Say You're Mine

by Alexis Winter

  “Your usual?” she asks, snapping me out of my daydream about her ass in my hands as I hold her up against a wall to kiss the ever-loving shit out of her.

  “Yeah. Great. Thanks.”

  She gives me that huge smile again, and I hate that three little words from me can put that kind of smile on her face.

  I know she likes me. I might not date, or have ever considered being in a relationship, but I can tell when a woman is interested in me. That hasn’t bothered me before. I can tell the difference between the women who just want a good time and the ones who think they can tame the bad boy.

  But Annabelle? With the look she’s giving me as she pours my coffee? This look is different. It’s . . . wanting. Longing. She’s picturing us holding hands as we walk down the street together.

  Seeing her look at me like that is the second time in my life I’ve wished for a different path, to be a different person. Because I’m not the guy who can give her what she deserves.

  What would it be like? To be that man in her life? I’ve tried to push down that thought when it’s crept into my mind. I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who would try to change me. She comes to the gym and tells me all the time how much she loves it there. I don’t fight for money anymore, so I wouldn’t have to keep her away from dark and abandoned warehouses or have to explain why my face is bloodied and bruised.

  What would it be like to come home to her after a day at the gym? What does she like to do when she’s not working? Would she like to take a ride on my bike—take the day to explore with me? Is she from here? I wonder what her family is like.

  And just like that, my fantasy comes to a screeching halt.

  Family.

  My family. The ones I have and don’t have. The reason I could never be with her.

  I feel like a bucket of ice has just been dumped on my head.

  “Here you go!” she says, breaking me from my thoughts. “Sorry it took so long. I had just put on a new pot, so I was waiting for it to finish so you could have a fresh cup. And . . . well, that’s it. Nothing more. See you soon! At the gym. Or here. Or whatever. Have a good day!”

  “Thanks.” I put my $5 on the counter and turn to go. I have no idea why she is rambling and talking in an unusually high-pitched voice, and while it’s cute as hell, I need to get out of here. My head is in too many places right now.

  As I push open the door to leave, I step out of the way for an elderly woman to walk in. As I wait, I take a sip of the coffee and notice something on the cup. It looks like someone wrote something with a black marker—a big contrast to the normally plain white cup.

  I walk out and take a better look. I have to read it three times to make sure I’m seeing things correctly:

  Annabelle: 217-555-7926. Grab a drink?

  Holy shit. She just gave me her number.

  I stand and stare at the cup for what feels like hours. I can’t believe she did that. Now the rambling makes sense. She took this huge risk, putting herself out there like that.

  And I wish I could do something with it.

  Go figure. The five-foot-nothing girl who used to drop trays when I came in now has the balls to give me her number.

  And I’m the big fucking coward who is about to break her heart.

  I know I can’t keep this. It’s too much temptation. I need to stay away from her, and she needs to stay away from me.

  So I do the hardest thing I’ve done since I buried my sister—I throw the cup in the trash can and walk away.

  13

  Annabelle

  Joining The Pit was the best and worst decision I’ve ever made.

  The best because I’ve never been in better shape physically or mentally. What started as just self-defense classes has turned into kickboxing twice a week and a membership.

  The worst because I’m now a part of Jaxson Kelly’s world. And I pay to be in it.

  Since the day I tried to give him my number, he won’t even look at me when we’re at the gym at the same time, which isn’t often, but enough. But I refuse to stop coming here just because the Dark, Dangerous Dickhead is being an asshole.

  Yeah, his named changed after the coffee cup incident. I actually came up with it, which made Tori super proud.

  My legs have some extra power behind them today as I work out my frustrations on a heavy bag. Just thinking about that day makes me angry.

  I had been prepared for him not to call me. I knew it was at best a 50-50 chance. No one goes through life without being rejected, so I’d prepared myself in advance. I figured that if he never used it, at least I took a chance. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward when I saw him at Perks.

  But watching him stop, look at it, and then look at it some more, before throwing it in the trash was a knife to the heart I never expected.

  Why was he such an asshole about it? Am I that undesirable that he couldn’t even finish his fucking cup of coffee because he wanted to be rid of my phone number so badly?

  Wasn’t he warming up to me? I thought we had become friends. Well, maybe not friends, but we were friendlier. It took a night of crying, a cheap bottle of wine, and a Tori monologue about why men are trash before my sadness turned into anger.

  Apparently, I’m still at that stage, judging by the way I’m kicking this bag right now. But that probably has something to do with him being here today.

  If I’m not taking a class, I usually get in here early before work, which has worked out great because I’ve learned he doesn’t come in until late morning. The few times we have run into each other, he hasn’t even looked at me. He hasn’t come in for coffee. It’s like I’m a complete stranger.

  And that’s what hurts the most.

  I mean, he saved my freaking life! He made me promise to call him if I was closing late! He technically gave me his number first! How is giving him my number and asking him for a drink so unwanted?

  With one last back kick, I nearly collapse to the floor. I might have gone a little too hard today, but I couldn’t stop myself. That’s what his presence does to me.

