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

by Fields, MJ

  “The payout is more if you win, of course, but the upfront is really good. It’s in line with what you’re worth, especially based on your r-record.”

  She stumbles a little at that word. If she hadn’t, I might not have fully noticed what she said. She knows my record, which means she’s done her research on me. I keep my grin in check, but I feel it pushing from the inside.

  “You should see eight thousand, maybe eight five, upon signature. If you win, that number doubles. Even if you lose—”

  “I won’t lose.” Liv glances my way. The way she trembles and blushes, pretending that her smile is just there because I’m amusing, is goddamn adorable.

  “God I love your arrogance, Memphis,” Angela cuts in. I lean back and fold my hands behind my head to look her in the eye. “Archie was the same way. That confidence is going to take you a long way. You out-talk before you out-walk. That’s what he used to say.”

  “Hell, he did,” Leo interrupts. The table has gotten crowded, and I can feel Liv’s leg bouncing in the space next to me, so I adjust my position and scoot my chair in close, sitting up and moving my hands under the table and out of Leo and Angela’s sight. My right palm finds her knee, and the moment I squeeze lightly, she freezes.

  “Oh, I suppose you’re going to take credit for Archie’s sayings too, huh?” Angela rests one arm on the back of her chair, turning enough to cross her legs—a movement Leo leers at.

  “He only repeated things,” Leo says, finally looking Angela in the eyes. He taps two fingers at his temple and starts to back away. “Brains of the operation, baby. I’m all the brains.”

  Angela laughs loudly and Leo winks. I chuckle out of courtesy, but Liv…she stays absolutely silent. God, how did she survive this messed up life?

  “So I sign here?” I bring our attention back to business, and Angela clicks a pen. She’s invested in this. I’m not the contract genius Liv is, but I know that Angela walks away with at least one and a half, maybe two grand.

  We spend the next thirty minutes reviewing two more deals—one a quick commercial spot for a local car dealer that will only run in the Valley for a weekend in September. The pay is all right, but I sign because it’s really only an hour’s worth of work. Everything gets balanced against the scale with time. My time is valuable.

  My dad taught me that. It’s the first thing that I accepted when I got his diary. It’s a running theme from him, maybe because his was so short.

  The last deal is a little trickier. It’s for a major sponsorship. It’s for Fuel Factory Athletics, one of the biggest gear suppliers in Boxing on the West Coast. This deal wasn’t supposed to come this soon—my first title-fight not yet on the books.

  “This feels a little…presumptive, I guess?” I squirm in my seat and draw the contract in close, resting my forearms on either side of the pages. I had to study like this in high school, to block out the noise and keep my head focused on the work. I was never meant for college, not that I wasn’t smart. My heart was always pulling me on a different path, though—this one.

  My head falls forward until my thumbs catch my temples and my fingers rub my forehead.

  “I thought you were going to win?” Liv nudges me with her knee when she speaks, and my hand falls under the table to touch her instinctively as I chuckle. It’s the most simple thing that shouldn’t mean anything to anyone, but I feel her grow stiff under my fingers. I pop my head up to Angela.

  She’s making note of these little intimate details.

  I’m not sure what to do here—do I pull away and create space, try to erase what she saw to keep the peace in Liv’s life, or do I stand my ground and force Angela to get used to her daughter being happy for once?

  If only Angela knew what I saw.

  “I don’t know…” I lean back, but keep my hand right where it is.

  Angela’s eyes are practically boring into her daughter, but Liv is deliberately looking away.

  “That’s a lot of money you’re leaving on the table there, Memphis. There’s nothing superstitious about good business decisions,” Angela says.

  I can see Leo hovering over her shoulder. He gets a cut of her cut, too. They all get a cut. They call fighters on the rise alphas.

  Alpha.

  I’m the leader of a starving pack all right.

  “Let me think about it,” I finally say, pushing the contract back in Angela’s direction.

