One Lucky Girl

by Natasha L. Black

It seemed implausible, but then again, this whole thing did. Not just being at some business that specialized in letting people break things but being here with a sexy man who was looking at me like he’d forgotten we weren’t as alone as he’d like.

  “Stop it,” I said softly. Although my body keened once I tugged myself free of his grasp, a deep inhale set me to rights. “What should we break first?”

  “The chair,” Owen said immediately. “Definitely.”

  And next thing I knew he’d picked it up and crashed it down in one mighty movement.

  I gaped at the mangled shape that was once the piece of furniture. Owen grinned, holding it out to me. “Wanna try?”

  A meek smile amidst a ginger nod was the best I could manage. Although once my fingers closed on the cool plastic of the chair, something changed. A tension I hadn’t noticed before in my limbs lifted, then settled in.

  ‘Smash it’, a small daring voice in my head said.

  And, wondering at its seeming lightness, I lifted the chair up and, with all the force I had, slammed it down into the ground.

  I jolted back as the sound of plastic giving way careened through the room. Owen’s hand on my shoulder surprised me, although something about the hot stroke of his breath on my ear was reassuring. “Satisfying, right?”

  And just like that, he gave voice to the jumble of feelings materializing in me. Infinitesimally and yet unmistakably, something in me had shifted and lightened.

  Owen nudged me toward a small desk in the corner. “That one’s all yours.”

  My feet started walking me there before I even thought to. Already, my brain was working in overdrive to dissuade me. The desk was old, even a little ornate in the folds and frills of its top edges. This old beech wood desk had belonged to someone, maybe even a child. This desk had had a life, been loved, and now I was going to destroy it, for what?

  It went against everything that I believed in as a nurse. Mending, making good again, saving. To destroy, to throw my weight against something and watch it dissolve into ruin seemed wrong. Immoral. And just what I needed right now.

  I lifted my foot up over the top of the squat desk and slammed it down.

  The splinter of wood from wood was music. My next kick was the lifting of the conductor’s baton.

  Good thing I was wearing my ankle boots for what happened next. A pure symphony of strikes. My foot jabbed out over and over. into the collapsed, half-legged wooden remnant. Kicking and breaking and shredding, and not just wood. Worry and guilt and regret were snapping out there too. Pain and hope, while pure animal impulse took over. My feet, one and then the other, jumping out and on the wooden heap, still not done, kicking and stomping and stamping.

  Owen’s shoulder squeeze came as a surprise. I whirled around, eyes wild.

  “You ok?” he asked.

  I took a breath, realizing it as I exhaled. “Yeah, actually. Better than ok.”

  It was true. Something that had been coiled and hardened and horrible inside of me had been dislodged. Not thrown free but shifted.

  “Better enough to tackle the TV?”

  At Owen’s words, both our gazes went to the flat-screen monolith. At the back of the room it stood, waiting. as if the final challenge in some sort of video game, impassive, unhurried.

  When Owen’s hand took mine, I knew the answer. Together, we approached it, regarded it. And then, together, we destroyed the shit out of it.

  First, though, Owen handed me gloves that Battle Sports had provided. Then, we exchanged a grin. It was time.

  Owen was first. With no warning, he let out a sort of grunt, then his foot shot out. Now, I was more than ready with my own kick. The liquid crackle as foot met screen was more than worth it. Beside me, Owen was hunkered over, his eyes alive as his gloved fist slashed into the TV’s innards. That was the last I saw of him. From then on out, I was lost to everything except the pure hedonistic pleasure of destruction. Foot, fist, I lost track of what was connecting, crumpling into what, until the TV was a flattened wreckage before us.

  Owen and I exchanged a glance.

  “We are insane,” I said.

  “Certifiable,” he agreed. “But isn’t it fun?”

  --

  After, true to his word, Owen drove us to the beach. We didn’t talk much, still processing everything that had happened in that small, over-white room. Only once we were comfily positioned on a blanket on the sand, did Owen broach the subject.

