Lord, I want to hit that bitch so bad.
And there he is, beautiful and magnificent Remington Riptide Tate.
He does his turn, and I feel such pressure in my chest, I curl my hands around my baby and stare at the small little swell it now makes. I never regretted being pregnant, but now I feel so pregnant and so stupid.
I breathe, slow and deep, while all my insecurities gnaw on my insides. We’re going to have a family together. I will be a mother . . . but he will still be a fighter, surrounded by young, pretty groupies who will do anything to have him.
Brooke Before Pregnancy would probably feel nobody could ever take him away from her.
But Pregnant Brooke feels a little bit at a disadvantage. Because maybe it hurts a little that he hasn’t asked me to marry him. Maybe he doesn’t even want to?
Why would he even bother, when I’m his already?
“Brooke, he’s looking at you,” Pete murmurs excitedly.
Still feeling more unsteady than I’d like, I drag in a deep breath and continue staring at my lap, at the stupid linen dress I wore when I prettied up for him this morning.
“Brooke, he’s staring blatantly at you,” Pete says, now in alarm.
The crowd quiets.
The silence becomes oppressive, as if Riptide has stopped smiling and now everyone knows something’s going on.
I can feel his eyes boring into the top of my head. And I know that when I look up, all I will see is that red. Lipstick. On his beautiful face. Like the lipstick I smeared him with once, but that belongs to someone else today. Maybe one of the f**king whores he f**ked when I was gone. God.
“Brooke, Jesus, what the hell?” Pete elbows me. “Do you want him to f**k up tonight?”
I shake my head and force myself to look at him.
He’s staring at me with a look of complete wildness and anxiety. His legs are braced apart, his jaw tight and his stance defensive, and I can tell he senses there’s something wrong with me, because his hands are fists at his sides and he looks ready to jump and come get me.
I hold his gaze proudly, because I don’t even want him to know how hurt I am, but when he smiles at me, I just can’t smile back.
His smile fades.
His eyes flash with hurt as he curls his fingers into his hands and the wildness in his expression almost claws into me, but I feel equally wild, and this time, I just can’t appease him I am so f**king hurt, and angry, and jealous, and pregnant.
Vaguely, I remember there were times when I sat on these sidelines, wishing that magnificent raw beast up there were mine. And this moment I sit here, pregnant with his baby, hurting because some woman, or women, kissed and touched what I feel is mine, and suddenly I want what I had before. I want to be just a girl, just wanting a job. Simple. Simple goals and a simple life. But no. I can’t have that now. Because I am more in love with Remington Tate than I ever thought possible. And he is as elusive as a falling star, one that nobody will ever really catch, and if you catch him, he will only burn right through you.
Like he burns into me right now, right in the center of my chest, my love for him corroding me.
Unable to look into his dark eyes any longer, I force my gaze away to watch his opponent take the ring, and my eyes slide over but quickly return, to the tattoo of a dark, elegant curled B on Remington’s right bicep.
My heart stutters in disbelief. Staring at the inky design in confusion, I realize that yes, it’s right there, on his right bicep: a perfect, beautiful B.
It does something crazy to me. My poor panties suddenly feel soaked, and I start to throb.
Remington turns to his opponent, and I see his lips curl cockily when he spares a look at the fighter he goes up against, someone young and jumpy, clearly too eager to get started.
They tap gloves, and Remington looks at me. Then, without smiling, he meaningfully flexes his bicep with the B and kisses it so that I see. A furious, hot little ripple runs down my sex, and I clench my legs together.
His smile flashes, as if he knows he makes me wet and I can’t help myself.
The bell rings.
“When did he get that tattoo?” I ask under my breath. I can’t stop staring at the mark.
“Right after we left Seattle,” Pete tells me.
Remington goes toe-to-toe with the “eager young buck” as Pete called him, and immediately slams him; then he backs out and feints, making the new fighter come after him. The buck swings and fails, and Remington comes back with a powerful one-two punch that launches the man back like a cannon blast. The guy bounces on the ropes, and then falls facedown on the mat.
“Oooooooooo!” the public says.
“Ouch, that must’ve hurt,” says Pete, but he’s grinning while behind me, someone yells, “That’s what you get when you go up against Riptide, sucker!”