  She reaches for it hesitantly, pausing with her palm over it for a second before letting it fall flat on the papers. Her fingers drum on it a few times, long, golden nails with black tips pattering against the table.

  “Have dinner with Paul. He’s the CEO, and he was worried you would be concerned,” she says.

  I cock my head and lift a brow suspiciously.

  “You are not the first boxer they’ve sponsored, Memphis. He understands the fabric of superstition that runs through this sport.” She laughs lightly and pulls the contract back into the folder with the rest of them.

  I look down at the empty table where I just let several grand float in limbo, and I swallow hard. Superstition is a part of it—absolutely. But it’s not just how it plays into fighting. It’s about my life, and a promise I made to myself never to take the easy way. I earn everything I get. The small and the grand—they all have a story of work behind them. Long days in a shipping yard in Pittsburgh earned me enough money to get across the country to the bike and my RV. Handiwork bought things at yard sales along the way. Roofing jobs kept me in the good graces of small-time gyms that helped me get fights and train. Nothing was easy, but that’s what made it feel so good.

  There is power in the word earned.

  “It’s dinner, Memphis. I’ll go with you, if it helps.”

  Angela’s words strike me fast, and I throw back an alternative.

  “I’ll take Liv.” I lift my chin and meet Angela’s eyes.

  She knows.

  I’m daring her to mess this up for her daughter by putting the one thing she cares about most on the line—money.

  “There might be questions she can’t answer…about the business or the fight.” Angela is grasping. Liv is still frozen, but her gaze has moved, from the open sliding doors that lead out to the parking lot, to me.

  “I can answer most of it, and Liv knows numbers. But I mean really…” I smirk. “It’s just dinner, Angela.”

  Her expression shifts the tiniest bit into a sinister one, but she nods lightly. Her eyes move to her daughter in a blink.

  “You can borrow a dress.” The chair scrapes across the concrete floor as she slides it angrily backward.

  “I’ll get her a dress,” I say. My pulse is kicking with an anger similar to the one I feel in the ring. I’m grateful for the deals, and I know that Angela and Leo are the ones I have to thank for being in this position. But I also have come to realize that they aren’t very good people.

  Angela glances to Liv then back to me, and in that time Liv’s hand quivers as it slides gently over the top of mine, which hasn’t left its place on her knee. I turn my palm open just enough for her fingers to curl into me, and I grip her hard, squeezing to let her know she is safe. She squeezes back with the same force.

  We both wait, our eyes now a team, staring at our opponent. Angela licks her bottom lip, then pulls her papers and messenger bag together, tucking the strap over her shoulder and the bag against her hip.

  “I’ll make the call.”

  She nods and leaves with a swagger in her walk that I know is meant as some sort of FU warning to her daughter. Leo announces he’s taking a break seconds after the door closes, and he follows her.

  “Can you talk to mice and make birds sew ball gowns?” I ask.

  Liv turns to meet my eyes and her lip curls on one side with an airy laugh.

  “I really am Cinderella, aren’t I?” she says, laughing a little harder.

  I move my hand finally, bringing them both up to either side of her face and my lips to her forehead.

 
“Ready to rule the kingdom?” I ask, smiling against her skin. I rest my forehead on hers, and we both breathe in deep. We’re in this, and I’m a little scared. I’ve always been in this alone—in everything alone, really. I made a promise that I won’t break her, but I’m so afraid I will. I don’t know how to walk through life with someone else.

  “Are you ready to arm me for battle?” She leans away from me then stands, eventually nodding her head toward the ring where I promised her a lesson. I wonder if her words have a double meaning for her, too? I think they do.

  “Don’t punch me in the face,” I say, pressing my palms flat on the table and standing to meet her eyes.

  Her smile mocks me.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  Eleven

  Liv

  It feels good to hit things.

  No.

  It feels good to hit people.

