Uncaged Love #2: MMA New Adult Contemporary Romance (7 page)

I pull the white shirt on without any bra at all. A thrill zips through me. Yes, it’s the right thing to do. I check the mirror. My nipples are clearly outlined. It’s like saying, “Take me.”

My stomach flutters. I’m going to do this. And it’s going to be with Colt. Maybe it will help him somehow. God, maybe he’ll be devastated about the fight. Or mad. Or bitter.

How will I know what to do?

I pace the living room until I hear footsteps on the porch.

Colt forgets about the special knock, but I open the door anyway. I have to hold in everything I’m feeling when I see him.

He looks terrible. His nose is purple and swollen.

He holds up his hands. “Not exactly Prince Charming anymore, am I?”

I swallow hard, remembering the frog necklace. My grandfather said something so similar to Grandma when he gave it to her. I feel comfort from it, like she approves.

I let him in. “Can I get you something?”

He sits on the sofa, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ice is good.”

I run to the kitchen and snatch up a ratty towel, wishing I’d washed it recently. I dump a whole tray of ice into it and roll it up.

When I get back, Colt is lying on the sofa.

“Does anything hurt?” I ask. I’m going to confess to being at the fight eventually. But not yet.

He takes the ice bundle and sets it on his face. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Don’t you have a medic or something?”

He nods. “You should have seen me before they fixed me up.”

I kneel on the floor beside him. “Can I help?”

He reaches his free hand out to touch the little hair knots on either side of my neck. “You already are.”

My skin erupts with shivers as his fingers stroke me. I lay my head on the soft weave of his sweater, threading one finger through a belt loop of his jeans. He smells of soap and just a little of some sort of antiseptic. I wonder if anything else on him is bandaged or hurt.

We sit that way a little while, his hand exploring my neck and shoulders. Then he sets the ice aside and watches me with his hazel eyes. The swelling is down, and in the low light, his face is how I remember. Chiseled. Intense. Godlike.

Despite all the blood at the fight, his mouth seems fine. I lean over and press my lips against his.

His breath catches, and I pull away. “Did I hurt you?” I ask.

He laughs in a low rumble. “No, no way. I’m just trying to maintain some control.”

I think I understand what he means. I want to move fast, to lie on top of him and feel his response to me. The whole week of seeing him working out but never getting close has strung me up tight.

“I could put the ice a little lower,” I offer.

He laughs and pulls me up by the hands to lie on top of him. I can barely breathe.

“Come here,” he says. His hand moves behind my head to bring my face to his.

I’m careful not to bump his nose. I feel like I’m floating on his hard body. My chest is crushed against him, and our hips clash against each other. I spread my knees to surround him. He thrusts up to make contact between us. I think of that day in the ring, and I know my face flushes red at how easily I came. I’ll wait this time. I’ll make it until he’s inside me, the way it should be, I think.

I go very still, realizing that the time has arrived. I’m going to do this with him. But he doesn’t know about me. That I haven’t done it before. I’m not sure if I should tell him.

He senses my hesitation and presses my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat calms me. His fingers tug at the little coils in my hair until they come loose. “I lost the fight,” he says quietly.

I squeeze his broad shoulders. “I’m sorry,” I say.

He sighs. “I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to, not with me.” And it’s true.

He holds me a little tighter. “You are my only safe place. I had nowhere else to come but here.”

I feel exactly the same way about him.

I push up to look at him. His eyes are full of gratitude. “I’m glad you came to me,” I say. I hear a break in my voice, and it startles me. I’m not the emotional sort. God, I’ve changed so much.

“Hey,” Colt says. My hair slips forward, and he smooths it back. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to watch the fight.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I knew you had your reasons.”

“I didn’t know how it would go. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

I can’t hold back anymore. “I went,” I blurt out.

He goes still. “What?”

“I snuck in. But I didn’t watch. Not really.” Terror that I will ruin everything slams through me.

Colt breathes a moment, in and out, his eyes shut.

He’s mad. He’s going to accuse me of spying. Of smothering him. Then he’ll leave. He’ll charge out of here and slam the door, and I won’t see him again. Buster will have to fire me, walk me out for real. I feel hot and sick. I shouldn’t have gone. I should have stayed away.

