by Anna Todd
Then you saw him. Your eyes had hitched to the audience, and there he was. Everything froze.
Nick Bateman. In a black sweatshirt with the hood up and black sweatpants to match, he towered over everyone else and stood directly below a filthy fluorescent light, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable and he had yet to catch your gaze. Why the hell was he at Cesspool?
The fight began and Savage charged at you. You snapped out of your thoughts and maneuvered around him, mostly to put your back to Nick and make sure he didn’t recognize you. The quick decision worked in your favor. Savage charged past you and hit the thick ropes around the ring. When he ricocheted off the ropes, you rushed forward and hit his face with a series of compound hand strikes. It seemed like something straight out of a film or a cartoon.
Your strike to his gut was blocked. Eventually, your guard was down and he counterpunched you hard in the gut, knocking the wind out of you. The rest of the fight was a blur. Your head wasn’t in it, and you were getting the shit beat out of you. Bad.
Finally, Savage had knocked you to the ground and you couldn’t get back up. Pain blasted in your cheek and your nose was bleeding profusely. The crowd was going wild.
“Savage. Savage. Savage.”
You’d lost. You never lost a fight. Now you’d lost twice in a day.
Savage shouted slurs at you and basked in his glory. Your head lolled to the side. Not because you were about to pass out, but because you felt too defeated to stand up and leave the ring.
“Get the fuck out of there!” Chip’s large hands reached under the ropes of the boxing ring and tugged on your arm. Since Cesspool had few rules, the audience frequently got out of hand and started their own fights after matches. Men had begun to fling themselves into the ring and were going at it. Before some sweaty man with tattoos stepped on your head, you slid the rest of the way out of the ring.
Chip steadied you when your feet hit the cold, filthy cement floor. Dozens of shouting faces were around him, screaming things at the wild mass of men fighting in the ring. You forced your way past sweaty men to Chip’s cluttered office.
Chip was a big guy, and most of the men at Cesspool feared him because he had a short temper. There were rumors he had killed a man before. However, you knew Chip had been the one to spread that rumor to assert his masculine position at Cesspool. Men.
Chip unlocked his office and walked in after you, slamming the door behind him. “What the hell was that?” Chip demanded after he’d locked you both in. He kept a hell of a lot of money in his office.
“Oh, here we go,” you growled, and threw open his minifridge to grab an icepack and an energy drink. You fell into an old leather chair and pressed the icepack to your swelling cheekbone. You were soon going to have one nasty bruise.
“You were so stiff and absentminded looking out there.” Chip paced the floor. “I couldn’t tell if Savage was fighting you, or a training dummy. You looked like a girl out there. A chick. A female. I saw motherfucking juicy tits and a nice ass, instead of my badass fighter. You feel me?”
“That has to be the straightest thing you’ve ever said to me.” You tossed him the energy drink. You winced as you reached into your duffel bag next to the chair. With your free hand, you carefully pulled out a sleepy Rat Dog and held him in your lap. Once again, you hadn’t had it in you to leave the dog at your apartment, alone. He was taking a liking to your duffel bag, anyway. You didn’t blame him, considering you put your softest blanket at the bottom of it and kept little pieces of beef jerky in it at all times.
“Damn it, you could have gotten yourself fucking killed.” Chip continued to pace the floor and chugged down the energy drink. You’d never seen him this anxious about you, or maybe you just hadn’t focused on it before. If anything, you’d expected him to yell at you about all the money you’d cost him from the loss against Savage. “It took everything in me not to call the fight early.”
“I’m very much alive, Chip.”
“Barely. You look like shit, if shit put shit on top of its fucking self.” One of the things you liked about Chip was that he sure as hell never held back. He raked fingers through his dirty-blond hair. “You were giving me fucking chest pains out there. I’m too young to have chest pains.”
“Relax. I’m just not having a good day. My head wasn’t in it tonight.”
