Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, smiling as much as my numb lips will allow and turning toward my escape. I barely make it a step before Memphis’s hand brushes my wrist. I stop at the contact, and his hand wraps around my arm, pulling it from my pocket until our fingers are knotted together. The touch feels frantic and light as a feather, but we remain connected, even as I turn to look at our linked fingers, arms both stretched between us.

  “I…” Memphis stops, and I look up at his parted lips, then to his long lashes shadowing desperate eyes. This is not the face of a warrior. I worry that when he steps into the ring soon he’ll be killed. Archie is incapable of this vulnerability. He always was. Memphis will be easy prey.

  Wriggling my fingers loose from his slowly, I take the lead. His hand remains in the air between us for a second when I let go, and his teeth hold onto his bottom lip as he smiles through it, his chest shaking with a single laugh.

  “Sorry,” he says, closing his palm tight and squeezing away our touch. I do the same. “I just wanted to remind you to be ready for our lesson tomorrow. No excuses.”

  He takes a few steps back, and I let him go, nodding before I turn and head to my corner.

  “I’ll be ready. I’d recommend you don’t bring coffee,” I say, my body feeling relief when I hear his laughter from my stupid joke.

  “I’m not as stupid as Leo, don’t worry. I also don’t have a favorite mug for you to break,” he says.

  Chancing it, I spin on my heels just before I round the corner. Memphis is standing with one foot on his stoop, both helmets in his hands.

  “Goodnight,” I say. He lifts the helmets a little in response, then heads inside.

  The door closes, and then I wait until I hear it lock. I squeeze my hand in a fist so tight that my skin turns bright pink, but no matter how many times I do it, I still feel his touch. It’s burned itself in my head just a little, and I stand here because it spawned a fantasy—one where he swings open that door and runs at me, placing his palms on either side of my face and pressing his lips against mine as I lose balance and stumble backward into the wall.

  I stand here until I feel foolish, and then I stand for several seconds more to remind myself of what foolish feels like. I don’t like it—it leads to impulsive decisions and heartache. And like it or not, that man is going to be in a ring somewhere soon getting his face bloodied and his ribs broken.

  I will not be the stupid girl waiting in the trainer’s room alone while a crowd of gamblers howls on the other side of the wall, hoping his face will hit the mat.

  I’ve seen what that woman looks like, and she’s tragic. She becomes Angela Valentine.

  Six

  Memphis

  I promised Liv I wouldn’t say anything; I’d keep her words in confidence and not let them bleed over into everything else I’m doing here. But with each minute that passes that I’m throwing my fists into Leo’s padded palms—his face completely exposed—the more I fantasize about finishing what Liv started.

  There’s more to the story, I’m sure. There’s always more to a story, and Liv only gave me the surface. I recognize that as a fellow surface-sharer myself. This family, though—they have ugly scars, and I’m pretty sure Liv’s bled all over, mentally, from their abuse.

  “Ahhhhhh, just…stop. Stop there. Hell, fuck it. You know what? We’re done for the day!” Leo takes a few long strides backward, unfastening the pads from his hand and tossing them to the side of the ring. I back up until my back hits the ropes and I lean my weight into them.

  “We’ve got another hour of work to do. You not feeling good or something?” I tug at the edge of the tape around my wrist with my teeth and pull it out a few inches. I’m not done; I want to rewrap it.

  “Blech!” Leo waves his hands up, like he’s done with me, then slides through the middle ropes out of the ring, leaving me there alone.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Our voices are both elevated now, and the few other guys in the gym have all stopped with their workouts and are watching us. Leo’s been grumpy with me before. Usually, it’s when he’s hungover. His eyes seem clear today, though, which makes me wonder if he had another round with Liv, or if she said something about telling me.

  “It means you look like shit today. That’s what it means. You’re supposed to be traveling to Vegas in less than three weeks, and you’re in here acting like some punk who just got outta high school and thinks he wants to fight.”

