Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel (31 page)

She forced a smile. “Sure. I’ve got stuff to do too.”

He pulled into her lot and didn’t bother parking, just idled at the steps to her apartment. She grabbed her shoes and pushed the door open, but before she slipped out, he grabbed her wrist. “I’ll call you later. Promise.”

She glanced over her shoulder, his gaze ensnaring hers. Regret and an apology for what he was leaving unsaid hung in the cab. Was this a passive-aggressive way of trying to distance himself from her? Were they getting too serious, too fast? Of course, they were. The same worries plagued her, but she had put her trust in him.

“Sure. Call me later.” She twisted out of his grasp and, holding her shoes to her chest, ran up the steps and into her apartment in time to watch him drive off.

She changed out of her Sunday dress and wandered her apartment. Ms. Effie spent Sundays with her son and his family. Cade and Monroe were probably doing something that would give the preacher a stroke, and Sawyer went fishing every Sunday after church.

The last days with Nash highlighted how lonely her existence had been before him. What would she have done on a Sunday afternoon before Nash? Watch TV or head to the gym to work. Real exciting. She flipped through the channels.

After watching an entire sitcom and realizing she had no idea what it had been about, she threw down the remote and grabbed her keys. On autopilot, she drove to town and parked. She walked down the sidewalk to the gym, kicking a rock along with her. She stopped. Unease rippled down her back, making goose bumps pop on her arms in spite of the heat.

Reed’s truck was parked a few spaces ahead, and if she wasn’t seeing things, so was Heath’s SUV. Although his Defender was nowhere in sight, she could sense Nash’s presence. She ran the rest of the way. The shades were all drawn, but she could see the glow of fluorescent lights. She tried the door, but it was locked. She dug into her purse for the ring of keys and fumbled them out.

Her hands trembled from a combination of fear and fury. If what she thought was happening was actually happening, she was going to kill someone. Preferably Heath. But Reed and Nash were a close second. A triple homicide.

She threw the door open. No one even noticed her. Heath and Nash circled each other in the ring. Jack Hawthorne and Reed had their backs to her and Bryce, Heath’s butt-kisser, was yelling encouragement from the opposite side. It was a standard square boxing ring with ropes and not the octagon-style of the MMA. At least Heath couldn’t back Nash up against a wall and pummel him.

Nash bounced on his toes and threw a few jabs, one snapping Heath’s head back. The men were feeling each other out. Heath was a bruiser and lumbered, heavy on his feet. He wasn’t as tall as Nash but thick muscles and tattoos roped his chest and upper arms. His legs were short by comparison, giving him a low center of gravity and an almost inescapable ground game.

Nash was leaner, and moved with an ease and grace that was dancerlike. His punches were crisp and quick. If the match was decided on style points, Nash would take it. Heath was the bull and Nash the matador.

But Nash didn’t have the kicking or ground game to compete with Heath. The differences between boxing and MMA-style fighting were like sharing tea with the Queen of England versus grabbing a beer with your drunk uncle. One was civilized and one wasn’t.

Nash’s fist snaked through Heath’s weak left-side defense. His head popped back and forward like a bobble toy. He shuffled a couple of steps to the side, dropping his defensive stance altogether. Touching the rising red welt on his cheekbone, Heath worked his guard in and out of his mouth.

Tally wanted to yell at Nash to take advantage of Heath’s surprise, but Nash only stood back, bouncing on his feet, and smiled around his mouth guard. Too much a gentleman. Like a bull being hit with the first of the spears, Heath charged him.

The slap of body against body and the grunts of two men as they grappled for dominance filled the gym. She rushed forward and grabbed Reed’s shoulder.

He spun, muttered a curse, and had the good sense to look sheepish.

“If you weren’t irreplaceable, I’d fire your butt right now.”

“Good to know you value me as an employee.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t
kick
your butt.”

“That’s it, Nash.” Jack’s voice popped her attention back to the ring.

Nash had put a few feet between him and Heath. He worked a combo, one fist blocked Heath’s punch while the other grazed his cheek. But it was the same one Nash had hit earlier, and Heath winced backward.

