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

by Fields, MJ

  She’s right in a way. I am.

  “Stay here with me. Tonight.”

  She blinks, but doesn’t flinch, and her expression stays just as it was, her mouth pulled in on one side and one eye closed more than the other.

  “I will be the perfect Boy Scout, and you can say no if you want, but if you do, I’m just going to sit here all night and look up there, waiting for a glimpse of you,” I say, nodding up toward her window.

  Her eyes stretch to the corners and she lifts her chin enough to glance at her darkened window.

  I get to my feet and step up into the open doorway and reach out my hand.

  “I’m getting up to run at four in the morning. If you want to, you can go back to your room then. Or…” My lips tighten into a more defined smile. “Or fuck them all, and you can just stay here…with me.”

  Her chin dips down as she sways side to side with indecision, her eyes at her shoes rather than on me. I’m practically ready for bed now, having given away my shoes and shirt, so I move back a little into the doorway and undo the button on my jeans. Her eyes lift at the sound of my zipper, and I chuckle knowing what she thought.

  Commando.

  “It’s a rare boxer night,” I say with a wink, showing off the top of my favorite pair showing from under my jeans.

  She laughs without sound, then looks at me sideways, her spirit leaning forward, but her fear of judgment nailing her to the ground. Most of those headlines are months old. New gossip has taken over the rest of the world, but in this house, it’s still her story that leads.

  “Maybe tomorrow then,” I say, hoping still, even as I lean against the small table behind me and prepare myself to say goodnight.

  Her eyes flit down at the steps then come back to me, and her lips grow tight, a hint of her nerves in the dimpled corners. I count all seven paces it takes for her to climb up my steps and take my hand. Then I count the single second it takes for me to push the door closed behind her.

  “Boy Scout,” she says, blinking and waiting for my pledge. I hold up two fingers, not really sure if that’s how it’s done, but it makes my point.

  I pull out the small wooden ladder that slides in the corner and hook it on the edge of the loft, then I take Liv’s hand and help her get to the first rung so she can climb up on her own. Once she’s cleared the ladder, I kick away my jeans and climb the bottom three rungs before lifting myself the rest of the way with my arms.

  Liv’s eyes are at my waist, slowly sweeping a line up the center of my chest. I can talk trash and fill my ego against tatted-up dudes that want to bust my head open, but one slow glance from her makes me feel vulnerable as hell. I’m not prepared for this.

  Maybe I’m not as ready for this woman as I thought. She wasn’t part of the plan. And I have absolutely zero control.

  “Do you want one of my shirts? I have some up here,” I say, reaching into the corner where I left the shirt I wore last night. I drag it toward me and smell, debating whether or not to get up and grab her a clean one, when she takes it from my hand and pulls it into her chest, breathing it in and closing her eyes.

  My breath stops for just a few seconds, a tightness forming in my chest at seeing her mouth curve from something as simple as the feel and scent of my shirt. She’s sitting with her legs folded, her head almost touching the roof of the camper.

  “I’ll look the other way,” I say, turning on my hip until I feel her hand at my arm, stopping me.

  My gaze flashes back to hers, surprised.

  “It’s okay,” she says in a faint voice that I worry is coming from the wrong kind of nerves until she lifts the bottom of her black shirt up over a lacey bra. Her hair falls from above when she pulls her shirt away, landing over the curve of her breasts. My gaze drags, caught by her curves, but intrigued by her hands as they move behind her to unclasp her bra.

  My eyes blink slowly and I tilt my head as her straps slide down her shoulders and her hands move to cover herself.

  I should turn around. This isn’t part of the promise, and I should turn around.

  “Liv…”

  “Shh,” she hushes, in a long drag of her lips. They suddenly seem so full, and fuck, are they seductive as hell.

  Her arms cross, opposite thumbs hooking under satin straps on her arms, dragging them down until the only thing that is left is her bare body in front of mine.

  “Hold me,” she says, in a voice so frail the breath runs out of it. “Like this. Just for a little while.”

