Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (14 page)

Well, when he puts it like that…

I sift my shaking fingers into the ends of my hair and twirl, hoping to hide my nerves. “I heard her screaming.”

He tilts his head and leans forward. “What?”

I clear my throat. “She was screaming.”

His narrow glare turns soft. “No, Mouse. She wasn’t.”

“She was.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and fight to keep eye contact. “I heard her.”

He studies my face, eyes roaming from my cheeks to my lips. “What did he do to you?” His question is barely audible.

The hurt is so intense it swells and billows behind my ribs. I want to say it, scream it, and hope it relieves the stifling confinement of my shame. “Nothing that wasn’t within his right. He was… my husband, after all.”

He steps back, putting distance between our bodies. “Are you saying…” He shakes his head side to side. “No.”

Confused by his words, I keep my mouth shut, fighting the urge to dump my rotting and rancid dirty laundry at his feet.

“He raped you.”

Those three simple words strung together pull at a deep part of my denial. “Not rape if it’s your husband.”

Ten

Blake

“The fuck it’s not!”
Cocksucking asshole. I’ll kill him.
I shove my hands deep into my pockets, hoping to God I don’t put my fists through every car window in this piece-of-shit parking lot.

“Blake?” The concern in her soft voice calls me away from my plan-o’-destruction.

I’m breathing hard, like I just pulled out of a fifteen minute round with Wanderlei Silva. My heart’s pounding, injecting volcanic blood straight to my muscles. Frantic, I search for a target, eager to take a fucker down for the offense of simply
breathing
.

My control slips.
Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Sweat beads on my skin. I run my hand over my head and flex my fingers. I’m a loaded gun, cocked and trigger-happy.

“Blake.” Her voice is firmer now. “You’re shaking.” She moves in close, her eyebrows dropped low over her dark eyes.

I hold my hand up, keeping her back. Safe. “Give me a minute.”

This is fucked. I can’t think straight.

A few deep breaths. In… out… in… out. Hanging on by a nut hair, I search for a distraction. Anything to take my mind off the fact that Layla was raped, probably repeatedly, by some fuckhead. Probably some douche with a hard-on for pushing people around. His
wife
, the mother of his child?
Dammit!

My chest rumbles as a growl claws up my throat. I need something, anything, to redirect my thoughts. My eyes dart around, cars, the neon sign, her shirt. “Pantera.” I breathe the word, grasping for a lifeline, a change of subject.

She tugs at the hem, peering down at the bright red letters printed on her chest. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t actually go to the concert. Elle was a baby when they came to Seattle. I had a friend get me the shirt.”

I grunt, acknowledging that I heard her.

She smoothes the worn cotton fabric against her flat stomach. “You like Pantera?”

“Mm-hm.”
Fuck, that’s better.
I sound more man than animal now. Progress.

Running her finger below her eye, she shrugs. “
Reinventing the Steel
was by far their best album.”

What?
“No fuckin’ way.” I lock my gaze on her sparkling eyes. “That album was their biggest fail. Nothin’ but an overproduced hunk of crap made for critics. It wasn’t even—what’s so funny?”

Fuck me if the sight of her tear-streaked face, red eyes, and big white grin doesn’t have me fighting a smile.

“You’re right.
Reinventing the Steel
is crap.” Her eyes dance and soften. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

I take my first full breath, and feel my shoulders unwind. “Did I pass?”

She pulls her top lip into her mouth with her tongue, a grin still playing across her lips, and nods.

Kicking my foot out, I allow her smile to soothe me, and lean back against a parked car. “Their best album was—”

“
Vulgar Display of Power
.” She sniffs as if it’s no big deal that she robbed me of those exact words.

I lose the battle with my lips and smirk. “Yeah.”

And with that, my heart rate is back to normal, my mind clear. That crap about her husband isn’t cool, and I’d still like to pull a series of fist-meet-face action on the douche-bag, but at least I’m not in danger of hurting anyone around me.

Fuckin’ DNA
. I’ve always loved fighting, the power that surges through my body with every punch. It’s addicting. But this shit’s been happening outside of the octagon more than I’m comfortable with. It’s like some dormant cells straight from the General suddenly came to life. As if the shit he pulled in the past didn’t fuck me up enough, his cyborg cells are kickin’ in to finish the job.

