Down and Out

Savannah smiles wryly. “Can I get that in writing?”
My teeth catch my bottom lip in a wide grin. “I think that can be arranged.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a moment before she opens the fridge. “What do you want for dinner?”
I cross the two steps to the fridge and place my palm on the cold stainless steel, closing it. “Actually, I was thinking we could order in. It wouldn’t be much of a date if I made you cook for me. I mean, guys are supposed to pay for dinner, right?” Seeing as how I’ve never actually been on a date, I have no freaking clue. But it seems legit.
Her eyes widen as she splutters, “You want to do that now?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Because I haven’t even showered today—”
“Go. Take a shower.” I couldn’t care less if she actually does or not. She could roll around in the mud and I’d still be on her like a fat kid on cake. I’m not going to let something as trivial as a shower get in the way of this. “I’ll order us something. Chinese okay?”
She nibbles her lip for what seems like forever before she finally nods. “Sweet and sour chicken for me, please.”
I watch her walk down the hallway, toward the bathroom, as she takes the rubber band out of her hair and shakes out her long waves. The act itself is innocent enough, but pair that with the super-short shorts she has on and all I see is perfect, creamy skin for miles and golden-brown waves I want to get lost in. Never in my life have I wanted someone so much and I know when it finally does happen, it’ll be explosive.
How could it not be with a firecracker like that?

Thirty minutes later, I kick the front door shut and pause with the giant brown paper bag in my arms, seeing Savannah stand at the end of the hallway. Her damp hair’s back in a low ponytail and draped over her shoulder. She fiddles with the ends, looking . . . nervous.
“I didn’t know what to wear,” she says, glancing down at her black and white baseball shirt and those cotton sleep shorts I like so much.
I can’t take my eyes off the sliver of skin peeking out from the slightly-too-short shirt and slightly-too-low shorts. It’s a dangerous combination.
Feeling the blood leave my brain and head south, I clear my throat and look back up at her. “You look beautiful.” I walk over to the table in the dining nook before I do something to really embarrass myself, like pop a chubby.
Savannah comes to stand next to me, helping me pull containers out of the bag. That fresh-from-the-shower smell is all I seem to notice, and it takes everything in me not to just grab her, sling her over my shoulder, and carry her back to my room like some kind of caveman. That fruity, strawberry-laced shit is wreaking havoc on my brain.
I shake my head, amazed at how bad I have it for this girl when I haven’t even seen her naked yet.
“Everything okay?”
I glance at Savannah, seeing her frown at me, and say, “I don’t know yet, Kitten. I’ll have to get back to you.”
At her confused look, I pull out my chair, sighing as I sit down. “You’ve got me so wrapped up, I don’t know which way is up anymore.”
She grins and sits across from me, opening her Styrofoam box and grabbing a set of plastic utensils from the middle of the table. “Is that why you’re doing this whole date thing? ’Cause you’re not thinking clearly?”
I shrug and yank the last fork from the center of the table. “I don’t really know why I’m doing this, and I have no idea how it’s going to turn out. It could either be the greatest thing to ever happen to me, or the biggest mistake of my life.”
She scoffs, leaning back in her chair as she pops a piece of chicken into her mouth. As she chews, she smiles sardonically. “Gee, thanks.”
One shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug. “Well, it’s true. I don’t know how this is gonna play out. All I know is that I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t find out.”
She shakes her head, looking at me in awe. “Wow.” Leaning in, she rests her arms on the table, like she’s about to share a secret. “Are you always this good at getting into a girl’s panties, or is it just me?”
I smile ruefully, watching the way her face lights up as she laughs. “You’ve still got yours on, so I can’t be that good.”
Perfect white teeth flash as she bites her bottom lip, her mouth curving into a wicked grin. “Who says I’m wearing any?”
I nearly fall out of my chair as I groan and hang my head. “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”
“All right, all right, I’ll stop.” She holds up her hands in defeat and then grabs a spring roll.
Therein lies the problem. I don’t want her to stop; I want her to keep going.
“So what’s your story, Declan Whitmore?”
At my cocked brow, she says, “You got mine. Now it’s time I get yours.”
She’s right. Tit for tat is only fair.
Sighing, I tear off the plastic wrap from my fork. “My old man’s a drunk. Left us when I was twelve, then two years later my mom died in a car accident. Me and Blake were raised by our grandparents after that.”
Savannah bites into the spring roll and frowns at me. “That’s it?”
“Essentially.”
She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, saying, “Essentially?” around a mouthful of food. Swallowing, she sets the spring roll down, looking pissed as she crosses her arms. “Well now I feel gipped. I got into the nitty gritty of my life. Least you could do is the same.”