This time Nash advanced, landing several body blows and a nice shin kick that smacked of kickboxing not traditional boxing. Heath retreated and held up a hand as if calling the match. Nash straightened and turned his head toward them, catching sight of her for the first time. His eyes widened and his hands dropped.

Heath barreled forward, not as fast as Nash, but fast enough to catch him off guard. He grabbed Nash around the chest and threw him down, landing on top of him and snaking an arm around his neck. Reed jumped to the mat and pulled at Heath’s shoulders while Nash struggled under his weight and pushed at his arm.

Tally’s limbs liquefied and her scramble into the ring was clumsy. She banged her head against one of the padded metal rope hooks on her crablike crawl to Nash. Reed had wrapped an arm around Heath’s neck trying to pull him off, but the man seemed possessed.

She jabbed Heath in the eye since his crotch wasn’t in striking distance. Cade had taught Tally how to fight dirty, and she wasn’t as principled as Nash.

“Fuck me!” Heath rolled off Nash, covering his eye.

Nash gasped for air, his legs kicking as if he could inflate his lungs with them. Tally looked to Jack and reached out a hand, urgency straining her voice. “His duffle. Hurry.”

Jack slid the bag across the floor of the ring. Tally grabbed it and riffled through it, finally locating his inhaler in a side pocket. She fumbled it to his lips, but his mouth guard was still in place.

A memory of making each other laugh by covering their smiles with sliced orange peels bubbled to the surface. She wasn’t sure whether the sting of tears was for her past or present with this man. She yanked the guard out and tossed it aside. His eyes were open and fixed on hers. He covered her hand with his and helped guide the inhaler to his lips. They pumped it together.

His breathing eased. She stroked her hands down his face, and he caught her wrists pressing her hands against his cheeks. A small cut over his left eyebrow oozed blood, the eye already swelling. Heath might have gotten a few body shots in, but otherwise, Nash escaped relatively unharmed except for the near choke-out and asthma attack.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I think so.” He pushed up and let his head hang between his knees for a moment before saying, “I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse too.”

Now that she was reasonably assured he would live, anger superseded her worry, although she wasn’t sure who to direct it at.

She spun around and stalked to the other end of the ring. Heath had a hand pressed to the eye she gouged but fixed the other eye on her with unadulterated hate.

“Get out. Now.” She almost hoped he argued with her so she could call the police.

Heath rose, his shoulders hunched, his face jutting forward. She recognized his attempt at intimidation. He dropped his hand. His eye was bloodshot and puffy. “I would have gotten a choke-out if you hadn’t poked me in the eye. And don’t even try to pretend that wasn’t on purpose.”

“Damn straight it was. You appeared to concede the fight right before you tackled him. That would get you disqualified in any professional match, which is why you’ll never make it. Not to mention, you aren’t good enough and never will be. This was a once and done. No rematch. And no winner.”

“This ain’t over.” He pointed his finger like a parody of a movie villain and affected a redneck tough-guy accent when she knew darn well he’d grown up in a squarely middle-class neighborhood on the Mississippi side of the river.

She was tired of feeling inferior to him when she wasn’t. Nash had given her that. “You know what? It finally is, Heath. If you text or call or come within twenty feet of my apartment or this gym, I’ll get a restraining order. Grab your stuff and get out. And good luck finding somewhere else to train.”

Jack herded the two men to the front door, and Tally threw the bolt as soon as they were out.

“That fella was your ex?” Jack side-eyed her.

“I broke up with him months ago but he wouldn’t leave me alone. Nash thinks if he can beat him up like a third-grader on the playground, he’ll leave me alone finally.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I think you’re just a piece of this puzzle. He knew that fella when he was a kid, right?”

Jack’s face was stern, his skin brown and rough, long grooves carving his cheeks. Years of being battered by the ocean air had taken their toll. Yet she could see traces of Jack in Nash—the nose and the set of his jaw, stubborn and determined.

“Nash was picked on. A lot. I guess nowadays you’d call it bullying,” she said softly.

“Sometimes a man has to put his own past to rest before he can move on.”

His words resonated in the briar-filled patch she’d nurtured inside of her own heart.

