Beautiful and Broken (11 page)

"For what?"
 

"In case you're some crazy ex-girlfriend or something."

"Please. How often does that happen?"

He smirks. "More than you'd think."

Fantastic.
 

Sawyers swings his arm around and hooks his opponent, who partially blocks it. The guy jabs him over and over, hitting Sawyer's forearms. They continue to dance around the ring, moving in a slow circle. When his gaze meets mine, his bouncing stops. That’s when he takes an upper cut to the jaw. His head snaps back and he crumbles to the floor.
 

Shit.
 

They take him into an infirmary, one I'm told is only for the elite members of the gym, i.e. the professional athletes and celebrities, which apparently Sawyer is. To me, he's just a guy that I can’t seem to get away from. They have a paramedic on staff who waves some smelling salts in front of Sawyer’s nose. Sawyer tries to sit up but the medic holds his shoulder.

"Easy, you took quite the punch,” the medic says.

"Fuck you. I'm fine." The muscles in his jaw tighten as he clenches and unclenches his jaw.

"You should really go to a hospital to get checked out."

"Thanks, but no thanks." He raises an ice pack up to his chin.
 

The medic turns to me and leaves the room, realizing quite quickly that no amount of convincing is going to change this guy's mind. Plus Sawyer's a professional fighter, and his face is burning with anger.
 

Sawyer hasn't even noticed me yet. I stand to the side of him, half in the room, half out. I should leave. Give him a moment. He turns and our gazes meet. He cast his eyes to the ground.
 

"I distracted you. I'm sorry," I say.

His eyes flash up and his stare deepens, making me feel uncomfortable. He looks like he wants to hurt someone—maybe me. I wasn’t exactly nice to him the last time I saw him. And the guy could probably break me with his pinkie.
 

Slowly, I approach him. I open my briefcase and pull out some papers. "I've done some research on the properties Dina suggested. Most of them are sold, but there a couple still available and I found some more houses in your price range that I thought maybe you’d like, based on the other ones suggested.”

“I’m confused.”

I swallow hard. This isn't going to be easy, and given his mood I wonder if I should try at all to get him to take me on again. I want to walk away, but financially, I'd be a fool to do that.

After handing him the papers, I take a step back. His eyes are glued to my face.
 

“I have a hunch you might like the property on Rosemont. It’s—”
 

"You said you'd never work with me."

"I've had time to think about it and I've changed my mind."

He flips through the pages. My gaze washes over his face, to the slight purple coloring already starting on his chin. I can't even imagine how badly it must hurt. Not only did he take a hit, he fell—hard. I've never seen anything like it before.
 

He drops the papers down onto the gurney. "What changed your mind?"

I sigh. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it does. People's motivations interest me. They tell me a lot about a person."

He wants me to grovel, and I’m not about to do that. Screw him. I'll live on food stamps if I have to. Move back into my room with the Justin Timberlake posters on my walls. Still, I'll answer his question if only to be polite.
 

"I could use the commission check."

He smiles, but it doesn't touch his face or his eyes. "Right. The almighty dollar."

"Whatever you think that says about me, you're wrong. This is a business arrangement. You get a house, I get a commission check, then we can walk away from each other and never see each other again."

"A means to an end?" he says quietly.
 

"Exactly."
 

"Fine." Gently, he touches the end of his jaw and moves it back and forward. "What have we got to lose, right?"

What have we got to lose? Nothing. The situation is win-win, yet I feel as if I've been cornered and a trap is being lowered over my head.
 

He slides off the gurney and lumbers past me. I can smell a hint of his aftershave intermixed with sweat, and my muscles tense again. This guy is pure sex and I need to be careful of him—not that I think he wants a repeat performance. Quite the opposite. Today, I think he might like me about as much as I like him: not much at all. Still, he's taken me back, and his reasoning doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he did.
 

A few days of house hunting and it will all be over. I can get on with my life, cash my large commission check and move on.
 

