by A. S. Teague
Tripp doesn’t move, but he asks dryly, “Feel better now? What did that chair ever do to you?”
Whipping my head back at him, I snap, “Shut up, Tripp.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re the one who barged in here and then proceeded to assault my office furniture.”
Flopping into the upright chair, I concede. “You’re right.”
He rolls his eyes. “Bullshit. I’m never right with you.”
I decide to plead. “Just tell me what he needed.”
Tripp shakes his head again.
“You’re my brother. Not his. You shouldn’t be keeping his secrets from me! Gah, do you have no moral code?”
He barks out a laugh. “That’s exactly why I can’t tell you what he wanted. Bro-code.”
“Bro-code? Jesus, what the fuck even is that?” I grumble.
“It’s when one guy keeps another guy’s secrets and protects his manhood. Bro-code.”
“Fuck that. What about sister-code?”
“There’s no such thing as sister-code, Reb,” he states matter-of-factly.
“Oh yeah? Well, there is now. I’m instituting it right now.” I lean forward in my chair, grabbing the edge of his desk. “And, since you’re my brother, you are bound by the sister-code to tell me what the fuck is going on with my boyfriend.”
Tripp just sits in his chair and stares at me, an amused look on his face. He doesn’t say anything, so I’m forced to finally give up.
Frustrated, I stand. “Argh. You suck, you know that, Tripp?”
A smirk crosses his face, and he agrees with me. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, Mouse. Bro-code trumps your made-up sister-code. You wanna know what’s going on with your man? Go ask him.”
Childishly, I stomp my foot before spinning on my heel.
Behind me, he calls, “You wanna pick that chair up on your way out?”
Not bothering to acknowledge that I heard him, I slam the door on my way out.
Unable to leave the gym, I spend the rest of the morning trying to distract myself and throw myself into the boys’ final training session. Tripp takes over for Ryker and spends a few hours getting beaten up by the kids.
Even though it’s immature of me, I secretly enjoy watching them beat on my brother. Tripp’s always been my best friend and closest confidante. But, with us being close, he also knows all the tricks to get under my skin––and finds great pleasure in riling me up.
No matter the fact that I know he pushes my buttons on purpose, I still can’t stop my inner tantrum-throwing five-year-old from coming out when he starts.
When lunchtime rolls around, I get the kids settled with their pizza and then excuse myself, leaving one of the other trainers in charge. I grab my phone from my desk and sneak out the back door, dialing Ryker’s number as I shut the door behind me.
When he doesn’t answer, I type out a message, asking him to call me right away.
A few minutes pass, and I find myself walking in circles behind the building, an imaginary fight brewing in my head. My phone chimes with a message.
Ryker: Tied up. Call you tonight.
I let out a frustrated growl.
Deciding that he’s given me no other option, I type a number and then place the phone to my ear.
After a few rings, the call connects.
“Hello? Gram?”
The door swings open, causing our conversation to stop. I peer up from my position on the ratty couch I’m perched on and watch as all of the color drains from Ryker’s face. My stomach flips, but I keep my face emotionless.
For several tense moments, no one speaks or moves. Instead we just stare at each other, the sound of the grandfather clock the only noise in the room.
Finally, he steps inside and quietly closes the door behind him.
Gram removes the afghan from her lap and slowly pushes to her feet, the ratty recliner she was sitting in rocking back and forth. She shuffles over to Ryker, who has a blank look on his face, and pats his cheek with her arthritic hand. He leans his cheek into her hand, his eyes briefly closing.
She steps back, turns toward where I’m perched, and smiles warmly. “Thank you for the tea and conversation, dear. I’m getting tired. Think I’ll go lie down for a bit.” With her back to Ryker, she winks at me, which causes me to smile broadly.
“I loved hearing stories about Ryker as a child,” I reply. “Have a good rest.” I lift my hand in a little wave, and she shuffles away.
Once the door clicks shut, I turn my head back to where Ryker’s been frozen in place. His arms hold a paper grocery bag, and at the sound of the door closing, he snaps back to reality and walks past me without a word.
Shit.
When he turns the corner, I can hear him slam the bag on the counter, and it causes me to jump. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in and count to ten, steeling myself for what I know will be an unpleasant conversation.
When I’d called Gram asking for her address, I’d nearly lost my mind when she gave me directions to the shittiest apartment complex in town. On the drive over, I convinced myself that I was overreacting, but the moment I walked into the apartment Ryker and his grandmother have been living in for the last three months, my heart sank.
It’s obvious they have tried to make the space a home. There are photographs on the walls and a few beautiful throws on the back of the ratty couch. The table that is entirely too large for the kitchen was well cared for, a vase of silk flowers in the center. They remind me of the fake sunflower Ryker left me, and I feel bad about the reaction I had all over again.
By the time I arrived, the utilities had been turned back on, no doubt what Ryker had left to take care of. Gram put on a kettle of tea, and I asked her about how they had ended up living here. She was sweet but firmly told me that it was not her story to tell.
We spent the rest of the afternoon chatting about my family and childhood, and she told me stories of the antics Ryker had come up with as a kid. I giggled quite a bit about his obsession with dinosaurs and made a mental note to ask him about it later.