Nash shuffled toward them. Reed was behind him, holding his gloves. She unlaced Nash’s helmet, pulled it off, and finger combed his sweat-dampened hair back. Next she ran her hands down his torso. None of his ribs seemed to be cockeyed, and he didn’t wince at her touch. She trailed her hands back up his chest and touched him close to the cut above his eyebrow. “You might need a couple of stitches.”

He grabbed both her wrists and dipped his face, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m fine. Nothing that a couple of days without getting punched won’t fix.”

“What if you have a concussion?”

“I don’t, but if it makes you feel better you can wake me up every hour tonight.” His crooked smile held a sexual tease she was in no mood to acknowledge, much less return. She tugged her hands free.

Now that she was assured he wasn’t seriously injured, she released the reins on her emotions and shoved his shoulder. “For someone so brilliant, you are an idiot.”

“Look, I—”

“How long have you two been training?” She pointed back and forth between him and Reed.

Reed had the good sense to step behind Nash to avoid her gaze.

“Not long.” A hesitant hitch in Nash’s voice signaled he realized he was stepping into a minefield. “How did you know?”

“You threw some kickboxing moves in there. When and where?”

“Now and again.”

“Here?”

“After hours or at Reed’s place on his time off while you were working.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“So you decided
not
telling me was the way to go?”

He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry.” Impatience turned the apology trite.

“You don’t sound sorry.”

Nash’s hand tightened around the strap of his duffle, and he leaned forward. “Do you get how miserable Heath Parsons made my life?”

“You and Reed went behind my back to train for a fight you knew I did not approve of. You lied to me.” Emotions vied for dominance—anger, fear, love. She didn’t want him to see any of it.

“I didn’t lie. Not exactly. You stopped asking.” It was a weak excuse and by his tone, he realized it too.

She took a step closer and jabbed a finger at his chest, her voice dropping. “You kept secrets from me, Nash. And I’m supposed to trust you?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, a complicated range of emotions crossing his face. “I needed to do this. Can you understand that?”

She would try to understand it later. Maybe. “Since you opened the gym, you can lock it up, Reed. I’m outta here.”

“Tally—” Nash extended a hand.

She didn’t acknowledge him, but pushed through the door and strode down the sidewalk. He didn’t follow her.

She slowed as she approached her car. A lone figure stood on the riverbank, looking over at the Mississippi side of Cottonbloom. She continued on until she was standing shoulder to shoulder with Sawyer. Maybe he could help sort out this mess.

“Look.” He gestured toward a three-foot square track of green stems denuded of their blossoms. “Regan has gone too far this time. She knows why I planted these flowers. What they mean.”

The anger and hurt in his voice took Tally aback and took the focus off her problems. “What do they mean?”

“They’re for Mama,” he said so softly she almost didn’t hear. “While you were out playing with Nash, and Cade was in the garage with Daddy, I would help her with the flowers.”

Even though Sawyer reminded her forcibly of their father, he’d been a mama’s boy. Maybe for the same reasons their father and mother fit together so well. Tally and her mother had been too much alike, reticent and serious, to be confidants.

They longer they stared at the carnage, the more something niggled at her.

“I’m going to lay into her.” He puffed up with a big breath and took a step.

The something that was niggling snapped into place. She caught his wrist. “It wasn’t Regan. Lordy, I think it was Uncle Del.”

He swiveled his head toward her, even as the rest of his body strained toward the footbridge. “What?”

She gave Sawyer a brief rundown of her and Nash’s discoveries regarding their uncle’s love life and added, “He asked Nash whether wildflowers were still Ms. Leora’s favorite.”

“Wow.” He ruffled the hair at the back of his head. “I guess that lets Regan off the hook.” More than simple relief lightened his words. She studied her brother, but couldn’t discern how he felt about his ex-girlfriend. “What’re you doing out here? Working on the gym’s part in the festival?”

His question stoked her anger. “Heath and Nash went at it at my gym without telling me.”

“Was Nash hurt?”

“No, but Heath fought dirty, and he could’ve been.” Sudden tears clogged her throat.

“Heath is a d-bag. You don’t know how many times I wanted to take him in the swamps and dump his ass.”