Reckless. Manic. Or causing trouble. Or breaking things. But what if he was low and feeling down? I left him to bear it alone, and for Pete and Riley to handle it the way they always have. Fresh tears stream out of me.
“Go on,” Diane encourages me. I wince when I hear the room phone. “Yes, Remington,” she whispers into the receiver and then hangs up.
“He’s on his way here. He wants me to open the door, or he’s crashing it.”
“I don’t want to see him like this,” I cry, sniffling and grabbing a tissue as if I can hide the fact I’m crying like a baby here.
I feel him approaching like a tornado as Diane swings the door open.
“Diane,” he says in a low murmur, then he cuts across the room straight to where I’m curled in a ball on the bed.
His eyes are dark blue with emotion. “You,” he says, opening his hand. “Come with me.”
“I don’t want to,” I say, wiping a stray tear.
His nostrils flare and I can see he’s having trouble controlling himself. “You’re mine and you need me, and I want you to please come the fuck upstairs with me.”
I duck my head and wipe a tear.
I sniffle.
“All right, come here.” He swings me up in his arms. “Good night, Diane.”
I kick, and he grabs me to him and squeezes me as he speaks in my ear, “Kick and claw all you like. Scream. Hit me. Curse the fuck out of me. You won’t sleep anywhere but with me tonight.”
He carries me into the elevator and then into our room. He kicks the door shut, drops me on the bed, and jerks off his T-shirt. His muscles bulge with the powerful movement, and I see every glorious inch of that beautiful skin—skin that some other women touched and kissed and licked, and a rush of new jealousy and insecurity knifes through me. I scream like crazy and kick when he reaches out and starts stripping me. “You asshole, don’t touch me!”
“Hey, hey, listen to me.” He traps me with his arms and his gaze. “I am insane about you. I’ve been in hell without you. In hell. Stop being ridiculous,” he says, squeezing my face. “I love you. I love you. Come here.”
He gathers me onto his lap. I didn’t expect his gentleness, I expected a fight so I could vent, but he disarms me, and instead I bawl in his arms as he holds me, his lips open on the back of my ear, his voice soft but firm and regretful. “How well did you think I’d cope when you left? Did you think it would be easy on me? That I wouldn’t feel alone? Betrayed? Fucking lied to? Used? Discarded? Worthless? Dead? Did you think there wouldn’t be days where I loathed you more than I loved you for tearing me apart? Did you?”
“I’ve left everything for you,” I cry, so hurt I have my own arms curled around myself as I physically struggle to hold myself together. “Since I met you, all I wanted was to be yours. You said you were mine. That you were my . . . my . . . Real.”
He groans softly and squeezes me hard against him. “I’m the realest fucking thing you’re ever going to have.”
My tears keep streaming as I look into his eyes, and they are so beautiful, Remington’s eyes. They are blue and tender, the eyes that see straight through me, the eyes that know everything about me, and they are no longer laughing and instead reflect a little bit of the pain I feel. I can’t look at them anymore and I cover my face as new sobs overtake me.
“It should’ve been me all those times,” I say. “It should’ve been just me, only me.”
“Then don’t fucking tell me you love me and leave me. Don’t fucking beg me to make you mine and then run the first chance I’m not fucking looking. I couldn’t even come catch you. Is that fair to me? Is it? I couldn’t even get up on my own fucking legs and come stop you.”
I sob harder.
“I woke up to read your letter instead of getting to see you. You were all I wanted to see. All. I wanted. To see.”
His words are so painful to hear, I can’t even talk through my tears.
I think I cry myself to sleep on his lap, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, my eyes and head hurt from crying. I’m naked. I realize he’s stripped me like he always does, and his skin is hot against mine, and his nose is in the crook of my neck and shoulder, and I feel his arms around me and I curl closer even when it hurts. We’re the object of each other’s hurt and each other’s solace. He pulls me closer, and I hear him scent me as if it’s the last whiff of me he’ll ever take, and before I know it, I scent him back just as fiercely.
FOUR
PHOENIX RISING
I feel like shit the next day, but then I hear Remington murmur, as we quietly have breakfast, “Run with me to the gym?”
I nod.
He seems to be watching me like he can’t figure out what to do with a detonated grenade. I’m trying to figure out what to do with myself too. I have never felt so consumed with jealousy and hurt, anger and self-loathing in my life. I’m so nauseous I don’t even eat, just sip an orange juice, and then I slip into my running pants and tennis shoes, and try not to barf when I brush my teeth.
Arizona today is an inferno of heat, and on the trail outside our hotel, I pull on my cap and quietly stretch my quads, trying to concentrate on the second thing I love most in the world after Remington: running. I know it’s going to make me feel good—if not good, then at least better.
We haven’t talked about it.
We haven’t kissed.
We haven’t touched.
Since I bawled like an idiot in his arms last night. When I woke he was looking out the window, his profile unreadable, and when he turned, as if sensing me, I had to close my eyes because I’m just afraid that if he’s gentle with me I’ll break again.