If there is a later.
Deciding that it is now or never, I get up and go in to the kitchen. Then I settle myself into one of the chairs at the table.
Ryker remains standing, his back to me. “What are you doing here, Rebecca?”
Clasping my hands together, I answer, “We need to talk.”
His back stiffens, and barely above a whisper, he growls, “I knew this would happen.”
Confused, I ask, “Knew what would happen?”
He shakes his head and mutters, “Nothing. What did you need to talk about?”
Tired of talking to his back, I tell him, “Turn around. Come sit down.”
He doesn’t move.
So I add, “Please?”
“Just do what you came here to do.”
Shooting out of my chair, I cross the tiny space between us and grab his arm, spinning him to face me. “I didn’t come here to do anything!” I shout.
He pulls his arm from my hand and shouts back, “No! I’m not! If you’re gonna break up with me, just fucking get it over with and then get out of my house. I’ve got shit to do.”
My head snaps back, and I lower my voice, “Why the hell would I break up with you?”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh I don’t know. Maybe because I’m a broke bastard?”
Furious, I ask, “Is that really what you think of me? That I am so fucking shallow I wouldn’t want to be with you anymore because you’re not loaded?”
I take a step back, suddenly needing space to breathe.
To think.
How could he think that his wealth, or lack thereof, would have any bearing on my feelings for him? Heartbreak wars with anger, and my head feels close to exploding.
His voice is still harsh when he replies sarcastically, “Yeah, ’cause this shithole is every woman’s dream.” He throws his arms out to his sides. “Take a look around. Who in their right mind would want to come home to this every day?”
<
br /> I scoff then shout, “Oh, so, now, I’m crazy?”
His brow wrinkles. “Well yeah. But that’s not what I said.”
I continue to back up until the backs of my legs bump into the chair I was sitting in earlier. “Oh, great! So I’m a shallow and crazy.”
“I never said you were shallow or crazy,” he barks, folding his arms over his chest.
“You said ‘who in their right mind.’” I wave an exaggerated pair of air quotes around. “Meaning only a crazy person would want to come here.”
Even to my own ears, it doesn’t make sense, but I’m so upset that he’s been keeping something like this from me. Couple it with the insinuation that I would leave him over it and I can’t stop myself.
Ryker takes a step toward me, reaching an arm out in my direction.
“Don’t touch me right now!” I bite out.
His face hardens, but he stops.
I lean forward and drop my head in my hands, sucking a breath in through my nose before blowing it audibly out of my mouth. Once I’ve repeated the process twice, I sit back up and look at Ryker.
He’s standing in place, intensely staring at me.
I rub my temples as my head begins to ache. “Stop. Okay? Can we both just take a deep breath and try this again?” I say a silent prayer that he’ll agree.
He sighs but shuffles over to the table and pulls the chair out beside mine. Then he sits down hard in it. “Okay.” He concedes. “Let’s try this again. What are you doing here?”
Chapter Eighteen
Ryker
She hesitates, but while I study her, she regains her composure. “I needed to know what’s going on with you. I was worried,” she whispers.
“You needed to know?” I ask gruffly. “And you couldn’t wait for me to tell you? You had to barge into my house and demand an answer?” Sarcasm oozes out of me, but I’m unable to stop it, afraid that, if I do, the embarrassment I’m feeling will take its place.
“I thought we were going to talk about this calmly,” she says, her voice rising.
I throw my arms out to my sides and laugh. “I am calm!”
I’m about as calm as a kid on a playground, my heart hammering in my throat.
She shakes her head, her lips pressed together so tight that they’re no longer pink, but a sickly shade of white.
“You snapping at me and raising your voice is not calm, Ryker.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I can’t stay calm while you interrogate me. In my house. Uninvited.”
Jesus. I’m a dick.
Her eyes look wounded, and a pang of guilt stabs me in the chest.
Fuck that. She shouldn’t have shown up here unannounced.
Her eyes begin to glisten, and she sniffles. “Okay. Have it your way, then.” She shoves out of the chair and it clatters to the ground behind her. She glances back at it and scrambles to set it upright.
After pushing past me, she grabs her purse from the end of my piece-of-shit sofa and bustles to the door. She hurries out the door without speaking another word, and I sit there in my chair, counting the ticks of the cheap clock behind me. I’m warring with myself. I know I should go after her, apologize, tell her that I know I’m an asshole. But my pride won’t let me admit any of that. I continue counting the ticks of the clock, and when I get to twenty-six, I bolt out of my chair and scramble out the door after her.
She’s yanking the door to her car open when I catch up with her, and like it’s déjà vu, it reminds me of the last fight we had. A new wave of guilt rolls through me. That one was on me too. She doesn’t deserve this. Any of it.
She climbs in and tries to shut the door, but I catch the handle, preventing her from pulling it all the way closed.
“Rebecca, wait.”
She doesn’t look at me, instead staring straight ahead. “Wait for what, Ryker?”
I let the handle go and shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Rocking back on my heels, I look up at the sky as a bird flies across it.
Wish I could fly away from this shit.
“Can we try again?” I ask sheepishly.