A means to an end. We’re agreed.

Nine

HE SHOWERS IN one of the closed stalls in the co-ed locker room while I sit and wait. Or I should I say while I talk to my mother, who wants to know about the progress I’m making with Jason. It hurts me how much she wants Jason and me to work out. I mean, why couldn’t she tell me I deserve better? Maybe she thinks I don’t.
 

A man who looks a little less ripped than Sawyer walks out of one of the changing rooms and smiles at me, but I ignore him.
 

“Mom, I’ll let you know,” I tell her for the thirtieth time.

“I don’t see what the problem is. Now you know your sister initiated the kiss, all should be forgotten. You can get back together.”

“It’s not that simple,” I tell her after a long sigh.

“Well, simplify it then.”

“I can’t do this right now, Mom. I’m working.”

Mom clucks her tongue and it feels as if she’s working her way under my skin, even on the phone. “This job is a phase, Molly. You’re so much better than a real estate agent.”

I hold the phone directly in front of my mouth and grit my teeth. “I’m going.”
 

Sawyer struts into the locker room in a towel. He heads to a locker, opens it and removes his towel, leaving me slack-jawed and staring at his smooth, dimpled ass and rock hard thighs. I can’t take my eyes off of him. I gulp and cross my legs. When my gaze travels up his smooth back and shoulders I find him looking over his shoulder, smirking at me.
 

I frown at him.
 

“Are you listening to me, Molly?” My mother says through the phone. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”

“I’m serious. You need to call him and have a heart to heart.”

Sawyer steps into his underwear—black briefs—and pulls them up over his ass. I tip my head to the side, taking him in, all six feet of him. Then I catch myself and turn and look away. He’s too much of a distraction.

I press end and turn off my phone before tossing it in my bag.
 

“How’s your mother?” he asks, the smile evident in his voice as he slides into a t-shirt. He’s mocking me and I want to wipe the smile off his face after I lick it. Wait. What?
 

“Fine.”

“Are you two close?”

I shrug, though he’s not paying attention to me. I don’t want to talk to him about my mother or anything that relates to my personal life. Casual is about all I can stand with a guy this irresistible, a guy this dangerous. I’ve been burned by a good guy; what would a guy like this do to me? Rip my heart out and hand it to me, that’s what.
 

“I suppose. You? Are you close with your mother?”

He snorts and steps into his jeans. They fit him so nicely I wonder if they’ve been tailored just for him, hugging body in all the right places. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“My mother and I...have our differences.”

“Don’t we all? I swear mothers were put on this Earth just to frustrate their children.”

He turns and frowns before turning back to his locker and slamming it shut. “Can you drive?”
 

“Sure.” I raise my eyebrows.

He points to his face. “Medic thinks I have a concussion. He suggested I don’t drive for the next twenty-four hours. Just in case.”

“Good thinking.”
 

We head out of the locker room and to the parking lot. He walks a few steps behind me, making me feel self-conscious. I hope he’s not staring at my ass or something. Still, I keep my head up and hope he likes the view. It’s weird I should feel this way considering he’s already seen me naked, touched me, been inside of me…and here we are, acting like complete strangers. I still haven’t decided if he remembers me or not.
 

I hurry to my car and fiddle with the handle before I manage to get it open. As I’m about to get in, Sawyer stands on the opposite side of the car with his hands folded on the hood. He stares at me and taps on the hood with his fist. "Wow. This is quite the car."

"I don't earn an obscene amount of money to play games,” I say, without bothering to keep the judgment from my voice. And I refuse to take money from my parents, even though they look at my car with the same sort of disdain and have tried to buy me a car in the past. But I find with presents from my parents, there are usually strings attached.
 

He chuckles. "Games? Boxing is a sport. There's a difference."

“Yeah. A sport where the purpose is to beat the shit out of each other.”

He shakes his head. "Everyone has something they’re good at. For me, it’s fighting. I’ve had a lot of practice in my life. And I make good money doing it."