  “I was a bit worried I’d be the only one going ape there.”

  “Nope, looks like we both have our own demons,” I said. I’d meant it as a joke, but my laugh came out feeble and unconvincing.

  Owen’s sidelong study of a look didn’t make things any easier. Was I never going to tell him and Jake?

  “Was yours about your hand?” I asked, to avoid remaining on the subject at hand.

  “Sure, yeah,” he admitted without elaborating.

  I guess if I was keeping my secrets, he could be allowed his.

  When his hand dipped into his messenger bag and came back with a bottle of what looked to be red wine, I couldn’t have been happier.

  “Picked this up on the way to your place,” Owen said, extending it out to me partway before pausing. “If you want.”

  I grabbed it, pleased to see it was a twistable cap. I took a swig, then, wiping my lips, shook my head. “Nah, don’t think I’ll have any.”

  Another meant-to-be joke, although I was the only one who giggled at it. I could still feel a bit of wine coating my lower lip, though I’d have sensed its presence even otherwise with the way that Owen was looking at me.

  My heart dropped. The way he gazed at me made time stop. It made me want to reach for the wine bottle to better be able to handle it.

  When Owen took a swig of wine himself, I was well-relieved.

  “I can see why you guys like boxing,” I said suddenly, my gaze lost on the never-ending waves in the water before us.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I took another sip of wine, the fruity expansiveness floating through me. My eyes closed, recalling it all. “The exhilaration of that walk in, the howling crowd, the absolute real humanness of it. Fist connecting with flesh.” I felt weird saying the words, revealing to Owen what I hadn’t even admitted to myself yet. “There’s lots of things you can fake these days but not that. The final frontier of realness is what boxing is. No bullshit, no games. Just one man’s brute force against another’s.”

  The silence after I spoke made me feel self-conscious all over again.

  “I was a bit nervous you’d think it was barbaric,” Owen said, another expression I couldn’t place taking over his features, one by one. “Most girls he and I have dated do.”

  “I did, at first,” I admitted. “But then I stopped thinking in ‘should’s’ and how my parents or my sister would want me to react, and just let myself take it all in. The fullness of the fight – from the collective held breaths to the gurgle and crackle of flesh hitting flesh in the ring.” I exhaled. “Although I couldn’t take seeing Jake lose.”

  “Neither can I,” Owen admitted. “Lucky for us though, Jake’s been having a winning streak these past few months and looks all set to continue it. You have a sister?”

  “Yeah, I don’t mention her that much.”

  “Guessing you’re not close, then.”

  I smiled ruefully. “No, in fact, we’re almost opposites. She’s like my parents. Decisive, always knows the right thing to do and does it.”

  “And you don’t?”

  I fixed him with a stare that he returned unflinchingly.

  “I’m dating two brothers at the same time,” I said. “How can that be right?”

  “What if it is?” he countered.

  I looked at him for a moment before continuing. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I finally said.

  Our gazes held for another few seconds.

  “You’ve been hurt badly in the past,” Owen said, as though his gaze
had somehow looked into to my brain. “Haven’t you?”

  “Hasn’t everyone?”

  He shook his head. “Not what I meant.”

  The way Owen had of waiting for you to respond even when it was unbearably uncomfortable was singular.

  When he finally held out the foil wrapped dark chocolate bar that he’d bought to pair with the wine, I released a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. “Thanks.”

  “It’s ok if you don’t want to tell me.” Owen’s words were understanding and sad. “There are some things I can’t tell people either.”

  Though I didn’t look his way, my thoughts turned toward Owen. How briefly we’d known each other. How fast we’d taken to each other. How, with two more sips of wine, I almost felt like I could tell him about Brent.

  So, with the chocolatey darkness melting in my mouth, I sipped the wine once, twice, and, keeping my gaze careful on the red ombre skyline, I asked, “You ever been in love?”

