Raw (7 page)

“Just any move?” he asks with a teasing note in his voice.

“Not any move.”

“You know, Reese”—he leans forward on his elbows, his shoulders straining the shirt covering those muscular shoulders as he looks sideways at me—“I’ve got moves,” he cockily informs me.

“You’ve got limited moves and they all relate to punching. So I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me.” He nods with exaggerated meaning.

“Show me,” I dare, smiling.

He smiles too and straightens in his seat, but his eyes darken a little as he shakes his head. “Not here.”

There’s an odd look in his eyes as he looks at my lips for a beat. My ears get a little hot, and I drop my gaze to his chest. I’m frightened. I’m exhilarated. I need to change the topic, fast.

I flick my eyes back up to find those metallic eyes watching me. “How’s Oz?”

“Waiting for me.” He stays put next to me though. Doesn’t leave. Instead, he begins to frown and then is jerking his hard jaw in the direction of Twister. “I’m going to fuck him up at the inaugural this weekend, so don’t get too attached.”

I laugh and tsk under my breath. “You’re full of yourself.”

He smiles wider, but narrows his eyes warningly, his voice dark and raspy. “Laugh all you want. But I’m going to bust his nose, his jaw, and the rest of his face. Don’t get attached to any of those assholes. I don’t want to break your heart.”

“No way! And my heart is behind steel walls, promise.” I lift my fingers, crossed.

“Yeah right.” He mock-scowls, and then he just scowls. “Really. Don’t grow attached to any of these guys.”

I’d think he was jealous if he wasn’t so obsessed with fighting, plus I’m sure his jealousy is purely professional. He wants me to root for him, and a little part of me does, enough that I don’t want to tell him that I can root for no one but Remy. He’s part of my family.

So rather than promise, I frown and push him away as we both head to the exit. “Go away, you bully. Go bust your bags.”

With a curl of his lips, he holds the door open for me, and once outside, he turns to leave.

I feel puzzled and uncomfortable in my skin as I watch his back retreat and realize it’s because I don’t want him to go.

I watch him cross the street to his hotel, fighting the urge to call out his name. Maverick briefly glances back at me as he hits the opposite side of the street. He lifts his index finger in the air and circles it, and I realize it means—
tomorrow.

Feeling a kick in my heart, I lift mine and do the same move, suddenly excited.

Tomorrow.

Reese

T
hough I spent another sleepless night, dreaming of birds and sweaty male flesh with rippling bird feathers, I’m super motivated the next day. As if I’m being fueled by something other than sleep. Something like . . . anticipation? Excitement? Whatever it is,
go, Reese
. My whole life I’ve been wanting to change but resisting the effort to do so, maybe. Or maybe fearing who I can become. I’m changing now. It’s always been within reach, but I never wanted to become her until now.

Maybe it’s the penny.

Finding a penny is supposed to be lucky. But if there’s anything that feels luckier, it’s being given a penny as a blank check.

I look at the little copper coin in my palm with a happy prick in my chest.

“What is that?” Brooke asks.

“I found it,” I lie. I’m embarrassed to tell her that I met a guy. She’ll ask about him, who he is, and I don’t know anything, and it’s not like that. Not like that at all.

♥   ♥   ♥

WE MEET UP
outside the gym entrance. My heart speeds up when I see him leaning against the gym windows, in dark sweatpants and an electric-blue hoodie, waiting.

He lifts his head, and under his hoodie, I see his eyes light up a little when he sees me.

We smile. And I swear this smile of mine comes straight from my heart.

“Ready?”

That’s all he says.

It’s only one word. One word in that deep, dark, deep, thunderous voice, which activates all my brain receptors and other, more embarrassing ones.

I nod, and when we walk into the gym, our shoulders brush a little and my receptors flood with something warm and hot and uncontrollable.

The sparring ring is busy, so I head to the treadmills and he heads to the mats. Determined to sweat, I walk and run at intervals, and I look at him—the only person out of dozens of sweaty people in here who I actually
see
—and I can’t get over the fact that he keeps looking every few minutes at me.