“You only told me the worst things ’cause you thought it’d scare me off.”
A cruel smirk twists her lips. “I didn’t tell you the worst things, not by a long shot.”
My eyes narrow on her. She better be full of shit, because what she told me was f*cking awful. Could it really have been worse than she let on?
The thought doesn’t sit well with me, and has my jaw clenching as I point at her. “Don’t think for a second that I’m gonna let that little comment slide, Kitten. We’re coming back to that later.”
Savannah does not look pleased.
Exhaling slowly, I set my fork down and lean my elbows on the table. “My dad’s a miserable sack of shit, and after my mom died, I kind of . . . lost it. She was the only parent I loved, the only true parent I had, and when she died, what little light I had in my life died with her, until it was just one big black void.
“I started acting out, getting into fights, trouble with the law. . . Girls, booze, drugs, misdemeanors—you name it, I did it. Blake was the same way.
“The only thing that stopped me from going completely off the rails was my pops. He was a boxer back in the Sixties. Third-generation Irish American, Catholic, and the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. He taught me to channel all my rage and hate into fighting in a ring instead of out on the streets.” I shrug and simply say, “He saved my life.”
“Did he get you into underground fighting?”
“No, I have Blake to thank for that. He came to me with a problem, like he usually does. Said he owed this guy money he didn’t have, but he knew of a way we could make a lot of cash really fast. Turned out that ‘way’ was The Pit.
“Blake thought I could take down any a*shole they threw at me. Kept telling me I was a sure thing. Only problem was, back then, I was this no-name punk kid off the street, and if we wanted to make any money off the fight, we had to bet money on me to win. Then, of course, I actually had to win. The only thing of value I had to my name at the time was my car, so that’s what I bet.” I shake my head, half-smiling at the memory. “I was so pissed. I love that car, but I love Blake too, and I didn’t want to see him get his kneecaps broken, so. . .”
“I take it you won that fight, since you still have your car and Blake still has his kneecaps.”
I nod slowly. “That fight and every one since.”
“You’re undefeated?” Her eyes widen. “Wow. How do you get people to bet against you? I mean, they have to, right? Otherwise you’d be bad for business.”
My mouth turns down as I shrug. “You give ’em a good show. Let the other guy get some good shots in. Make everyone think he’s winning. Then when he gets comfortable—when he least expects it—you come out swinging and take his sorry ass down.”
“You let them kick your ass before you hand them theirs? That seems . . . dangerous. What if you can’t come back in the second act?”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
Savannah eyes me for a second, like she doesn’t quite believe me. Then she pops another piece of chicken into her mouth. “So how long have you been fighting in The Pit?”
I love that she’s not afraid to talk with her mouth full. And that she’s sitting cross-legged in my dining room chair, in her pajamas, without a scrap of makeup on.
She’s not afraid to be herself around me, and she’s not intimidated by me in the slightest. It’s refreshing. I’m so tired of girls who think they have to look and act sexy all the time. That’s not sexy. Being comfortable in your own skin is sexy.
True confidence is f*cking hot as hell.
I’m trying my damndest not to outright stare at her, but it’s hard. She’s so much more interesting than my food. “Uh, about a year,” I say, trying to get the conversation back on track. “When my pops died, he left me the gym. I’m using my winnings to fix it up.”
“Do you like fighting? Or is it just something you have to do for the money?”
I pick at my dinner while wondering how much to tell her. Then I realize how hypocritical that is. I can’t filter the bad shit out and expect her to be completely honest with me. Truth is a two-way street.
Sighing, I say, “I need to fight like I need to breathe, Savannah. It’s more than making money to me. Even after ten years, I’ve still got so much ugliness inside me, it’s like . . . this is my way of detoxing.”
She snorts. “My way of detoxing never seems to work. I always end up feeling dirtier than before.”
My eyes narrow on her. “Do I want to know what way that is?”
“Probably not,” she mumbles, looking down at her plate.
I could take a wild guess, and I’d bet my left nut it’d be right. “Tell me anyway.”
When she sees my expression, she sighs in resignation. “I’ve never had sex for the right reason. It’s either for power or—” she shakes her head, laughing bitterly “—to make me feel better, which sounds ridiculous, I know. . . But it feels nice to be wanted and appreciated, even if it’s only for five minutes.” She looks away, her voice coming out soft. “It never lasts, though. As soon as it’s over, I feel worse than before.”
Jesus Christ.
I set my fork down as my appetite disappears. “Are you doing that with me?”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to try a little harder, Savannah. I don’t want to be some f*ckin’ Band-Aid for you.”