  His response was immediate, “No.”

  It shoved my oncoming response back in my throat. If he hadn’t, how could he understand?

  And then maybe it was the third sip of wine, or maybe it was the way his arm settled around mine, but next thing I knew, I found myself telling him. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  15

  Owen

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you’ – not those words again.

  Didn’t girls understand that saying any variant of ‘we need to talk’ or ‘I need to tell you something’ was akin to a knife stab in the gut while saying ‘don’t worry’.

  “It’s about my past,” she was saying, her eyes still turned toward the sunset.

  I only let her head settle on my shoulder, saying nothing. It wasn’t time for that. The gulls were fluttering the skies, quiet, the waves were purring on the shore, quiet. And I too, had to be quiet to leave space for her words. It was time to listen.

  “My former fiancé,” she clarified. “Brent.”

  She took a deep breath and stiffened slightly under my arm.

  “We were high school sweethearts,” she said. “Met at sixteen, engaged at twenty. He was my everything – my best friend, my lover, my greatest supporter. We had it all figured out – the house we were going to move to, the day we were to have our wedding. And then…”

  She exhaled.

  So far, her story had filled me with goosebumps. The ‘but’ had been evident as soon as she’d uttered the words ‘former-fiancé’. Although, when she dropped the bomb, I still wasn’t prepared for it.

  “He died.” An involuntary quiver went through her and I tightened my arm around her. “He was killed in a car accident. Bad roads, bad rain, no one’s fault.” Her breath hitched. “And I was there.”

  Forgetting myself, I whirled around, peering into her downturned eyes. “What?”

  She could only give a sort of nod, not looking up. I waited for the more that never came.

  When I said something, she sat up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  The line of her mouth was hard. “The point is, that was three years ago, and I still don’t know if I’m ready for anything serious. I haven’t been with anyone since him.”

  For half a minute, I fumbled for the right words to say. Finally, though, I said the only thing I could, “Of course, I understand.”

  Although I wish I could’ve told my body that. Because, in the encroaching moonlight, the pouted swell of her lower lip, her far-off staring eyes, were only beacons. They beckoned to dip my face in and then…

  When Cin’s head rested on my chest, stifling a sob, I couldn’t. Not like this.

  Although what happened next did surprise me.

  “About before, in that room,” I said. “All the frustration I was letting out – it was from breaking my hand. When it first happened, I was sure I could get back to fighting as soon as it healed, no matter what the doctors said. But then, after months and months of trying to fight and failing, even trying to make a go of it with my left hand as my main, I had to face facts. My boxing days were over.”

  My hand had settled over the small sphere of her head, stroking lightly amidst the highlights in her hair.

  “When I first got into managing, I thought it would make a nice segue from being the boxer. I’d get to work with my brother, see the inner workings of the boxing world….”

  I trailed off, my own ‘but’ on the tip of my tongue. Just how much was I willing to reveal to Cin. No way could I tell her everything, I hadn’t even told Jake everything.

  “But it hasn’t been what I expected,” I said finally.

  Cin’s head stirred from its rest, turning so she could peer at me. “What would you do if you didn’t manage?”

  “That’s the thing.” My fingers dipped into the sand, the packed dampness somehow soothing. “I’ve got no idea. Here I am, treading water in this job I hate, itching to leave, and yet I don’t have a Plan B.”

  I paused, amused to see that I’d aimlessly finger-written in the sand: JOP.

  “I’d still manage part-time to be close to Jake, most likely,” I said. “It just feels like there’s something missing in what I’m doing now.”

  “What about photography?”

  Her question was light, easy. It swept in like a bird and disturbed the excuse-ridden rafters in my mind. “It’s just a hobby.”

  “You like it, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but-” I stopped myself before the excuse could come all the way out. Cin had a point.

  “It’s just an idea,” she said with a dismissive figure-eight wave of her hand. “Maybe I’ve just had too much chocolate.”