“I need to call a cab.” Her voice pulls me from my biological Armageddon.

The light from her phone casts a blue glow against her face and hair. Her perfect teeth tug on her lower lip while she scrolls through her directory.

Damn, she’s beautiful.
“Don’t go.”

She recoils slightly.
Shit.
I scrub my face with my hands. No clue why I’m asking her to stay. But the thought of watching her drive away makes my skin itch and my bones ache.

For the first time, it’s not all about wanting to fuck her. I’d be a disgrace to the male species if I didn’t entertain the idea once or twelve times. But this feels different. It’s like wanting to hit replay on my favorite song, or watch ten more minutes of a good flick. I’m not ready for it to end. “Where’s Axelle?”

She pulls a long strand of hair over her shoulder and twirls the end. “Double feature at The Cineplex.”

“Let’s go somewhere. You and me.”

Her eyes get wide and dart to where the SUV was parked earlier. “Oh… uh…”

“Just to hang out.” I hold my hands up and put on my most innocent face.
Yeah, right. Like I have an innocent face.
A laugh catches in my throat. “Really, on my honor.”

She ducks her chin and giggles, the trilling sound of her laughter settling against every inch of my skin. “Oh, yeah, I saw you and your honor in full force earlier tonight.”

“I’ll keep my honor in its zipper cage. Promise.” And fuck, but for the first time in a long time, I mean it. Getting Layla naked isn’t the priority. Shocker.

“Okay, sure. Where do you want to go?”

Anywhere. As long as it’s with you.

Layla

“Oh my gosh, Blake. This is… wow.” My mouth is hanging open as we walk into the living room of Blake’s condo.
Ha!
Condo is a joke of a word that doesn’t do justice to this place.

The open floor plan allows me to see everything from the kitchen to the dining room to the sunken living room. Clearly lacking a woman’s touch, everything is sleek dark leather, granite, and stainless steel.

But what gives this place the wow-factor is the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. I drop my purse on the real leather couch—I know it’s real because I can smell it—and move across the room. Pressing my face up against the glass, the steam from my breath turns the bright twinkling lights of the Las Vegas strip into abstract watercolors.

The sound of the wall sliding open jerks my face from the window. “The glass wall opens?” I stand back and watch in fascination as the glass folds in panels, dissolving the line between inside and outside.

“It’s a nice night. Let’s sit on the patio.” He smiles, ignoring my question.

“But…” I point from floor to ceiling. “The wall just… like…
poof
… disappears.” Even I can hear the excitement in my voice, but who cares? This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.

With a tilt of his head, he motions for me to follow him to a set of gorgeous teak lounge chairs complete with perfectly white, overstuffed cushions. We take our separate seats. Not wanting to put my dirty shoes on the cushions, I kick off my biker boots. He doesn’t need to take his shoes off as his long legs take up the entire length of the seat, leaving his feet to hang off the end.

“How tall are you?” The question rolls off my tongue in such a casual way that I forget I’m in the home of a virtual stranger.

“Six-two.”

Wow.
That’s super tall. A whole foot taller than me.

We sit in silence, our eyes cast out into the night, the cool air still and relaxing. My mind drifts, taking a reprieve from the usual crap that eats away at me daily. I lay my head back and think about how long it’s been since I’ve been this comfortable around a man. Alone.
Gosh, years. And even back then I—

“I’m not into her.” Blake’s words are distant, but direct.

My face instantly heats at the reminder of what happened earlier tonight. How could I forget? Somewhere between Blake’s freak-out in the parking lot and our peaceful patio sitting, I’d pushed my embarrassing interruption from my mind. Self-preservation has me hopeful that I’d misunderstood his statement. “Into who?”

“The girl I was… the blonde. I’m not into her.” He avoids making eye contact and studies the colored lights. “It was a hook-up. That’s it.”

It was worth a try. “You don’t need to explain. It’s none of my business who you… you know.” This is so uncomfortable.

He nods a couple times then drops his head back against the cushion. “Yeah, I know. Still wanted to tell you.”

