by Sara Hubbard
"That’s the way you want to live? In the dark?"
"No. But I was happy."
"You’ll be happy again."
I find that hard to believe, though I desperately want to. But right now I can't think about anything except swallowing my pride—something I don't do all that well—and calling Sawyer in the morning. And hope to God that he's still willing to work with me.
“How was your night?” I ask.
“Uneventful. Just working on some last minute details for the benefit auction on Friday.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
Her lips curl into a devious smile. “As a matter of fact…”
Eight
SOMEHOW I AGREED to be Amy’s date to the benefit auction she’s organizing for this Friday. Her date bailed on her and she's refusing to go alone. I don’t want to go, but hey, I offered to help, so I had little choice but to say yes when she asked me. She told me she’d buy me a corsage. I guess that sealed the deal. I have nothing to wear but luckily for me, Amy has a full closet and we’re both a size 5.
The auction makes me anxious. Actors, celebrities, socialites…they’ll all be there. And Amy will be busy. The very thought of it makes me want to crawl back into bed and stay there. But I have work to do. Namely, convincing Sawyer Davis to rehire me.
Sigh.
Begging is not my strong point, especially if he acts like an ass when I ask him to take me back.
When I arrive at the office in the morning, it’s eerily quiet. I tap my finger on my desk in rhythm with the clock on the wall behind me. Outside, the world is shaded with clouds and I turn on the lamp at my desk to light up my space. I need to get a head start on my day and gather my nerve to eat crow. After a full cup of coffee and two bagels, I feel like I have a lead brick in my stomach; it gargles, as if angry with me, and I know I'm going to regret the carbs later.
I wait until eight before calling Dina. The number Amy gave me for Sawyer went straight to voicemail, and I worry he's not answering my calls after I blew him off. I don't blame him. I'd blow me off too.
Dina answers on the first ring. I can hear the tap, tap, tap of her fingers striking her keyboard in the background.
"Dina, this is Molly Newton. I spoke with you the other day about potential houses for Sawyer Davis."
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"I'm trying to get a hold of Sawyer about some houses but his phone is going to voicemail. Is there another way I can reach him?"
"I'm sorry. What's your question? It's eight o'clock in the morning and he didn't answer your phone call? Isn’t that shocking. Perhaps you should leave him a voicemail.”
I feel like a child. Her voice is cold and condescending. She’s right. It’s early and I must sound like a stalker. I should have left a message, only I know he probably won't return it and I need to speak with him, even if he doesn't want to speak with me. If he doesn't hire me, I'm beyond screwed.
"Right. Of course. It's just that there’s this house I’m sure he'll love, and I'm afraid if we don't get in there today it might be sold.”
"Interesting. Sawyer called me yesterday and told me to find him a new agent."
My heart sinks and my lungs deflate. I’m fucked. What do I do now? No. I can't give up that easy. If I lose this sale, I’m going to be broke and living with my mother. I’d rather have daily pap tests.
"I told him I wouldn't work with him, for…personal reasons, but I've thought it over and I've changed my mind."
I hear a squeak on the other end and the typing stops. I imagine her leaning back in her chair, wondering what the hell kind of game I'm playing. I don't want to give her any more information, but I will if she pushes me. Maybe she'll even commiserate with me. “So I have this lovely scar on my forehead, for which he’s personally responsible,” I say quickly. “I’m assuming that’s why he chose me as an agent. To make amends."
"He's at Revolution gym on South Street. He won't appreciate you interrupting his work out, so be a doll and be sure to tell him I sent you."
Alright, then… Did she sleep with him, too? I slap my forehead with the ball of my hand. Of course she did. Is there anyone who hasn’t?
The gym is located in the posh end of the city where the condos alone cost millions. They soar high into the sky, have gyms and heated, indoor pools, and front desk men and valets—things I can only dream about with my salary. The gym is kind of hard to find, even with a GPS. When I do find it, it's almost ten o'clock. I wonder if he'll still be here, but he's a professional athlete, so what else does he have to do with his day?
The front of the building is all windows. I can see dozens of cardio machines inside, all being used by tight-bodied women and men in spandex and muscle shirts.
I stand up a little straighter and pull the ends of my blazer down as I walk forward. My body is not at all firm. I don’t work out and I don’t have any intention of doing so in the future. I'm just soft and I'm okay with that. Or I am…until I go into places like these.
There's security at the door—I mean, not just a front desk attendant but a security officer as well. He tips his hat at me as I approach the desk. The receptionist smiles widely and waits for me to speak.
"Yes. I'm looking for Sawyer Davis."
His smile fades and he props his hands on his hips. His muscle shirt sports the tiny image of a gold dumbbell over the name of the gym: Revolution. "I'm sorry, but this is an exclusive gym and only members are allowed on the floor."
"I see. Well I only need to see him for a moment."
"Are you a reporter?"
I almost laugh. "Do I look like a reporter?"
He raises his eyebrows at me and juts his hip out. I imagine him tapping his toe under the desk, wanting to scold me for wasting his time.
"I work for him." I slap my briefcase onto the desk.
