Beef Cake

by Smartypants Romance

  We’ve been good and found a rhythm. Kind of like in a fight, when two opponents dance around each other—one goes left as the other goes right. If I see I’m encroaching on her personal space and it’s making her uncomfortable, I pull back. When she realizes she’s putting up her walls, she gives in a little.

  On the days she works her shifts at the hospital, I’ve been doubling up on training and helping Cage and Vali with the preparations for the fight. Vali made it to town a few days ago and we’ve been going nonstop ever since. So, tonight, when Frankie got off her last twelve-hour shift for the week, I met her at her house.

  The make-out session started in the driveway, both of us needing the other. With her legs wrapped around me, I dug her key out of her bag and let us in, not even making it to her bedroom before I was inside her.

  Just thinking about it has me pulling her onto my chest, her leg hitching over my hip. “I thought you were tired,” she whispers in a husky tone that’s quickly become my favorite sound. Well, second to Frankie laughing. I’ll take that all day, every day. But this husky, needy tone she has when it’s just the two of us in bed together feels like it belongs to me. I’m the only one who gets to hear it. I’m the cause of it. And I fucking love it.

  “Never too tired for you,” I tell her. “I want you. Always.”

  Her eyes lock with mine as her hands come up to frame my face. I can see there are words right on the tip of her tongue, hanging in the air between us. But instead of saying them, she presses her lips to mine. At first, it’s soft and slow, less a kiss and more a way to keep herself from saying something she’s not ready to say.

  After a few moments, she inhales deeply before scraping her teeth against my bottom lip, sending chills down my spine. The sensation goes straight to my dick, causing me to buck against her and grabbing her hips to gain friction as I open my mouth to give her access.

  In that moment, everything goes from patient to desperate. Her hands move from my face to my chest as she uses me for leverage, rolling her hot center against my hardening dick. There’s only a thin layer of clothing between us—her panties and my boxers. Thanking God and every entity listening for Frankie being on birth control, I slip my hand between us, pulling the silky fabric to the side and plunging two fingers into her.

  “Ahhh,” she cries out, breaking the kiss. Her head falls back and her mouth opens, exposing her delicate neck. Grazing my lips from her collarbone to the sensitive spot behind her ear, I groan. “Come for me, Frankie. Let me hear you.”

  **BC**

  A loud whimper wakes me and I immediately roll toward Frankie, searching her face in the dark. Her eyes are still closed so I assume she’s still asleep, but whatever she’s dreaming about is causing her obvious distress. Pulling her back against my chest, I wrap my arms protectively around her, seeing if my proximity can soothe the bad dream and lull her back into the peaceful sleep she was in when I’d finally dozed off.

  Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, I see it’s only been a couple of hours since Frankie and I showered together and then promptly climbed back into bed. After two rounds of amazing sex—because every round with Frankie is amazing—we were both exhausted. Her breathing was soft and even before I even found a comfortable spot on the pillow. On my side of the bed.

  I’m not sure how long it takes for a side to officially become yours, but this is my fourth night sleeping here and I claim it. It’s mine. So is the beautiful girl in my arms.

  When Frankie whimpers again and then clings to my arm tucked around her, I push up on my elbow to peer over at her. “Frankie?” I whisper. I don’t want to startle her, but I don’t like seeing her scared.

  Instead of calming at my voice, she thrashes, almost elbowing me in the face.

  “No,” she cries out. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Frankie.” This time I say her name louder, putting a hand up to dodge another elbow. “Frankie, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  “Don’t hurt me!”

  “Frankie!”

  When her eyes fly open, she’s disoriented and blinks rapidly, trying to see through the dark.

  “I’m here,” I tell her, softening my tone. “I’m here.”

  She relaxes a little with my reassurance and settles back on her pillow, throwing an arm over her face. Her breaths are a bit ragged as her chest rises and falls. I’m afraid to ask about her dream—not because I think she won’t tell me, but because I think she will. And I’m going to want to kill whoever hurt her.

  “Will it help to talk about it?” I finally ask, settling back beside her.

  “No,” she replies. It’s small and scared and I can’t allow that.

  Reaching up, I remove her arm from her face and hold her stare in the dark. “You can tell me.” I can take it. I can listen and not react, I silently tell myself. “You don’t have to keep it bottled up, whatever it is.”

  It’s quiet for a few minutes and I lean down and kiss her cheek, thinking she’s not going to tell me—and once again, putting up her walls when I get too close—but then she whispers, “He hurt me.”

  My body wants to tense at her admission, but I force it to remain calm, not wanting to end this moment of truth-telling. “Who?”

  “I don’t know . . .” She pauses, hesitating for a moment. “My father, I think.”

  How does she not know?

  “You don’t remember?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t remember anything. But I think . . .” She pauses, and I allow her to take all the time she needs. “I think he gave me these.” When she points to the scar on her shoulder, I bite down so hard to keep from growling I think I’m going to break a tooth. Closing my eyes, I try not to imagine a man—her father—cutting her.

  There’s no way.

  What father would do that to his child?

