Reese
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the lobby of his hotel. I pretend to be his girl, the dumb-wit who forgot the room number, just got into town, and wants to surprise him. Because I’m young and seem sweet, the staff falls for it and dishes out the room number, and three minutes later, I’m a mass of nerves knocking at his door. “Just do it,” I hear, a low growl.
Even through a door, the guy’s voice makes me shiver.
Why are you here, Reese?
“Maverick.” I knock again, then say, “Maverick, it’s me.”
There’s total silence to the degree that I wonder if I made up the sounds I just heard coming from inside the room.
He swears and three heartbeats later, the door swings open. Maverick Cage stands before me, utterly still. Tall. Sweaty. And intimidating. I inhale, because, hello? Intimidating.
One eye is closed, bleeding at the eyebrow. The eye beneath it is swollen and bruised, and the power in his other eye’s stare is so absolute, it would thrust me backward if I weren’t so determined to get in there and help.
It takes me a moment to realize that while I stand here and gape, he’s been checking me out, head to toe.
Heat pops up all over my body, quickly following his stare.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is about as raspy as sandpaper. There’s a world of frustration in his expression, and his throat is so tanned and thick and he’s bleeding and shirtless and he is so ripped. And glorious. Every muscle of his chest is chiseled and rock-hard, covered in the smoothest, most golden skin I’ve ever seen. His nipples—
You are not staring at his small, pointy, brown nipples, Reese!
“I can sew,” I blurt. “I mean, shirts and stuff but . . . my cousin insisted I learn first aid and more when I came to help for the summer.”
His one eye once again runs over me and he waits a beat. It’s such a long beat, in my mind I have a chance of leaving the building before he opens the door farther. “Come in.”
He’s reluctant about letting me into his space, and I’m suddenly just as reluctant when I step inside. If I thought by coming to his room, I’d have a clue as to who he is, I was on another level of fantasy. The place is as bare as a clean hotel room gets—except this room is littered with fighting gear. A duffel bag by a chair in the corner. Water bottles and electrolyte drinks. Plus a first-aid kit open and full of material that seems to have been shuffled around as something was extracted.
Seeing the bed he sleeps on makes my chest feel so weird. Like somebody punched me there. There’s a pair of black boxing gloves on the nightstand next to a similar pair of older gloves. Those second gloves look old; they’re worn and torn around the wrists, taped haphazardly with a silver tape. They’re the kind of gloves one doesn’t keep around for fighting purposes. They look older than Maverick is.
In the center of the Spartan room, a middle-aged man stands holding a shiny little needle with a slim blue thread running through it.
The man has a belly, has clearly been running his hands through his white hair in frustration, and his eyes are bloodshot and confused as he scrutinizes me as if he’s not sure if I’m really in the room or maybe in his head.
“Hi, Oz,” I say.
He squints. “And you are?”
“You don’t know me, but everyone knows you.”
He huffs. “Is that right? As the has-been, right? I’m making a comeback, just you wait and see.” He drinks from his silver flask. Maverick smirks at me and goes to pluck the needle from Oz’s grip.
When he walks up to me with the needle, I suddenly don’t know what possessed me to come to his aid. I’ve sewn pillows, not warm, living flesh.
“Do your worst,” he says, raising his good eyebrow, challenging me.
“Has it been sterilized. . . ?” I ask, trying to focus on the needle he just handed to me.
Not on the fact that Maverick is too close.
Not on the fact that Maverick is watching me with more interest than he’s ever watched me with.
Pulling out the nightstand drawer, he grabs a lighter, turns it on, flickers it over the needle, sterilizing it with the flame, then he walks to a bag of ice and sticks it inside to cool it immediately.
“I’m impressed.”
Our fingers brush as he passes the needle again, and then he sits down on the chair by the window. I try to keep my pulse steady as I clean the wound. “No hospital for you, huh,” I whisper.
“Don’t want to go there to heal and I don’t want to go there to die.” His voice is low but adamant, and so close his breath fans over my face—and it feels so warm.
