Her heart hammered in her chest. “They’re just boots.”
“They’re kryptonite,” he said, lowering his face until his lips brushed against hers. His warm breath skittered across her mouth, scattering goose pimples over her neck and chest.
Screw the test of wills. M. J. leaned into him, fusing their lips together.
With heated hands, he tipped her head and cradled her face, pulling at her lips with his, tasting her with his tongue, until she was gripping the collar of his dress shirt.
When he finally pulled back, she was woozy.
“I’d say we’re about even in the weakness department,” Tag said, lacing his hand with hers and continuing on their way toward his car.
M. J. couldn’t see straight, let alone think. That’s why she was letting him hold her hand. She opened her mouth for words or to laugh at the night’s ridiculous turn of events, but she was stunned silent, her skin still buzzing.
“Can I give you a ride home?” he asked when they reached the parking lot.
“No.” She backed away, because this had already gone too far. “I live close.”
“How close?”
She pointed to the two floors above the bar. “That close.”
“Convenient.”
For work. That’s probably what he meant, but the mischievous voice in her head told her it was convenient for other things, too, like finishing what they started a few minutes ago.
Tag must have noticed her confliction, because he opened the car door, and with one hand braced against the roof, readied to get inside. “I’m going to call you, M. J.”
“Why?” She asked, stepping back again, because she did not trust herself.
“Because kisses like that are meant to happen again.”
She choked out a laugh. “Oh, you think so?”
“I know so.” He winked and sank into the driver’s seat.
Dear God, she hoped he was wrong, because if one kiss had her head floating to the heavens, anything more would blow her concentration to hell.
Chapter Six
Pop wore the same tired baseball cap from the other night, and Dante wore a faded, ripped sweatshirt. They looked uncomfortable in the gleaming exam room. “I’m glad you made it,” Tag said, reaching out to shake Pop’s hand, hoping he could settle the discomfort with some heartfelt hospitality. To his surprise, Dante followed along with the grown-up greeting. “I got a hold of your mother this morning, and she gave me permission to treat you. Just a formality because you’re underage.” Dante rolled his eyes and sank into the bulky hood of his sweatshirt. “She was hoping maybe your father would bring you instead.” Tag glanced at Pop, who was shaking his head emphatically while staring at a spot somewhere above Tag’s head.
“No fucking way,” Dante said.
That widened Tag’s eyes.
“Dante,” Pop snapped. “Apologize for your filthy mouth right now.”
The kid stared at his feet. “Sorry, man.”
“Head up and with respect,” Pop countered. “This man is doin’ you a huge favor.”
“It’s okay.” Tag hated to see the kid chastised for something that was obviously seated pretty deep.
Dante made eye contact with Tag. “I’m sorry. I appreciate this. A lot. I just wanna get back in the ring.”
Athletes, no matter how old or how decorated, always wanted the same thing. Dante’s steadfast determination made Tag smile, and this smile chipped away at the heaviness of the day. It didn’t matter that he had to face his brothers again tomorrow. Right now, he was going to focus on a down-on-his-luck kid, who wanted nothing more from him than medical treatment.
Twenty minutes later, Tag patted Dante on the back and handed him a bag full of free pharmaceuticals. “I’ll let you know what the lab says, but I’m willing to bet it’s herpes gladitorium.”
Dante wasn’t too keen on the diagnosis. Then again, who would be when the name involved herpes?
“We’ll have you back in the ring in no time,” Tag reassured. “Those meds will help, and I’ll guide Pop as far as sanitizing equipment is concerned.”
“Sounds expensive,” Pop said. Even if Tag hadn’t been inside the gym he’d have known by the wrinkle of Pop’s nose that there wasn’t money to spare.
“It doesn’t have to be. Just clean everything with bleach.”
“Everything? That’s a lot of bleach and a lot of cleaning.”
“It’s my fault,” Dante said. “I’ll help.”
