by Emilia Finn
“I guess you’d better make time then, huh?” I tap his chest and smile when he scowls. “I’ll head over to their place in a bit. I’ve been meaning to grab something from my old bedroom anyway, so I’ll hug Mom, and I’ll tell Daddy he’s a fuckface. That covers just about everything, right?”
“Give Lachlan a kiss for me, then oink on your way out the door. That oughtta do it.” He waves when Evie passes and slows at the end of the hall. “I have to go, but I’ll see you tonight. Love you, Livi.” Stepping forward again, Ben presses a noisy kiss to the middle of my forehead, then turns away and leaves me all alone.
I stand in the hall in yoga pants, a tank, and sneakers. Fighters pass me by; many of them smile, a few even slow and wait for me to smile back. My mom works here, as do my brother, my sister-in-law, my aunt. I have dozens of uncles, aunts, cousins – perhaps not family by blood, but certainly by heart. So many connections inside one building, but still… something is missing.
When a fighter who has a history of extra friendliness with me – when Ben isn’t around – skids into the hall and smiles like he just won some kind of prize, I turn away and head into a training room just a few feet away.
I’m not interested in dating a fighter, and I’m not interested in acting like the attention of another man is welcome or cute.
I step through the doorway and pause at the sight of the hanging bags, the rubber mats on the floors, the single wall covered in more rubber, and the opposite wall filled with mirrors that look back on me. This isn’t exclusively my space. I run just three classes here a day, which translates to a mere three hours of work, so other than that, it’s a communal space I must share with my mom and other trainers.
I stop just short of walking onto the red mats, and instead stand by the wall while my mom moves around in quiet contemplation.
She wears yoga pants much like mine, and a tank, but no sneakers. Her feet are bare, her hair is tied up in a midnight black, silky smooth mass at the top of her head. She walks laps on the rubber flooring, moves her hands the way Ben does when he’s being extra exuberant. But Mom’s lips remain closed. She’s telling a story, but it’s in her head, it’s for her. And later, when her class arrives, she’ll tell them. And maybe she’ll save a life.
“Oh!” She stops with a jump, presses a hand to her chest, and another to her cheek. “Livi!”
“Hey.” Smiling and toeing my shoes off, I move onto the mats and make my way to the woman who risked, and almost lost, her life, to save mine and my brother’s when our biological father decided if he couldn’t have us, no one could. Thankfully, I favor her a hell of a lot more than I favor him.
Lindsi Franks and I have the same raven hair, straight and smooth even after a shower or sleep. We each have what people call porcelain skin, but what I more accurately describe as hopelessly pale. The summer sun is not our friend, because tanning just isn’t something we can do. I start each summer with pale skin, I work through my lobster phase, and then by the end of September, I go straight back to pale. There’s no inbetween for me, no luxury of a tan – except for one I might get from a can.
Mom and I stand about the same height, now that I’m a grown woman and my growth spurts have ended. Five feet and six and a bit inches for my mom, five-seven for me. We both boast a pair of bright blue eyes that, despite my need to remain, for the most part, unnoticed, even I can admit are beautiful.
Many men smile when they see me. That has nothing to do with beauty or who my family is, and everything to do with the fact I’ve spent half of my life inside this gym, first learning, and later, teaching yoga. My body is typical of a woman who spends her time working a physical job. Add in a pair of wide-set hips, a narrow waist, and slightly-thicker-than-is-typical-for-my-weight thighs, and men often enjoy watching me walk.
Pear-shaped. That’s what they call it.
And since I often prefer to be alone – because everyone knows book boyfriends are infinitely better than real-life idiots – men tend to try to pull me out of my hobbies, and into their beds.
If people truly knew me, if they truly knew my heart and soul, they would never call me a prude. But there has only been one man who has ever asked me questions that are real.
Oh, the things my brother has no clue go on behind his back.
“Livi?” Mom asks again as I move toward her.
“Sorry.” I shake away my straying thoughts and smile for her. “Did I disturb you?”
