Maverick
Two days later we’re in the back of a bus, on our way to Denver. Oz is snoozing. I have my earbuds in, watching my father fight Tate in the ring. I’ve watched the videos so many times. Studying for weaknesses. He has none. He’s fast; my father has trouble staying balanced when he catches a hit.
If I withstand ten fighters next fight, I can get to him. Face-to-face. I get to fight him. I get to see exactly what he’s made of.
Hell, I get to see what I’m made of.
I sigh and turn off my phone, then I set my forehead on the window and stare outside, not really seeing anything but her.
She’s in my head. She said He’s with me and now, somehow, she is the one who’s with me. She’s there when I go to bed, there when I wake. I rub my thumb over my cut.
Her eyes as she stitched me up.
Her lips closing around the spoon and licking off the vanilla ice cream.
My mind goes in all directions but it ends up in the same place: her.
Her watching me fight.
Her in a nice room with me.
On a nice bed.
And me, kissing her in a very un-nice way. Hearing her make noises that are the opposite of nice.
She huffs when she exercises and makes a certain noise when she makes effort, almost a moan, and then she sighs as she catches her breath, and she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen inside a gym or out of it.
She’s got a tiny waist I could encircle with my hands and the most delicious butt. It bounces when she runs, and so do her exquisitely delicious breasts. She’s a sexpot, made to fuck. I can’t look at her without imagining what she’d look like under me.
Dragging my hand over my face, I pull my phone back out and try to focus on the man I need to beat.
And still I think of that nice girl who doesn’t want to be nice. A girl who wants to be unforgettable, and doesn’t realize she already is.
