before I pull out my cell phone and text Maverick my info.

  THIRTY-THREE

  FIRST CLASS

  Maverick

  I’m wired today. Couldn’t sleep. Spent all night making our reservations, then picking the perfect restaurant in Boston to take Reese out.

  I texted her the confirmation number and flight times, and she replied, I’ll see you there

  My cock’s on fire today. My whole body is on fire today. My brain is on fire, my whole body buzzing in anticipation of fucking holding her, fucking looking at her, fucking making her mine again.

  I read the text again while I wait at the airport and wonder if she got held up at the security checkpoint. “You masturbate daily, Mav?” Oz asks to my right.

  “Yeah.”

  I’m hard. So what. She does that to me.

  “Do it more often.”

  I clench my hands at my sides and exhale, trying to get it to come down. We’re at the boarding terminal, Oz and I.

  I want to be alone with Reese, but I’m keeping a close eye on him too. Him and his “water.” I know it sure as heck isn’t water. But at least he’s cut it down some, now that I’m watching him so closely.

  I want him to be well. I want him to want to be well.

  “You won’t be able to take your hands off her. You need to woo a woman with your head, not with your cock.”

  “I’m bringing my best game, Oz. Really. I’m taking you both out to dinner. Someplace nice.”

  “So.” He pats the water bottle he mysteriously brought back from the men’s restroom a while ago, as if to make sure it’s in his jacket pocket. “Does Tate know she’s coming with you?”

  I remain silent.

  Tate is a touchy subject now. Oz hates that I train with him. He can go on for hours on what a bad idea it is to get in bed with the enemy, yada yada.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he answers himself. “Tate can go fuck himself. Or his hot wife.”

  “Oz . . .” I shoot him a warning look. “We respect Tate. And his wife. Right?”

  “Me?” Oz asks.

  “Come on, Oz; we’re professionals.”

  He frowns. “Tate’s gonna bust your face when he knows you’ve got it hard for his wife’s cousin.”

  “Tate fucking knows, all right? And he’s not stopping me.” I rub my palms on my jeans and I glance at the clock.

  The speakers flare up again for the second time: “Now boarding flight . . .”

  The line is diminishing by the second.

  I want to text her.

  I’m too proud to text her.

  I’m aware of Oz staring at me with an I-told-you-so look.

  I get up and pace, then lean against a pillar, hands inside my jeans as I scan the walkers heading in our direction. I wait a little longer.

  I text her.

  You ok?

  I call her. Voice mail picks up. “Reese? You all right? Call me.”

  I check my phone for messages, nothing. I check my ticket and I stare out at the plane window.

  Oz looks at me, the last man boarding.

  I shake my head.

  He sighs and heads inside.

  And I watch the plane taxi out. Watch it head to the line, and then watch it take off.

  The plane disappears on the horizon. I wait for two more hours. Dragging my hand through my hair, over and over. Then three hours.

  Four hours later, I head to the ticket counter and change my ticket to coach.

  Flying first class on my own just isn’t on my agenda.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  RACER

  Reese

  I’ve cried so much that now I’m hiccupping, curled in a blue chair in the hospital waiting room. Hiccupping and then, softly, to myself, crying again. There are a couple others in the waiting room. All much more composed than me, reading magazines and pretending they can’t hear me.

  I’ve been waiting here for an hour, or maybe two. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s been Groundhog Day for me for the past few hours. Except I’m reliving the same ten minutes over and over in my head.

  Racer.

  Us, playing with the trains while Brooke finished packing and came to relieve me and I could leave for the airport.

  More trains. Me, getting restless, looking at the time, the penny in my pocket.

  Racer, getting mad that one of the trains kept charging off the track.

  Me . . . fixing the track.

  Racer . . . very quiet behind me.

  Too quiet behind me.

  Not breathing behind me.

  “Hey.”

  I hear Remy’s voice and I jerk upright, wipe my tears, and set my feet down on the floor.

  He comes over. “He’s all right,” he says, low and even.

  He looks down at the penny in my palm, the penny that I had been staring at like some lost soul staring at a door that leads back home.

  I jam my penny into my jeans pocket—still haunted by the sight of th
e train with three wheels that had been sitting next to Racer as he choked on the fourth wheel.

  My hand trembles as I let go of my penny and pull out my hand, feeling my eyes start to water again. “I’m so sorry, Remy.” I force myself not to cry, but the stupid tears are slipping.

  When I yelled for help, Remy had turned Racer over but the train wheel seemed stuck in his windpipe. The ER was three blocks away, and I don’t think I breathed until we got here.

  “He’s all right. Okay?” He pats my shoulder in a fatherly way and heads back to check on Racer and Brooke.

  They come out soon, the three of them, and Racer sees me, then he turns away and buries his face in his dad’s neck. As if I’m some Judas. As if I failed him. Because I did.

  I can hardly look Brooke in the eye.

  “Brooke, I’m sorry.”

  She nods, her face red from all the tears she cried too.

  I wipe my tears and follow them outside, where Pete is pulling the SUV into the driveway. When they bring him into the car, I notice Racer’s not purple anymore, but his face is all red like Brooke’s and probably mine are.

  I want to squeeze Racer to me, but he still curls against his father’s chest and avoids my eyes. I think of Maverick’s chest for some odd reason, at a moment like this, and I would give his penny—the one he gave me that I never wanted to let go of—to have that chest right now for me to curl up against too.

  “I’m sorry you missed your flight,” Brooke says softly after a moment.

  I nod quietly.

  “Call Miles and meet him later,” she says.

  I realize at this moment that Brooke thinks I was traveling with Miles.

  “I don’t think . . .” I shake my head. “I just don’t know.” I don’t know about me and Miles.

  But what about me and Maverick?

  I’m disappointing the Tates, who’ve been nothing but good to me, over and over.

  I’ve been lying all this time, hiding behind their backs, because I’m so scared of anyone or anything taking Maverick away from me.

  Suddenly it all feels so dreary, suddenly I feel hopeless, and undeserving, and foolish to hope there could be something amazing and unexpected for me.

  “Did he take the flight to Boston?” she asks.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I left my phone at the hotel when we rushed to the hospital.” I look at my phone, now that Pete and Riley fetched our belongings from the hotel, and I really need to see him in person to say what I want to say.