Now he bounces in place as I stretch. He’s wearing his gray hoodie and sweatpants, every inch of him a running boxer you would die for. Kill for. Leave your entire life in Seattle behind for.
“Okay,” I whisper to him, nodding.
“Let’s hit it.” He smacks my butt gently and we start running, but the sleepless night means I don’t really have the speed that I want. Remington looks just a little tired today, quietly running beside me, pumping his fists in the air.
I keep waiting for my endorphins to kick in, but my body isn’t my friend today, and neither are my emotions. I want to sink into a quiet corner and cry again, until I cry it all out and it doesn’t hurt anymore, until I’m not angry at myself anymore, or at him, for saying yes to everything, anything, he could get his hands on while for months he refused to put his hands on me.
I’ve stopped running and put my hands on my knees, sucking in a breath to calm down. Remington slows down and pumps his fists in the air as he comes back. I want to groan in protest over how shitty I feel when he looks more than decent. He stops close to me, and I use my cap to shield my stupid face.
“If we’re running to the gym, we need to get there today,” he whispers in amusement, reaching out and tipping my hat back. I bite down hard on my lip as he surveys me, forcing myself to hold his gaze.
He smiles down at me, his dimples popping as he stands there. A little arrogant, a lot hot, Remington Tate, the man of my dreams. In that gray hoodie. Those blue eyes peering at me. He’s so aerodynamic as he runs; even when tired, he defies gravity. His shoulders, rock hard, stretch the material of his sweatshirt as his feet tap the sidewalk.
Just please somebody kill me now.
“I think I’ll walk there,” I tell him, kneeling down to add another impulsive knot to the laces of my tennis shoe, so I can look at my Nikes instead of him. “Go on without me and I’ll be there.”
I’ve never refused to run with him. This is our time, this is special, but I feel weak and faint and miserable.
Dropping to his haunches to level with me, he pries my cap off and surveys me, no more dimples on his face. “I’ll walk with you,” he tells me easily, putting my cap back on as he straightens.
“You don’t have to. Coach Lupe is waiting.”
He seizes my chin and pins me down with tormented blue eyes. “I. Will walk. With you. Brooke. Now give me your hand and let me help you up.”
He spreads out his hand and I see it, and I want it, and it’s there. I get up on my own and start walking.
He laughs softly as he steps to my side. “I don’t fucking believe this,” he mutters.
He shoves his hands into his sweatshirt, dark head bent as he glares down at the sidewalk and ambles next to me. His hoodie fell when he bent to offer his hand, and his black hair is an adorable mess, and god, I want to rumple it and kiss it and pretend I’m strong like I used to be, but instead I’m nauseous and feel as strong as a little stick.
“How many were there? Do you know?” I hear myself ask.
He makes a low, growling sound and pulls two fistfuls of hair before dropping his hands. “Just tell me what you want me to do. What do you want me to say? You won’t stop crying, you won’t fucking eat, you circle around my touch. Why the fuck are you letting it matter?”
“Because you don’t even remember; you don’t even know what you did to them, who they are. One could be pregnant with your fucking baby as we speak! They could take pictures of you. They could . . . take advantage of you!”
He bursts out laughing and looks at me in tender amusement, as though nobody could ever hurt him, but they can. Fucking smug asshole—they can!
Even when he is the strongest, most powerful human being I’ve ever known, when he’s black, he’s both reckless and vulnerable, and he could hurt himself and he could definitely get hurt. The thought that anyone, especially some tarts, had access to him when he was like that, makes me feel like going nuclear. I wipe an angry tear and keep walking, then he crowds me with his body and purposely brushes the back of his hand to my own. He rubs his thumb over mine. “Just take my hand, little firecracker,” he softly prods.
Dragging in a breath, I force my pinky finger to move, and he hooks our little fingers around each other. I feel the warmth of his touch race up my arm, and I think he notices I can’t suppress a little shudder. He teases me, in a low voice that melts everything in me, “I give you my hand, and you give me your pinky?”
“Remington, I can’t do this right now!”
I start running ahead, and he just joins me at the gym, unzipping his hoodie and slapping his gloves on. He starts pounding his bags without a single glance in my direction and with very, very hard slams. I stand by the sidelines, tense by the way the air crackles between us, like a suddenly haywire electrical circuit about to combust. Coach looks at him, and looks at me, and Riley comes up, equally concerned as he surveys us both.
Nobody talks to him and nobody talks to me.
I go to the bathroom and start throwing up.
THE HEAT IN the Phoenix Underground arena is oppressive.
The costly seats are crammed together, one after the other, and about five hundred people are now wildly screaming as Butcher and Hammer have a go up in the ring. Then wham! Smack! And Hammer ends up bloody and motionless on the floor.
“Wow, that was unfortunate for Hammer,” Pete says.