  “Or not enough,” I said, passing her the now half-done bar.

  As we passed it back and forth, our bodies eased back into each other. All of me was buzzing with the wine and my attraction to Cin, pounding harder with every heartbeat.

  “We should go,” I said, making no move to leave.

  “You’re right,” she said, not moving either.

  Or wait –

  Cin was moving alright – toward me. Lead by her lips, it only made sense that they touched me first. Her lips pressed to mine, blotting everything away.

  What happened after was more of what made sense to me: our bodies eased into each other fully. My hands cupped her face, her soft coconut-scented cheeks. Her fingers traced the outline of my pecs under my t-shirt. Our hands finally met, finger to finger, finger through finger, just like our mouths. Our tongues were one fraught twist, my arousal a full-body takeover.

  What didn’t make sense was when she abruptly pulled away.

  16

  Cin

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  The words sounded hollow and pointless in my ears. Owen was gaping at me, his features still trying to decode what just happened.

  I backed away. “I wasn’t thinking. I thought it would be ok,” I said. “But when you kissed me like that…”

  “You felt like you were losing control,” Owen said simply.

  Now it was my turn to gape at him. He hadn’t said what he was supposed to, none of this was happening how it was supposed to.

  He wasn’t supposed to guess the truth of it in a flash. He was supposed to be fed up, angry. That man I could reject easily, turn my feelings off for.

  But this man, the one with understanding in his eyes, backing away himself, there was no going cold on. I still tried anyway.

  “I want to go home now,” I said, though it wasn’t exactly how I felt.

  I couldn’t let him know how right he’d been with his spur-of-the-moment statement. How he’d hit to the core of it. How – unlike my expectations – kissing him hadn’t felt wrong at all. How it’d felt as right as kissing could, like coming home.

  “Of course,” he said easily. Already he’d gotten started on folding the blanket we’d been sitting on.

  I grabbed t
he wine bottle, glaring at it. It was partially responsible for all this – me revealing all that about Brent and my fears and now, Owen’s and my kiss. Only partially, though. The real one to blame for all of this was me.

  “You ready to go?” Owen asked.

  I nodded.

  The car ride home was silent. Owen looked disappointed, sure, but no matter how many times I snuck a look over, the frustration I expected to see on his full lower lip never entered into the picture.

  No, he dropped me off and only waved, stopping me when I was about to shut the door. “Hey Cin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I had a great time. Sorry about how it ended.”

  I eyed him incredulously. “I was the one who kissed you and pulled away.”

  “Yeah, but I was the one who brought the wine, had the whole beach idea. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that part of me had been hoping for a chance at that kiss.”

  I could only pause there, looking at him. God, he was gorgeous. His tousled sandy strands my fingers now ached to touch, his brown eyes made black in the dark, yet no less earnest.

  “Thanks for taking me out today,” I said. “Goodnight Owen.”

  “Goodnight Cin.”

  I’d been avoiding eye contact, but right now, I couldn’t resist stealing a look. His intent gaze held mine. I could feel myself falling, sinking toward him, irresistible.

  No room for self-control, for anything but giving into this inevitable pull, this closer and closer and-

  No.

  At the last second, I ripped my gaze off his, pulled back and slammed the door shut. And then I turned my back on Owen Powers.

  On the walk up to my apartment, tears pressed at the backs of my eyes, while the corners of my lips kept poking up. They hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

  That it wasn’t a good thing that Owen’s feelings were as strong for me as mine were for him, that he’d said as much for Jake’s feelings too. Neither was it good that kissing him hadn’t felt wrong at all.

  If this didn’t work out, I was in for a whole world of pain. Inside my room, flopped on my bed in my nightie, I thought about calling Penelope up, then thought better of it. The odds of her being on a Tinder date were ninety to one, and I wasn’t sure I wanted her brand of pep talk tonight. No, the only person I could talk to about this was also the last person I should be talking to at all.