  Leo emphasizes his words by throwing his fists out front with weak punches that look more like slaps. My upper lip sneers, and I push off the ropes and walk to the other side so I can stare down at him.

  “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way I’m fighting. You’re just in a bad mood, but don’t confuse the two, old man. Just because you’re having a bad day and don’t wanna work, don’t throw that shit on me. I’m here to work. My tank isn’t even close to empty yet.”

  I pound one fist into the opposite palm twice and rest my hands on the top rope when I’m done, staring down at the shine on Leo’s bald head. Beads of sweat line the tops of his cheeks, and the few hairs he has are flat and damp. His gut sticks out like a pouch through his drenched T-shirt and his shorts hang to his knees, almost meeting the spot where his socks pull up. If it weren’t for his name—or more importantly, his brother’s—nobody would give two shits about Leo Valentine from his looks. All he has is history, experience that I’ve learned from for sure, but that’s all.

  Leo stares up at me, a frayed toothpick rolling out of the corner of his mouth. He’s had the same one all morning, and he just pulled it out of his pocket. It’s disgusting.

  “I’ve been too easy on you,” he finally says. Liv walks in behind him, and we both glance her way.

  “Carry on,” she says, with a wave of her hand. She’s dressed for our lessons later today, a pair of black sweatpants pushed up just below her knees and a well-worn blue T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. Her eyes linger on mine for an extra second before she heads back into the office, pushing the door halfway closed. When I glance back to Leo, he’s smirking at me.

  “Grab your gear,” Leo says, leaning to the side and spitting on the concrete floor, rubbing his saliva in with his shoe.

  I pause, not sure what he means until he grabs the headgear from the equipment locker and tosses a pair of sparring gloves up to me. I squeeze them between my taped hands and narrow my eyes.

  “Are you being serious right now?” I ask, holding the gloves against my chest as he grabs the tape from the edge of the ring and wraps his left hand first.

  “Oh, I’m dead-fucking serious.” He doesn’t bother to look at me while he talks, and I breathe out a silent laugh still not sure how far he’s going to go with this. He rips the tape with his teeth and then begins to work on his right hand.

  “You’re twice my age. Stop it,” I say, shaking my head.

  Leo presses on, though. Climbing into the ring and moving to the opposite side of me as he slips his headgear on and then his gloves. He shuffles his heavy feet around the mat, dragging them in these ridiculous half circles made even more absurd by the bright-white orthopedic walking shoes on his feet.

  “We go until you tell me you get the point,” he says, gesturing both of his gloved hands at me while he bounces like a fool.

  Sighing, I look over his shoulder at the framed posters from back in the day. They’re all of Archie; Leo’s in the background, in a few.

  “Did you ever have hair?” He doesn’t laugh at my joke, so I pull my headgear on and then my gloves.

  Leo ushers me to the center and holds his fists out for me to tap. Arms dangling at my sides, I chuckle lightly and stare into his eyes. Red veins and a glassy surface punctuate deep-blue irises that can hardly focus on me. He’s been punched a lot in his lifetime—and pissed off or not, I don’t feel right adding to the damage.

  “Leo,” I sigh out his name, my mouth resting in a straight line.

  He nods f
or me to raise my arms. I shake my head to comply, letting him pound his fists into mine as he backs away a few feet, bouncing and swaying like a kindergartener learning how to dance.

  “We go until you tell me you get the point,” he repeats.

  I nod, then hold my hands up in my defensive position as I begin to move. My feet are quiet, just like he taught me. Every movement below my waist is smooth and a surprise. My legs feel full of energy, surged from a dose of adrenaline that comes naturally anytime I step into the ring. I need to be mindful. I can’t take advantage of him and let him get hurt just to prove something to me.

  We dance for nearly a minute. Leo’s eyes steely and his lips parted for a light pant. I lurch forward and jab, and he blocks me just like I thought he would. I repeat this move a few times before rushing him with a combination.