  I nod and lower myself flat along the mattress that covers this entire space. The curtains were worn off long ago, but I doubt anyone can see through the dirty windows. The orange glow of the light is muted by them, and it somehow makes this beautiful creature look like she’s touched by fire.

  “Come here,” I say once my body is stretched out diagonally, the quilt I’ve slept with at the group home bunched at my feet. Liv tucks herself against my bare chest, her arms folded into her body, and I wrap both of my arms around her, bringing her in tight. I feel like the gladiator protecting the maiden from a storm.

  “I like it here,” she says quietly, lips stopping when they’re parted, to press a kiss to the center of my chest. I feel it dead center of my heart, cold like ice yet the burn of lightning.

  My fingers slowly trace the curve of her spine, beginning at the small of her back and gently tickling their way up to her neck then back down. I soak in the smoothness of her skin, and my lips fall to the top of her head, kissing her as my touch drums both of us into a trance.

  “Thank you for the cards,” I whisper.

  “Mmmm,” she purrs.

  I swallow carefully, not wanting to disturb this small little slice of heaven where I can feel her breathe against me, her heartbeat where our chests touch, skin scorching and forbidden tempting me. I could talk her into anything right now, but that’s not how I want her. I don’t want to talk her into anything, I just want it to be.

  I strum her body for minutes in silence, moving to her hair, where my fingers drown in the softness, then feather it out against her skin before sliding it away. There’s so much of her to touch that I’m content, though I’m gonna throw some hella hard punches tomorrow.

  “My dad was a really good fighter, Memphis,” she says, my hand maintaining its rhythm along her neck, then shoulder, then down her back again.

  “He was one of the greats,” I say, smiling lightly where she can’t see me. I’m struck by her words—they’re the first kind ones she’s said about this man.

  “I’m not quite ready to close myself off from the things that make me proud of him just yet. I think I’ll hold onto those things for a little while longer,” she says, and I stop my hand long enough to pull her in tighter.

  My lips kiss the top of her head again before I cradle her under my chin.

  “I think maybe you get to keep those things forever. The bad, too, if you want. But the good…that’s what makes you happy,” I say.

  She nestles against me without words, but she hums lightly in what I think is agreement. Her breathing slows, and eventually my own breath chases hers. My eyes heavy, I give over to the late hour and the warmth of the girl in my arms, and I sleep so well that I never feel her leave.

  But she does. Sometime before my phone alarm chirps urging my body to get up and run. There’s an emptiness that settles in with her absence, and it hurts until I notice my shirt is gone, and her things—they’re here.

  Thirteen

  Liv

  The next day, Memphis asked me to visit Miles with him after his training and before his work. I didn’t leave his side until he was asleep. After four or five days of the same, he quit asking. I just came along.

  He didn’t always have work, and on the days he didn’t, I’d watch him pull off miracles. At least, they seemed miraculous to me. He’s jumped on top of boxes that I could rest my chin on, and he sprinted the basketball court down on Central about a dozen times in a row with seconds in-between to catch his breath.
Then he’d walk a lap and drink water to do it all again.

  Sometimes he pushes himself so hard he vomits. And sometimes he gets mad when he doesn’t see a physical toll, like he’s not pushing himself hard enough. I remember when my dad would train. I didn’t get to watch much, but I got to see him work with Leo when I had no other place to go. Leo made my father vomit a lot.

  His exhaustion means when he hits the pillow, he’s out. Last night, I laid on him and watched his body move with every breath. He dreams often, and his body twitches a little, but last night his muscles were still. I can see the effects of this final hard push. His muscle tone is like a suit of armor, and his speed—both in his feet and his hands—feels like it’s doubled.

  Every night, we both strip down almost completely, and I crawl under his heavy quilt that I’ve learned has been with him since he was ten or eleven years old. He never pushes for more, though I know he would take the invitation in a beat. He lets me dictate every step of whatever this is we are in. Somehow, because of that, I’ve been able to separate my two worlds—the brightness I live in with Memphis and the burden I clock in with in the morning.

