Rhys’ name causes his expression to harden, and he looks more pissed than I do on any given day when Rhys is a topic. “So this is about him then?”
“It’s about me.”
He huffs. “What if he wasn’t on tour? You’d have to go back to Nashville. It’s not like you can avoid it because of one person.”
“Him being gone is just a bonus, okay?” I snap defensively. “Nashville is both of our homes, and nobody can take that away from me. Not even Rhys, and he took plenty of other things.”
“Like what?” he whispers, taken aback.
I shake my head. “Things you wouldn’t understand,” I opt out. “So are you willing to go? My house has plenty of space for us both. Even the guys if they want to come.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No to the guys going,” he explains firmly. “I’ll go with you, but it’s just you and me, Boots. Nobody else.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out why he’s intent on isolation. But because I’m desperate to go home, I agree.
Tucking my hands in my pockets, I rock back on the heels of my bare feet. “So … I’ll see you tomorrow? I booked a flight for ten.”
“Ten’s a bit early,” he exasperates. “But I guess I can manage it. Is this your way of kicking me out?”
I give him a small smile. “I’ve got a lot to pack. Plus, Teagan and I should really spend some time together since I’m leaving. We’re leaving,” I correct.
He gives me a once over and then slowly nods.
I walk him to the door, giving him a wave good-bye before closing it. When it’s just me again, I let out a heavy breath and walk to my bedroom.
Teagan is sitting on my bed smiling. “So … you and Dylan?”
“Don’t start,” I deadpan.
She puts her hands up. “I think it’s adorable. You guys will be chilling, writing, hopefully heavy petting. I wish I could witness Dylan in Nashville. Send me pics.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that, Teag. You know that.”
She sighs, standing up. “A girl can dream.”
I pat her shoulder. “Whatever makes you happy, Teagan. As long as that isn’t rooting for the worst couple ever.”
She’s about to reply but I stop her.
“I should get packing,” I say.
She nods once. “I’ll leave you be. Want to order in tonight? Pizza? Chinese? Both?”
Crinkling my nose at the idea of the combination, she laughs. “Okay, so maybe one or the other. How about I deal with the menu, and you figure out what movies to binge. Deal?”
I smile. “Sounds perfect.”
We hug before she walks out, leaving me staring at my empty baggage that she put on my mattress.
After a few minutes of transferring my clothes from the borrowed closet to my bags, I notice my workout clothes resting on the top of the dresser.
Picking up my running shoes, I feel the temptation bubble in my stomach. Drawing in my bottom lip and nibbling it, my eyes return to the workout gear.
Maybe one last run will help clear my mind.
Just as I reach for my spandex capris, a hand intercepts my wrist. Gasping in surprise, I whip my body around, staring at Dylan.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. I swallow, letting him lower my arm away from my workout clothes.
“I thought you left.”
He shakes his head, eyes softening. “You were going to run again.”
“It helps.”
“It’s hurting you.”
“Listen, Dylan. I know you said that I can’t run from my demons, but—”
“I can help you,” he cuts me off. “If you’ll let me. I can show you another way. An outlet that won’t do so much damage.”
My brows go up. “Please tell me it’s not talking or sex. I’m not up for either with you.”
My attempt at lightening the mood works.
He snorts. “No, it’s not.” He grabs my workout gear, red racerback sports bra and black capris, and passes them to me. I hesitantly take them, brows drawing together in confusion.
He picks up my sneakers and slips them under his arm. “You can change when we get there,” he states. He looks at my outfit. “Maybe bring a dress. You’ll be too sweaty after.”
“Uh …”
He rolls his eyes. “Just …” he winces, “trust me. Temporarily, at least. This helps me, so I think it’ll help you, too.”
Studying his seriousness for a microsecond, I grab my sundress out of my suitcase and drape it over my arm. Wherever he’s taking me he’s serious about. I can tell based on the foreign ease on his face that he’s leading me to the perfect answer.
“Well? What are we waiting for?”
He chuckles and follows me out of the house, a curious Teagan left in the entryway with Dylan not letting me explain anything to her. He pulls my arm toward his truck and I’m surprised to see it’s an older model blue Chevy—rust, dents, and all. Nothing new. No fancy buttons. Definitely not what I would have expected from someone like him.
He opens the passenger side. “Need me to pick you up or think you can handle getting in the beast?”
I roll my eyes and climb in effortlessly, not giving him a chance to feel me up like he wants. I expect the smugness on his face to dissipate, but even when I’m perched on the bench seat and buckled, he looks at me with strong appraisal.
“What?” My self-conscious seeps into my words, my palms flattening out against my thighs in nervousness.
He studies me, eyes looking enticed at something that he saw. His lips slowly quirk up, then purse as he shakes his head. “Just admiring the view, Boots.”
I wiggle my sandaled feet. “No boots today.”
He chuckles. “Almost didn’t recognize you,” he teases. His eyes lock on my painted red toes. “Red is a good color on you, Ashton. You ready?”
I nod. Ready for what, I have no idea. Yet excitement finds its way into every crack of my being, engrossing the unknown into something I never thought I could look forward to.