  I go for his body, and he blocks most of my shots but one lands at his ribs. A heavy bellow leaves his mouth and his eyes shrink from pain, but he keeps moving.

  “Is this the point?” I ask, wondering if I’m supposed to watch him take all of my punches but stay on his feet.

  Without warning, his left fist strikes my temple and I stumble sideways, feeling the burn.

  My mouth is watering from the taste of blood where my mouthpiece cut into my flesh.

  “Come on!” I center myself and pound my fists together, fueled by his cheap shot.

  “Something is always coming for you.” He growls the words through his mouthpiece, and I keep nodding, getting it now. This is about him blowing off some steam. Fine, if he wants a fight…

  I lunge at him on the right, where I know he’s weak, and my leather meets the fatty part of his rib again. He leans away with the pain, but not as much as the first time, so I slide back and regroup, looking for another opening. His eyes are like coal, pupils wide, and the blue almost black. My fists rush toward either side, my arms tight and muscles coiled to deliver a shot he’ll remember—one that will make him end this stupid pissing match.

  He blocks them both, then sways again, his body turned slightly to protect the place where I’ve hit him. I begin to move and work him off balance. One more shot there and we’re done.

  His fist lands against my right cheek, the pads doing little to buffer the force.

  I move faster and take a shot at his other side, landing a punch. He grunts, and the sound echoes, but he comes right back at me with two more jabs to my face.

  My eyes are beginning to blur, so I reach my arm up as I step away a few paces and run it over my face to clear the sweat. My cheeks are swelling, and my headgear is growing tighter.

  “You get the point?” Leo’s body lumbers, heavy steps moving him from one corner to the other while he stares at me with dark eyes.

  I don’t get the point. I know that if I stepped at him right now and went with everything I had, I could kill him. I would take his life, or leave him marred or unconscious. I have no idea what any of that would prove, but I know that the stubborn asshole in the ring with me right now isn’t going to quit until I say we’re done. He’d rather die first.

  I shake my head, sweat drenching my hair, and close the distance between us again. Everyone in the gym is watching us now—even Liv. They’re not standing close, but they’ve made sure to get a good view. Every now and then, someone shouts for me or Leo, enjoying the show. Liv’s the only one who gets that something else is playing out here. Maybe she knows what it is. Maybe she’s seen this before—this…lesson or whatever is happening.

  “When does this end, man?” I stare him in the eyes as we circle each other, but he doesn’t say a word. I’m not even sure he’s really breathing.

  Leo’s body flinches, and I ready my hands and elbows, swerving to avoid his thrust, but he’s led me early and his shot comes a fraction of a second later than I thought it would. It’s a punch to the gut, and I double over briefly, still hearing the “oooooohs” from beyond the ring. Something is audibly missing, though.

  I look to the right, where I know Liv was standing seconds ago. The space is empty, as is the office. My lips puff out, my body needing air; I shake my head to regain my alertness before I scan around me again. The gym is filled with nothing but men—men like me and men like Leo—hopefuls and has-beens.

  The next slam hurts.

  I stumble several feet back, my balance shot and my vision tilted. A wave of tingles rushes down my spine, quickly turning into nausea. I can’t focus immediately, and for the first time since I can remember, there’s a glove at my face and I’m not prepared. All I can do is think through the pain about to come and anticipate the reaction—the whip my head is about to take.

  It doesn’t come, though. Leo tosses his gloves at my feet, then his headgear. His face is bright red, blotched in places, puffy in others. He’s favoring his left side, and his breath is ragged. But his eyes—those eyes are still black like the night.

  “Two weeks ago, this wouldn’t have happened. You’re fighting distracted. You’re in here, but you’re not here,” he says through hard breaths.

  Leo moves next to me, his hand red from the rush of blood and tight tape. He grips the rope, pausing before he pushes it up to make room for his body, and he steps so close I smell the stale coffee on his breath and wafting stench from the remnants of his cheap cologne.

  “She’s family. I love that girl, but you need to stay away from that—whatever is getting in your head.”