  Today, though, I can’t seem to stay focused on paying the electric bill, filing quarterly taxes, or closing out August’s books. He’s dressed for his fight today, and Leo’s brought in help. Seeing him with his name on his waist, his game face on…it scratches at a part deep inside of me, and no matter how hard I try, there is no tuning this out. Eventually, I give in and close the laptop and file of receipts and move out to the lockers where there’s a carpeted bench made for this purpose—to stare in awe at people who can do things others can’t.

  I used to sit here and watch Archie.

  “He’s going to try to burn you out early, so don’t take his bait,” Leo says, circling behind the opponent he’s brought in to play the part of Omar Morales.

  When they go right, Memphis circles left, his feet weaving in easy steps, gliding like a hockey player on ice until one of them disrupts the pattern, faking and flinching. Sometimes, Memphis reacts, but most of the time, he remains smooth on his feet. He could go on like this for days, and that’s the point.

  “He might hit you. If he gets in a good shot, then that’s on him, but you trust your defense. Don’t fall in just because he says it’s time; you tell him when. You get to say when it’s time for you to fight, and when it’s right, you hit him with those fucking bombs right there.”

  I smirk at my uncle’s words. He’s always had this passion for this part of the fight. He can make even the weakest boxer twice as strong simply by shouting a few things at him in the ring. His words stick, and they show up when a fighter needs them. A reminder to hold back, a lean to the right, a weak side—it calls up weeks of muscle memory behind the words in a blink.

  “Come on, punk,” Memphis’s sparring partner says. “Whatchu got? Come on.”

  He jabs at him, and Memphis simply changes up his rhythm. Eyes of a hungry tiger circle the ring, his lids heavy, blocking out everything but the form in front of him. He sees his feet. He sees his fists. It’s his torso, though, that gives away all of his secrets. If a fighter can conquer speed there, be faster at changing direction than an opponent, then he’s got them.

  They dance, trading light jabs to keep it interesting, and Memphis never falls for the trick. He gets hit once in the side, curving away from it to lighten the blow. He won’t be hit hard now anyhow. It’s too close to the real thing. His body needs to be peak.

  While the fighters continue to circle each other, Leo steps in and says something in the other fighter’s ear. He motions with his fist, pulling it in tight, unable to help himself from acting out his directions. Memphis doesn’t waiver, though—his eyes stay narrow, distractions don’t exist, in his mind, he’s already in the moment.

  “That your pussy over there?”

  And in one breath, both Memphis’s and my centers of strength start to crumble. Fake Omar pushes the one weak button Memphis seems to have—me. In doing so, he sends me right back to the beginning, where fighters live in one world and those of us who have living, beating hearts must survive somewhere else. We can’t possibly live together because when we do, focus isn’t perfect, champions slip up, and fragile feelings get swallowed by regret.

  Memphis flinches just enough, his narrowed eyes suddenly open, and Fake Omar moves in on him, stopping before it becomes real.

  My eyes flutter closed. I wish myself small, too numb to slink back into the office and close the door.

  “That’s what I was talking about, Memphis. You let that happen in Vegas and the next thing you see will be the side of the ref’s shoes and a tilted world that might never come back in focus. Distractions...goddamnit I told you about the fucking distractions. You couldn’t help yourself, though, could you?”

  My eyes begin to sting with the welling tears. I feel dirty sitting here, the subject of this lesson, and I’m angry that Memphis isn’t saying anything, even though most of me doesn’t really want him to because Leo’s partly right. I’m a distraction.

  The heat beginning to turn my face red, I get up without offering as much as a glance toward the ring. I shut my office with my palm, careful not to slam it behind me. I tap the music app on my phone and turn the volume up as loud as I can without the sound becoming tinny. Then I open the computer and stare at the last line I completed before I took a break. I let my worlds bleed together, and now it fucking hurts.

