J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forget

He releases his lip with a hiss of pleasure or pain, I can’t tell. Eyebrows dropped low, he studies my face. “You like crazy.”

“Mm-hm. I like you however you come.”

He’s slipping away. I can feel it. I won’t lose him again. I grasp for anything, a lucid thought, a plan, something that I can say that will get him back. “Paint me something?”

The tension in his arms relaxes, but he stays, locking me to the counter. “Not a painter.”

I tilt my head, motioning to the orange painting. “I think it’s pretty obvious that you are.”

His eyebrows pinch together, and his gaze doesn’t waver from my face. It feels as though he’s trying to read my expression, looking for the fear he thinks he sees or the panic he expects. But he’ll find neither. Locked together from thigh to chest, no better or happier place exists.

As much as I’d like to unload everything, I’m glad I didn’t. Letting me in has taken its toll on his nerves, and bringing up the past is bound to be upsetting. It’ll have to wait one more day.

Decision made, I smile and hope to see him return it. He doesn’t, but instead leans his forehead against mine and practically slumps against me with a deep sigh. Remembering how my aggression affected him in the truck earlier, I force back the desire to throw my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck, opting instead to place my hands on his hips. He doesn’t pull away.

Good. It’s a step.

I close my eyes, our foreheads still touching. “What’s it called?”

“Hm?” His hands slide from the counter to my waist. The heat of his palms separated by the thin fabric of my tank top sends goose bumps up my arms.

“The painting. Does it have a name?”

He shrugs then pushes back, only enough to look over my shoulder at the artwork. “I call it Gia.”

A feeling, like wind filling a billowing sail, fills my chest. I was right. He remembers. On some level, he remembers me. I drop forward so that my forehead rests on his chest.

“It’s beautiful.” Tears gather in my eyes. Hope that there’s a future for us after he learns the truth and relief that the connection we shared as kids wasn’t one-sided. He felt it too. Oh God, this is really happening.

“Look, I’m sorry about that, going off like I did.”

“I understand.” I sniff back my tears. “It’s okay.”

He tugs my chin up. “Hey, you’re crying?”

“No, I’m not crying.” I wipe the tiny bit of moisture that threatens to spill from my lower lid.

His hand moves to my back and strokes up and down in comforting strokes. “I’ll be damned. Didn’t think the girl was capable of tears.”

I snuggle deeper into his hold, and his other hand wraps around me to hold me closer. “The girl is not crying.”

“All right, baby. You just take a minute to suck that shit back, and when you’re ready, I’ll figure out something for us to eat.” His body shakes with what I think is silent laughter.

I tilt my head back to see his face. No more scowl, soft eyes, and yes, he’s laughing. “Stop laughing!”

He coughs up a weak attempt to hide another rumble of laughter.

The easy smile is contagious, and I can’t help but giggle right along with him. Crisis over, tension diverted, deep breaths in and out. We’re back to where we started when we got here, or maybe better?

I gaze up at his beautiful smile. Yeah, definitely better.

Rex

Self-fulfilling prophecy. I’d heard of it but never experienced it until tonight. I was so afraid that Mac would take one step into my condo and make a million different judgments about me that I ended up acting like the fool I didn’t want her to think I was. Things weren’t awkward until I made them awkward.

Way to screw it up, asshole.

Since my bug-out in the kitchen, things have gotten better. Mac’s sitting comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked up and to the side, fingers absently running through her dark hair. She’s engaged in whatever sports stats John Anderson is announcing on Sportscenter. Warmth blooms in my chest.

Her eyes are fixed to the television, and I wonder if she even likes sports. I didn’t even think to ask her what she wanted to watch, just turned it on and walked away. If my inexperience with houseguests wasn’t glaringly obvious before, it sure as fuck is now.

“Would you rather watch something else?” I say to her from my spot in the kitchen.

Her eyes snap to mine, and she blinks almost as if I woke her. “No, this is great.”

A hint of unease pricks against my skin, but I can’t place the trigger. I drop the oven door and slide out the pizza stone with the frozen meat lover’s pie I threw in thirty minutes ago. The bubbling cheese and pooling grease from the sausage and pepperoni tempt my taste buds. I’m so sick of this damn diet. As soon as the fight this weekend is over, I’m eating my weight in carne asada burritos.

“You hungry?”

Her eyes jerk from the TV screen to me in the kitchen. “I wasn’t until I smelled that.” Pushing up from the couch, she moves toward the island barstools.

“Hope you’re not a vegetarian.” I run the pizza cutter through the doughy cheesy concoction then plop a slice onto a plate.

“Nuh-uh, I eat meat.” Her gaze snaps to mine. “I mean not like that.” A heavy blush floods her cheeks. “That sounded bad.”

I laugh and put the plate in front of her along with a bottle of water. “Sounds like you’ve been hanging out with your roommate for too long.” Grabbing a protein shake I made earlier, I take the seat next to Mac at the island.

“Surprisingly, no, it’s been less than a year.” She bites into the pizza, and a soft moan slides from her lips.

I ignore the stirring in my gut at hearing the pleasure-laden sound. “How long have you been in Vegas?”

She freezes mid chew but starts up again and swallows. “Nine months. Give or take.”

“How did you end up with a girl like Trix for a roomie?” It seems like an odd pairing. Trix has been around, trolling the bars Ataxia plays at for as long as we’ve been playing. Trolling doesn’t seem like Mac’s style.

