Beef Cake

by Smartypants Romance

  “She wants to talk,” I mutter, running a hand down my face and then back up, smoothing the hair that’s tied back in a ponytail at the nape of my neck. To some people, this might seem like the worst kind of distraction, something I definitely don’t need going into a fight, but it’s the opposite for me.

  Her reaching out is the best stress reliever I could’ve asked for. I feel like I can breathe again, like there’s hope for us. It’s a light at the end of this dark tunnel I’ve been in for the past month.

  The only thing that would be better than these few words would be her right here by my side, but I can wait for that. I’ve waited this long—what’s another day?

  Quickly, I type out a response, letting her know I’m in Nashville. I don’t bring up the fight because I don’t know what kind of trigger it really is for her and until I know the details of what she’s dealing with, I don’t want to make matters worse.

  Me: I’ll text you as soon as I’m back in Green Valley.

  When I came to Tennessee a few months ago, I didn’t have any solid plans for how long I’d be here. All I knew was I wanted to train with Cage. Frankie was unexpected, but aren’t all the best things in life?

  The easy part is that I can choose anywhere in the world for a home base, and I choose her. Wherever Frankie is, as long as she’ll have me, that’s where I want to be.

  Is it too much? Too soon? Especially since I don’t even know her entire story? Maybe, but I can’t help my feelings and I can’t help what my heart wants.

  I’ve always been an all-or-nothing kind of person, and I know I want all of Frankie.

  Chapter 26

  Frankie

  It’s early, sometime between night and morning, and I’m pacing my living room—walking from one end to the other, stopping briefly to look out the window.

  Gunnar sent me a text fifteen minutes ago, letting me know he’d made it back to Green Valley and asked me to text him when I woke up. I was already awake and thinking of him, so I sent a text back right away telling him I wanted to talk whenever he could. I explained that my shift starts at eight, so anytime between now and then would works for me, unless he wanted to wait, to which he replied: Now??

  That sequence of events led to this—pacing.

  Glancing at the clock on the stove in the kitchen, which is visible from here, I see it’s almost three-thirty. I know he’ll be here. He said he would and he’s never given me a reason to doubt him, so why am I so nervous?

  Because it’s been a month.

  Because I have so much to tell him.

  Because I love him.

  Because I’m afraid he’ll decide this is all too much and tell me to have a nice life, but he’s going to have to pass.

  “Calm down, Frankie,” I mutter to myself, bringing my thumb up to my mouth to chew on my fingernail. “It’s going to be fine. He’s going to be here and you’re going to tell him everything you’ve been wanting to tell him and then you’ll deal with whatever happens next.”

  One of the things Samantha and I have been working on is overcoming avoidance. Apparently, I’ve used it for so long I don’t even realize when I’m doing it. In addition to deep breathing and focusing on relaxing when faced with something that’s uncomfortable, she wants me to basically talk myself down. I’m fine. I can do this. My favorite one is: no bad thing can last forever.

  Not even Razor Dennings.

  He’s on death row.

  That information actually helps me sleep better at night. When I wake from the nightmares—which I still have occasionally—I remind myself that he's no longer able to hurt me, my mother, or anyone else.

  After I texted Gunnar back last night for the first time in over a month, I felt a huge sense of relief.

  I could say I wish I’d done it sooner, but I wasn’t ready. A few weeks ago, I promised myself I wouldn’t reach out to him until I was, because he’s good and kind and generous and he deserves the best. He deserves my best.

  I’m still not quite there, but I’d like to continue to work on it. With him. If he’ll have me.

  Headlights flash through my front windows and I rush to the door. Nervous excitement courses through me along with another wave of relief. So much relief. He said he’d be here, and he is.

  If Samantha has helped me in any way, she’s made me more aware of myself, helping me realize what I need to feel safe—trust being the most important thing. Without trust, there’s no safety, and without safety, there’s no potential for a relationship.

  By Gunnar showing up here, he’s passed a test he didn’t even know he was taking.

  There’s a light tap on the door and I press my hand to it, bracing myself with a deep breath and another round of positive affirmation. I can do this. He deserves the truth. All my truths.

  After unlocking the door, I slowly open it, my heart beating faster with fears of the unknown. But I do it, and good God, am I happy I took the leap. He’s standing on my front porch with a pensive expression, hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans, with a white t-shirt on top and freshly washed hair . . . and it’s the best thing I’ve seen in over a month. There’s a fresh bruise on his right cheek. I knew he was in Nashville for a fight, but that evidence makes me pause for a second.

  But he’s here, and that’s all I need right now.

  My chest expands and deflates with a much-needed breath as I try to control my emotions. Part of me wants to cry while the other part wants to laugh. It’s an odd combination and I don’t really know what to do with it. Thankfully, Gunnar saves me from myself. “Hi, Frankie.”

  His words hit me like a ton of bricks and I sag against the door, letting it hold up my weary body.

  I didn’t know how badly I’ve needed to hear him—and see him—until right this second. And now I’m wondering how I’ve made it so long without him.

