Chapter 19
When a guy’s nursing a broken heart, he engages in one of three behaviors: he drinks, he f*cks, he fights. Sometimes all three in one night.
It’s been six days since I’ve seen Delores and I haven’t f*cked anyone. Drinking has been minimal—but I’m definitely ready to fight. I’ve been going to the gym every day, working out harder than usual, trying to channel the feelings of missing her into something positive.
On Sunday afternoon, when I walk through the gym door, Shawnasee’s is the first face I see. You remember him, right? The prick I mentioned awhile back, who’s in dire need of a good beat down?
Looks like today’s his lucky day.
He grins menacingly. “You wanna go a few rounds, or you gonna p-ssy out again?”
Something inside me tears—like the Hulk when he shreds his T-shirt—and I answer, “Let’s do this.”
I can’t wait to get in the ring. To hit something—to vent the frustration and guilt and generally bad feelings that have been churning inside me for the last six days. I bounce on my toes, roll my head left to right—cracking my neck. Then I duck under the ropes, tap my gloves together, and walk to the center of the ring.
Shawnasee’s already waiting for me, looking both confident and eager. Ronny stands between us and recites the typical directions about clean fights and good sportsmanship. We hit gloves, go back to our corners, and wait.
Then the bell rings.
I come at him, hard and fast, but my head’s not in it. If you want the truth, I’ve got no f*cking business fighting right now. Because my focus isn’t on my opponent at all. It’s on the unfairness of life. The bitterness of wanting something—someone—that doesn’t want me the same way. At the moment, I’m all about pain and heartbreak—feelings I’m hoping punches will purge.
Shawnasee and I dance and dodge in a circle around each other . . . and then movement from the front door distracts me. And I forget all about footwork, defensive postures, jabs, right hooks, and body blows.
Because standing there in the doorway is Delores Warren.
In a nanosecond, my mind takes her in from head to toe—her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a makeup-free, beautiful face. Her plain white T-shirt is tied at the hip over tight blue jeans and black Converse sneakers. I don’t have time to greet her or even wonder why she’s here.
Because the instant after I see her, Shawnasee’s fist makes contact with my chin—like an uppercut from Thor’s hammer.
My teeth crunch together and my head jerks back. My eyes close automatically as I fall straight back and crash to the floor.
I don’t know how long I’m out, but it must only be a few moments. The next time I open my eyes, Ronny’s stubbled face is inches from mine. My vision is blurry—colors and lights stretching and bleeding into one another. Sound roars in my ears, like static from an out-of-commission television set.
Through the din, Ronny’s voice breaks through. “Fisher! Can ya hear me, Fisher?”
I blink and answer, but my speech sounds muffled, like I’m talking underwater. “Yeah, I . . . I hear you.”
“Can ya see me all right?”
“Sure, Ronny. I see a whole bunch of you.”
Ronny turns and talks to someone next to him. I only make out a few words: “. . . concussion . . . hospital.” Then he leans back over me. “I need you to get up, Fisher.”
My legs don’t think that’s a good idea.
“I’d rather just stay here, if it’s all the same to you.”
“You need to stand, Matthew.”
Nope. My legs still say “Go screw yourself.”
“I don’t think I can.”
Then I see her. She kneels down next to Ronny—next to me. Her warm hand touches my bicep where my T-shirt ends. And she whispers, “Get up, ya son of a bitch . . . ’cause Mickey loves ya.”
Instantly, I’m choked up. Not because of the stirring movie quote—but because of what those words could mean.
For us.
“You watched Rocky Five?”
Delores nods. “I watched them all. Mickey dying was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, you bastard.”
Then her face crumples, and she’s crying.
She doesn’t try to hide it. Her hand doesn’t cover her face or stifle her sobs. Because she doesn’t pretend to be someone she’s not. Take her or leave her, what you see is what you get.
That’s what I love about her. One of the many things I love.
My arm is heavy, but I raise it. One still-gloved hand brushes at her tear-trailed cheek. “Don’t cry, Dee.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was awful to you.”
“No . . . I was an a*shole. I promised you I’d be patient, and then I . . . wasn’t.”
“No, you were right. You were right about everything.”
I’m reminded of our audience when Ronny cajoles, “All right, boys, let’s hit the lockers for a few. Give these two lovebirds some time to cry all over each other.” As the other guys follow out, Ronny shakes his head at Dee and me. “This is exactly why I don’t want women in my gym.”
Once we’re alone, I force myself to sit up. This is not a conversation I want to have on my back. Well . . . unless I was naked and on my back.
Dee helps me take the gloves off my hands, and then I rest my upper body against the corner of the ring.
She asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It feels like a semi ran over my face, but otherwise I’m good.”
With vengeful eyes, she glances toward the locker room door where Shawnasee entered. “I’m going to slash that guy’s tires before we leave. Will that make you feel better?”
I chuckle. “Never change, Dee.”
She sobers and looks down at her hands. Then she confesses, “The thought of having feelings for you—real ‘forever’ kinds of feelings—scares the shit out of me.”
Her declaration doesn’t bother me. She’s not telling me anything I didn’t already know. But the fact that she’s here . . . that means everything.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to get used to being with you, because I knew once I did, when you left . . . I’d be miserable. But it’s too late. I was miserable anyway. These last few days . . . I’ve never felt so sad. And lonely. Empty.”
“It’s been the same for me.”