  A terrible thought to have, but it’s all that keeps running through my mind as I take swing after swing at giant pads Memphis is holding in place along both sides of his body. It’s only been a few minutes, but already I feel a strange empowerment. It’s addictive.

  “Ahh,” I grunt out, making one final swing with my right arm, landing a punch directly in the center of his left-side pad. It bends a little from the force and I’m thrown two steps back in reaction.

  I giggle from joy as I run my arm over my suddenly drenched forehead.

  “It’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?” Memphis lets the pads fall, and I jokingly lunge at him. All he does is cock his head to the side and squint his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I pant, shaking the gloves from my hands and letting them fall at my feet. I move over to my water and suck down a few gulps. “I’m a little winded, sure, but I was hitting you. That last one was hard, right?”

  Memphis chuckles and moves closer to me, resting his back against the corner.

  “It was pretty hard…yeah.”

  My eyes lower in suspicion.

  “Yeah…” I hum, twisting my lips and waiting.

  “Yeah,” he says, nodding while a tight-lipped smile spreads across his face that says the exact opposite of yeah.

  “I mean, come on!” I shove him in the arm and he leans with my push, laughing harder this time. “I know I’m not a pro or whatever, but those were some damn good punches. They felt amazing. You just don’t want to give me credit because I’m a beginner. Mood spoiler. You’re…you’re a big, giant mood spoiler!”

  Now his face is red from holding in laughter. The corners of his mouth are sinking in more with each passing fraction of a second until the burst explodes from his chest and he bends over with the force of laughter.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He holds up a palm, but keeps his head down and his other palm on his knees.

  My brow drawn in, I fold my arms and jut my hip until he looks at me and feels bad. He sucks in his bottom lip and rolls his shoulders, shaking his arms a little as if he’s dusting off everything left that might make him laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” his words are followed by that same face he wore the very first time we met: eyes so sincere, dark lashes and slowly blinking lids. His beard is thickening a little because of the stitches. He didn’t shave this morning, and I wonder what it will be by the night.

  “Come here,” he says, calling me with a finger.

  I wait a second before giving in, letting my arms fall to my sides as I take the few steps from where I am to where he is. His hands wrap around my biceps as soon as I’m near enough and I breathe in fast, just once. His eyes widen a little.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” he smirks.

  My gaze is held by his when he speaks. He holds it hostage and when I start to look away, his hands slide down to my wrists and he shakes them lightly until I look at him again. His head tilts, and he waits until I get it.

  I’m stronger than I look.

  “Thank you,” I say, pulling my lip in tight, so afraid I’m not. I’m stubborn for certain. I’m hardened and jaded. I’m not sure if any of that makes me strong.

  My muscles bend to Memphis’s will as he threads his fingers through my right ones and lifts my arm, his other hand holding my elbow into my side. He lets go of my fingers and wraps his palm over my knuckles forming a fist and then moves my entire arm forward slowly, stopping when my body lunges with it.

  “Here. You lose everything…right here,” he says, stopping my fist where it is, then placing the tips of his fingers on my hips.

  Memphis’s eyes are intent on where his hand rests at my waist, and he pauses to take a breath, his tongue pinched by his teeth, his lips twitching up at the corners, his eyes blinking fast—all in a second.

  I think about kissing him again right now.

  “Your weight is already spent, and you haven’t even made impact with something yet. Think about it,” he says, eyes flitting up to mine.

  I shake my head a little from the brief gaze and silence we share.

  “Okay,” I say, following his lead as he brings my arm back and steps behind me.

  “You hit me hard, but that was without everything you have behind it. Imagine,” he begins, adjusting his hold on me, his right hand sliding down my arm and covering my hand, feet straddling one of mine from behind, his chest against my back, his breath at my neck and a thousand beads of nerves dotting my skin.

  “You’re here,” he says, his voice low and right at my ear.

  My eyes flutter when his left hand runs down the side of my body to my hip, and my breath hitches when he grips it more forcefully.

  “Your opponent is standing right there. Do you see him?”