I stop smiling when I see him looking at me and feel that strange flip in my tummy.
Be strong, Reese.
If he can take the gash, you can do some needlework.
You might even take his stare.
I stand between his parted legs. He’s in shorts and . . .
Oh.
God.
His thighs are massive and bulging like rocks. He’s sitting down, his hair gleams under the yellow room lights, his knees scraped. His legs are hair-dusted and tan. His chest is soaked with sweat. I’m standing, and his face is eye level with my neck. Every inch closer, I get nervous. My hand shakes a little.
I know it’s going to hurt, but there’s no concern in his gaze. Almost as if he’s immune to pain.
“Lower your gaze,” I say.
He drops his gaze. And it doesn’t help. I can’t concentrate because whatever it is he’s staring at now, my lips are tingling. Tingling.
Is he looking at my lips?
I can feel his eyes on me—in me—like he has X-ray vision. I set my fingers on Maverick’s forehead. He doesn’t react to the touch at all, but touching him is making me feel funny. But this is not a funny moment, so you should just get down to business, girl!
Inhaling and holding my breath, I pierce his skin with the tip of the needle, wincing inside. He doesn’t move. He watches me in silence as I ease the needle out. And then pierce his skin again.
“You’ll have a scar,” I whisper ruefully.
He reaches out and curls his wounded hand around my waist as if to steady me, and I can’t stop my body’s instant quiver in reaction. Body, behave!
My hand has stopped stitching as I assess whatever it is that’s unsettling me to the core.
His pinkie somehow stole under my shirt, the others over it. The pad of his finger is a little rough. His fingers grip me a little tighter as he draws me closer. I catch my breath, then realize he’s steadying me so I can finish. And I won’t be able to finish if I keep focusing on the fact that my boobs are right in his face!
I pierce his skin again, this time quickly, trying to sew as tightly as possible so that it heals better. And as fast as possible, so I can get out of here. He inhales sharply.
I pause. “I’m hurting you.”
His head tilts and his eyes flick up to mine and there is so much heat there, the kind that I have never seen in anyone’s eyes when they look at me. Not me.
“Are you done?” he asks, voice textured, his eyes roiling with frustration all of a sudden, as if he can’t wait for me to be done. But his fingers are clutching me closer, until my knee is up against . . . his groin.
I purse my lips and focus on piercing his skin again. I do a total of twelve stitches. Even while my heart is running like Seabiscuit in my chest and I pray he doesn’t notice how fast my chest rises and falls.
“There. You’ll live to fight another day.”
I pull away and then put almost half the room between us as I search for something to say. “I brought ice cream to celebrate. It’s your first fight at the Underground. Tell me!”
Back to the business of celebrating, I bring out my ice cream pack.
He leans forward, elbows to his knees, watching me in curiosity. “It was nothing special.” He curls his fingers into his palms and watches my profile intently.
Then Oz says, “It was spectacular! He KO’d three!”
Maverick’s eyes flash on Oz, a spark hot enough to melt steel. He growls angrily, shaking his head. “Not enough.”
“Better than any starter fighter I’ve seen in a long time. You broke Twister in one round.” He stares at Maverick, who’s staring at me.
“Twister?” I ask, impressed.
“I’ll get you a cab so you can go home, Oz,” Maverick tells him. I notice how meaningfully Maverick’s eyes slide toward the door.
Oz’s eyebrows fly up.
So do mine.
Maverick looks unperturbed.
I have the strangest feeling that he wants to be alone with me.
A kernel of panic settles in my gut.
And two of excitement.
Three of lust.
“Boy, I’ve been taking care of myself before you came along, so fuck off. I can get my own cab.” Oz slaps the first-aid kit closed and carries it under his armpit as he sips from his flask and grabs his coat.
“’Bye, Oz,” says Maverick, and when the door slams shut as Oz grumbles, Maverick looks at me and smiles.
I take out the ice cream.
Please god, let him not smile at me like that ever again.
We’re so alone, and it’s so quiet, and he’s so . . . bare-chested.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, still smiling.