Her eyes flick up to mine as her whole face hardens. “You want to know why I left my last job after only three days? It’s because I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. I was a cocktail waitress over at the strip club on Westmoreland. They didn’t care about my work history, or that I only have a GED. All they cared about was my tight ass and my tits. When I saw how much the girls were making from . . . extracurricular activities—”
“Jesus, Savannah. . .” I scrub my hands over my face, feeling sick.
It’s no secret that most strippers hook on the side, often earning more than they make shaking their asses on stage. I just didn’t think Savannah would be the type to have a price.
“I didn’t, okay? But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.” She shakes her head, looking off to the side. “I could’ve made more in ten minutes lying on my back than I would’ve made in one night waitressing those tables and having drunk a*sholes grab my ass and call me ‘sweet thing.’” Her eyes meet mine. “I knew I had to get out of there before I did something there was no coming back from. So I quit. Swore off sex. That was two months ago, and I was walking the straight and narrow just fine until I walked into your gym and met you.
“You’re the first person I want just because, and that scares the hell out of me.” She fiddles with the cap of her bottled water, tapping it on the table. “Declan, if we do this—and that’s a big, fat ‘if’—then it’s purely sexual. I don’t do relationships.”
No-strings-attached sex is my specialty, but that’s with girls I don’t know or care about. Savannah’s different. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my strings detached with her. I’ll probably wind up so tangled that she’ll eventually have to cut me loose.
The thought should scare me off, but it doesn’t. I’d rather have the scraps she’s willing to give me than nothing at all.
Hanging my head, I run my fingers through my hair.
Am I strong enough to take on her emotional baggage? I don’t know. The more important question is: do I want to find out?
I lift my head, meeting those gray eyes framed by long, sooty lashes. They’re the prettiest damn eyes I’ve ever seen, and the way she looks at me sometimes . . . man, I feel ten feet tall.
A guy could really get used to being looked at like that.
Something my pops once told me springs into my head. I’d always given him shit for being wrapped around my nana’s tiny finger, and when I did, it was always returned with a swift slap upside the back of my head—except for once.
It was right after she’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and I didn’t know if it was just out of habit, or if I was really that dumb, but I made some crack about my pops being whipped for watching that insipid celebrity dance show with my nana. I felt like an insensitive prick soon as the words left my mouth, and I flinched, waiting for the slap, but it never came.
Instead, my nana simply got up from her spot on the couch, asked, “Who wants some ice cream?” as she patted my shoulder, then bent down and kissed the top of Pops’ gray head from his spot on the barcalounger. His hand went up to his shoulder, covering her frail, aged hand as his eyes closed, like he was absorbing the memory.
When she was in the kitchen, he said, “Sit down, son.”
I took the spot closest to him on the couch, prepared to have him rip me a new one, when he took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. He looked at me and said, “Someday, you’ll get it. Someday, you’ll meet a girl and you’ll understand why I do the shit that I do for that woman in there.” He hitched his thumb toward the kitchen, and I glanced over, watching Nana’s too-thin frame as she went about scooping ice cream into three bowls.
Shaking my head, I looked back at Pops. “I kinda doubt that.”
He put his glasses back on and sighed. “You will. You’re a good boy when you pull your head outta your ass long enough.”
I laughed and bit my lip, thinking I was screwed then, ’cause it seemed to be permanently lodged up there. “And how will I know when I’ve met this magical lady, who’ll make me want to turn in my balls and stop being a man? ’Cause I gotta be honest with you, I don’t see that happening.”
Pops snorted. “It’ll happen so fast there won’t be a goddamn thing you can do to stop it. She’ll knock you right on your ass, because you won’t see her coming until it’s too late. Then when she’s in your sight, you’ll move heaven and hell just to see her smile, and when it’s good. . .” He let out a long whistle. “Boy, the earth moves. And when it’s bad. . .” He shook his head. “It’s like the whole damn world’s on fire, but that’s all right, ’cause you’ll still love her. Even when you hate her, you’ll still love her. You know why?”
I shook my head, all bravado and humor gone, and he said, “Because you’re a fighter, son, and she’s gonna be the first thing worth fighting for.”
At the time, I hadn’t understood what he’d meant. But as my eyes drop to Savannah’s perfect pink lips, I think about all the sassy little things that come out of her mouth—how it excites me, and how I can’t wait to hear what she has to say next. All that doe-eyed, innocent-looking beauty is a ruse, and a damn good one at that. Hidden behind it is a smart mouth that has me tripping all over myself just to get closer.
A sliver of fear creeps into my stomach and burrows deep at the realization that I’m starting to understand exactly what he meant. If I want more than sex from this girl, I’ll have to fight for it.
And I’ve never lost a fight.