He nods to the security guard. "Chuck, can you take her to Sawyer Davis?"
The security guard stays close to me as we walk down the centre aisle of the gym. We pass through two doors and walk down a corridor with glass doors on either sides. I see workout equipment, yoga studios and step and spinning classes. He takes me to the very head of the hall and opens one of the double doors.
"After you," he says, with a wave.
I pass through. There are four boxing rings inside, each of them occupied. Other ripped men exercise around the room, jumping rope, punching bags, or working the mats.
Sawyer is in the ring with a guy much larger than him. They’re wearing protective equipment on their heads and hands. Sawyer’s shirt is off and his body is wet with sweat. His muscles flex and relax with every punch and jab he makes. He bounces from foot to foot.
Muscles tighten between my legs. I can't help but admit how absolutely hot he looks right now. It’s almost a shame I can't remember sleeping with him. After hearing him go at it for an hour at the party, I'm sure that he amazed me. My muscles tighten even harder. I need to stop thinking about him like that. He’s an ass. He doesn't even remember me.
I hesitate and the guard points over at Sawyer. "I'll wait here," he says.
"For what?"
"In case you're some crazy ex-girlfriend or something."
"Please. How often does that happen?"
He smirks. "More than you'd think."
Fantastic.
Sawyers swings his arm around and hooks his opponent, who partially blocks it. The guy jabs him over and over, hitting Sawyer's forearms. They continue to dance around the ring, moving in a slow circle. When his gaze meets mine, his bouncing stops. That’s when he takes an upper cut to the jaw. His head snaps back and he crumbles to the floor.
Shit.
They take him into an infirmary, one I'm told is only for the elite members of the gym, i.e. the professional athletes and celebrities, which apparently Sawyer is. To me, he's just a guy that I can’t seem to get away from. They have a paramedic on staff who waves some smelling salts in front of Sawyer’s nose. Sawyer tries to sit up but the m
edic holds his shoulder.
"Easy, you took quite the punch,” the medic says.
"Fuck you. I'm fine." The muscles in his jaw tighten as he clenches and unclenches his jaw.
"You should really go to a hospital to get checked out."
"Thanks, but no thanks." He raises an ice pack up to his chin.
The medic turns to me and leaves the room, realizing quite quickly that no amount of convincing is going to change this guy's mind. Plus Sawyer's a professional fighter, and his face is burning with anger.
Sawyer hasn't even noticed me yet. I stand to the side of him, half in the room, half out. I should leave. Give him a moment. He turns and our gazes meet. He cast his eyes to the ground.
"I distracted you. I'm sorry," I say.
His eyes flash up and his stare deepens, making me feel uncomfortable. He looks like he wants to hurt someone—maybe me. I wasn’t exactly nice to him the last time I saw him. And the guy could probably break me with his pinkie.
Slowly, I approach him. I open my briefcase and pull out some papers. "I've done some research on the properties Dina suggested. Most of them are sold, but there a couple still available and I found some more houses in your price range that I thought maybe you’d like, based on the other ones suggested.”
“I’m confused.”
I swallow hard. This isn't going to be easy, and given his mood I wonder if I should try at all to get him to take me on again. I want to walk away, but financially, I'd be a fool to do that.
After handing him the papers, I take a step back. His eyes are glued to my face.
“I have a hunch you might like the property on Rosemont. It’s—”
"You said you'd never work with me."
"I've had time to think about it and I've changed my mind."
He flips through the pages. My gaze washes over his face, to the slight purple coloring already starting on his chin. I can't even imagine how badly it must hurt. Not only did he take a hit, he fell—hard. I've never seen anything like it before.
He drops the papers down onto the gurney. "What changed your mind?"
I sigh. "Does it matter?"
"Yeah, it does. People's motivations interest me. They tell me a lot about a person."
He wants me to grovel, and I’m not about to do that. Screw him. I'll live on food stamps if I have to. Move back into my room with the Justin Timberlake posters on my walls. Still, I'll answer his question if only to be polite.
"I could use the commission check."
He smiles, but it doesn't touch his face or his eyes. "Right. The almighty dollar."
"Whatever you think that says about me, you're wrong. This is a business arrangement. You get a house, I get a commission check, then we can walk away from each other and never see each other again."
"A means to an end?" he says quietly.
"Exactly."
"Fine." Gently, he touches the end of his jaw and moves it back and forward. "What have we got to lose, right?"
What have we got to lose? Nothing. The situation is win-win, yet I feel as if I've been cornered and a trap is being lowered over my head.
He slides off the gurney and lumbers past me. I can smell a hint of his aftershave intermixed with sweat, and my muscles tense again. This guy is pure sex and I need to be careful of him—not that I think he wants a repeat performance. Quite the opposite. Today, I think he might like me about as much as I like him: not much at all. Still, he's taken me back, and his reasoning doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he did.
A few days of house hunting and it will all be over. I can get on with my life, cash my large commission check and move on.
A means to an end. We’re agreed.