The kid looked so dejected that the words jumped from Tag’s mouth. “I can help, too.” He had a full day here and then game coverage tonight, which made the offer a bit flimsy. “I’m pretty booked the rest of the day, but I’ll figure something out.”
“Thanks.” This time, Dante was the one to initiate the handshake, a small token of progress that had Tag wondering if he couldn’t trade game coverage with another doc, so he could spend some quality time at the gym tonight.
Then the kid asked to use the restroom, and wandered down the hall.
“I appreciate your time,” Pop said, gripping Tag’s hand in both of his as they stood outside the exam room.
A surge of emotion vibrated in Tag’s chest, and he cleared it with a cough. “Don’t mention it. He needed a doctor, and I’m a doctor. No big deal.”
“It is to me,” Pop said, giving Tag’s hand one hell of a squeeze before he let go. “It is to him. That boy has a rough life. Not a lot of people are good to him.”
Tag had already figured that out.
“That outburst about his dad,” Pop continued, shaking his head. “The guy’s a loser. Mean SOB. Dante’s the little one in the family, and he gets pushed around. Boxing makes him feel stronger.”
This was starting to hit too close to home, and the familiar need to separate from anything similar to his old life had Tag stepping back. He smoothed his tie with the palm of his hand when what he was really doing was applying pressure to stop the surge of stomach acid into his throat. “I’m glad I could help.” He just needed to be more careful about how much help he gave. “I’ll call his mother with the results later today or tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Dante emerged from the restroom, sinking into his sweatshirt again. The little one, who gets pushed around. Tag saw the boy’s torment clearly, could feel every angry word and wicked blow. He hurt all over—for himself as much as for Dante—and he wished there was a way to eradicate the pain for both of them.
“We’ll see you tonight,” Pop said.
Tag blinked, resting his brain. “Tonight. To sterilize equipment. Right.”
He tried not to feel like a complete jerk who was suddenly thinking about bailing on a good man and a troubled kid, but self-preservation mattered, too. Tag needed to get a grip on this life he’d been carefully guarding all these years, because it was starting to elude his control. And control was the only thing keeping him from slipping out of this comfortable world the luck of the social services draw had landed him in twenty-five years ago. Nobody needed to know who he was beyond Edna and Simon Howard’s son.
Tomorrow he would see his brothers again, but that contact didn’t have to change him. And while stopping off to see M. J. after tonight’s baseball game and then heading over to the gym to help Pop and Dante clean seemed harmless, it wasn’t Tag’s usual scene. He needed to stay anchored in the things that got him this comfortable life, like Edna and Simon. For the first time in twenty-five years, Tag had seen his brothers, and now here he was teetering, visiting seedy bars and boxing rings, and kissing a woman he barely knew on a sidewalk in the wrong part of town.
And until a couple minutes ago, Tag was thinking about doing it all over again.
M. J. Rooney’s gritty, raw world, which was filled with kids like Dante—kids like Tag used to be—was one he escaped a long time ago. He couldn’t afford to go back if he wanted to keep moving ahead.
• • •
M. J. glanced at her phone, resting on the shelf tucked beneath th
e register. She’d looked at it far too many times these last couple days to not be annoyed with her behavior. So what if Tag said he’d call, or that kisses like theirs were meant to be repeated? She didn’t agree then, and she didn’t want to agree now. It was just that the more she thought about the kiss, the more she was inclined to believe him.
Apparently, he’d had a change of heart.
She huffed as she held a pilsner glass beneath the tap and pulled the lever to release the beer. But she’d wanted it this way. She didn’t want personal-life distractions compromising her play on-field. Too bad she ended up sacked twice in today’s scrimmage. Both times, she’d had fleeting thoughts about whether or not Tag had called while her phone was stashed inside her locker.
So much for avoiding distraction.
After passing the beer to a patron, M. J. reached for the television remote and flipped the channel to ESPN. Listening to sports TV would get her psyched for the next game and screw her head on good and straight—unless it was sports TV that had anything to do with Cleveland’s baseball team, because Cleveland’s baseball team made her think of falling onto Cleveland’s baseball field, where she was tended to by he-who-shall-not-be-thought-of-again if she wanted a record-breaking, championship season.
