by A. S. Teague
Rolling to my side, I study his sleeping face. So often he seems stressed or worried about something, so it’s a pleasant change to see his face relaxed, even if it is in sleep. I’ve been hesitant to ask him what has been on his mind because he made it clear he isn’t going to participate in my interrogations. There were times he would volunteer information, and when he did, I made sure to pay rapt attention, but those were few and far between.
I run my fingertips along the curve of his jaw, his rough stubble scratching the pads of my fingers. He stirs, so I jerk my hand away, not wanting to wake him. Soon, his breathing evens out again, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
It has been over a month since we started officially seeing each other, almost two since he walked into the gym. I was so resistant to the idea of dating him, mainly because of the things he had said, but also because a part of me didn’t think I’d like to be attached to a former fighter.
I’ve never been into the alpha guys. I wasn’t about to have anyone bossing me around, telling me what to do. I already have a father, and a damn good one at that. I didn’t need a man who thought he could get away with wielding some sort of control over me.
But Ryker isn’t like that. Yeah, he is all man, and he has a tendency to tell me what we are doing. But he is also respectful and thoughtful, and even when he tried to get all macho man on me, it was…endearing.
I’m not sure if a month is long enough to fall in love. I’ve never actually been in love before, and I’m not sure if there is a certain period of time one has to date a man before falling in love.
Even though my Google search was no help, I do know that, if I am not already head-over-heels in love, I am quickly on my way.
And I am freaking out.
What if he wants to move in together? I need my space. He’s been spending the night here a lot, and I love having him next to me when I fall asleep each night, knowing he’ll be there when I wake the next morning. But I also take comfort in the fact that he has his own place, and if there is a night I want to sleep in the middle of my bed, spread eagle, I can.
What if he wants me to stop going out with my girlfriends? My club days are over, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy happy hour drinks and dinner with my girlfriends at least once a week. And, sometimes, happy hour turns into dancing on bars at two a.m. Ryker isn’t the type who wants to control me, and he doesn’t seem overly jealous, but what if he starts demanding I spend my evenings with him or doesn’t like my late nights out?
What if he expects me to give my career up and pop out ten babies? Even though my job isn’t much more than a glorified secretary, I still enjoy it and the independence it affords me. Plus, I’m not sure I want kids, even though I love them. But what if we get married and he announces one day that I am going to be a good little wife and give him five sons and two daughters, all while keeping the house spotless and putting a home-cooked meal on the table each night?
Looking around my bedroom, I laugh out loud. Surely, he wouldn’t expect me to keep a tidy house after he’s spent all of this time with me. My room has four different laundry baskets on the floor, all with clothes that are so wrinkled that I can’t tell if they’re clean or dirty, and an assortment of dirty cups and plates on my nightstand.
What if he wants to get a fucking cat?
My chest tightens at the thought, and I suck in air, suddenly in a panic.
I reach over and shake his shoulder.
“Ryker, wake up,” I hiss.
A soft moan escapes his lips, and with a loud sigh, he rolls to his back before lightly snoring.
Telling myself to calm down, I shake even harder and raise my voice. “Ryker! Wake. Up.”
His eyes stay shut, but he murmurs, “What?”
I give him one final shake and shout, “Ryker!”
He sits straight up, his eyes flying open. “What? What’s wrong?”
My voice shrill, I announce, “I hate cats!”
He blinks several times and shakes his head. “You what?”
“I hate cats. I don’t want any.”
“Oh. Okay,” he mumbles.
Wringing my hands together, I attempt to explain. “We’re getting serious, right?”
He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes and then looks at me. “We aren’t ‘getting’ serious. We are serious. You seeing anyone else besides me?”
I shake my head.
“Right. And I’m not seeing anyone besides you. And don’t want to be. You want to be seeing anyone else?”
I shake my head again. “Okay, fine. We are serious. That’s not my point––”
“Well, it is my point. You’re my woman.”
I laugh at his claiming me as his woman, even though the way he said it warmed me. The panic I was feeling just a few moments ago has already begun to subside, but I’m still worried he’s going to bring a kitten home one day and I’m going to have to kick him out.
“Yes, I’m your woman. You’re my man. Now––”
Cutting me off, he starts singing a song I’ve never heard at the top of his lungs.
“What in the hell is that?” I ask.
His jaw drops, and he looks wounded. “Dear God, say it ain’t so.” Dramatically, he falls back on the bed, clutching his heart. “I don’t know if we can be together anymore.”
Grinning, I shove his shoulder.
“It’s only an amazing song from the best band of the eighties, Bad Boys Blue. Please tell me you’ve heard of them,” he begs, his eyes wide.
I shake my head. “Sorry. Can’t say that I have.”
He sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Well, they are a bit obscure these days. And before your time. I’ll give you a pass on that one, I guess.” His eyes pop open, and he grins. “So what were you saying about cats?”
All traces of humor vanish when I remember the reason I woke him up in the first place. After getting on my knees, I lean over him and confess, “I’m freaking out. About us. About this being so serious so fast.”