  As I stand up, trying to even out my ragged breaths, I look around to make sure he’s not on the gym floor. I’m hoping he’s upstairs in his office so I can shower, change, and get out of here before I have to see him.

  No such luck. He’s standing right outside the locker rooms, talking with Reggie.

  Deep breaths. I can do this. He’s just a guy. Correction: just an asshole.

  I give myself a mental pep talk, and with all the confidence I can muster, walk over to the locker room. I have to remind myself not to make eye contact, but when it comes to him, he’s like a magnet.

  “Annabelle! How you doing?”

  Dammit Reggie! Didn’t you see I was purposely not making eye contact so you wouldn’t talk to me?

  “Hey Reggie. How are you?”

  That’s right. Just Reggie. Take that, dickhead!

  “Can’t complain. Are you liking it here? I noticed you signed up for a membership.”

  My eyes continue to stay fixed on Reggie, even though I can feel Jaxson burning a hole through me with his gaze. “Yeah, I’m really liking it. I didn’t think this would be something I would enjoy, but I’m becoming addicted to it.”

  “Glad to hear that. Jaxson, you should see her in the kickboxing class. It’s like she’s been doing it for years.”

  I don’t want to, but we make eye contact, and I try with every fiber of my being to look disinterested. Or angry. I just hope it’s not sadness he sees. I can’t let him know how much he has affected me.

  His eyes have always been intense. It’s what drew me to him that first day he came in for coffee.

  But this look? It’s intense, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something more there.

  Is it regret? Hurt? Anger? There’s so much going on, and I can’t make heads or tails of it. I just know that in this moment, I’ve never been more angry or confused in my entire life.

  We stand and stare at each othe
r for seconds, but it feels like minutes. The tension is high. Why? I don’t know. It can’t be because he has feelings for me. He made that very clear.

  Knowing I’m going to snap soon, and I can’t let him see me become emotional, I break the silence.

  “Well, nice talking to you, Reggie. Jaxson. I need to get to work. Have a good day!”

  I all but sprint into the locker room and collapse onto the bench. That’s the most I’ve been around Jaxson since that day, and it’s just too much.

  He’s too much.

  I don’t want to cry over him anymore, but I can’t help it. And I know the tears are silly—it’s not like we were dating, but what I felt for him was that strong. That real. And I really thought he felt something for me too.

  God, I was such a fool.

  Not wanting to cry in front of others, I grab my towel and shower kit. I have a long night of work ahead of me; it’s another live music night, and I don’t want this interaction to dictate my day.

  As the steam rises and the tears fall, I make myself a promise: today is the last day I’m going to let Jaxson Kelly be the reason for my tears.

  14

  Jaxson

  I don’t know how long the gym has been closed. Reggie left hours ago. I haven’t heard anyone in a while. But I can’t seem to get up and leave.

  Ever since I saw Annabelle today, I’ve been walking around like a goddamn zombie. I wanted to fucking kill Reggie when he stopped and talked to her today.

  I’d been doing just fine avoiding her. I didn’t know if she saw me throw away the coffee cup, but I didn’t want to find out.

  Today told me all I needed to know. She saw. And now she hates me.

  Good. Hate is good. I’d rather she hate me. It’s safer for her that way.

  But fuck . . . that look in her eyes. Yes, there was hate. That was plain as day. But underneath the rage was hurt. And sadness. And I hate that I put those there.

  It should go away soon. She’ll meet some guy who wears a suit to work every day, brings her flowers just because, and gives her the life she deserves.

  A text message interrupts my train of thought. It’s Maverick asking me if we’re still on for beers tomorrow. At this point, I realize that it’s close to midnight.

  I shut off the lights, lock the doors, and head for my bike. I really don’t want to go home—my loft is better than where I grew up, but it’s just a place for me to sleep. I would never say I lived there. And honestly, I don’t want to be alone tonight. Maybe a ride will do me some good.

  I head around the block and pass the coffee shop. I hate that I pass this place every night when I go home. I guess I could take a different route, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. Up ahead is the stoplight where I first heard her screams for help. I know that should make me angry, and it does, but now when I think about that night, I think about the woman she’s becoming. Not a victim. A survivor.

  The light turns green and I shoot ahead, but as I get about a mile from my gym, something catches my eye.

  Tiny body. Red hair. A figure that has haunted my dreams.

  Annabelle.

  Walking alone.

  After midnight.

  Fuck.

  What is she doing out here alone? Hasn’t she learned her fucking lesson? She fucking promised me she wouldn’t do this!

  Before any rational thought enters my brain, I pull my bike over and slam on the brakes. The screech startles her, but I don’t care. Serves her right for walking out here alone.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  If I thought she was mad earlier today, what I’m seeing now is unadulterated rage.

  “What the fuck am I doing out here? What the fuck are you doing scaring the shit out of me? I thought I was going to have a heart attack!”

  Does she really not see why I’m mad?

  “You’re walking home alone! You promised me you would call me if you closed late!” I’m now off my bike, stomping toward her. I can’t stop myself. She’s now inches away from me and shit, she’s fucking sexy when she’s mad.