“Why?” I speak the question and grimace. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Fuck if I know.” He takes this opportunity to lock his eyes with mine, and even in the dark, with the only light coming from the stars and distant exterior lighting, I can see the intensity in his emerald gaze.

Like always, when he sets his eyes on mine, I’m helpless to look away. Heat gathers beneath my skin, all over my body. My cheeks, my chest, and places a lot lower simmer and liquefy under his visual assault. He tilts his head, pressing his temple deeper into the cushion.

I reach in deep, trying to pull up the image of him in the back of the SUV. If anything can zap me back to reality, it should be that, but it’s like a dream I can’t remember. There, but fuzzy. The fire in his eyes when he towered over me in the parking lot comes back clearly. He didn’t break eye contact then, and he’s not now. I wet my lips, trying to cool my heated skin.

He takes a sharp intake of breath and looks away. “So, uh… tell me about him. Axelle’s dad.”

Talk about a mood killer. I blink a few times and return my eyes to the lights. “What do you want to know?” Hell, I already told him the worst part, and he didn’t run off screaming. Nothing to hide now.

“How’d you meet?” It’s an icebreaker question, but it sounds like he forced the words through his teeth.

“High school. He was the big guy on campus. Football all-state whatever, debate extraordinaire, student government blah, blah, blah.”

“Hm. No Pantera or Metallica worship? Doesn’t sound like your type.”

“Exactly. He’s not my type, never was. I always went for the bad boys, the dropouts and druggies. I hated guys like Stewart. Putting on an impressive show, but behind closed doors…” Memories of exactly what happened behind closed doors trickle through the cracks in my protective mental wall.

“His name is Stew.”

“Stewart. Yeah.”

“Stew.”

I nod.

“Stew Moorehead.”

The crooked smile on Blake’s face, along with the way he said Stewart’s name, strikes something deep inside. An uncontrollable giggle erupts from deep in my chest. I try to muffle it with my hand but end up snorting with laughter until I can finally reclaim myself.

He doesn’t laugh with me but grins. “So if you two were so different, how’d you end up…”

Making a baby?
I finish his question in my head. “I’d just turned sixteen. Saved up for two years to put a down payment on a car. Babysitting, cleaning houses, collecting cans… you name it, I did it. Finally, I had enough money saved to get the sickest ’78 Trans-Am.”

Blake’s handsome face splits with a huge smile.

I sit up, cross-legged, and face him. “It was cobalt blue. Like something out of a Mötley Crüe video. It literally purred when I hit the gas.”

He chuckles. “I bet.”

“There was a huge party. I was crushing on Trip Miller, this shaggy-haired rocker kid.” I lean in, excitement tickling my stomach, just like it did that night, hours before my fate was sealed by my stupidity. “He was a bad-boy. You know, faded metal T-shirts, tattoos made with a straight pin and Bic ink.” I’m lost in the memory and not paying attention to Blake as I relive my past.

“I rolled up in my Trans-Am, wearing skin-tight dove grey jeans, my black monkey boots, and a Whitesnake T-shirt that I cut and shredded myself.” I laugh at how hot I thought I looked. “I knew that night would be the night I’d win over Trip.”

I’ll never forget walking in and seeing Stewart there with all his friends, drunk as hell. I should’ve turned around and gone home. But if I had, I wouldn’t have Elle.

“And did you?” Blake’s deep rumbling voice calls my eyes to his.

“No. I drank and flirted with Trip. Far as I can remember, he played hard to get.” My mind cranks back to how much I drank in an attempt to show him I was a wild-child like him. And somewhere between the beers and the shots, things got fuzzy. “I don’t remember much. Only waking up naked, a blanket thrown over my body, next to Stewart in the back of his 4Runner.”

He swings his long legs off the lounger, turns toward me, and leans in. “Pretty fucked up. Dudes know when a chick’s too hammered to consent. He should’ve left you alone.” The anger in his voice is unmistakable.

I make sure to hold his stare. “Yeah,” I whisper.

He studies the ground, his elbows on his knees, hands hanging between his legs. “Someone should have kicked his ass.”

“It’s not all his fault. I knew better than to drink that much.” Even now, I remember the cold that seeped into my body, the aching between my legs. The disgust I felt at having lost my virginity and not remembering a thing. “I was such an idiot.”