  I nod.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible.

  “He’s cocking,” he says, and I giggle at the word while his nose moves closer to my skin, tickling against my ear. “You’re such a child.”

  I clear my throat and wriggle my hips and roll my shoulders, all under his touch.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry,” I say, still smiling.

  A short breath escapes him in laughter.

  “He’s about to swing, okay?” he says, coaxing me to focus.

  “Trust me.” His voice falls to a whisper, and my eyes close.

  Memphis drives my body—the space between us gone so much that I am lying against him while standing. His hand brings mine up, tucking it close to our bodies. His fingers splay on my thigh, and my leg feels strong. He leans with me, our bodies in sync as we twist to the left, our right shoulders stretching backward, necks rolling until we’re nearly back where we started.

  “His balance is off,” he says at my neck. There are no areas of my body that aren’t affected by the vibration of his voice. “You have him. He’s yours. You have balance. His is gone. This is where you win.”

  His hand holds my left side still, and his right hand brings me back to swing with a tighter form than I had before. He takes me through the motion once slowly, almost like we’re just part of some intimate ballet performance, then he brings my fist back in and tucks his chin into the side of my neck.

  “Again,” he says, this time leading me through the motion faster as his hand slides from its hold on my hip to my diaphragm.

  “Breathe out,” he says, and I do slowly at first, but with each swing we repeat, the motion is faster.

  My air escapes with my thrust, my body something mechanical now, parts working in unison until I’m able to do it all on my own.

  “Keep going,” Memphis says as he steps away. My eyes flit open, and I imagine everything that has ever hurt me. I see their faces—my parents, Enoch, the angry crowds at trials, reporters.

  Memphis picks up one of the pads and steps closer as I swing, bending down to lift one of my abandoned gloves, eventually holding his palm out for me to pause.

  “Put it on, and I want you to hit me now…not like before. Hit me with what you know. Hit me with what you feel, but always, there is balance. You can’t give that away. It’s not theirs to hav
e.”

  My eyes lock on his as he slides the glove over my knuckles and I form a raw fist with my other hand. He takes two small steps back and readies himself before nodding.

  I clear my lungs and consider his words and everything he just led my body through. I was so strong. I’m stronger than I think I am.

  My feet shift to find the perfect fit against the mat, and I bring my hands in, fists raised and ready.

  “He’s going to swing now,” Memphis says, and I react just as he taught me.

  I dodge. The motion so swift and natural I barely remember doing it before my legs steady themselves, my middle twists and my arm swings forward, fist landing in the same spot as it did before—only this time, my body doesn’t stumble. Memphis does. Inches, but there is reaction to my action.

  “Ha,” I breathe out in disbelief. My eyes lift from the fist-shaped dent in the pad to Memphis, and my lips part in awe.

  “Yeah,” he says, glancing around to the front of the pad. “You did that by yourself.”

  Giddiness takes over my face, my mouth stretching wide with parted lips. Memphis lets the pad fall again, and the physical proof from my force disappears as the padding evens out. It was there, though. I fought back, and left a mark. More than seeing it, I felt it. I still feel it.

  “I want to do that again,” I say, blinking as my vision slides from the pad to Memphis’s proud smile.

  “Baby steps, Champ. Let me show you a few drills, and then maybe you can punch me one more time before we’re done,” he says, chuckling.

  “I wasn’t hitting you,” I say, handing him the glove.

  He holds it in both of his hands before bending down to pick up the other glove, pairing them together. His gaze hits mine.

  “I know who you were hitting.” Silence settles in for a long second. I don’t have to respond; Memphis doesn’t expect it.

  He gestures with his head to the bags in the corner, so I follow him through the ropes for my next lesson. Every bit of him is solid. I can’t imagine anything ever being able to take his balance away. I can’t imagine how he could ever lose. But there is always someone better. There is always someone who has trained just a little harder. What happens when he meets his match? Who does he become?