  “Oh! Now you care about me!? That’s rich, Jaxson. You couldn’t even look at me today and now you all of a sudden give a shit about what happens to me? Save it. I don’t need your pretend concern. The train station is just a few blocks from here. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to be my protector anymore.”

  She starts to walk away, but I grab her elbow. I can’t let her go.

  “Let go of me. Now, Jaxson.”

  She’s fuming, but so am I.

  “Get on the bike. I’m taking you home.”

  “Like hell I’m getting on a bike with you!”

  “So you’d rather do something stupid like walk home alone and get mugged again than get on the bike with me?”

  Slap!

  She slapped me. I’ve taken harder hits before, but this one stings like I’ll feel it forever.

  “Annabelle, get on the fucking bike or I swear to God I will have my ass parked out in front of the coffee shop every night and follow you home. I need you to get on this bike with me. Right. Now.”

  Knowing I’d make good on that promise, she lets out a frustrated breath and throws her body out of my hold.

  “Fine. You can take me home. But on a scale of stupid things I’ve done lately, this is at the top of the list.”

  I don’t know what hurt worse, that comment or the slap. Both stung. And both were deserved.

  I know I shouldn’t be mad that she didn’t call me for a ride. I wouldn’t have either. I’ve ignored her since she tried to give me her number. I would have told me to go fuck myself too.

  But knowing that she was out here alone broke something inside me. The need to protect this girl is like nothing I’ve ever felt. And although I want her to stay as far away from me as possible, I can’t seem to stay away from her, no matter how hard I try.

  I give her an extra helmet I carry and make sure it’s snapped on tight before I get on. She gives me directions to her place before climbing on behind me.

  “Have you ever ridden a bike before?”

  She just shakes her head.

  “Hold on tight and lean with me. I’ve got you.”

  As we drive away, feeling her behind me is better than I’d imagined—her legs pressed against mine, bracing herself for the turns, with her arms wrapped around my waist. She started off not right against me, leaving some space between us. But at some point her front connected with my back, and I felt it all the way through my body.

  I’m tempted to take the long way back to her apartment, because this is the best feeling I’ve had in a long fucking time, and I’m not ready for it to end.

  15

  Annabelle

  I am hating every second of this right now.

  I hate that he pulled over and stopped me.

  I hate that he gets under my skin with his eyes and his voice and his muscles and his tattoos.

  I hate how possessive he was when he was demanding to take me home. I hate how much that turned me on.

  And I hate how much I love being on the back of his bike.

  I got on because I knew he wasn’t going to give it up. It’s been hard enough avoiding him at The Pit, and somehow I knew he’d keep his promise of waiting for me every night.

  I can’t see him every day. Not now. That wouldn’t be good for my mental stability. Or my wine consumption.

  He’s the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. One second, he won’t speak to me, then, he’s saving my life. Next, he’s starting to warm up to me, then BAM! he throws away my number and completely forgets I exist. And just when I start to get used to that new normal, he comes out of nowhere demanding that he take me home.

  I know I don’t have much experience with men, but I have to believe there’s not a man on this planet who is as hot and cold as Jaxson Kelly.

  We’re about 10 minutes away from my apartment. I had been keeping my distance, only getting as close as necessary to hold on to him. But with these
last few miles, I’m going to indulge in one last Jaxson fantasy.

  I didn’t know he had a motorcycle, but I figured he did. His whole persona screams “bad boy biker.” I had fantasized once about being on a bike with him—riding until we didn’t know where we were, and finding a spot where we could watch the sun set. I swung around and sat in front of him, with my legs straddling his, kissing him until we couldn’t breathe.

  As I’m thinking of all the things I’d like to do with him on this motorcycle, I realize we’re on my street.

  The fantasy is over.

  “Thanks for the ride.” That’s all I allow myself to say after I take off the helmet. As I take a step away, he grabs my elbow again. Gentler than he did earlier.

  “Wait. Let me walk you to your door.”

  I don’t argue, more because I’m now confused and don’t trust my words. I’m home. I’m safe. He can sleep just fine tonight knowing I didn’t get attacked on the street. What in the world could he still want?

  I can’t get a read on this man. And once and for all, I’m going to get some answers. No more of this hot-and-cold crap.

  “Jaxson, what do you want?” I say as we approach my door.

  “I wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

  “I did. Thank you for that. You drove me home. But you didn’t have to walk me up to my door. You could’ve just dropped me off at the train station, or even in the parking lot, which is 20 feet from here. So I’ll ask again: why did you take me home?”

  “I told you. Because I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  It’s like talking to a damn brick wall. And his repetitive answers have my frustration boiling.

  And like that, I snap.

  “Why do you care? I know, I know, you want me safe. Very noble of you. But if you care so much about my safety, that means in theory you should care about me. So why are you ignoring me? You won’t speak to me! Why won’t you look at me when I’m at The Pit? Why haven’t you been in the coffee shop? And why . . . why did you throw away the coffee cup?”