  There’s no working after that, and if I did, I’d make errors I’d only have to reconcile tomorrow. Instead, I pretend to click around, then pause to make a dot in the margin of my receipt list. I perform, and eventually, the panic felt in my heart strikes away the need to cry. I hate this world, and I hate how easy it was for me to get sucked in.

  A crashing sound echoes beyond the glass door of my office, and I only let myself sense it with my periphery. Leo’s thrown the metal stool a bunch of times in my life. It may have been a few years since I’ve heard it, but I recognize it.

  It’s only a few more seconds before the office door flies open, crashing into a wire bookcase and tilting it enough to spill dozens of files on the floor. I could let this all hurt, or I could fight. I could box it out and let it be noise, because really, that’s all it’s ever been.

  My eyes blink as I stare at a week of work tossed carelessly thanks to a grown man’s temper tantrum.

  “I just got those perfect, you fuck,” I say, a little fire lit by my boldness.

  “This isn’t a game, Liv. You didn’t need to come back here and mend your little, broken, fucking heart. You needed a job, good. We gave you one. You needed a bed. Fine, I gave you one. Don’t fuck with business, though, Liv. This fight matters; it matters a whole lot more than your goddamned spilled files and your batting eyelashes that for some goddamned reason my fighter can’t fucking ignore.”

  The only reason I look up at the end of his words is because he’s pointing at me fiercely with his finger. My lips sneer automatically because it’s so rude. And if a little smack talk can get in Memphis’s head in here, then maybe Leo should be focusing on his fighter instead of me.

  “One, I’m pretty sure you’re over using the F-word, and two...those fucking files are keeping you from being audited, and I’m fairly certain you and I both know how much that’s worth. So yeah, they’re pretty fucking important.”

  My eyes level his. I take in the drunken tint of red in his whites, stains from tobacco on his teeth as he licks at the back of his mouth and twists his dry and wrinkled lips enough to silently growl at me.

  I’m stronger than I think, Leo.

  He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him, but he’s never been one to leave without making a scene. He walks to the center of the gym and picks up the discarded stool and chucks it out the open garage door into the parking lot, one of the legs coming off and ricocheting into someone’s hubcap.

  “I need a break! You!” He spins on his heels and points at Memphis as he walks ba
ckward, feeling in his pocket for a lighter as he moves toward the parking lot behind him. “This isn’t a day we can just quit and pick up tomorrow. We’re out of time, so get your shit together in your head and we’re going to dance until your feet fall off when I get back.”

  The handful of people in the gym watch Leo leave, but quickly go back to their workouts, not stunned by his outburst either, it seems. Fake Omar stands a few paces away from Memphis, staring at him with his gloved-hand held out. Memphis finally pounds his own glove on top.

  “I’m sorry, man. He said to try rattling you with that, and I don’t know. I didn’t know it was something personal,” the guy says.

  “It is personal,” Memphis interjects. “And it’s fine. Whatever, I’ve got it under control.”

  The man purses his lips and stares at Memphis for a few long seconds before his eyes shift over to me. We both know that Memphis is lying. The guy leaves the ring, though, mentioning something in a softer voice about heading out to grab lunch. Memphis waves him off then slides down with his back against the corner, one knee up and the other leg straight out in front of him. His teeth move to his tape, and eventually he flings his glove off with enough force to bounce it out of the ring.

  His chin lifts and his heavy eyes settle on me behind a desk, a dozen yards away. His tired eyes widen upon seeing me, and his chest lifts with breath, but never seems to fully exhale.

  “Do you want me to leave?” My voice carries, and a few guys working at the heavy bag nearest to my office stop to watch. We’re like a regular show, it seems. Stay tuned, boys—this soap is getting good.

  My heart is squeezing with mixed emotions. I’m angry that Leo made me an example. I’m pissed he was right and that it worked. I’m mad that Memphis isn’t able to shut me out, and I’m terrified that I’m not going to get to watch him fall asleep again tonight.

  “No,” he says, voice gravely and without much life.