M. J. changed the channel to Wheel of Fortune.
“Can I buy a vowel?” Tanya strolled toward the bar with a cardboard box in hand.
“Totally uninspired,” M. J. said, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she picked up two used glasses.
Tanya dropped the box on a stool. “I see you’re still in a mood.”
M. J. shrugged.
“You know sacks in a scrimmage don’t really count toward your sack percentage?”
“I know,” M. J. said, swiping the towel across the bar, not at all interested in dissecting her mood or her game play. “What’s in the box?”
“Bleach and paper towels. I’m going to help Dad disinfect gear on your doctor’s orders.”
“He’s not my doctor,” M. J. snapped.
“Ah. The truth comes out. The shitty mood has nothing to do with those sacks and everything to do with the doctor.”
“I hate doctors, remember?” Hopefully M. J. would take the reminder to heart. “And the shitty mood is temporary. I promise.”
“Good, then you’re allowed to come help me when your shift is over.”
“Okay.” She could scrub away her frustration.
“But just so you know, since you hate doctors . . . ” Tanya scrunched her face like she wasn’t buying that statement, “one’s going to be there.”
M. J.’s brows rose along with her heart rate.
“Dad said Dr. Howard is gonna help with the cleaning.”
Now she was thoroughly confused. Why wouldn’t he call and tell her he was coming over tonight?
“Put on the ball game,” a patron yelled.
In that split-second she decided he’d been busy. Busy was good. And going outside of his privileged, suburban comfort zone in order to help people in need was even better.
“Do I detect a smile?” Tanya teased.
“No,” M. J. snapped, reminding herself that nothing good—well, aside from that kiss and Dante’s medical treatment—came from messing around with Tag.
“Liar. I saw it.” Tanya lifted the box. “And hopefully I’ll see it later at the gym, too.”
By the time M. J. reached the packed gym, a lot of the work was done. Her heart warmed seeing so many people help Pop after he’d helped so many of them. As she moved through the crowd, nodding greetings here and there because the pulsating music was too loud for talking, she looked for Tag. She came upon Tanya on all fours, scrubbing the ring mat instead.
With a poke to Tanya’s ass, M. J. got her attention. “Hey,” she shouted.
“I told them to turn that down.” Tanya was sitting now, leaning close enough so M. J. could hear.
The acridity of the bleach burnt the lining of M. J.’s nose. “Forget turning down the music. Let’s get them to open some windows and prop the door.”
They did more than that. The few functional fans from last summer were pulled into action, too. It helped. And with the music at a reasonable level, M. J. could finally hear herself think, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, because her first thought was: Where is he?
“If you keep looking around like that, your head’s going to come unscrewed.” Tanya tossed her sponge into the bucket. “He’s not here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” M. J. tried to sound sincere and nonchalant, but her brain was already doing the math. It was after ten. Surely, if Tag was coming, he’d have been here by now.
Tanya slipped beneath the lowest rope of the ring and dropped to the floor. “Can I ask why you just don’t call him and see if he’s coming?”
“Nope.” Because there wasn’t an easy answer to that question even though there should be.
Suddenly, a ruckus at the door had her turning toward the sound.
“Wonder what’s up?” Tanya asked.
M. J. couldn’t hear all the words, but something about “sick wheels” from the kid carrying in an armload of pizzas had her heart slamming in her chest. She jumped to her feet, because she knew it had to be Tag.
Anticipation popped like soda bubbles beneath her skin, tickling her from the inside out, carrying her closer to the door on reluctant feet. She walked toward the crowd, visualizing him coming through the front door, wondering what it would feel like to see him again after that mind-altering kiss.
Pop appeared with grocery bags in hand. Dante followed, hauling more supplies. Mumbles about the car infiltrated her ears along with the nickname Doc. Now, she had confirmation, and she was on auto-pilot, closing in on the propped-open front door.
