by Quinn, Cari
She didn’t answer right away. In the silence, I continued checking out the apartment, my gaze eventually landing on the upright piano wedged into the next room. It had to be a bedroom, judging by the size of the apartment and the cost of things in New York, yet all I could see was the piano and the papers strewn all over the glossy, black top.
“Whose piano is that?”
I glimpsed a glass of wine sitting atop it. Glass of something. A year ago, I would’ve been able to make out the color of the liquid at fifty paces. Now I could barely tell there was a glass.
“You’re asking a lot of questions, Walsh.” Abby walked into the next room, her hips swaying in a sinuous way I didn’t remember.
Had she always moved like that and I just hadn’t been paying attention? Or maybe I was so freaking starved for female contact I couldn’t think straight with her rich vanilla scent wrapping around me.
Rather than follow her, I turned to the TV and DVR. If she wanted to shut me out, fine. But I wasn’t going home empty-handed. I’d come to talk to Slater. If I had to wait all night, I would.
I popped in a DVD and messed around with the remote until I tuned it to the right channel. Then I sat down on the couch, leaning forward to try to decipher the action. The angles sucked. The footage was grainy and choppy and clearly had come from a handheld camera, possibly even a phone. With my fucked-up vision, I could hardly make out the fighters’ faces. I rose and moved forward, planting my ass on the coffee table to get a better view. When even that didn’t help enough, I hit the zoom button on the remote, blowing the action up to one-and-a-half times its size.
And then I saw my brother hunched over a blond guy slumped in one corner, guzzling water. Slater had a towel around his neck and pushed a mouth guard between the fighter’s lips, offering muffled words of encouragement.
“You can do it, man. You’ve got this. I don’t back losers.”
Don’t back? What did that mean? Slater wasn’t some kind of trainer…or coach. And the fight sure didn’t look like the glitzy ones I occasionally streamed. This one seemed to be taking place in an abandoned warehouse, and there were folding chairs and some kind of graffiti symbols on the wall.
Footsteps sounded behind me and I turned, but I wasn’t fast enough in clicking off the picture. She’d caught me, and I felt more embarrassed about my vision than if she’d come upon me with my hand down my damn pants.
“Liam, what’s wrong with your eyes?”
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Sneak Attack
CHAPTER ONE
Mia
“How do you like living with your boyfriend?”
I stared at my therapist, wondering if a reasonable answer to her question would appear if I tried to read between the lines on her forehead. “Well, I appreciate the easy access to sex.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Dr. Phelps didn’t so much as blink. She was either used to me and my blunt honesty, or else she’d heard just about everything.
I suspected a little from column A, plenty from column B.
“How are things otherwise?” she asked.
“He’s only lived with me for ten days. It’s a little soon to tell.”
Tray was only staying with me while he searched for a new place. His latest fight with his father had led to him moving out of the apartment building his dad owned, something he claimed was long overdue. I suspected more had happened than just a simple argument, since the tension between him and his parents tended to be stifling at best and downright choking at worst. But I didn’t push for the truth because I didn’t want him to push me.
Not the best reasoning, probably.
Considering the lack of affordable apartments available on little notice in New York City, he’d be with me for a while. This didn’t worry me at all. I was totally chill about the whole thing. It was just a coincidence that I’d almost gnawed my thumbnail to a bloody stump upon hearing the news that he’d be living with me—even temporarily.
“Still, you must have some early impressions.”
“Yes. My apartment is way too small for three people, especially when one of them takes up almost all of my bed. Then there’s the dog.”
“You don’t like dogs?”
“I love dogs, Veyron especially. But he’s huge and his tail is always knocking shit off my coffee table. Plus, he has to pee a lot. A lot,” I repeated. Just that morning, Vey had made me take him out before dawn. Technically, he’d tried to wake up Tray, but Tray hadn’t budged.
My boyfriend was many things. An early riser by choice wasn’t one of them.
“Mmm-hmm. You’re not used to having to make new arrangements to cohabitate.”
“My sister lives with me too, so that’s not exactly true. We’ve cohabitated for eight months now, and no one’s lost any blood yet.” Yep, there was my snark, right on time.
“That’s a bit different than a love relationship.”
“True. Carly’s never tried to put me in a headlock if I took the last piece of cheese.”
Sighing, Dr. Phelps set down her pen and propped her chin on her perfectly manicured hand. Her nails were long, rounded, and mauve. Mauve, for God’s sake.
I’d entered the sixteenth realm of hell.
“Mia, is there a reason that you continually put up walls between us during our sessions? I want to help you, but you need to help me do that.”
I kicked out my jean-clad legs and studied the diagonal tear on my right knee. Mine weren’t ripped in deference to current fashion. I’d gotten that tear fencing. In my bedroom. With my boyfriend.
We had non-traditional interests. So sue us.
“I guess I don’t get why I need to discuss Tray’s living arrangements as part of my therapy. Obviously, I don’t mind spending time with him, or I wouldn’t have bruises on my hips.”
“I’m assuming you’re referring to your preference for rough sexual contact.”