  “Come inside,” I say, standing back and giving him space. When he steps across the threshold, his broad chest brushes my shoulder and I close my eyes and inhale. His familiar scent feels like a balm on my worn emotions. When he leans down and brushes a soft kiss on my cheek, I lean into it.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “So much.”

  We stand there, barely touching, just breathing each other in for what feels like minutes but is probably more like seconds. When he finally moves past me, into the living room, I shut the door and press my back against it. “Thanks for coming over.”

  He huffs out a laugh, brushing his hand through his hair. It’s exactly how I like it—loose, gorgeous, and so Gunnar. It’s the version of himself that I feel belongs to me. “I’ve been waiting on that text for a month. If I hadn’t been in Nashville, I would’ve come sooner.”

  I give him a small smile, wincing a bit at the hint of pain in his tone. “I’m sorry for not texting you back sooner,” I start, pushing off the door. “I just wasn’t ready . . .”

  “Don’t apologize,” he says, taking a step toward me before stopping short, and I hate that there’s an imaginary barrier between us. The familiarity we’d adapted to so quickly is gone. Gunnar no longer feels like he can reach out and touch me—brush my arm, tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, pull me into a hug, place a kiss on my forehead—without permission.

  I did that.

  And there’s only one way to undo it.

  “Want to sit down?” I ask, knowing I’ll need the support of my couch to get through this. No way can I stand here and bare my soul without wavering. “I can make us some coffee or tea . . .”

  I want to offer a shot of vodka, but that might not be a good idea. Liquor makes me emotional and I don’t need any help in that area at the moment.

  “Coffee sounds good,” Gunnar says, rubbing his palms together like he needs something to do. I can only imagine how hard it is for him to get rid of all the extra adrenaline after a fight. “Want me to help?”

  “Sure.” Normally, I’d say no, never feeling like I needed or wanted help, but not right now. I want Gunnar’s help. I
want him close.

  After walking into the kitchen, Gunnar fills the coffee pot with water while I scoop the coffee. We work in tandem and it feels natural. Again, the feeling that trumps everything else is relief. That connection I felt hasn’t waned; if anything it’s strengthened, and I’m grateful.

  Maybe we have a chance after all.

  Maybe I have a chance.

  Leaning against the counter, I face Gunnar and go for something easy to break the ice. “Have you been to Daisy’s lately?”

  He gives me a side smile, shaking his head. “No.”

  My stomach drops at that. “Is it because of me? Were you—”

  “Cage made me cut out carbs,” he says, cutting me off. “And, I didn’t feel right going without you.”

  Peering up at him through my lashes, I watch him for a moment, taking him in. Those eyes, and that face . . . that perfectly imperfect face—and he lets me, doing the same in return.

  It doesn’t feel uncomfortable or weird, and after a minute or so, I realize we’re basically doing one of Samantha’s homework tasks without even planning it, which makes me laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, making his muscles flex on their own accord.

  Shaking my head, I think about deflecting, of avoiding, but then I catch myself. “I’ve been going to therapy,” I blurt out, biting down on the corner of my lip. When he doesn’t respond to that and just continues to watch me, hanging on my every word and movement, I continue. “Samantha, my therapist, gave me some homework. Most of it sounded awkward and uncomfortable, but this,” I motion between us, “it’s kind of part of it.”

  “Standing across from each other?” He cocks his head in curiosity.

  Nodding, I add, “And staring at each other for three minutes.”

  “Oh,” Gunnar kicks off the counter, like he’s preparing for an athletic feat. “We can totally do this.”

  His competitiveness comes shining through. I have to guess that’s what has kept him coming back every time I’ve pushed him away. I’m sure there’s more to it . . . I hope it’s more than him refusing to lose, but that has definitely helped him be so persistent.

  Walking over to the microwave, he sets the timer. “Let’s do this.”

  “You don’t have to,” I tell him, even though I secretly want to. I still think it’s kind of weird, but I want to know that we can do the simple things, so hopefully, we can build on them.

  “I want to,” he says, shaking his head like I’m crazy. “Staring at you is my favorite pastime. It’s not a hardship. Let’s do this,” he repeats, positioning himself across from me, one hand on the start button. “Ready?”

  Nodding, I uncross my arms and settle against the cabinet. “Ready.”

  There’s a beep and then Gunnar’s eyes are on mine and we stand there, holding each other’s gaze. During the first half a minute or so, I fight the urge to look away, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. But then, I settle into it and it goes from feeling like a weight to a warm, comforting embrace.

  And now I want a hug. But not just any hug—I want his.

  Gunnar’s eyes flick briefly to my lips but immediately back to my eyes and I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me, because that’s what I think of when I look in his eyes.

  At some point, time stands still and we share silent conversation.

  I’m glad you're here.

  Thank you for texting me.

  I missed you.

  When the timer goes off, we don’t stop staring, but Gunnar eventually smiles. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Shaking my head, I reply, “No, not hard at all.”

  “What other homework has she given you?” he asks, sounding eager to mark everything off the list in one fell swoop. I bet he’s always been an overachiever.

  “How about we talk first?”

  His expression falls a little, probably feeling the same uncertainty and dread I am, but we both know this is how it has to happen. A relationship can’t be built on half-truths and avoidance. My mother can attest to that. And that’s not how I choose to live my life, not anymore.