He tucks a strand of my hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail behind an ear, his eyes still sparkling with humor. “Stop freaking out. Yes, we’re serious, but it isn’t too fast. We’ve been dating over a month.”
I nod. He’s right. A month is plenty of time to get to know each other and get serious. It helps, too, that working together means we see each other just about every day.
He smooths the worry line between my eyebrows and then asks, “Okay. Now that that’s settled, what do cats have to do with us?”
I bring my face closer to his. “I don’t like cats. Please don’t ever bring one home. I can deal with you asking me to stay home from the clubs. If you want the house clean after we have a dozen kids, then I’ll hire a maid.” I pause and tilt my head to the side. “And a nanny. But, for the love of God, don’t ask me to clean a litter box.”
“What if it’s an outside cat?”
“It’s still a deal breaker.”
Ryker lifts his head to mine and presses a kiss to my lips. “I’m not sure if maybe you’re still drunk from last night. Or if you had a nightmare that got your mind racing. But, if it will make you feel better, I’ll promise to never bring home a cat.”
My shoulders sag in relief.
“A raccoon maybe. Those little fuckers are cute. But never a cat.”
My mind momentarily eased, I flop beside him onto the bed and propose, “Let’s play twenty questions!”
He groans.
I whine, “Come on. Pleeeeeease.” I poke my bottom lip out and bat my eyelashes at him.
He rolls his eyes to the sky and grumbles, “Lord, why doesn’t she ever play fair?”
I squeal in excitement. “Okay, me first!”
He doesn’t say anything, but he nods.
I take it as permission and fire the first question. “Number one: What’s the one food you could eat every day for the rest of your life?”
He raises his eyebrows. “That’s an ea
sy one. Let’s see… Same food for the rest of my life?”
I nod.
“Pickled eggs.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Pickled eggs? Gross! Okay, question two: favorite city you’ve ever visited?”
He scratches his chin, pretending to think. After what seems like a lifetime, I nudge him with my elbow.
“Oh, sorry. Got caught up in the memories.”
Intrigued, I lean closer to him. “Tell me.” I prop my chin on my hand and stare at him intently, waiting for his answer.
He turns on his side to face me and says, “Indonesia.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I raise my eyebrows. He still doesn’t speak. Instead, his lips twitch.
When it finally dawns on me, I shout, “You’re making shit up, aren’t you?”
He roars in laughter and sputters, “You really thought I wanted to eat pickled eggs for the rest of my life?”
After giving him a damn near nuclear glower, I sit up quickly and lean over the bed, reaching for my shorts, which were discarded sometime in the night. After yanking them up my legs, I stand and take a step away from the bed. Then Ryker’s arms wrap around my waist and pull me back to the bed.
He’s still laughing when he begs, “Aw, doll. Don’t go. I’m sorry. Get back in bed.” He pulls at the elastic of my shorts. “Without these. I promise, the next question you ask, I’ll be one hundred percent honest.”
Giving in, I sit back on the bed, but I refuse to take my shorts off. I face him and prop one leg on the bed. He grabs my foot, running a thumb along the arch, eliciting a groan. He continues to rub my foot, and I stare at his hands, watching the tendons flex as he squeezes. He may not be a professional, but I’d take his foot rub over a masseuse’s any day.
Unable to tear my gaze from the sensual way his hands are moving over my toes, I murmur, “Question three: Why did Gram raise you?”
His fingers stop moving, and I look into his eyes. He doesn’t answer.
So I remind him, “You promised to be honest.”
He breaks eye contact and looks down at my foot. I almost give up on getting a real answer about anything out of him, but then his hands begin massaging again and he clears his throat.
“My dad was an old hippie. Probably nearly forty when I was born. Mom hooked up with him when she was eighteen. Had me when she was nineteen.” He lets the foot he was squeezing go and pats my other leg.
I lift my foot, and he grasps it and immediately begins rubbing again.
“She followed him around the country with me in tow. It was easy when I was a baby, I guess. Probably a little bit harder when I started running all over the place.”
His eyes are intense, and I can see the pain in them. I contemplate telling him to stop talking, that I’m sorry I asked, but then he continues speaking.
“One weekend when I was five, she told me we were going to visit my gram. I was so excited. I’d been sleeping in the backseat of a van with no heat––it was December. She spent the entire trip talking about how great her mom was, how big the house was, how wonderful the food would be.” He peers into my eyes, and I smile warmly, encouraging him to finish his story. “I’d never met Gram before, but with the stories she’d told, I felt like I’d known her my whole life. Anyway, we got there in the middle of the night on a Friday. She used a key she had to let us in and took me upstairs, settling me into the twin bed that she’d slept on as a child.” His eyes look far away, like he’s lost in the memory. “I remember thinking it was the softest bed I’d ever slept on. I drifted off with a smile on my face, and my last conscious thought was how great it would be if I could sleep in the bed every night.”
He pauses to clear his throat again, and I pull my foot from his palm, replacing it with my hand. I give his fingers a squeeze, and his eyes focus on mine.
“When I woke up the next morning, I could smell bacon frying, so I flew down the stairs. Got to the kitchen and skidded to a stop when I saw this little old lady at the stove, tears running down her cheeks. When she heard me, she quickly wiped her face and then wrapped me in her arms.”