She smiles at that, though there are still tears in her eyes. And in her voice. “But when I’m with you . . . when you’re here next to me . . . it feels perfect. You make me happier than I ever thought I could be, Matthew.”
“Well that’s an easy fix. I’ll just have to stay with you . . . all the time. It won’t be too difficult. Because . . . I’m kind of . . . totally in love with you.”
“You’re an amazing man, Matthew. You’re funny and warm, you’re thoughtful and sexy as all hell. You’re . . . you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Her eyes are soft and tender as she looks into mine. She touches my face gently. “I love you, Matthew.”
Even though it feels like my jaw is going to splinter off at any moment, I smile. It’s impossible not to.
My hand slides to the back of Delores’s neck and I bring her forward. My mouth brushes hers—lightly at first—then deeper, with more meaning. I pull her across me, full into my arms. Our tongues touch and taste, slow and unrushed, with the promise of more to come.
Dee sighs and rests her forehead against mine. “I didn’t imagine telling you I loved you, like this.”
“Me, neither. But . . . it’s something we’ll remember, right? It works for us.”
“It sure f*cking does.” Then Dee hops to her feet and holds out her hand to me. “Why are we still here?”
I’m able to get up without her help. But once I’m standing, I remember what brought us to this moment in the first place. “Dee, about Drew and Kate . . .”
She puts her finger over my lips. “No. We’re not talking about them. Ever. You’re not your bastard best friend—I know that. I don’t want him coming between us.”
She’s right. This isn’t about Drew or Kate or Rosaline or any of the douche bags from her past. They shouldn’t affect us—can’t touch us.
This is about me and Dee.
As we make our way out of the ring, I ask, “Did you take a cab here?”
“Yeah—why?”
I grin. “I drove the Ducati.”
Dee’s pleased. “I’ve missed feeling the power between my legs.”
I throw my arm around her shoulders. “Oh, you’ll feel the power—after I get you back to my place.”
Delores loops her arm around my waist and shakes her head. “So cheesy.” Then her voice becomes firmer, more insistent. “But we’re both going to have to wait to feel the power, because before we go home, we’re taking a cab to the emergency room to get you checked out.”
“What? No, I’m fine, really.” I whine like a six year old who doesn’t want to go to the dentist.
Dee shakes her head. “Don’t want to hear it—you’re going. Concussions are nothing to fool around with. I just got you back, I’m not taking any chances on losing you now.”
I open my mouth to argue—because I really am fine—and I’ll be f*cking fantastic as soon as I get Dee back in my bed. Or, on my kitchen counter, the dining room table, the living room wall—you get the point.
But before I can disagree, she adds, “Besides, for what I have planned for you? We’re going to need medical clearance.”
Well, when she puts it that way . . .
Our trip to the hospital was relatively short—a little over three hours. After a bunch of questions and a few tests, the doctor diagnosed me with a minor concussion.
Frigging Shawnasee.
Payback is a bitch—and you can bet your ass I’ll be driving that point home the next time I’m at the gym.
The doctor told me to watch out for nausea, blurry vision, blah, blah, blah. At the same time Dee and I asked if sex was okay.
He said it was.
Which is why the moment my apartment door closes, Dee and I are kissing, tearing at clothes, mauling each other—with six days of desire and want driving us on. My clothes are easier to get off than Dee’s, so by the time we step over the threshold of my bedroom, I’m completely naked.
Hard, hot, and thick, I need to be inside her more than I need to take my next f*cking breath.
Dee’s shirt? Gone.
Her bra? On the pool table in my dining room.
I touch her, hold her against me—drowning in the sensation of our bare chests pressing and the velvet texture of her perfect skin. My fingers work on the button of her jeans. But Dee stops me. Her hands cover mine and she backs up a step. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she tries to catch her breath. “Matthew . . . there’s something I have to tell you. I . . . did something. Last night.”
F*ck. Me. Hard.
Last night was Saturday. My first thought is, “Dee screwed another guy last night,” and I almost double over from the sheer agony of it. And the rage.
I know, technically, we weren’t together. We were broken up. I can’t get mad.
F*ck that—I’m going to lose it.
I’ll forgive her. I’ll get over it . . . after I smash something into a thousand pieces and pound on the walls like a gorilla on crack cocaine.
I sit down on the bed. “What’d you do? Whatever it is I’ll . . . f*ck, just tell me what it is.”
And then she does the strangest thing. She smiles. And unbuttons her own pants, sliding them down her legs as she talks. “I thought all week about what you said. How I was scared, how I didn’t want to take a chance . . .”
“I was angry when I said that, Delores.”
“But you were also right. So I wanted to do something, to show you, to prove that I do trust you. That I want this, and you—permanently.”
She slips her panties off, and I’m momentarily hypnotized by the sight of her stunningly smooth p-ssy. Until I notice the white bandage covering a small patch of skin below her pelvic bone.
She peels it off, revealing the bright blue tattoo emblazoned on her skin underneath. A tattoo of my name.
MATTHEW
I’m speechless—can only stare. Then I drop to my knees in front of her and kiss the soft, still-tender flesh beside my name.
“I f*cking love it. I love you.” I dust my fingers over it, very gently. “Now you’re really stuck with me.”
Delores tilts my face up and runs her hands through my hair. “Yeah, I really am.”
I stand, swing her around, and toss her on the bed. Then I jump in after her.