He closes the door and jogs over to the driver’s side, hopping in.
“I think you’re going to like this.”
Dylan
The perplexed expression on Ashton’s face as she looks around the abandoned gym causes an easy smile to spread across my face. As soon as we walked in her lips parted and eyes danced with bewilderment, like she’d never seen a gym quite like this before. She walks around, her tender touch grazing the boxing bags that are chained to the ceiling, poking it to make it shift.
I keep quiet, hands in my pockets, watching as she takes everything in. It’s definitely more rustic compared to the other gyms around. She walks over to the make-shift ring, spreading the ropes and climbing inside, her hand dragging across the smooth material as she rounds the perimeter.
“I heard about this place a few days ago,” I tell her, finally walking over to where she stands. “It’s privately owned so not everybody can get in.”
It also happens to be a few buildings down from Stella’s studio, hidden on the outskirts of the city.
Her eyes shift to me. “How did you hear about it if it’s not an actual gym? I’ve been to Stella’s so many times and I never knew it was here.”
I give her a terse shrug. “Just people.”
Those people happened to be two dudes that were old enough to be my grandfather. They saw me throw a punch or two at James Wicker. I was more than willing to pay them off, but they weren’t interested in my money. First time for everything.
Instead, one of them gave me their card with a number and this address. Told me to come out when I needed to let off some steam. Apparently, they used to let other celebrities use it as a way of therapy when they needed it. It was a no questions asked, no strings deal. And while Bash is the only one who knows about the offer, he never knew I took it. For all we knew, I was walking into some trap set by two strangers.
My father would probably smack me upside the head if he knew
I drove here to check the place out, but I’m known for my reckless decisions. Curiosity beat out rationality as usual, and for once I’m glad it did.
If I had even an inkling of a bad feeling about the place, I wouldn’t have brought Ashton here. And whether I want to acknowledge that means something more than I allow myself to admit, it’s still out there in the realm of possibility. I’m just not sure I want to explore it yet.
“Okay, Mr. Vague,” she murmurs, turning back to assess the place. “So you’ve been coming here?”
“Only for a couple of days.” I shrug. “It’s a way to work out some of my anger. Thought maybe it could help yours, too.”
She bites her lip, processing it. I don’t know if I offended her by assuming she’s angry, but I can see it in her face. The way her eyes crinkle and nose scrunches. She gets little creases on her forehead when she thinks about something hard enough, and recognition is the only thing that smooths out her features.
Finally, she says, “Yeah, I think I could use as much help as possible.”
I nod once. “The bathroom is over there. You can change and meet me here.” I point toward the blue bag I’m standing next to.
She looks from me to the bag. “You’re helping me again,” she notes, gripping her clothes in her hand.
“That I am, Boots.”
“Why?”
“Why do you have to question it?”
She steps forward. “Because you’re Dylan Hilton. You’re not the helping kind, yet you keep coming to my rescue. Actions like that can give a girl hope.”
My expression hardens. “Well it shouldn’t.”
She shrugs causally. “Too late.”
Before I can say anything, she’s out of the ring and heading toward the bathroom. I watch her closely, the way her hips swivel with just a little more effort than normal.
Too late. The last thing she needs is false hope that I’m a better man. She’ll only be setup for disappointment once she realizes I’m not.
But you brought her here. Jaw ticking, I walk over to the shelf and grab two sets of bag gloves off it. The pestering voice in my head can’t get to me if I drown it out.
Ashton comes walking out a few minutes later, fixated on pulling back her long hair and tying it into a ponytail. I use the time to graze over her toned stomach, trail down her long legs that the tight material emphasizes, then slowly back up to inspect the way her sports bra pushes up her breasts.
She puts her hands on her hips. “You done checking me out?”
I grin. “Yep.” I pass her the smaller set of gloves. “I got you the smallest size they had, so hopefully they fit.”
She examines them, nose scrunching. “What are these? I thought we were boxing?”
I snicker. “We are. Those are bag gloves.”
“But what about the big puffy gloves?”
I set mine down on the ground and help her into hers, grabbing her left hand and slipping the glove onto it. “We’re not getting in the ring, we’re just going to hit the bag a few times.”
Disappointment crosses her face.
I chuckle. “As much as I’m sure you want to hit me, I think this will be a good place to start. Maybe someday we can give it a go in the ring.”
Someday. I mentally curse myself for saying that, but it’s too late to take back. Feeling her eyes on my face, I focus on slipping on her other glove and making sure it’s secure.
“Are you wearing that?” she doubts skeptically.
My eyes cast down on the jeans and T-shirt I’m wearing. “I’ll mostly just show you a few things and then let you take over. This isn’t about me, Boots. It’s about you.”
She blinks at the words, staying quiet.
I clear my throat, grabbing her wrists and holding them up in front of her face. “There are a few stances that are important to learn before we start. You always want to block your face, so the neutral pose is your fists in front of you. Like this.” I hold up my clenched fists and show her what I mean.
One of her brows goes up. “Um, Dylan? Aren’t we just punching a bag?”