“Plastic spoons,” I say, like they’re the best invention ever. I purposely ignore his question and make a big ceremony out of studying the spoons—as if there’s a difference between them—and finally I hand him one.
He watches me and takes it between his thumb and forefinger. I almost feel connected when we’re both holding the spoon at the same time. Which is ridiculous.
“It’s dietetic,” I say as he slides the spoon into the bucket of ice cream. He jams it into his mouth. I watch him, uncertain. “It’s good?”
He takes another spoonful and frowns, as if considering.
“Tell me about the fight.”
“Why?” His voice is rough and dry, unlike the cool ice cream he’s eating.
“I want to know. How did it feel?” I ask.
“Why are you not eating?”
“I . . .” I stare at the ice cream.
He lifts his spoon to me.
My eyes widen.
My lips part. And as he moves the spoon forward, I let the ice cream trail on my tongue. I suck it back and grab my own spoon and nervously gobble down another bite.
“Tell me about the fight,” I say again. “I bet you already have fans.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, come on. You must notice girls.”
“Oh, I notice.” He grins, his eyes twinkling. “A distraction I don’t need.”
I didn’t expect this admission from a guy as young and blatantly hot as him. But then, Maverick is so focused on his career that I can believe getting laid is not a priority. Getting laid, for him, must be something easy and accessible any time he wants it. But fighting in the Underground at the level he wants to fight is not.
For some reason, I feel a new connection with him and I hear myself admit something I’d never even told Miles.
“I’m a virgin,” I whisper.
His eyebrows shoot up, and the surprise mingled with respect mingled with something unnamable I can’t decipher on his face makes the tips of my ears go hot. He opens his mouth as if searching for words, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead as he finally says, “Why?”
“Insecurity about my body, I guess. Wanting it to mean something, not just . . . feel good.”
“What’s there to be insecure about?”
I shrug.
“Seriously, Reese?” he asks softly, disbelieving.
I laugh nervously, nodding with a smile. “Seriously, Maverick.”
I’m talking more with this guy than I’ve ever talked to anyone. Because I want to listen and make him talk to me too.
Listening takes on a whole new meaning with him.
Talking too.
Words.
Looks.
Tones of voice.
A whole new meaning.
He holds my gaze with his, and then he says very quietly, a little huskily, “I think that’s cool, Reese.”
We hold stares for an eon. The room shrinks in size, and his hands spread out over his knees and he drums his thumbs restlessly on both.
I just don’t know what to do with my hands, with my eyes, with myself.
For the first time in my life, I’m aware that in the deepest part of me, I hurt. Then Maverick glances around the room with a frown and rubs a hand restlessly across the back of his neck. “Sorry about this place.”
“Oh no, it’s good. Cozy.”
“I used all my savings to help my dad.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Shit, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, Maverick.”
His eyes meet mine, and I detect a strange look on his face when I call him Maverick. It’s such a puzzled look that I pause and immediately want to retract.
“Would you rather I call you Cage? You . . . stiffened when I said your name.”
“I’d rather you tell me about you,” he says, shifting forward in his seat. “What are you looking for?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re here at night. What is it that you’re looking for?”
“A friend.”
“I’m not a friendly guy.”
“But what you see is what you get with you, and I like it.”
“You get nothing from me, that’s what you get.”
“That’s fine. I got a penny. And at least I can eat ice cream without you telling my mother.”
We eat a little more. I spot the old, worn gloves by the nightstand and get up to touch them.
“Those aren’t mine. These are mine.” He leans back to grab the others, hands me the pair of new gloves, and sets the old ones aside. “The old ones were my dad’s.”
I glance at the gloves. Well, he must’ve given quite a few people a very good beating with those. “He must’ve been good.”
When he talks about his father, there are clouds in his eyes, and something inside me makes me ache to remove them. “I never watched him fight, but I’ve seen a few videos online. In the early days he was good. But not the best.”
“And you want to be the best.”
“I want to be a legend.”
“Ambitious, are we?”
He laughs softly.