“Hey, hey.” Colt shakes me. “Jo. It’s okay.”

I realize I’m breathing super fast.

He lifts my chin to look into his eyes. “I should have asked you. Or explained.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I think I do.” His eyes are locked on mine, concerned. “What we’re doing isn’t exactly typical, but we are doing it. And I should think about someone other than myself.”

“I knew you didn’t want me there,” I say. “I just couldn’t stay away.”

He grins at that. “My animal magnetism.”

My breathing begins to slow. “Something like that.”

He laughs. “It was a plucky thing to do.”

“Plucky?” I ask. “Like a chicken? Is that my animal magnetism?”

He rolls me over with a little roar. I’m pinned beneath him, and my heart starts hammering again. I can’t keep up with his moods.

“A cute little chick whose feathers are too…” — he pauses — “…enticing.” His gaze moves down my body. He takes in the white shirt. I feel his reaction, hard against my thighs.

His broad hand covers my ribs. “I’m hoping this means you were expecting me.” His thumb crosses the nipple. My body arches in response.

“How thin is this fabric?” he asks. His lips close over my breast.

His mouth is hot and wet. The pleasure rushes through me, my entire body thrumming in response. Until Colt, I had no idea I could feel like this. I know everything I want from him. I want it all. Maybe I don’t have to tell him that I’m a virgin. Maybe he won’t notice.

He pulls away. “Mmmm. As sheer as I hoped it would be.”

The white shirt clings to my nipple, pink and taut. Colt looks as though he can’t get enough of me. “But now it’s in the way.” He grasps the bottom and rips it off over my head in one swift movement.

Panic shoots through me. I’ve never been this exposed with anyone, not ever. The only time anyone saw this much of me was disastrous, years ago, at my stepmother’s house. I was naked in the shower, and the clear curtain came down in a crash.

Even on the sofa with Colt, where I want to be, I can’t help myself. I cross my arms over my front.

“Hold on,” Colt says. “Hang on.” He sits up and folds me into him. His sweater is warm, and his arms are tight around me.

I try to shove the memories out of my head. I want to punch them like the Bad Boy bags, kick them until they tear apart, stuffing flying. Then I realize I’m not thinking of the training equipment, but remembering my stepbrother. What I did to him. The blood, the sickening sound of bones breaking.

Suddenly I’m hiccuping into Colt’s shirt, breathing too hard, hyperventilating.

“Shhhh,” Colt says. “Don’t think. Just be in the moment.” He strokes my hair. “Be right here. Nobody’s going to get you here.”

I gulp in air, angry now. I refuse to let that asshole mess up any other part of my life. He did enough. I stopped him. I got away. But it’s time. I can see it’s time to tell somebody. If people are going to come for me, maybe it’s time to let them come.

“I have to tell you something,” I say, my voice unsteady. “I’m just afraid.”

He runs his hands over my bare back. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

I try to calm myself. I have to do this. I have to tell him. If I don’t do it now, it will be impossible later.

“My real name isn’t Jo Jones,” I say to Colt. “It’s Joanna Mahoney.”

Colt stands up so fast that I’m dumped onto the sofa. I snatch at my shirt and hold it in front of me.

“You lied to everybody?” His voice is a roar.

“I had to.”

He moves so fast that he knocks over the folding chair. “I do NOT like being lied to.” He’s running his hands through his hair.

“Let me tell you why,” I say, still clutching the shirt.

He kicks the chair out of his way. “I’m sick of all the goddamned liars everywhere!”

“Aren’t you the one lying about your engagement?”

He whirls around to stare at me. The malice in his eyes makes me want to disappear into the floor. “I told you the TRUTH about that.”

I’m trying to breathe normally, to stay calm. I need to find the right words. I have to explain everything.

But Colt doesn’t give me that chance. He strides across the room and flings open the front door. And with a terrible slam, he’s gone.

Oh my God. I struggle with the shirt, trying to get it over my head. I get tangled and actually rip a hole under the arm as I fight to get it on.

I scramble to the door and yank it open. But his motorcycle is already roaring. By the time I’m to the parking lot, he’s down the street.