  His right finger taps on my headgear several times to accentuate his point.

  “Those are the rules. You’ve heard them before. When you’re prepping for a fight, your job is to make love to the art—you live this shit…breathe it. Boxing is the only girlfriend you need. She’s all you’ve got time for. Your eyes wander somewhere else—some place other than right here in this ring, and boxing will get jealous. She’ll make you pay for it. Liv is making you weak, and if you can’t shut it off for two minutes in the gym with me, you’re in big trouble in Vegas.”

  Leo’s eyes burn right through me, but I don’t back down. My weight shifts, and I breathe in deep, my chest growing as I take away a few of the inches between us and stare right through him. My nostrils flare with my heavy breath. Liv’s money is a topic that sits at the back of my throat. I promised her I wouldn’t get involved, but she needs someone on her side. My gut is heavy, though. It’s sick from the truth in Leo’s words. He’s right about one thing—I can’t shut her out of my head, not even for two minutes.

  “Yeah, I see it in there,” he says, his mouth twisting in a wry smile that smells of pity. “You got the point, didn’t ya?”

  I huff like a child and step away as his chest begins to shake with laughter. The sound follows a second later, deep, but barely audible.

  “Yeah, you got the point. If you can’t quit that,” he says, slipping through the ropes to the ground below, “then you may as well quit this now. I don’t like wasting my time. And Angela don’t like wasting her money investing in fighters who can’t be faithful to this right here.”

  His hand slams down on the mat, and our eyes lock one last time before he turns for the door, not even bothering to quiet it when it slams shut behind him.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, staring at the closed door.

  “He’s tough for an old dude,” Mr. Jello Hands says to the right of me. The guy’s been working out here for a year and he still hurts his knuckles on the heavy bag.

  “Fuck off,” I fire back. He holds his hands up when I look at him, and he begins to walk toward the weights on the other end of the gym, laughing about something with his friend.

  After dumping my gloves, I tear away the tape on my wrist with my teeth, balling the rest up and dropping it to my feet. I slip down to sit on the ring’s edge and free my head from the gear before resting my folded arms along the rope, like a school child at his desk.

  My face hurts, but it isn’t bad. I’ve been hit harder. What burns deeper is the complete lack of discipline I had. More than that, I seemed incapable of it. I chose t
o mock the entire thing—to shrug off how serious Leo was being…to the point that I was unprepared and unable to be in the frame of mind to consider this a real fight, to consider a fifty-seven-year-old man a formidable opponent.

  He isn’t. Or at least, he shouldn’t be.

  But he was. For two minutes, in the same air that Liv breathes, he was the favored opponent.

  That was his point. He isn’t wrong. I just don’t believe he’s entirely right, either.

  Seven

  Liv

  Nothing makes a girl swoon quite like watching her middle-aged, potbellied uncle fight over her with his protégé who just happens to be showing up in a lot of fantasies lately. Memphis must have said something. I’m sure he didn’t mean to; Leo probably provoked him with some offhand remark about me. This is always how things get settled in the Valentine house—with fists.

  God forbid any of us sit down like adults and address our differences.

  Leo’s coming. I can smell the smoke from his cigar. He always lights up after going at it. It used to be rounds when I was a little girl, but now it’s minutes that he lasts in the ring.

  “You feel better now?” He stops about a dozen feet away from me leading up to the door.

  “Yeah,” he growls from the side of his mouth, cigar still pinched in his teeth.

  I stand from the open doorway, but keep it blocked with both hands resting on the sides of the entrance. Leo doesn’t move closer, instead puffing at his cigar and pulling it from his lips to admire it. I hate cigar smoke—even if it tinges of victory, thanks to the years my uncle and dad spent smoking them after big knockout wins.

  “What did he say to you?” I look pointedly at him, studying his eyes as they shift down and crinkle at the corners.

  “It’s not what he said, sweetheart. It’s what he isn’t hearing.”