“No.” She reaches forward when I arrive in the middle of the mats, and takes my hand in hers. “I was working through a class for tomorrow. You caught me by surprise, but I’m done here.” She leads me toward the edge of the mats. “Are you finished for today?”
“Yeah. Ben just grabbed me in the hallway and demanded I come to dinner.”
She snickers and releases me when we step off rubber and onto concrete. Like we’ve done a million times before, we slide our feet back into our sneakers, and groan about how inconvenient it is to have to do it a dozen times a day. “Guess you’re going to Ben’s for dinner, then, huh? What did he ask you to bring?”
“Dessert.” I stand tall and wait for Mom to finish, then taking her hand again, I follow her into the hall and flip the training room lights out as we leave.
“Are you swinging by the store to buy ice cream, or do you want to make something?”
“Are you busy?”
“No.” She leads me into the ladies’ locker room and yanks one of the metal storage units open to grab her bag. “Get your purse, honey. Then we’ll go home and bake something for Ben. You know that’s why he put you on dessert duty anyway.”
“He figured I’d ask Ma.”
She snorts and slams her locker as I open mine and collect my things. Purse, keys, phone. I close the door again, and head across the room to meet her at the doorway.
“He always prefers something homemade over store-bought,” I grumble. “Pretty sure that makes him a spoiled brat.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong.” Mom waves at people as we pass – my Aunt Andi, Andi’s husband, Riley, some of the men we affectionately call the Rollers. We pass through the long hall, past the octagon, past the boxing ring, and then into reception. “Ben is a brat, honey. We’ve known that since he was, what?” She taps a finger to her bottom lip. “Four?”
“About that,” I agree on a laugh. “Then he went ultra-brat somewhere about fourteen.”
“We seem to have passed twenty-four with mild damage,” she snickers. “So maybe by thirty-four, he’ll stop trying to dictate your whereabouts and chaperoning your dates.”
“He doesn’t know about my date last night,” I singsong. “He has no clue that Brenten is sliding in and shoving him to the side.”
“God help us all.” Mom rolls her eyes to the sky. Stopping between her car and mine in the parking lot, she grabs her keys and grins. “Want to share a ride?”
“Nah, I’ll follow you out, that way you don’t have to bring me back later.”
“Oz can bring your car. You know he would if we asked.”
“I know,” I admit, “but he’s always so busy lately.”
“Work’s really bugging him right now,” she explains, and opens her car door when I reach for mine. “There’s too much work, too few hours, and Uncle Alex is riding them all because of it. So until they can get ahead again…” she shrugs. “He said he’ll be home early tonight, though, so you might catch him before you leave again with the pineapple upside down cake that Ben totally hustled you for.”
“Ha.” I snort and slide into my car.
It’s hardly hustling if I knew all along that I would come to dinner and bring the cake. Ben ‘The Sasquatch’ Conner isn’t nearly as slick as he thinks he is.
Waving Mom off, I close my door, and back out of my parking space at the same time she does. Two similar cars, two similar-looking women, we leave the gym at the same time, and arrive at the home that borders on the forest within ten minutes of starting our engines.
/> Back when I was a child, my mom was married to a man who… let’s say he enjoyed abusing and attempting to murder his wife.
My good ol’ dad sure was the catch of the county.
It’s pure, blind luck that Ben and I take after our mom so much, because the genes that come from my father aren’t all that special. When I was a toddler, Mom left him, she took Ben and I, and she ran away to the safety of those same men who own the gym we just left.
The Rollers.
They took us in, kept us safe, provided a newly single mom with shelter for a little while so she could catch her breath and figure out her next step. Then, ten years later, after leaving this town and coming back again, Mom met the man she was always supposed to love.
A cop, a good man. The man I call ‘Daddy’ sometimes when I want to make him putty. Oscar – Oz – Franks set the bar high a long time ago, and though Ben annoys me on a daily basis, between them, they made sure I knew what to expect of any man that would like to smile my way.