“Damn right, your head wasn’t in it,” Chip seethed. “Is this because of Rhett? I told you not to fucking fight here until I gave you the okay. I knew I shouldn’t have given in, but you know I have a soft spot for you—”
“Chip, I appreciate your concern and pulling me out of the ring back there, but I’d like to drop this.” You grit your teeth, which made your jaw sting. “It’s not about Rhett.”
“Then what’s wrong? Talk to me, babe.”
“I quit my job today.” You wrapped Rat Dog in the blanket in your large duffel bag and zipped it up, leaving an opening so he could breathe.
“You what?” Chip put his hands on his hips, looking like a concerned big brother. “Do you need money, or something? A temporary job? Because I’ll—”
“No.” You stood up, carefully shouldered your duffel bag so you wouldn’t crush Rat Dog, and put the icepack back into the freezer. “I appreciate your friendship and everything that you do for me, but I’m not a charity case.”
As you started to leave the office, Chip blocked your exit. He dug into his pocket for his wallet. “Come on,” he muttered, and took a wad of cash out. “You know you’re not a charity case. At least take a little something to hold you over. I know how hard you work to keep your apartment.”
You pushed his hand away. “Chip, Jesus Christ. I can’t accept that.”
He shoved the money into your palm and closed it. “Take it. You’re unemployed and I don’t wanna see your pretty little ass on the streets. You’d get eaten alive. Just take it to make me feel better, all right? I know you’re tough.”
Suddenly, that triggered a memory of your father. Stop crying, baby. You’re tougher than any man I know. Just like your mom was. The world doesn’t know what’s coming for it. He’d told you that after you’d come home crying in the fourth grade because some girl had pointed out that you only ever wore three outfits to school. Your dad had always found a way to make you feel better when you cried. You could still remember how you felt that day he never came back from work. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, the police said. That pissed you off when people said that. Wrong place at the wrong time? Where was the right place to be, when a stranger could take another person’s life at any moment?
Your head felt heavy. Your face was swollen. All you wanted to do was lie down in your bed and maybe have a good cry. You hadn’t had one of those in a long fucking time.
You shoved the money back. “Chip, you and I both know if I was on the streets and someone so much as poked my pretty ass, I would knock them the fuck out.”
Chip grunted and put the money back in his wallet. He walked to the back door in his office, which led to an exit out of the arena, and held it open for you. “Unless the one who pokes your ass is Savage,” he muttered playfully as you walked past him. “Then you’re screwed.”
You punched Chip’s arm. At the top of the stairs, you called out, “Bye, Norbert!”
Chip stopped laughing—now you were the one with the huge smile.
You pushed open a heavy metal door and stepped out into an alleyway. A few drunken homeless people were wandering about, and a fighter leaned against the brick wall to your right with blood all over his face. He smoked a cigarette and scowled at you as you walked by. Hmm. You must have kicked his ass before.
As you walked on, your body began to feel like a trash compactor had crushed it into a ball and then pulled it back apart. Chip’s icepack also hadn’t done its job on the swelling in your face. Thank God your house wasn’t too far away.
You pulled your hood up and left the alleyway and went to the curb, adjusting the d
uffel bag on your shoulder. Your sneakers crunched over a thin layer of snow on the ground. The corners of your mouth tilted upward. Your father loved snow.
You looked up from the sidewalk and stopped in your tracks.
LA Surfer Boy was walking at a leisurely pace just in front of you. He had his hood up as well and also had a duffel bag. Somehow, you could recognize him from his shoulders, legs, and the way he walked. It had to be him. You didn’t want him to see you. He’d probably watched you fight that night and was so sickened that he had to leave early. . . .
As if sensing your eyes on the back of his head, Nick turned to look over his shoulder. You unglued your feet from the ground and practically dove for cover behind a bus stop. How the fuck did he keep doing that? Did he have a fucking sixth sense?
After a few moments, you peered back around the bus stop and watched as he began to cross the street. Where was he going? You had to go in the same direction anyway, so you pulled the strings on your sweatshirt to hide your face more and followed him from a safe distance. And followed him. And followed him . . .