  “Why?” It’s all I can manage to grit out, and even then, it sounds pained—because it is. Thinking about someone hurting Frankie is agonizing. My chest tightens at the thought. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve been having dreams . . . and it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  No, it doesn’t make any fucking sense. Not at all.

  “Sometimes,” I start, maintaining a quieter tone, “our dreams aren’t exactly what they seem. They’re more . . . symbolic.”

  Maybe I’m saying this for my own benefit, but I scramble to find any form of comfort for her. Shit, I’d lie, cheat, or steal, if it meant Frankie was happy.

  “What would a man with a knife cutting into my skin be symbolic of?” Her voice is hollow, empty, as she sits up in bed and draws her knees to her chest.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her, scooting over and sliding behind her. With my back against the headboard, I hold her to my chest, my arms wrapped tightly around her. Eventually, she brings her hands up and grasps my forearms.

  We fall asleep like that, but this time, my sleep isn’t restful and my dreams are dark and unwelcomed—violent images flashing through my mind.

  When I wake again, the room isn’t as dark as it was earlier, meaning it’s probably close to the time when Frankie’s alarm will go off. It’s her morning to volunteer at the shelter and I was planning on driving to Daisy’s with her for a coffee and donut.

  Thankfully, Frankie stays asleep when I gently place her back on the pillow on her side of the bed. Climbing out, I stretch, groaning quietly at the slight crick in my neck. Yeah, sleeping sitting up isn’t ideal, but as I look back at Frankie, something grips my heart like a vice.

  I’d do anything for her.

  Walking to the bathroom, I quietly shut the door and take care of business. But when I open it back up a few minutes later, Frankie is sitting on the side of the bed, looking a little better than she did when she woke from her bad dream. Or rather, nightmare. The things she described still make the hairs stand on the back of my neck.

  “Hey,” I say, picking my shirt up off the floor beside the bed. “How are you
feeling?”

  She rubs the back of her neck, groaning. “Okay. Better.” When she looks up at me, her smile is apologetic and I immediately want to tell her there’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m here for it—the good and the bad. There’s nothing Frankie can do or say that’s going to run me off.

  “Don’t say sorry,” I tell her, squatting down so we’re eye-to-eye. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  Fighting back a small smile, she shakes her head and sighs. “Can I at least buy you a donut and coffee for keeping you up all night?”

  Bracing my arms on either side of her, I force my way into her personal space, my lips at her ear. “I love when you keep me up all night.” The way her breath hitches has me smiling. I love the obvious effect I have on her and I would love nothing more than to take her back to bed, but for a completely different reason than sleeping. However, I don’t want to push her, or this. I’m completely okay with taking it slow.

  As I turn my head, I breathe her in and place a kiss on her temple.

  **BC**

  By the time we make it to Daisy’s, Frankie is more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a while; maybe ever. It’s like exposing that bit of ugly truth last night somehow made her feel lighter, like a small weight has been lifted.

  It has left me feeling confused and frustrated, but I’ll gladly carry that burden for her.

  “Two jelly donuts, one maple bar, and two coffees,” Frankie says, ordering for both of us. Leaning over, I can’t help touching her; a small kiss to her temple, my hand on her back, twisting our fingers together as we walk to the booth. Anything to be closer to her.

  Unlike our first date here, this morning is a bit more quiet, but not in an uncomfortable sense. We eat our respective donuts—one jelly for her, the maple for me—and then split the second jelly. A few people I’m starting to recognize as regulars and locals walk by and give us sly smiles and glances.

  Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed I don’t get as many stares as I did when I first showed up in Green Valley. Not for the first time, I wonder if I could see myself staying here, for more than just training.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” Frankie asks, as if on cue.

  Smiling, I stuff a bite of donut in my mouth to buy me a second. I don’t want to talk about anything that would ruin this good vibe Frankie and I have going. There will be time for more serious conversations down the road.

  “Vanilla or chocolate?” I ask, licking some jelly off my thumb.

  Frankie gives me a look that says, "Are you serious?” and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. Chuckling, I repeat, drawing out each word, “Vanilla or chocolate?”

  “That’s really what you were thinking about?”

  Nodding, I level her with my stare, leaning across the table to invade her space. Finally, she clears her throat and says, “Chocolate.”

  “Pumpkin pie or apple pie?”

  She fights back a smile, but answers quicker this time, getting the gist. “Apple.”

  “Friends or Seinfeld?”

  “Friends,” she says, no questions asked.

  “Morning or night?”

  “Depends.” Her eyes flick from the table to mine, lids a bit hooded and I notice when her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. It goes straight through me. The air around us seems charged.

  “On what?” I ask, thankful for the table that’s blocking my obscene hard-on.

  “You.”

  Cocking my head, I pry, wanting to know everything she’s thinking. “What about me?”

  “If you’re there, then it’s my favorite.”

  The warmth that spreads through my chest is almost more than I can stand. To keep from rubbing at the spot over my heart, I continue with my rapid-fire questions. “Hugs or kisses?”

  “Both.”

  I pause, letting her answer sink in and seeing the sincerity on her face, wondering how often she gets a good hug and vowing to do it every single day. And kisses, of course.