When I finish and go gather my things, he comes over. “My first fight is Sunday.” He looks at me with a wry smile and a happy gleam in his eyes. “I’ve got two days to train, I’ll be training with Oz.”

“Okay.”

He looks at my mouth and starts back across the gym.

“Hey, I guess I won’t see you again,” I call out, stopping him. It’s disappointing, but I don’t know why. “Good luck, Maverick.”

Good luck, Avenger. . . .

Our eyes hold for forever and a half. Then Maverick gives me that slow, cocky nod of his, like he did the first day I met him, a nod that seems to mean
thank you
, and when he smiles at me with those lit-up metallic eyes, I smile and duck my head when my ears get a little hot.

I turn around and walk away, feeling happy for him and unexpectedly sad for me.

♥   ♥   ♥

THERE ARE CHANGES
happening in my life. Good ones.

Miles texted recently. He wants to come visit. Maybe he’s been missing me. Taking me for granted and now missing me.

My body is absolutely sore from all the exercise I’ve been doing.

I have more energy and I’m losing a little bit of butt and I’m happy.

But it’s
he
who wanders into my thoughts tonight, when the house is so quiet I can hear the soft patter of rain on the rooftop as I lie in bed and wonder if I’ll see him again.

I was in private school. There were a total of 460 students enrolled, from middle school to high school. Every year was littered with circles, circles that I never quite fit into. I craved connection, but being shy didn’t help. Being quiet didn’t help. They mistake shy with uninterested or boring. Quiet with having nothing to say, and equating that with having nothing to feel. They saw me, quiet as a lamp, so I
was
a lamp to them. I never thought of myself as a lamp, maybe the lightbulb. But I never managed to find the switch until now.

I never thought there was another human who could be quiet enough that I feel like he can hear me. I never thought anyone else could help me find the switch but me.

Is that why he’s so intriguing to me? Why he’s a stranger and feels so familiar too? Why he makes me so aware? Of him? And me, my body? My heartbeat, my breath, my . . . sex! He hijacks everything.

It’s like my body’s not mine; it runs away from me. It’s reactive to every glance or smile or the sound of his voice. What’s wrong with me?

Miles and I would work. But Maverick is just so manly, and
this is what happens when you don’t give out your V card by senior year, Reese.

It’s like being on a diet and craving what you can’t have. Exactly. This is why I’m so . . . warm lately. Maverick Cage oozes sex, and I’ve lived a sexless life. He’s like the Snickers bar I haven’t had in weeks.

And there were plenty of opportunities for sex before. In junior year. Sophomore year. Even in freshman year, and definitely in senior year. Some guys have wanted to sleep with me, Lex Kent, and Julian Parrish at senior prom. They wanted to sleep with me, on different occasions, of course, but I didn’t want to sleep with them.

They kissed and touched me and I felt a little bit used by them, and I didn’t want to be used.

I wanted to be understood, and I wanted to be known. And I wanted to be loved.

♥   ♥   ♥

FOR THE NEXT
two days, the team is packing and getting ready for the first fight. Remy is hardly home. Brooke keeps texting me during the day:
How’s Racer?

He’s fine! ;D We’re playing with the trains

Oh him and his trains. Hug him for me. I’ll try to be home before bedtime.

When Diane starts making dinner, she, Racer, and I are the only ones home. I’ve learned that she’s been with the team for over a decade, and she’s got such a warm, earthy vibe; she’s like everyone’s mother.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” Diane says as she shuffles around the kitchen and I help her chop the vegetables.

I smile. “I guess.”

“Reserved with strangers or just quiet?”

“Quiet.”

“Please stop me if I’m bugging you.”

“You’re not. Tell me about all this.” I signal at the kitchen island full of bright-colored food and vegetables and over half a dozen prime-grade rib eyes she’s marinating inside zipped bags.

“Remy gets more protein in a day than a normal person gets in a week. He trains all day and his nutrition is as important as the training,” she says as she takes out a tray and sets slices of sweet potato in two perfect lines, then drizzles them with olive oil and a dash of freshly crushed herbs.

The entire kitchen smells like a mix of rosemary and peppers, and I like the way it makes my lungs feel clean when I take a breath.

