Raw (6 page)

I feel him watching me as I stop at the dispenser to fill up a cup of duck food.

“Mavewick, get me out,” Racer commands.

Maverick sweeps him up and sets him on his feet.

“Don’t go in the water, Racer, just stay on the edge, and don’t let them bite your finger. Do it like this. . . .” I show him how to cup his hand. “Or throw it in the water and watch them pick at it.”

He nods and starts throwing all over, sending the ducks after the nibbles.

I sit on the ground, the scent of damp grass surrounding us as Maverick sits beside me.

“Hey, I want to do something for you.”

“What?”

I can’t remember how to breathe.

I give him a moment to explain, but he’s not helping me out, only smiling. His face is open, friendly, his smile captivating. But his eyes are guarded, careful. I try to keep my voice indifferent.

“You mean for the gym?” I ask, a puzzled frown on my face.

He nods. “For that. And Oz.”

“Oh.” I shake my head, laughing softly. “It’s nothing, really.”

When he looks at me, he looks curious, and unsatisfied somehow. But a genuinely appreciative smile touches his eyes. “Trust me. It’s not nothing. It’s something, and I appreciate it.”

His open gratitude makes me so
warm
. He makes me feel impulsive.

“I’m in a healthy-living boot camp this summer. You’re meeting the new Reese,” I hear myself blurt out.

Wow.
Did I just spew it out like that?

I’m so desperate for him to share bits of himself that I’m just totally baring myself to him without his even asking. Thank god he takes it in stride with an attractive little dance in his eyes.

“What was the old one like?” he asks easily.

I shrug and shake my head, not really wanting to get into that.

When he does nothing to fill the silence that settles between us, it leaves me with nothing to do but look up at him. I lift my lashes, and he’s staring at me with a look of total intrigue in his eyes. Wisps of hair tease my face, and I push them away, feeling really restless under that stare.

“Help me kick my own ass, and we’ll call it even,” I suddenly suggest.

He shakes his head with playful stubbornness. “We’re not even. I still owe you.” His eyes grow thoughtful, and he reaches into his pocket and extracts something. “Open your palm.”

He looks so intense that I open my palm and watch him drop something in it. “What’s this?”

“My IOU.”

I stare at the penny in my palm, then look up at him in confusion.

His voice sounds a little more harsh and textured all of a sudden. “I don’t have a lot right now, but I got this.”

“For a rainy day?” I ask.

“For any day.”

He sounds somber and he looks even more somber, if that’s even possible. His eyes are gloriously intense, and I am utterly dazzled and confused by this
feeling
of being utterly dazzled.

I don’t understand why he’s giving me this. My ears hot, I look down at the penny, then up at him. What I did for him was nothing, really. It looked like he really enjoyed working out, and I could tell he had talent.

But his eyes are roiling with something forbidden and almost pleading. . . .

He needs me to take this penny.

He needs to know he can pay me back in some way.

I realize he’s got a pride as big as he is.

My chest aches a little. Nodding, I curl my fingers around the penny because something tells me Maverick “the Avenger” Cage never takes back what he gives. He looks like a guy who doesn’t budge, who doesn’t give in easy.

“I can get in after hours to the gym with my membership,” I hear myself say, surprised by how impulsive he makes me. “Do you want to come? When I go back home, I want to buy a new dress, one size smaller than what I wear.”

He looks at me, stays silent, and tightens his jaw, then stares out at the water. “I’m game.”

And we sit there, watching Racer giggle and try to pet the ducks as he feeds them.

And I like being here.

I really like being here.

♥   ♥   ♥

WE MEET AT
the gym at 9:00 p.m. I had dinner with Racer, left him with his parents, and told Brooke I’d be back by eleven.

That night, the gym is completely empty. An odd something is in the air. It crackles between us. Around us. The silence only seems to magnify it.

Maverick unzips his hoodie and then, unexpectedly, takes off his shirt. He waits a moment, then walks to set his T-shirt aside. I stare at the body art on his back, transfixed by it. The lights are dim, but I can make out the shape of an open-winged bird. A bird with another symbol or letter or number I can’t make out on its back.

There’s something about tattoos, body art, that’s magical and intimate. A piece of art on your body that identifies who you are, what you believe in, even what you mock.

He turns and looks at me.

He seems to be waiting for me to say something.

But I can’t.

He’s beautiful in a way beautiful had never had a visible image for me except for things that felt surreal and perfect. He is perfection in an all-male way. He is surreal, like from a different species, exuding an air of a rebel and of someone implacable who will not be stopped.

He lifts his brows, as if he’s genuinely surprised I didn’t say anything at all.

“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.

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.