I drop the stance. “Yeah. Why?”
She giggles, dropping her hands. “Pretty sure a bag isn’t going to try punching me in the face.”
I sigh. “Okay, wiseass. How about you just let me teach you a few things? I’ll have you know that there’s a reason they’re important to learn.”
She rolls her eyes but nods, letting me pick her hands back up and position them.
“You need to stand a certain way, too,” I explain, attempting to show her how to put one foot out and swivel my hips.
She tries to mirror it, but doesn’t stand correctly. If she tries hitting like that, she’ll just hurt her back.
“No.” I walk forward, my hands absentmindedly going to her hips, shifting them so she’s in the right position.
She looks up, and we lock eyes. Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. We stay like that for a long moment before I finally pull my hands away from her hips, knowing if I don’t, I’ll dig my fingers into her flesh.
I make sure her arms are in the right position, stepping back to look her over. Mostly to ensure she’ll hit with the right impact, but also because her body is on full display and I’m not going to deny myself the pleasure of seeing her curves when they’re right in front of me.
“Like this?” she asks softly, eyeing me.
I nod. “Just like that.” I gesture toward the punching bag. “To hit the mark, you need to use your core. Engage it, and it’ll give you more power behind the hit.”
She straightens her back, tightening her abs. I slide my hand down her arm, guiding it slowly to the bag as my other arm shifts her hip so her body swivels with the punch.
When my hand doesn’t retract, she clears her throat. “I think I got it. Pivot and swing.”
I let her go. “Exactly.”
I step back and watch as she takes the position, her eyes glancing at me quickly. I grab the bag from behind to hold it from swinging back at her when she hits it, and give her a single nod.
She eyes the bag with focus and then takes her first swing. I hrumph at the hit, not expecting it to be so strong. When I look around the bag and see the huge grin on her face, it’s all worth it.
“That was good.” More than good. “How did it feel?”
“It felt amazing,” she admits, already positioning herself again. “This obviously isn’t your first time doing this, is it? You know the stances, how to direct the punch, guard your face. How long have you been doing this?”
I grab the bag again, gripping it in my hands. She punches it twice more, each hit with the same strength as the first.
I could tell her the exact day, hour, and minute that I started boxing. Every detail about that day is a permanent memory—a reminder of what it felt like to finally release every frustration that ever built inside of me since the assault all those years ago.
But she doesn’t need to know any of that. Nobody does.
“It’s been a while.”
She peers over the bag at me. “And it always helps?”
“Always,” I confirm.
She wets her bottom lip. “I can see why. I’m pretty sure Rhys’ face shows up right before I punch the bag.”
My lips twitch up. She keeps up the assault on the bag, every punch seeming to ease a part of her that was building up to a dangerous level.
“Who do you see?” she inquires after a few minutes of silence.
I freeze, grip on the bag deadly, threatening to puncture the material and let all the beads flow out.
“Nobody.” Everybody.
“We both know that’s a lie,” she whispers.
I gulp, nostrils flaring.
“It’s okay to admit that there are people who get under your skin,” she persuades easily. “It doesn’t make you as weak as you think it does.”
I give her a fleeting look. “Plenty of people get under my skin, Boots.” Like you. Always fucking you. “Doesn�
�t mean that I have to give them the credit they want for doing it.”
She studies me. “Guess I never thought of it like that.”
“Well maybe you should,” is all I say.
Reaching behind me, I gather a handful of my shirt and bring it up over my head. Dropping it on the ground, I grab my gloves and slip them on.
Her eyes roam over my chiseled chest, eyes sparking before she can hide it. She moves away from the bag, standing behind it like I did and grabbing the sides.
“No,” I tell her. “You’ll get hurt.”
“I’ll be fine, Dylan.”
“Step. Back.” My words are hostile, slow. I know what kind of strikes I’m capable of when I get like this, and I don’t want her behind one.
She puts her hands up, face reddening and irritation flaring in her eyes. But she obeys, stepping back with her arms crossed over her chest as she watches me take out everything I feel on the bag.
I ignore her gaping expression as I deliver each hit, my body raging like it’s only me in the gym. Like nobody can see just how much damage has been done to make me get this far.
Sweat clings to my body, trickling down my face as the intensity picks up. I can feel my body tighten and clench as four faces resurface to the front of my memory. It never fails. Every time I punch the bag, all I can think about is what it would have been like to fight like this back then. How I might have been able to walk away.
“You’re going to regret this someday.”
“Somehow, I doubt that, kid.”
My fists shake as I pull back, needing to deliver the finishing blow. The one that will drive the memory away until the next time it tries to pop up.
But Ashton wraps her small hands around my forearm, her body eerily close to mine. My eyes dart to hers, surprise carved into my face at her willingness to come near me despite losing control of myself.
“Ashton,” I croak, shaking my head.
The pain is too much, my body quaking with everything I want to forget. Her touch barely helps, her warmth not thawing the ice covering me.
“Ash.”
I stare at her, blinking.
“You can call me Ash,” she whispers, slowly lowering my arm down. “Like my friends do.”
The Moments We Share Page 14