She snorts. “For the third time?” She shrugs. “Sure, why not? Maybe third time’s the charm.” Her voice is dry and devoid of her usual humor.
That’s your fault, you asshole.
I’ve hurt her, and the knowledge makes me feel like shit.
“You wanna get out of the car?” I ask.
She sighs then finally turns to look at me. “I don’t know. Will you actually talk to me? Or are you just gonna get defensive and make unfair assumptions? ’Cause, if you don’t plan on talking, then no, I don’t want to get out of the car. I just want to go home, put on a Christmas movie, and drown myself in a bottle of wine. So, which is it Ryker? You gonna try this thing called communication? Or you gonna be responsible for my hangover tomorrow?”
In spite of myself, I chuckle. After reaching into the car, I grab her hand and give it a tug. “Let’s go talk.”
She rolls her eyes but reluctantly gets out.
We trudge back up the rickety stairs to my apartment, and I’m relieved to see that Gram is still shut away in her room. I’m sure she’s heard everything we said; these walls are paper thin. But she has the courtesy to let it play out.
Once inside, I gesture to the couch, and she precedes me, sitting on one end. I position myself at the other end and turn to face her.
“Let me start,” I tell her.
She opens her mouth to argue, but I hold a hand up.
“Don’t interrupt. Promise?”
She shoots me a scowl, but eventually, she relents and nods.
Even though my heart is racing, I begin talking. “If it’s not already obvious, I’m broke.”
“Ry––”
Seething, I ask through clenched teeth, “For the love of God, Rebecca, will you please just let me talk?”
She clamps her jaw shut. Then she says, “Fine. But I reserve the right to interject if you start saying something stupid.”
My eyebrows jump in surprise. “Something stupid?”
“Yeah. If you start spewing some bullshit about me not wanting to be with you because you’re broke, I’m not keeping my mouth shut.” She crosses her arms across her chest and levels me with a pointed glare.
“It’s not bullshit, Rebecca. It’s the truth. What woman wants to be with a man who can’t afford to eat most days?”
Her face pales. “Wha-what??”
“Yeah, you heard me. I haven’t eaten more than one meal a day in the last few months.”
She puts her hand to her mouth, her horror apparent. I knew that that would be her reaction, and it feels exactly how I thought it would––like a punch to the gut.
Two years ago, I would have been able given her everything she wanted and more. Because she deserves nothing less than that. But now? Now, it’s fucking impossible.
I swallow hard. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I get it. I won’t hate you for wanting to get out while you still can.”
Her cheeks redden. She turns away from me, and her shoulders heave as she breathes heavily. Then she turns back to me, her hands fisted at her sides.
Very slowly, she speaks through clenched teeth. “If you say one more Goddamn thing about me leaving, I will kick. Your. Ass.”
Bitterly, I laugh. “You don’t have to pretend like you’re okay with this.” I gesture between us. “It was fun while it lasted. A good time, an incredible fuck. But all good things must come to an end. First, my career. Now, this relationship. If that’s even what this was.”
With a speed that I didn’t know she possessed, she snatches a pillow from the couch and heaves it at my head. Caught off guard, I don’t react quickly enough to catch it and it nails me right in the face.
“You dumbass!” she screeches right before lunging at me.
I jump back and wrap my arms around her, preventing her from grabbing me. “Fuck, Rebecca.” I grunt as she bucks and kicks, trying to free her
self from my grasp. “Stop fighting me.”
“A good fuck? Is that all I am to you?” she hisses, still trying to break free of my arms.
“No!” I shout, turning my face to avoid her flailing head from smacking me in the mouth.
“Then why did you say that?”
Why did I say that?
Against my better judgment, I release my hold on her and take a step back. She whirls to face me, her eyes blazing.
Shoving my hands through my hair, I mutter, “I don’t fucking know, Rebecca.”
I shove past her and stalk to the kitchen. I pull the refrigerator door open to get a beer and see that the shelves are bare. My fingers tighten around the handle, and I slam the door shut. After opening it back up, I slam it again.
“Fuck!” I scream, slamming the door one last time. “I can’t do this. Not with you. Jesus fucking Christ. This is not happening.”
She places one hand over mine, stilling it, and commands, “Stop. Just stop.”
I pull my hand free from hers and walk to the sink, where I place both hands on the ledge and lean forward. I don’t know what the hell just happened between us, but I’m terrified I’ve said something I can’t take back.
“Ryker, look at me.”
I can’t look her in the eye and see the hurt there again. Hurt I caused. I shake my head and she huffs.
“Fine. You don’t have to look at me. But you do have to listen.”
“Just go. I don’t want to fight anymore,” I tell her, defeated.
“Oh? You just want to give up? Are you a quitter, Ryker? We have one little argument and you’re throwing in the towel?” she says, her voice close.
I can feel her body nearly right behind me, and every cell in my body screams to turn around and take her in my arms. Apologize for being a dick.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since you gave up your career so easily. Why would I be any different?”
Her words hit me so hard that it feels like I’ve just gone five rounds in the cage.
“That was a low fucking blow, and you know it,” I growl.
“Then tell me I’m wrong. Be a man, turn around, and face me.”