“Actually, no, I was referring to the fact that I let him pin me three times yesterday and didn’t break any of his limbs or pull out any of his pretty blond hair.” I glanced at my watch and tried not to cringe at her casual reference to my sexual kinks. The day I’d brought up my proclivities—in passing, I might add—I must’ve had heat stroke. “I think the hour’s up.”
“Not quite. Ten minutes remain on the clock.”
“Oh, goody.” I shifted my attention to the row of shiny framed degrees on the beige wall. “What if I was referring to rough sexual contact? What’s the BFD? I like it, he likes it, we’re not breaking enough furniture to end up on the news. I don’t see the problem.”
“If you didn’t suspect it might be one, you never would’ve mentioned it.”
“That’s incorrect. You saw the bruises on my wrists and asked if I’d started fighting again.”
“You’ve expressed interest.”
“I have.” I looked at my own lackluster non-manicure. My cuticles were ragged, and the coat of dark purple polish I’d let Carly talk me into had nearly worn off. “But it doesn’t matter, since it’s not going to happen. Tray doesn’t want me to do it.”
Hearing myself, I nearly growled. Since when I had become the kind of chick to let her boyfriend’s wishes influence her behavior?
Oh, yeah, since I’d fallen stupidly in love with a guy who knew exactly how to get his way with me every time. That was when.
“Tray doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
“No. Although I never got seriously hurt when I was fighting, unlike him. But he knows I wouldn’t be satisfied just fighting the lightweight female fighters.”
“You still harbor a need to fight a male?”
“I’m not harboring a need.” I slouched deeper into the couch’s plush cushions. If my own couch was that plumped up, I’d probably leave the bed to Tray entirely and duke it out with my sister for the sofa.
My apartment was just too freaking small for three people with big personalities. And in Tray’s case, massive shoulders
.
“A yen then, we’ll say. You walked away from mixed martial arts because Tray did.”
“No, not entirely.” God, I couldn’t lose that defensive edge to my voice. Why did I keep paying money I did not have to talk with the doc every week? She wasn’t helping me. The rhododendron my sister had bought for the apartment helped me as much, mainly because the plant didn’t use dopey words like yen to describe underground cage fighting.
I didn’t have a yen. Hell no. The desire to match my wits and my body against an opponent in the ring didn’t fall under some cute New Age-y term. Fighting made me feel alive. I conquered my fears every time I kicked out or punched. The blood and bruises were just bonuses.
“Then why did you walk away?”
“Because that was always the plan.” I jerked a shoulder. “I only started fighting to make money for me and Carly to start over somewhere new.” That was what I’d told myself, anyway. “It was never supposed to turn into—”
“An obsession?” Dr. Phelps asked gently.
“No,” I snapped. “An…avocation. I don’t need to fight. Obviously, I can live without it, since I haven’t done it in a professional capacity since February.”
“And now it’s September.”
I didn’t toss back a sarcastic response, though it was a close thing. “Last time I checked.”
“How often do you and Tray spar in private?”
“I don’t see how that has any bearing on anything.”
“Humor me.” Dr. Phelps offered me a thin smile that nudged my annoyance even higher. Smug, self-righteous, know-it-all doctors weren’t going to heal my messed-up head.
If I hadn’t already known I had masochistic tendencies, my insistence on remaining in therapy proved it.
“Do you count when we spar as a prelude to fucking or just as part of an actual workout session?” I asked, blinking innocently.
She didn’t flinch. “Both.”
Christ. This woman. “I don’t know. We fight a lot, okay? But it’s not destructive. We don’t actually hurt each other.” Much.
“Those bruises said otherwise.”
“Bruises feel good to me. I know you think that’s more evidence of my psychosis, but whatever. He’s a hell of a lot more balanced than I am and he feels the same, so what does that say to you?”
He didn’t completely feel the same. Even knowing that, I continued to push him outside his comfort zone. That weighed on me, along with everything else.
“It says to me that you and Trayherne are very well-matched.”
The sound I made in my throat bordered on a snarl. I’d come a long way in the eight months since I’d met Tray, but I was no one’s prize. Least of all my own.
Dr. Phelps continued to smile. Her lips were mauve too. That only made me dislike her more. I’d never had mauve anything. If I wore makeup, it was nail polish a shade away from black and enough eyeliner to sink a boy band. Pastels were not my friend.
God, I needed to go.
“Yet you appear even more edgy since he’s moved in,” she continued, oblivious to my reaction. No surprise there.
“It’s an adjustment, but it’s only temporary. He’ll be gone soon.”
Deep down, I wasn’t so sure. Not if he really would be leaving, or if I wanted him to. Then again, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stay.
Nine months ago, I hadn’t had to deal with any of this. I’d never even been on a real date. Now I had a sexy guy in my bed, on my couch, eating my licorice. Leaving his razor on my sink and his shorts on my floor.
It was as scary as it was wonderful. Forget scary. Try terrifying to someone who was fighting a battle every day to be normal. Just normal.