He was going in the same direction as you: toward your apartment.
Shit. SHIT!
Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe he was going to that bagel place near your house. Their everything bagels with vegetable cream cheese could bring a celibate man to immediate orgasm. Wait. Was that place even open this late? Possibly. . . . Was it Friday?
FUCK!
Your heart was pounding against your ribs like a jackhammer, and your mind raced. Nick was totally going to your apartment. Was he going to make fun of you for your loss at Cesspool? You’d beat the shit out of him before he could. Crap. If you let him up, he’d see Rat Dog. Maybe that needed to happen already. Shit, what were you doing holding on to his dog, anyway?
You started to fear being alone in a room with Nick. Was he a closet psychopath and stopping by to murder you? Would he take advantage of you? Why did that idea suddenly make you all . . . tingly? You needed to get ahold of yourself. The man had fucking driven you to quit your job. Your passion. How could you still be attracted to him after that? You seriously, seriously needed to get laid. Or maybe you just needed one of those everything bagels with vegetable cream cheese. . . .
Only a few blocks to go. You fantasized about catching up to Nick and yanking him back by the hair, taking out your frustrations on his pretty face with your fists. Then that fantasy turned into your sitting on that face, taking your frustrations out that way. . . .
What the fuck? You needed to stop this madness. You were a strong, independent woman. . . . You chose the chicken route and picked up your pace to nearly a jog, tensing as you passed him. He was checking something on his phone and didn’t seem to think twice about you.
Your body was in no shape for a jog, and Rat Dog, trapped in your bag, was most likely not enjoying this brisk pace. Pushing through the pain, you rushed into the building, hurried up to your floor, and fumbled for your keys with shaking fingers. Eventually, you were in the safety of your apartment, locked the door, ran into the bathroom, and let Rat Dog out onto the tiled floor with a string of apologies.
YOU FIGURED NICK would buzz your apartment while you took a long, hot shower. You wouldn’t hear him over the spray of water, which meant you didn’t have to worry about even considering letting him up. Genius.
You lathered your skin and hair with your favorite grapefruit soap and shampoo, conditioned, and washed away any remnants of Cesspool. You stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself. Rat Dog licked droplets of water off your calves. You got the hint and fetched him a bowl of water.
You slipped on a baggy nightshirt, white panties, and light gray jogging pants. As you started to brush out your thick, long hair, your stomach growled. It dawned on you that you hadn’t eaten, and there wasn’t anything in the apartment. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Looked like your dinner was toothpaste and mouthwash, because you were way too achy from the fight to go out and get food. But what about Rat Dog? You fished through your duffel bag and emptied the last of the broken-up jerky into a little bowl for him. Your stomach growled again as you watched him gobble it up.
Your apartment buzzer shocked you out of your hunger reverie and into instant panic mode. You paced the floor, and it crossed your mind that it might be Rhett. Your heart skipped a beat. What the hell was wrong with you? You were making yourself anxious. It was just Nick. You could just walk up to the intercom and tell him to fuck off. Maybe it wasn’t Nick. And if it was Nick, he’d eventually take the hint and leave. But if he left, you’d never know what he came to say. You’d never know. . . .
The buzzer sounded again.
“Fuck.” You went to the intercom, your heart an orchestra in your ears. “Who is it?”
A deep, slightly raspy voice slid out of the speaker: “It’s Nick.”
You looked down at Rat Dog, who’d begun to bark uncontrollably. Of course. He never barked.
“Before you tell me to fuck off,” Nick continued, “please, just hear me out. I came to apologize.”
“Shh. Shhh. Rat Dog!” The dog finally stopped so you could press the intercom button and reply. Strong, independent woman. “How did you find my apartment?” You touched the raised part of your cheek. You felt self-conscious about his seeing how beat-up you were.
“I did some digging. Listen, can you let me up, or something? I brought you food. . . .”