I sit on the curb. I can’t believe it. It’s happened again. My whole life has just exploded into bits. I wish I hadn’t told him. Now he knows my real name. He could do anything. Look me up. Turn me in. At least I’m too old to be sent back home.

But old enough to be tried as an adult.

It takes all the energy I possess to get up and walk back inside. The ice is melting on the floor. I pick up the towel and hold it to my chest. My shirt is still damp in the one spot, and the cold bites deeply there first, over my heart.

Surely there is something I can do or say to make him understand. I wasn’t lying to him. I was trying to tell him the truth. Everyone in LA knows me as Jo Jones. There’s no reason for anyone to doubt it. My ID looks perfectly legit.

The phone Colt gave me sits on the coffee table. I set the ice in my lap and try to come up with the right words. When I begin to tap out the letters, I have to swallow all my fear. I’m leaving a trail, I realize. Once I press send, the message is out there. He can use it against me. After all this time, I can be caught.

I read it over.

I got a fake ID when I ran away from home. I wasn’t sure then, and I’m not completely sure even now, that I didn’t kill my stepbrother the night I left. I did what I had to do.

Now he’ll know.

I send the message.

All I can do is wait.

I don’t think it is possible to fall asleep in the state I’m in, but apparently I do.

I startle awake, my face in the sofa cushion. I’ve heard a sound. Something moves in the room, and I’m up, standing on the sofa, arms in punching position.

“Your hands are too high,” Colt says. “I could sink you with a low jab.”

He stands behind the armchair. “You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked if you don’t even know where to hold your hands.”

I drop my arms. I want to throw myself at him, hang on, and refuse to let go. But I stay on the sofa, watching his shadow cross the room in the near-dark.

“I just got your message,” he says. “You sent it hours ago.”

He’s close now, beside the coffee table.

I back up against the wall. My feet are buried in the cushions. Still, I’m barely taller than him.

“Was it like when you went after those boys?” he asks. “That first day I met you?”

I nod, although I’m not sure if he can see me in the low light.

“He was your stepbrother?”

I nod again.

“How old were you?”

I slide down until I’m sitting on the back of the sofa. “Seventeen.”

“Did he hurt you?”

A dozen scenes flash through my mind. Pinches. Grabs. His body on mine, pressing my face into a pillow. “Sometimes.”

“Did he ever…rape you?”

I stand up again. “No.” My breathing speeds up. “I didn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t. I was able to fight.”

“He tried?”

My legs wobble on the uneven springs of the sofa. I sit all the way down, my knees pulled to my chest. “He was working his way up to it.”

Colt settles on the coffee table, closer, but still distant. “What happened that last night?”

I bury my face against my knees. “I thought he was out for the night. I was always so careful to be out of the house if my stepmother was out.” I pause. I’ve never told anyone this story, but it’s played in my mind many times, like a movie I’ve watched too often.

“I was taking a shower. I hated taking showers there. The door didn’t lock properly. You just had to jiggle it.” I can see the crystal doorknob, how it rattled in its setting.

“He came in. It was so sudden. His hands were on me. It was so easy since I didn’t have clothes on.” I can still feel his hands going straight for the prize, fingers pressing between my legs. He’d never gotten that far before. It was like his game. How much could he grab before I fought him off?

“I brought the whole shower curtain down trying to get away.” The water sprayed everywhere, across the clear curtain, onto his clothes.

“It didn’t slow him down. He thought it was funny, us lying on the floor.” I was naked and scrambling to escape. He managed to trap me underneath him.

“Then I found my strength. I used it. I beat him.”

I close my eyes to the scene. I don’t want to see it. My elbow landing on his face. My knee in his belly. And even when I knew I had stopped him, I kept going. I kept hitting and hitting like he wasn’t a person. He was an object. I hit him long after I should have quit, long after his silence, his stillness.

The room is quiet. Colt still sits on the coffee table. A streetlamp outside casts feeble light across our shadows.

“And then you ran,” he says. “You didn’t call for help. No police. No ambulance.”

I flood with shame. “No, I didn’t call,” I whisper. “I ran.”