They set impossible expectations and hound any guy that looks at me, because the answer when asked “Who is good enough for me?” is no man. No man is good enough.
Which is why I have to date on the sly.
My mother knows almost everything there is to know about me, because as a woman who was once a victim in a dangerous marriage, she made sure I knew to never keep boy secrets from her. She provided me a safe space to speak, a place free of judgment, and an environment rich with information, so that if I was ever curious about something, I could ask her rather than risk finding out the hard way.
In exchange for my utter trust, she promised to never hound the guys I considered suitors, and when asked questions by my overbearing brother, she was to remain tight-lipped and naïve. It’s a system that has worked well for us, despite the fact I know she’s had to hold her tongue a time or two. It got us through my disastrous virginity-loss episode when I was sixteen. The equally disastrous time a guy felt like when I said no, it was a mere suggestion, rather than a declaration.
My brother has remained blissfully unaware of my adventures, even when my mother had steam pouring from her ears. But we had a deal, and she knew I could take care of business when I needed to.
I’m not just a yoga teacher at that fight gym I grew up in. Logic demanded I would learn to fight too – not competition style, like my brother, but self-defense, so now I teach classes to women five days a week, just like the first raven-haired Conner woman before me.
I guess some mothers pass down pearls to their daughter. Brooches. Wedding gowns.
My mom handed down honesty, brutal and uncensored, but with it, she gave me power, so that if I should ever find myself with a man just like my father, I wouldn’t end up hanging from a chandelier with a rope around my neck and paralyzed from fear for what that man would do to my children when I was dead.
Switching off the car engine, and snagging my phone, I check the screen and smile when – speak of the devil – Brenten’s name flashes up with a call. I watch my mom through the windshield, grab my keys, and answer on the go. “Hey. How was your day?”
“Hey.” His voice is a smile, his soft grunt, a kind of hug. “Busy. And yours?”
“Busy,” I reply and slam my door closed. Mom looks into my eyes for a moment, then to my phone, then she turns away with a smirk and leads me into the house. “I’ve been roped into baking for my brother this afternoon, then dinner with everyone over at his place. Thank god it’s Friday, huh?”
“Tell me about it,” he huffs. “I swear my days are getting longer. They dragggg,” he chuckles. “So, your brother’s, huh? That’s…” He searches for the least offensive thing to say, only to settle on, “a bummer.”
I snort and drop my keys on the kitchen counter as Mom walks into the pantry. “Yep, my brother. I hate that I love him.”
“I was hoping we could get drinks tonight,” Brenten tries for seductive. “We could head into the city maybe, stay someplace nice, get some dinner. It’s the weekend, after all.”
“Or, you could come to Ben’s place with me,” I offer and turn away when Mom snickers. “Everyone else is going as a couple. I’d be the odd one out.”
“Yeah?” Brenten grumbles. “I’m pretty sure that’s the way your brother prefers it.”
“But only a rookie would actually listen to him.” I tuck my phone between my shoulder and ear, and hip-bumping my mom aside when she stands at the sink, I pump soap into my hands and start washing them. “I learned a long time ago to nod when Ben speaks, then do the thing that I was going to do anyway. It’s best that I keep my plans to myself.”
“So, city?” Brenten asks hopefully.
“No.” I slap the faucet off and dry my hands on a towel. “I’m going to Ben’s. I want to go to Ben’s, but you’re welcome to join me.”
“Liv…”
“And I promise to protect you.”
My mom walks out of the kitchen with a shake of her head. Maybe she made that promise about never interfering, but that doesn’t mean she likes the man I’ve been dating for the last several months.
Brenten Pierce is the local prosecutor in his three-man office, after being transferred out of a city firm and into our small town a little more than a year ago. He claims to be the best prosecutor at his firm… but since there are just two of them, the third employee being a secretary, I guess it’s a fifty-fifty race for that ‘employee of the month’ plaque they may or may not hang every month. He jokes that he’s the director of jury intake, and a specialist in the special crime’s unit… and, well, there’s a reason Aunt Jules thinks he’s somewhat of a self-important douche.