  “Call or text?” I ask, remembering that I was going to ask her for her phone number. I’ve wanted it on several occasions, just to let her know I was thinking about her or ask her how her day was. I’m not sure if Frankie realizes it or not, but she’s practically all I think about, outside of training, of course.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. No one texts me, except for work. Helen always calls me.”

  “I’m going to text you today, and we’ll revisit this question later,” I tell her, reaching across for her phone and dialing my own number. When my phone rings, I hold it up and hit end. “Now I have your number.”

  Chapter 20

  Frankie

  As I pull up to the venue, I sit in my car for a few minutes. My insides are a jittery mess, but I’m not sure why. Well, unless you consider my unreasonable fear of fighting and my aversion to it. A large portion of the human population doesn’t like it, but it goes deeper with me. Part of my searching for the truth—my past, my father—is to figure out what makes me tick.

  What makes Francis Delaney Reeves have nightmares about little girls screaming?

  What makes her afraid?

  My aversion to fighting goes beyond a feeling; it actually makes me physically ill.

  But I’ve decided I can handle this. This is for charity and the shelter needs the money that will be raised tonight. Without it, we’d have to make cuts that would affect so many people.

  Cuts.

  That choice of word strikes me to my core, especially after my new onslaught of dreams. I glance down at my forearm, where one of my scars is visible for the world to see—though hardly anyone notices, except me—and mindlessly run a finger from one end of it to the other.

  Helen will be here and everything will be fine.

  It’s not violence.

  It’s a sport.

  But it doesn’t mean people won’t get hurt.

  Gunnar will also be here, except he won’t be with me. I’ve already started compartmentalizing the fight, putting him in a box with people I don’t know, like I would someone who comes into my ER. It’s hard, because I do know him. Actually, I feel like I know Gunnar better than anyone. He’s the first person I’ve ever let past my walls.

  “Come on, Frankie,” I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt. “You can do this.”

  What’s a little fighting?

  Nothing, right? It’s nothing.

  Opening the door, I step out and look down at my outfit. It’s a slight departure from my normal attire. Since this is a benefit, Helen and I will be accepting a check at the end on behalf of the shelter and I wanted to look nice. So, I dug through my measly closet and came up with a black shirt that falls off my shoulder and paired it with some skinny jeans and my only pair of pumps, which happen to be red.

  It’s not runway material, but it’s a far cry from scrubs or jeans and a T-shirt.

  When I get to the main entrance, the jitters in my stomach kick up a notch. One of the men working the doors looks a lot like Gunnar. As I hand him my ticket, he gives me a smile.

  “Enjoy the fight.”

  I want to make conversation and ask him if he’s Vali, but I can’t. My anxiety has my mouth on lockdown, so I awkwardly brush my hair behind my ear and give him what I hope isn’t a grimace.

  There are people everywhere; more people than I thought would be here. I mean, I knew the numbers Gunnar ran by me when he was explaining how much money the shelter would be receiving, but seeing those numbers represented in people is . . . impressive.

  As I make my way through the corridor, looking for the number that corresponds to what’s on my ticket, I try to redirect my mind. Think about the money, think about the shelter, think about all the women and children who will be helped because of tonight.

  My stomach drops a little at that thought, because the one mother and child I’d really love to help are still nowhere to be found. The police reported they’ve had a spotting of a black Ford truck that meets the description I gave, but when it was p
ulled over, only a man was driving. He didn’t fit the vague description I was able to give of the guy I saw force them into the truck. My only hope now is Lisa finds a way to escape and makes her way back to us.

  I hate it.

  I want to be able to do more.

  But now, I just have to pray they’re safe.

  The similarities between her and my mother continue, but I hope for Allie’s sake, they don’t spend the next ten years on the run. Never having a place that’s truly yours really messes with your psyche. I tried to pretend none of it mattered, but it was a lie—just like so many other things about my childhood.

  “Are you ready?” An announcer's voice booms through the venue, answered by a crowd of cheers. Hoots and hollers echo around me and I pace my breathing as I try to find Helen in the mass of people.

  When she sees me, she waves. Her dark hair, normally styled in a tight bun, is loose and framing her jaw. I smile for what might be the first time today. Helen is really pretty. I’ve always known that, but it just hits me when her pale blue eyes find mine. She looks younger tonight, more relaxed. Maybe she always looks this way when she’s not at the shelter? I wouldn’t know, because once again, I leave her in a box.

  Helen is my safe place.

  The shelter is my safe place.

  So, they stay together.

  “I thought maybe you were going to stand me up,” she says with a wink. Yeah, this Helen is much more relaxed. “And you look hot.” The word hot coming out of her mouth sounds foreign. I’m a twenty-five-year-old who could get away with saying it, and even I don’t say it. But, then again, I’m kind of a fifty-year-old in a twenty-five-year-old’s body.

  I feel the blush spread from my cheeks to my neck. This is probably why I always wear scrubs or jeans and t-shirts. Unnecessary attention makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “Thanks,” I manage to squeeze out, setting my bag on the floor by my chair. The bright lights of the arena catch my attention and my gaze travels to the cage.