Two large men blocked the entrance, stopping her momentum, giving her a decision to make: step aside and stay put inside the gym, looking like she was waiting for him to come inside, or go outside and greet him, looking like she was eager to see him.
M. J. had never been particularly patient.
Pushing between the men and onto the sidewalk, she told herself she was out here to help carry things. But as she stared at the backside of a BMW with its red taillights disappearing around the corner, a swirl of dread vacuumed up the air in her chest. It had nothing to do with missing out on unloading grocery bags.
M. J. had no idea how long she’d been standing there before she heard Tanya’s voice. “Pop said he had something to do.”
Staring at the dark street, M. J. nodded.
The whole situation confused the hell out of her, and she couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that said he hadn’t called and he didn’t stay because he didn’t want to see her—probably because, kiss or no kiss, in the light of day, he realized she was too “unorthodox” for him.
All the bravado in the world couldn’t erase the pain that came from feeling like she wasn’t good enough.
“He’s a busy guy,” Tanya said.
“Yep, and I’m a busy girl.” M. J. tramped the wayward pity-party with the same on-field resolve that let her face down women twice her size in the ultimate battle of strength and will.
There was nothing more between her and Tag than some conversation and a kiss. She wasn’t going to let incidental contact compromise her personal code. Not good enough? Pulleeze.
M. J. charged into the gym with new purpose. Tomorrow morning she was set to speak at a high school filled with girls who struggled with this very thing. Not good enough. She’d be damned if she didn’t practice what she preached, and she preached keeping a healthy distance from the people who planted seeds of self-doubt, because that shit grew weeds strong enough to strangle dreams.
If Tag didn’t call, fine. If Tag didn’t want to see her, that was fine, too. It was better that way. M. J. didn’t want to see him, either.
• • •
The next morning, standing in the wings at Maple Side Academy’s annual health fair, M. J. got the sh
ock of her life when she saw the man sporting a glossy black business suit and red power tie between the velvet stage curtains.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Tag’s voice rumbled, low enough to make tiny chill bumps rise on her skin.
Of course, he looked way too good for common sense to remind her of all the reasons she shouldn’t be ogling him. Damn that crooked grin.
“Why are you here?” she asked, squeezing sweaty palms together, hoping to hide every last bit of emotion.
“I’m speaking as a last-minute favor. Just a quick address, because I have a . . . procedure.” His face twisted like it had that night at the bar.
Apparently the procedure wasn’t something he was looking forward to, and she had the urge to ask if everything was okay. But she kept her lips pressed together, knowing she was already vested enough in this ill-timed, nonsensical acquaintance. Besides, the headmistress had taken the podium and was addressing the all-girl student body.
“I have a special treat for you this year. It is with great pride and pleasure that I introduce my son, Dr. Tag Howard.”
M. J. snapped her head around in time to see Dr. Edna Dean step away from the podium with a smile on her face and an arm sweeping toward them.
Tag pressed by M. J. with a palm to her lower back. He didn’t say a word as he passed to join his mother on-stage, but the heat from his hand remained. M. J. focused on the unnerving sensation as she watched them hug to applause.
Tag was Dr. Dean’s son? That was even more unnerving than his physical effect on her body. Edna Dean was one of the most respected women in Cleveland, a truly outspoken advocate for women of all ages, everywhere—and she was Tag’s mother. The regal woman walked toward M. J. with a smile on her face. Other than the professional polish and shared emphasis on elite levels of education, M. J. couldn’t see a resemblance between her and Tag. Maybe he took after his father.
Edna stood beside M. J., watching her son speak. While M. J. studied the woman’s profile in the shadows of the heavy stage curtains, she caught snippets of Tag’s speech. Words like disordered eating and female athlete triad caught her attention. If she wasn’t so fascinated by his family ties, she’d be hanging on his every word.
Hearts Are Wild Page 47