Normal people didn’t crave pain. They didn’t want to wrap up their hands and beat the hell out of things only to get whaled on in return. They didn’t beg for their boyfriend to hold their wrists so tightly while they fucked them that the bruises lasted for weeks. Did they?
I didn’t know, because I’d never been anywhere close to typical in any way.
“Mmm-hmm.” Dr. Phelps consulted her pad. “And what about the bothersome phone calls? Are you still getting them?”
“Occasionally.” I picked at my nails. “Hardly ever.” If hardly ever counted as twice a day without fail.
“Have you considered that Tray is worried you may have become some sort of target? That perhaps that is why he decided to move in now?”
“Target of what?”
“You tell me.”
“I can’t, because I don’t know what you’re insinuating.” As usual.
One thing I did know was that Tray couldn’t think I was a target of anything because he didn’t know about the phone calls. Between school, his two jobs, and the stress with his parents, he didn’t need for me to unload my crap on him too. Besides, this wasn’t important. A little pointless harassment wasn’t worth dredging up the past we’d tried so hard to put behind us.
Perhaps there wasn’t even a link. Random crackpots still existed, right? The fact that I’d attracted two in the last decade was just happenstance. Or maybe my unusualness acted as a kind of bug light to all the crazies.
“Your case received a good amount of attention. Are there any significant anniversaries coming up?” She consulted her file. “It’s been around seven years, correct?”
I could give her months, days, weeks. I’d probably figure out the minutes tonight if insomnia continued to kick my ass. I had nothing better to do with the empty hours than count and listen to Tray breathe.
And wonder how many times I could screw up and he would still love me.
“My case, as you called it, has nothing to do with this. A few crank calls don’t mean squat.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I just am.”
She sighed. “You’re positive no important dates related to the case are coming up? There are those who thrive off of resuscitating pain, especially if it might bring them notoriety.”
Didn’t I know that. I’d known it the first time I started receiving the phone calls, more than three years ago. They’d led me to leave my aunt’s home in upstate New York and disappear into New York City. I’d legally changed my name to Mia, which I’d hoped would discourage any news gawkers while preserving my family connection through my last name. My parents were gone, but I wasn’t ready to let go of that link to the Andersons.
For a while, all had been quiet. Now the calls had started again.
In three weeks, it would be eight years since I’d been taken. Three months after that, it would be eight years since I’d saved my own life by slitting my captor’s throat.
No, there weren’t any anniversaries of my hell to mark. Except the ones that existed with every beat of my heart.
“No.” I reached up to touch my earrings. Tray had given them to me, and I’d never taken them off. Never would. “The dates are off.” Not by much, but I refused to acknowledge the possibility that the sludge of my past might try to suck me back down again.
“Perhaps someone took note of you when you began fighting. A fan, perhaps. Have you considered—”
“I’m not considering anything. Sometimes a hang-up call is just a hang-up call. Not everything that smells like shit is an asshole.”
Dr. Phelps folded her hands over her pad. “Mia, if your safety is at risk, burying your head in the sand isn’t an intelligent move. You’re a smart girl, despite what you insist on telling yourself in your self-talk.”
Self-talk, my ass.
“Is the hour up yet?” I pretended not to hear the plaintive note in my question. I wasn’t desperate to leave that sterile beige box surrounded by degrees and leather furniture and thriving plants. No way. I just needed to…grocery shop.
We were out of milk since Tray kept draining every carton I bought. That was a legitimate need. No one would think I was crazy because I had a yen to buy milk. That was much more reasonable than my yen to get beat up all to shit.
Fucking A.
Back on that again. “Say what?”
“Do you fuck violently because it satisfies your need to fight?”
The pleasant tone fooled me for a full thirty seconds until the good doc’s question permeated my brain. “I’m pretty sure I fuck for the same reasons everyone else does. I might be broken in a lot of ways, but I still have basic physical desires.”
That knowledge had caused me plenty of heartache last winter, but the last eight months had changed me. Tray had changed me. As much as I might sometimes want to brain the guy with one of Carly’s slotted spoons, I couldn’t deny all the ways he’d helped bring me closer to the regular person zone.
Closer was the most I could hope for. Even that was a freaking miracle.
“There are more reasons to copulate than physical needs.”
From sexual activity to fucking to copulation. My head was spinning. “I know that. Some people just use it as an excuse to spoon. Or spork. Or whatever the hell it’s called.”
“But not you.”
“I don’t like getting hot when I sleep.” I pushed to my feet. “Look, Doc, awesome sesh. I’ll see you next—” Lifetime. Century. Millennia. “Week,” I finished, bending to grab my backpack.
Dr. Phelps rose. “I’d like to ask you again to reconsider having Tray join us.”
I stopped dead and shot her a glare over my shoulder. “Why? He’s fine. He’s not like me.” No one was.
“I think your relationship could benefit from couples’ counseling. What one partner endures affects the other. You said he went through some troubles of his own. Perhaps if you shared your difficulties together, you could reach a new level of understanding. With my help, of course.”