“Everyone is so close,” I say as I watch her slide the tray into the oven, and then I go crush the basil for the zucchini pasta dressing she’s making.

“We’re like a family. With all its ups and downs, I guess.”

“What downs?”

“Remy is temperamental, but he’d never hurt anyone. He just has his moods. Brooke can handle him well though. He’d do anything for her.”

“I can tell,” I admit.

“What about you? A boy back home?” she asks slyly, eyes sparkling as she sends me a woman-to-woman smile.

Miles.

“Maybe,” I say. Finished crushing the basil, I then go wash my hands and towel off.

“What does ‘maybe’ mean?”

“He’s a friend, but I think I want more. It’s hard to be friend-zoned and then make the change. I can’t seem to get him to see me in a different light.”

“You’re a beautiful girl. Just don’t settle until you find the real thing.”

The real thing.

Everyone talks about it as if it were black and white, but how do you know when it’s real? I believe in making things real. In making a conscious effort to make things happen. Which means that maybe, right now, I should be texting Miles and finding out why he really wants to come.

But just maybe, he should miss me some more. Maybe he should be the one to text me. I’m all for fighting for what you want, but I don’t feel like a meaningless texting ping-pong game with messages that don’t say anything at all.

Instead, I pull out Maverick’s penny and turn it in my hand, wondering what he’s doing, willing to give a penny for his thoughts right now.

Maverick

W
e’re training in a garage, boxes to one side, the bags in the middle of the room. No one watching. No one interrupting. No one distracting me.

First, jumping rope, forward, backward, sideways.

“Time.”

I stop, dripping in sweat, and go take the speed bag.

Flashes of my father. I see him in the hospital bed.

Flashes of my mother. Her, at the door when I left home.

Flashes of the coaches before they shut their doors on me;
You won’t ever be good enough.

I’m shadowboxing.

Sparring.

Running.

Weights.

Planks, push-ups, pull-ups, ab work.

And flashes of her.
That’s beautiful body art. . . .

Flashes of her
. Good luck, Maverick. . . .

Flashes of her. Light blue eyes looking at me, pink lips saying,
He’s with me.

“Get personal if any of the fighters get touchy,” Oz says.

I’m doing sit-ups, exhaling through my mouth.

“And if you get to Tate, don’t let him wear you out. He’s got more endurance than anyone’s ever seen. Right after he swings, he is invisible; one second there, the next gone. You never fucking take your eyes off him, you hear me?”

We take a forty-minute lunch break, and Oz plays a few tapes on an old portable TV. Tate in his crimson-red robe, heading down the concrete walk leading to the arena and the ring.

Clad in yellow, Apocalypse follows.

They touch gloves.

The bell goes.

Apocalypse jabs. Tate moves his shoulder, evading.

Apocalypse jabs again, high. Tate swings at his head, frowning. Tate throws a left, a straight jab, then a right that cracks on jaw.

The blows stun Apocalypse. He starts blocking, backing away.

Tate’s clearly the aggressor. He goes after Apocalypse until he’s got him against the ropes, dishing out multiple hits to the body. Ribs, gut.

“Somebody needs to teach Tate how to fall the fuck down and stay down,” Oz grumbles, forwarding to another point when Tate’s got Apocalypse against the ropes. Tate’s fist loops out. One last hit. Apocalypse is about to fall.

It’s the end of the round.

Tate backs off and takes his stool and gets a spritz of water.

Apocalypse takes to his stool too, bloodied, shaking his head at his coach.

He’s not getting up and spits out his mouth guard.

The announcer starts yelling out the victor. “Riiiipti—”

Oz turns off the video, and I start suiting up with my gloves again. “More often than not, when Riptide fights, he leaves with no mark on his face. He’s the greatest ever seen.”

“I’ll be greater.”

“You’re cocky.” He comes over to tighten my gloves at the wrists, then he slaps me on the back of the head, sober enough to glare. “Save the cock for the girls.”

“Fuck, I am.”

“Really?” he says, suddenly interested. “What girls?”

“One girl. Just one.”

“What’s her name?”

I shake my head and aim for the heavy bag.

Sorry, Oz, but she’s all mine.