Nine
HE SHOWERS IN one of the closed stalls in the co-ed locker room while I sit and wait. Or I should I say while I talk to my mother, who wants to know about the progress I’m making with Jason. It hurts me how much she wants Jason and me to work out. I mean, why couldn’t she tell me I deserve better? Maybe she thinks I don’t.
A man who looks a little less ripped than Sawyer walks out of one of the changing rooms and smiles at me, but I ignore him.
“Mom, I’ll let you know,” I tell her for the thirtieth time.
“I don’t see what the problem is. Now you know your sister initiated the kiss, all should be forgotten. You can get back together.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her after a long sigh.
“Well, simplify it then.”
“I can’t do this right now, Mom. I’m working.”
Mom clucks her tongue and it feels as if she’s working her way under my skin, even on the phone. “This job is a phase, Molly. You’re so much better than a real estate agent.”
I hold the phone directly in front of my mouth and grit my teeth. “I’m going.”
Sawyer struts into the locker room in a towel. He heads to a locker, opens it and removes his towel, leaving me slack-jawed and staring at his smooth, dimpled ass and rock hard thighs. I can’t take my eyes off of him. I gulp and cross my legs. When my gaze travels up his smooth back and shoulders I find him looking over his shoulder, smirking at me.
I frown at him.
“Are you listening to me, Molly?” My mother says through the phone. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“I’m serious. You need to call him and have a heart to heart.”
Sawyer steps into his underwear—black briefs—and pulls them up over his ass. I tip my head to the side, taking him in, all six feet of him. Then I catch myself and turn and look away. He’s too much of a distraction.
I press end and turn off my phone before tossing it in my bag.
“How’s your mother?” he asks, the smile evident in his voice as he slides into a t-shirt. He’s mocking me and I want to wipe the smile off his face after I lick it. Wait. What?
“Fine.”
“Are you two close?”
I shrug, though he’s not paying attention to me. I don’t want to talk to him about my mother or anything that relates to my personal life. Casual is about all I can stand with a guy this irresistible, a guy this dangerous. I’ve been burned by a good guy; what would a guy like this do to me? Rip my heart out and hand it to me, that’s what.
“I suppose. You? Are you close with your mother?”
He snorts and steps into his jeans. They fit him so nicely I wonder if they’ve been tailored just for him, hugging body in all the right places. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“My mother and I...have our differences.”
“Don’t we all? I swear mothers were put on this Earth just to frustrate their children.”
He turns and frowns before turning back to his locker and slamming it shut. “Can you drive?”
“Sure.” I raise my eyebrows.
He points to his face. “Medic thinks I have a concussion. He suggested I don’t drive for the next twenty-four hours. Just in case.”
“Good thinking.”
We head out of the locker room and to the parking lot. He walks a few steps behind me, making me feel self-conscious. I hope he’s not staring at my ass or something. Still, I keep my head up and hope he likes the view. It’s weird I should feel this way considering he’s already seen me naked, touched me, been inside of me…and here we are, acting like complete strangers. I still haven’t decided if he remembers me or not.
I hurry to my car and fiddle with the handle before I manage to get it open. As I’m about to get in, Sawyer stands on the opposite side of the car with his hands folded on the hood. He stares at me and taps on the hood with his fist. "Wow. This is quite the car."
"I don't earn an obscene amount of money to play games,” I say, without bothering to keep the judgment from my voice. And I refuse to take money from my parents, even though they look at my car with the same sort of disdain and have tried to buy me a car in the past. But I find with presents from my
parents, there are usually strings attached.
He chuckles. "Games? Boxing is a sport. There's a difference."
“Yeah. A sport where the purpose is to beat the shit out of each other.”
He shakes his head. "Everyone has something they’re good at. For me, it’s fighting. I’ve had a lot of practice in my life. And I make good money doing it."
I bite at my lip, trying to stop myself from being interested, but I can’t seem to stop myself from opening my mouth. I lean into the car and fold my hands across the roof. “Practice? Like, growing up?”
“Forget it. It’s not important.”
“I’m curious.”
“Well, in that case, let me spill my life story.” He smirks at me.
I sigh at him.
“I had a smart mouth and a bad temper. If I didn’t start fights then people would have beat me to it.”
Huh. A bad boy, probably. Mad at the world. I doubt he's much different now, and I have the stitches to prove it. I touch them without thinking.
“Speaking of fighting, care to tell me why you and that guy were fighting when I foolishly tried to intervene?”
“No.”
I point to my head. “Don’t you think I deserve to know, considering.”
He props his hands on his hips and tips his head back, sighing. When his head lowers he gazes at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “I slept with his girlfriend.”
“Of course you did.”
“Really? And you know me so well.”
“I know you better than you think.”
I plop inside, and so does he. His head stretches up, almost to the ceiling. After adjusting the seat further back he doesn’t look so cramped.
“Sorry. I don’t really need a big car,” I say.
“No. This is fine.”
He taps the strawberry air freshener attached to my rear view mirror.
"Is this supposed to help?" he asks.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean it smells worse than my lucky underwear. You got some rotting socks under the seat?”