  I pour two cups of coffee, leaving one black for me and adding two scoops of cream and one scoop of sugar for Gunnar. Like him, I’ve paid attention. When I hand it to him, he immediately takes a tentative sip, smiling his approval.

  “Here, or in there?” I ask, giving him the option of where we sit. I know how important it is now to have at least a small amount of control in uncertain situations.

  “Couch?”

  “Okay.”

  He leads the way and we both take opposite sides, putting a little distance between us, which is good. I need it if I’m going to get through all of this.

  Clearing my throat, I glance down at the cup of coffee in my lap and realize this is similar to when my mother and I had our talk. Except now, I’m the one delivering the bad stuff. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach makes me wince.

  “Frankie?” Gunnar asks, drawing my attention back up to him. “Are you okay? If you don’t—”

  “No,” I say, cutting him off. No to whatever he was going to say, whatever out he was getting ready to give me. I don’t need it. What I need is to get this out in the open so it can be behind us, instead of between us. “I need to do this. I want to.”

  After I take a sip of my coffee and use the heat to clear my head a little, I start.

  “First, I think you should know that my nightmares are real,” I say, figuring this is the best way to start. Since Gunnar was there for a couple of them, it’s the easiest way to lay the groundwork for what’s to come. “My father was Razor Dennings. You probably don’t know of him, but he’s currently on death row for twenty-four counts of murder.”

  When I glance up at Gunnar, his jaw is clenched, but he’s doing his best to maintain a neutral expression. I can see the restraint in his eyes.

  “When my mom got pregnant with me, she thought we’d be a family, but she was wrong.”

  I continue telling Gunnar about Razor and my mother and every horrible, sordid detail, leaving nothing out. He deserves to know, and quite frankly, it actually feels good to air it out to someone who isn’t my mother or my therapist. It feels like I’m sharing the burden, and if anyone can carry that weight, it’s Gunnar.

  “He cut me,” I finally say, getting to the part that’s the hardest to digest. “Not just me, he cut all of his children. By the time my mother was sober enough to do anything about it, I had these.” Lifting my shirt, I point out the scars he’s already seen. “Thankfully, I don’t remember it. I don’t want to. My therapist told me there are ways to regain repressed memories, but I choose not to. It’s not out of avoidance, but because I don’t feel like it would help me at this point in my life.”

  Gunnar shifts and I meet his eyes. They look as pained as I feel. Telling him takes some of the weight off my chest, but I hate that I’m now burdening him with this truth. But if there’s a chance of us having a future, he needs to know about my past.

  The strangest sensation washes over me, and I find myself reaching across the couch. Wanting to take away his pain or maybe share my own, I stretch my hand out to him and he greedily accepts. “I’m so sorry, Frankie, for all of it. If I could take it all away, I would.”

  “The part I started remembering at the end, about my mother . . . that was all real, too. He beat her, and it wasn’t until the night of the fight that I really started to see more of those memories. I wish they would’ve stayed repressed too.”

  But do I?

  If they had, would I know the truth now?

  Maybe not.

  “What can I do to make it better?” he asks, squeezing my hand. “Tell me—anything, whatever you need. I’ll do it.”

  “You’re doing it,” I assure him. “Just being here, being you. This is what I need.”

  We sit there for a few more moments, letting it all sink in, and Gunnar continues to hold my hand, stroking his thumb ag
ainst my skin. “Don’t you have to leave for work in a few hours?” he finally asks.

  “Yeah.” Glancing at the clock, I see it’s been almost an hour since Gunnar got here. My chest feels lighter and my mind clearer than it’s been in a long time. “I have to leave by seven thirty.”

  “You should try to get a couple hours of sleep,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper—so gentle, so caring. “I’ll go and come back—”

  “Stay.” It’s not really a request, more of a demand, and it takes me back to the first night we spent together. I’m just as desperate for his touch, but for entirely different reasons. That night, I’d needed his strength and comfort.

  Tonight, I just need him.

  As we lie in bed, Gunnar’s arms wrapped around me, I quietly tell him about everything else he’s missed in the last month—bits and pieces of therapy, Lisa and Allie showing back up, the improvements to the shelter funded by the money raised from the benefit.

  Eventually, we both doze off, and I don’t have a nightmare, only dreams of sea-glass eyes.

  Chapter 27

  Gunnar

  Vince is giving me a nice workout today. He even gets in a few uppercuts, but I blame the beautiful distraction in the corner of the room.

  As part of Frankie’s therapy, she started coming to the studio a couple days a week as part of an immersion exercise Samantha wanted her to try. When I chance a glance her way, she touches her pointer finger to her nose, giving me a small smile.

  That’s our sign, the one that tells me she’s fine.

  When she started coming here, I needed a way to know she wasn’t suffering in silence. So, we came up with something easy and discreet. If she pulls on her ear, that means she needs a break. It’s only happened once. Her first time here, she got overwhelmed and we bailed. Instead of sparring with Vince that day, I took Frankie across the street for one of Tempest’s muffins.