My heart breaks when I realize how the story’s about to end, and I curse myself for having asked him something so personal and then holding him to his promise, all over a stupid game.
“Ryker, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean––”
He shakes his head, and I clamp my mouth shut, letting him finish.
“Mom was gone. Left Gram a note on the kitchen counter telling her that she couldn’t take care of me anymore, that I deserved better.” He laughs bitterly. “She was fucking right. She couldn’t take care of me. I did deserve better. I deserved better than a fucking note on a counter.” His eyes are shining, not with tears, but with anger.
My heart pounds, my anger with this woman I’ve never even met causing my cheeks to redden. I can feel the heat creeping up, and he notices and smiles.
“Never saw Mom again. Ever. I know she’s still alive. She checks in with Gram every now and then. But I haven’t laid my eyes on her in over thirty years.”
I throw my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck. My parents have always been my biggest supporters. There isn’t a thing I could do that they would turn their back on me for. The thought of Ryker being abandoned by his mother when he was only a small child is heartbreaking and fury-inducing all at once.
“God, Ryker. How could she do something like that?” I mumble into his neck.
He gives me a tight squeeze before setting me away from him. “Don’t feel sorry for me, doll.”
I shake my head adamantly, “No, I don’t. I just mean––”
“I know what you mean,” he reassures me. “But my parents did me a fucking favor, abandoning me with Gram. I’m the man I am today because Eleanor Hatfield raised me instead of Moonbeam Soaring Eagle,” he states resolutely.
I stare at him, in awe of the man sitting before me. Despite his shaky beginning, he managed to make something of himself. It dawns on me that I was totally wrong about him. If there was any doubt in my mind that Ryker Hawke has managed to worm his way into my heart, those reservations are firmly thrown out the window now.
He grasps my face, putting his forehead to mine, and then whispers, “You, Rebecca Toler, are a little bit manipulative, you know that?” A grin spreads across his face as he speaks.
I cut my gaze away from him, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barney.”
He chuckles at my use of his nickname from Gram and says, “Hey. If I can’t call you Reb, you can’t call me Barney.”
“Question number four: What’s your whole name?”
Leaning away from me, he shakes his head. “Oh, no. Twenty questions is officially over.”
I try the move that worked so well last time and poke my bottom lip out, but before I even have a chance to bat my eyelashes, he’s shaking his head.
“Not working this time, so don’t even waste your energy.”
“Uh!” I groan. Crossing my arms over my chest, I make sure I press my breasts up so that my cleavage is right in his face before threatening, “Don’t tell me and I’ll suddenly have a headache every night for the next week.”
His jaw drops. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” I challenge.
He holds his hands up in surrender and then looks at the floor, muttering, “Barnabus Sundance Hawke.”
I cup my ear with one hand and say, “I’m sorry. Did you say something? I couldn’t quite make it out.”
He looks up at me and pleads, “Come on. Don’t make me repeat it.”
I recross my arms.
He looks down at my chest, and his eyes heat with lust before he shouts, “Barnabus Sundance Hawke!”
I pump my arms overhead in victory just as he lunges at me, pinning me to the bed.
Raining kisses down my neck, he growls, “You’re gonna pay for that, baby.”
It is the last training session of the summer for the kids. Classes will begin in just two days, so Rebecc
a has worked harder than usual to make sure today is a big day for the boys.
She dragged me into the gym an hour earlier than normal to get everything set up for them, insisting that we decorate like we are having a party. Two hours later, the room looks more like a Chuck E. Cheese’s than an MMA training facility. In addition to the decorations, there are a giant cake, platters of fruit, and a cooler full of sports drinks.
Standing beside her desk, she turns a full three hundred and sixty degrees, surveying her work. Clapping her hands together, she cheers, “Perfect! The boys are going to love it!”
“What about all the guys who are actually coming to train for the day?”
She waves a hand at me. “They can still work out. It’ll be fine.”
I look over to where the cage is and grimace at the blue crepe paper wound through the fencing. I’m not even sure the gate can be opened to get inside, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.
Placing my forearms on the counter above her desk, I lean forward and ask, “So, what’s with the decorations? I know it’s the last session of the summer, but”—I wave an arm around—“is all of this necessary?”
Rebecca leans back in her chair and props her feet on the desk. She gazes at the table filled with food and tells me, “Yeah. It is. You know these boys. They come from nothing. Most of them have never even had a birthday party.”
My heart sinks at the thought of some of these kids I’ve gotten to know not having anyone to celebrate their special day with them. Before moving in with Gram, I was one of those kids. But Gram always made an epic deal out of my birthday, usually taking me anywhere and everywhere I wanted to go.
Rebecca points to the fruit. “One of the kids told me last week that he didn’t know what cantaloupe was. The only fruit they eat is in the form of fruit-shaped gummy snacks.” She looks up at me, a mixture of sadness and passion in her eyes. “Can you imagine what it’s like to not have a home-cooked meal? It’s a luxury to have a box of Hamburger Helper with actual burger in it!”