Killer rubs the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on everything but me. “But . . . it’s true, right? One more concussion could be lights out. You quit because the doctors said you were unfit to fight.”
Not exactly accurate, but that’s the story I’ve been selling since the day Rosie drowned. “That’s about right. But times have changed. I’m meeting with the board to see if they’d be supportive of me going back into the octagon. I think my coming out of retirement could be a big ticket.” I shrug. “Can’t see why they’d say no.”
“That would be so fucking cool. I saw footage of your fight in ’98 against Kiro Tumbo, and honestly, the only way Faulkner stands a chance is if he can avoid your takedown. If he can’t, and we know he can’t, it’ll be over by submission, first round.”
I can’t fuckin’ believe this kid. “You’re seventeen.”
“Yeah.”
“You were one year old in 1998.”
“Uh-huh.”
Amazing. “You see any of Faulkner’s old fight footage?”
“I have. It’s unimpressive, you know, all the showboating he does.”
I really like this kid. “Think about what you want to do after graduation.”
I give him a fist bump, head to the weight room, and smile when I hear his whispered “fuck yeah” from behind me. He’s a good kid, on the path to becoming a good man, as long those fuckin’ bullies leave him alone.
Speaking of bullies, Faulkner’s clearly trying to piss me off enough so that I’ll fight him. Not that he even has to try.
The more I think about it, the more I want to beat his ass in the octagon.
*
Eve
As if dressing for a date isn’t hard enough, but dressing for the guy who isn’t the guy taking you out is awkward. I don’t want to lead Mason on by making him think I went to all this work for him, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen Cameron I want to make an impression.
It’s stupid. Cruel even. I’m setting myself up to be hurt again, but that doesn’t stop me from putting together the most kick-ass Fourth of July outfit ever. If he does show up to this party with a girl on his arm, I want him to see me at my best. I want to wear an outfit that makes him forget about our age difference, forget that I lied, and most importantly, I want him to ache to be close to me again.
Pulling some lip gloss and gum from my everyday purse and into my red clutch, I see headlights pull into my driveway. My stomach flutters. Don’t freak out. There’s a good chance Cameron won’t be there tonight.
“I’m such a bitch.” Here I’m getting excited over a guy who wants nothing to do with me when a very sweet guy who’s interested is hurrying to my door. “Karma is going to kick my ass for this one.”
I open the door just as he arrives. “Hey, Mase.”
He stills, and his eyes move up from my feet to my hair. “Whoa, Eve, you’re like . . . hot.”
Sigh. There’s a part of me that would’ve loved for that compliment to light some kind of fire, but it falls flat. “Thanks, you look . . . really handsome.”
Jeans that fit just right, blue and red plaid short-sleeved collared shirt, blond shaggy hair, he’s like Malibu MMA Ken.
“You ready?” He jerks his head to his waiting Tundra that’s the color of the ocean.
I lock up and follow him to the passenger side door, which he opens for me. I should fall for him. I should.
He fires up the engine, and “Don’t Push” by Sublime blares through the speakers. He turns it down. “You feel like grabbing a bite to eat?”
“I thought this shindig was being catered.”
He shrugs and turns out onto the main road. “It is. I’m just trying to get some alone time with you.” A slight twist and he flashes me a half smile that is really, really cute.
“You’re so honest.”
“And that surprises you.” His expression loses its humor.
“I’m a single woman, Mase. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Ex do a number on you, then?” The muscle in his jaw ticks.
God, he’s really so damn sweet.
“You could say that.”
He doesn’t respond, and we travel the rest of the way to the party in silence. For a moment, I consider what my life would be like with a guy like Mason. We’ve hung out a few times in a group, and I’ve always enjoyed his company. He’s funny enough, definitely hot, and safe. If I could trick myself somehow, convince myself that he’s what I want, what I need, I would.
The truck lurches to a stop in a fancy neighborhood, the street lined with cars.
“Hang tight.” Mason jumps out of the driver’s seat and hurries around the front of the truck to open my door.
Guilt coils in my chest, but I push it back and paint on my most appreciative smile. “Thanks, Mase.”
“My pleasure, beautiful.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his obvious schmoozing. Funny, when Cameron calls me beautiful, I melt into a puddle of goo.