Brenten is nice. He’s just a little dry when it comes to humor, and after being transferred here, he feels he has to work that much more doggedly to prove to his superiors that he’s worthy of a corner office in the city again.
To the people who live here, this town is a haven for family and community. But I guess to a guy who was born and raised in the big city, he might consider this place an ultimate hell that he can’t wait to escape.
Brenten works tirelessly to prosecute the same clients Aunt Jules often tries to defend. They work on opposite sides of the law, so it’s natural they hold… well, not animosity, but nor is there love. There’s merely an acceptance of existence, and at family dinner, there’s Aunt Jules calling the guy ‘a pencil-dick twat bag’ – her words, not mine.
Ironically, in addition to my prosecutor-boyfriend, and my defender-aunt, my cop-stepfather rounds out the trio as the guy who arrests folks and tosses them to the courtrooms.
And here I am in the middle, trying to fake some semblance of a normal dating life.
“Brenten?” I stop at the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and lift a brow when Mom stretches across the couch. She was supposed to help me bake, but until I hang up… “I’m going to dinner at my brother’s house. That’s non-negotiable. But I would love for you to join me. You have to get used to these people eventually, right? I mean,” I lower my voice, “if you want to be with me…”
Brenten remains silent for a moment, his breath in my ear the only thing I can hear, until finally, he sighs. “The Hart twins…”
“Rob and Luke?”
“Yeah, them. Are they going to be there?”
“Uh…” I turn back to the kitchen and frown. “I don’t think so. I mean, it wouldn’t be unheard of, since they’re family, but Ben didn’t mention them.”
Brenten groans. “Can you check? Because those guys aren’t all that pleased with me right now.”
I burst out laughing and draw my mom’s curious eyes up. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?” he blusters. “What did I do? I did my job. You should ask them what they did!”
“Well?” I swallow down my laughter and press my fingers to my lips before I offend him. The Hart twins are… unique, in their own criminal way. They steal things, explode things, crash things, and all around make nuisances of themselves aro
und town. And along the way, they break hearts – or so the legend goes. “What did they do?”
“Just call, Liv? Ask your brother if they’re gonna be there.”
“And if they’re not?”
He sighs. “Then I’ll come to dinner, I guess.”
“Great! I’ll call Ben now, and I’ll text you when I find out.”
“Where are you now?” Brenten asks quietly. Softly. He’s using his seductive voice, his bedroom voice, I suppose. “Can’t we catch up now?”
“I’m baking at my mom and dad’s house, so I’m gonna be busy for the next little bit. Dinner is at seven, so by the time I finish cooking, then shower, then get across town…”
“Yeah,” he whines. “I get it. You’re too busy for me.”
“No,” I frown. “I’m not. If I was too busy for you, I’d tell you I’ll call you next week sometime. Instead, I’m asking you to come to dinner, to be with my family, and that’s actually a really important distinction you shouldn’t forget. They’re good people, Brenten. The best kind, and if you and I want any kind of future together…”
He sighs. “I have to play nice. Fine, I get it.”
“I’ll text you soon.” I smile when my stepfather’s truck pulls up in the front yard. Around here, we know the sound of everyone’s cars. We know the tread on someone’s tires. “Okay?” I prod. “I have to run for now, but I’ll text in a bit.”
“Okay. Talk to you in a bit.” Brenten turns his voice lower. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“You too.”
Before he can request mushy declarations – because I don’t do mush – I hang up, and toss my phone to the counter, then I dash into the living room and shove my mom aside when she opens the front door to her husband.
“Move aside.” I laugh when she stumbles six feet to the right, then I slide into Oz’s embrace, and breathe him in until whatever tension he brought home from work leaves on the exhale he releases against the top of my head.
“Hey, Beauty.” My six and a half feet tall ‘father in all the ways that matter’ wraps his beefy arms around my shoulders and squeezes me tight. “I saw your car out front, and I swear, that made it all better.”