My phone is ringing. “I need to go. I only had one hour.” I answer the call. “Hey, I’m on my way, I’m fine.” I hang up, then steal one last glimpse of him. “Sorry. It’s annoying; my mother asked my cousin to keep a close eye on me.”
“Don’t apologize, it’s nice they give a shit.”
The honesty suddenly makes me realize that when I leave, he’s alone in this room. I compare it to the bustle of people at the Tates’ and shake my head, stunned.
“Don’t you have anyone?”
He shrugs and slips on a shirt. “I’ll take you home.”
It’s the most tense cab ride of my life. Maverick and I are both silent as the cab heads toward the Tates’ hotel, but we stare at each other every couple of minutes. Each time our eyes meet, we smile. But inside me, other things happen. My body squeezes in places and I ache between my legs.
I glance at the skin I sewed above his eye and feel somehow really possessive of him.
I notice, as he hops out of the cab to walk me across the lobby toward the elevators, that people stare at him as he walks next to me. There’s something about him that just calls your attention. Even from a distance. The confidence, the stride, his carriage, his body, his face, and his eyes.
I don’t want the team to see him though. So the moment we hit the elevator bank, I spin to face him even before I press the Up arrow. “It’s fine. I’ll go up.”
Just then, my phone buzzes again. I’m suddenly concerned. What if it’s Brooke already sending the cavalry, aka Pete and Riley, to look for me? I glance at it in dread.
Instead, I read Miles’s name on my phone screen. I tuck the phone quickly away.
Maverick lifts his brow, his eyes smiling down at me.
“Your cousin?”
“No. A boy back home.”
And Miles seems like such a boy compared to Maverick. Maverick is a bit boyish sometimes but so manly, so grown-up and mature. I wonder what made him mature so fast. The kind of tragedy that gives you that look in your eyes, the one that warns people not to get close. That tells them they will never be able to get close.
As if deep in his own thoughts, Maverick looks upward speculatively and then back at me. “Next time, I’ll get a nice place like this.”
“Next time?”
“Next time you come over.” His eyes flick down to where I hid my phone, and then up to me. Was that . . . jealousy?
“We’re leaving to the next location tomorrow.”
He nods. I don’t know where he plans to work out, but it’s the only place I get to see him. I blurt out, “I’ll be at the Body Factory Gym in Denver. I can get you in there too.”
His eyes flood tenderly. “Some people might easily take advantage of how nice you are.”
“I’m not nice on the inside.”
“You’re nice all over.” His eyes run over me, and my toes curl as his eyes reach my feet, and then he catches himself, clenches his jaw, and looks up at me, sincere and strangely puzzled.
“I don’t want to be nice,” I blurt out. “I want to be un-nice. Badass and special and unforgettable. People mistake nice with weak, and I’m not weak.” A man as hard as Maverick should despise weakness.
“I don’t think you’re weak. It takes strength to be kind,” he says in a haunted tone. But his eyes gleam in approval of me.
I want him to say what he thinks of me, but maybe I’m not ready to know. If it’s bad it will funk me out, and if it’s good I’ll be gone. I’ll be gone.
“I won’t make it until at least three days from now. I’ll see you there.” He walks away.
Don’t watch him walk away, Reese.
Don’t look at his inverted-triangle back and his fine ass, Reese.
I am looking at both when he swings the door open, and my heart does an odd little flip when a group of guys comes in and he looks over his shoulder at me. He remains there, watching me until I board. Just as the doors start to close, I watch him turn away and lift his hand to touch his wound.
A stolen moment. That’s what just happened with him and me. But I want more than a moment. And I don’t want to steal it. I want it to be ours.
I see Miles’s text again and I tuck my phone away without answering.
♥ ♥ ♥
THAT NIGHT I have a dream of us eating ice cream. “Do you want to know something?” Maverick slams the spoon into the bucket and then uses that hand to touch my mouth. “I want to kiss you right here.”
“Why here?”
“Seems like a good place to start.”
And when he sets his lips on mine, I wake up, as if it’s too incredible a reality, it can’t even happen in my dreams.