Food. You thought about meeting him downstairs, snatching the food out of his hands, and then making a dash for your apartment. It didn’t feel right to let a guy up to your apartment that you’d just met, no matter how gorgeous he was. You looked back down at Rat Dog, who was looking up at the intercom and shaking his little butt. He pawed at the wall, whining. Also, you had to do the right thing and give him back his dog. Now . . .
“FUCK IT!”
You buzzed Nick in and practically flew around the apartment, throwing dirty clothes into your hamper and spraying a coconut scent to mask the place’s dank odor. You reached into your underwear drawer and grabbed your bottle of pepper spray, tucking it into the pocket of your joggers. You would act surprised that it was Nick’s dog. If it even was his dog. Then you’d take the food, hear him out, then kick him out. No big deal!
When he knocked, you walked reasonably slowly so he wouldn’t think you were eager. Rat Dog stood between your feet and pawed continuously at the door. You took a deep breath and opened it.
Nick held a white paper bag and a bottled iced tea in his hand. He got one look at your face and his eyes widened. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Nothing,” you said, unable to think up a lie. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing.” He stepped forward and lifted his hand, as if to reach for your cheek, but you flinched a little. He quickly pulled back. “Who did that to you?” With that question your mind immediately darted to Rhett, when you’d dated him and he’d shown you how angry he could get. You hoped that fucker rotted in hell. “Who did that to you?” Nick repeated, sterner. The rage in him seemed to darken his eyes.
“Nobody. I’m fine.”
Nick studied your features, disbelief in his eyes. Suddenly, his expression went slack and you imagined he’d put two and two together.
Woof! Woof!
Nick’s brown gaze hitched to the little Yorkie jumping on two hind legs in front of him. He stared at the dog for a moment, appearing shocked, and then picked up Rat Dog with one large hand. Rat Dog began to whine uncontrollably, shaking his butt at turbo speed and stretching to lick Nick’s jaw with his tiny tongue.
“Joey? What the . . . ?”
“I found him yesterday,” you said, answering his unasked question. “He didn’t have a collar on. . . . He’s yours?”
“Yes . . . he is.” Nick set the white paper bag on the floor and held Joey up to his face with both hands, kissing his little furry head. Never in your life had you seen a grown man so affectionate and happy over such
a cute, tiny dog, and it was . . . sweet.
“I can’t believe you found him. I mean, what are the odds? I put flyers up everywhere for my little guy. I was worried he’d get hit by a car or freeze to death because he’s so small. But all along, you had him. . . .”
He locked eyes with you and appeared to be at a sudden loss for words. Rather awkwardly, he plucked the white paper bag off the floor and handed it to you. “I, um, brought you a bagel.”
You hid your excitement well. “A bagel.”
“And iced tea. It’s a peace offering. I came here to apologize to you.” The way he shifted on his feet came off as almost . . . nervous? “I was a real dick to you today. Moving here from LA, unpacking, and dealing with the paperwork for the center has been stressing me out. But that’s no excuse for the way I treated you. You impressed me today. And . . . I hope you’ll come back to the center. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
You acknowledged his apology but didn’t quite forgive him yet. “Toasted?”
“What?”
“The bagel. Is it toasted?”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s toasted.”
“And you got it from the place down the street?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” He scratched the back of his head, holding Rat Dog with his other large hand. “I couldn’t believe they were open this late. They didn’t have any plain bagels left . . . so I just ordered you what I got, an everything with vegetable cream cheese.”
Nick Bateman had gotten you your favorite fucking bagel. Honestly, that made you happier than a bouquet of flowers. If you weren’t so stubborn and prideful, you would have ditched your clothes and fallen to the ground with your legs wide-open for him, right then and there.
You peeked into the bag. “There’s two bagels in here.”
“Well, look at that.” He smirked that dazzling smirk, and his almond-shaped brown eyes narrowed. “It looks like you can have both of them . . . or . . .”
“Or . . . I could give one to Rat Dog,” you teased.