I bite at my lip, trying to stop myself from being interested, but I can’t seem to stop myself from opening my mouth. I lean into the car and fold my hands across the roof. “Practice? Like, growing up?”
 

“Forget it. It’s not important.”
 

“I’m curious.”

“Well, in that case, let me spill my life story.” He smirks at me.

I sigh at him.
 

“I had a smart mouth and a bad temper. If I didn’t start fights then people would have beat me to it.”

Huh. A bad boy, probably. Mad at the world. I doubt he's much different now, and I have the stitches to prove it. I touch them without thinking.
 

“Speaking of fighting, care to tell me why you and that guy were fighting when I foolishly tried to intervene?”

“No.”

I point to my head. “Don’t you think I deserve to know, considering.”

He props his hands on his hips and tips his head back, sighing. When his head lowers he gazes at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “I slept with his girlfriend.”

“Of course you did.”

“Really? And you know me so well.”

“I know you better than you think.”

I plop inside, and so does he. His head stretches up, almost to the ceiling. After adjusting the seat further back he doesn’t look so cramped.

“Sorry. I don’t really need a big car,” I say.

“No. This is fine.”

He taps the strawberry air freshener attached to my rear view mirror.
 

"Is this supposed to help?" he asks.

"What is that supposed to mean?"
 

"I mean it smells worse than my lucky underwear. You got some rotting socks under the seat?”

“You have lucky underwear?”

“I wear them for all my fights.”

“Do they stand up on their own?”

He chuckles.

“Well, feel free to take a cab if you don’t like the smell. I can give you the address, if you’d like,” I tell him.
 

"Anyone ever tell you how pleasant you are?" he asks.
 

"Yeah. Constantly." I try not to be offended by his comment, but the truth is, I am. Before Jason ruined me I was a really happy person. Nice. Always laughing and a smile on my face. It bothers me that I’m acting bitchy, even though he deserves it. I should be able to put his shortcomings aside and act like a professional, but then, it’s hard to act professional with a guy you had a one-night stand with.
 

I stare at his blank face and take a deep breath. He's right. I'm not being very nice and I can't seem to help myself. There's something about him that I just can't stand. He's a player, and at this point in my life I don't want anything to do with guys like him and my ex. But I also know he might be the one guy who can answer some of my burning questions.

“Why do guys have to sleep around?”

He scratches his head and gazes at me, his lips tight but also slightly upturned as if I amuse him. “That’s an awfully personal question.”

“Forget it. It’s just I’d like to know—why?” Or more importantly, why guys cheat. “Is one girl not enough?”

He shrugs his shoulders as he thinks about it. “I suppose it depends on the girl. And the guy.”

“Yeah. I suppose it does.” Which matters more, though? The guy feeling unsatisfied or the girl not being enough? Because in my case, I can’t help but feel that it was me. I only wish he’d realized it much sooner in our relationship before I cared for him so much that losing him almost crippled me. “You know what, forget I said anything.” I turn the ignition and slam the car into drive.

“Look, I’m not sure what you want me to say here.”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I was just thinking out loud.”

Feeling scattered I speed out of the hotel parking lot, almost clipping an oncoming car. Shit.
 

"Fuck," he says.
 

I weave in and out of traffic. A few drivers attempt to cut me off, but I manage to I slip in front of them. Sawyer pulls his seatbelt across and snaps it into place. I roll my eyes at him; I never do anything that will actually get me in an accident, although I've come close.
 

"Don't tell me that whatever sports car you have, you drive it like a grandmother."

“I might drive fast, but I’m safe.
You’re
going to get us killed.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”
 

He looks out his window and clears his throat, before rubbing at the scruff on his chin. It bothers me that he has something to say and won't share it. I'm sure it's very critical, and I almost want him to spill so we can fight. I like fighting with him more than I care to admit. But I still want to get away from him as soon as possible.