“When I moved here, I got a job as a bartender at Zeus’s.” She picks a string of cheese from her pizza and pops it in her mouth, and my eyes get stuck on how her full lips wrap around her fingertips.

I suppress a groan and give a non-committal “Mm-hm” for her to go on.

“I came to Vegas looking for something. Thought I’d find it at Zeus’s, but I was too late.” She shrugs and takes a bite, casual for someone who just dropped the kind of verbal mindbender she did.

“What were you looking for?” I have to know. I mean this girl doesn’t seem like the type with exotic-dancing wishes and showgirl dreams.

Swiveling in her barstool, she faces me head on. “You.”

My stomach hums with a flash of adrenaline. “Excuse me?”

Her body crumbles in on itself, and the light ringing sound of her laughter fills the air. What the hell? She puts her hand on her chest and blows a long breath from her lips, her eyes still dancing with humor. “I’m sorry. You should’ve seen your face.” Shaking her head, she turns back to her pizza.

“Comedian. Hilarious.” I grin through my sarcasm. The girl’s a little strange, funny, but definitely off.

“No, I came to Vegas to find peace.”

“In Vegas? This place is the definition of uncontrolled chaos.”

She opens her water and leans back in her chair, eyes forward, quiet. “Yeah, makes my search harder.”

“I take it you haven’t found it?”

It’s then her eyes find mine; a small smile tilts her lips. “Not yet.”

If it were only that easy to find peace, you could take up stakes and move somewhere new, leaving behind the shit you don’t feel like carrying. Too bad all baggage isn’t carry on. Some of it latches on whether you want to bring it or not. I’m living proof of that, but I keep my mouth shut, leaving Mac to discover that on her own. Although, if her nightmares are any indication, my guess is she’s already learned it.

“Where’d you move from?” I take a swig of my shake.

She puts down her pizza and looks at me. “You’re not having any?”

“Nope. Dropping weight. Fight this weekend.”

Her face pales. “Fight?”

“Yeah. UFL ninety-four. I’m on the ticket with Blake.”

Her hand moves to cup her neck. She swallows hard. “Do you um . . . do you have to?”

Is she kidding? “Yeah, Mac, I have to. It’s my job, not to mention a great opportunity and smart career move.” I laugh, shaking my head. Why does she look so nervous? “You should come.”

Eyes wide, she gapes at me. “Yes, er . . . no?”

Leaning in, I rest my elbow on the counter. “Yes and no?”

Nervous laughter bubbles from her throat. “No, I don’t want you to fight, but yes, I’ll go.”

“Don’t want me to fight?”

“I, uh”—she studies her knees—“hate watching you get hurt.”

She must’ve seen my fights in the past, but the last fight I had on live TV was over a year ago before she moved to Vegas. Which reminds me, she never answered my question.

“Where did you live before Vegas, Mac?” I can’t place the feeling, but something feels off. My therapist would probably tell me that having a person in my home for a prolonged period of time is bound to make me a little paranoid.

Paranoia is something I’m used to, the feeling that eyes are on me even in my own place. Mac said she’s been watching me, but damn, for how long?

“Nothing,” she whispers.

“Huh?”

She turns to face me completely. “Before here, I lived in Nothing, Arizona.”

No fucking way? That’s the last place I lived before Vegas. It’s nothing more than a town you drive through between Kingman and Vegas. What are the chances that Mac lived there too?

I shrug, acting casual, and finish off my shake. “That town as boring as its name?” I can’t tell her that I lived there too. She’ll ask questions, and the only answers I have are not anything I want to share with anyone. Ever.

“You’ve never been there?” It’s a question, but something about the way she asks makes it seem like something else.

“Why would I ever need to visit a place called Nothing, Arizona?”

“Yeah, um.” She shakes her head, picks up her pizza and brings it to her lips. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

After Mac finishes another piece of pizza, I clean up the kitchen. She offers to help, but I need to do it on my own to alleviate the anxiety that hums below the surface.

She sits at the island. We talk about The Blackout and exchange crazy stories about Trix. I make sure to stick to subjects of the present and don’t probe too far in the past. By the time I’m drying my hands, Mac’s doubled over laughing and I’m leaning back enjoying the view.

“She walked out buck naked and asked for a smoke?” The wide mouth grin she’s wearing is contagious.

“Yep, didn’t even seem fazed.” God, I can’t take my eyes off her.

“Wow, that’s upsetting, but strangely not at all surprising.” She must sense me staring as her laughter dies and our eyes meet.

“I had fun with you today.” It’s not a lie. I did. It’s been so long since I had a day that wasn’t focused on the band, fighting, or all the other shit that rolls around in my head. Not to mention the victory I’m feeling at going out with Mac and having her over in the same day. Guess Darren was right. I am capable of more than I think.

“Me too.”

She’s so beautiful and even more so now that I’ve gotten to know her better. In the few moments that we’ve flirted and I’ve purposely on accident put my hands on her, I’ve felt good. Even now, I want to do it again. The impulse to drag my knuckles down the side of her face, sift my fingers into her hair, and take her lips is overwhelming, not disgusting.

“It’s getting late.” She pushes back from the island and stands from her barstool. “I better go.”

No! “Yeah.” I check the clock. Ten p.m. Damn. “I’ve got to be at the training center early.”

She moves from the kitchen toward the living space, and I grab my keys. I tell myself that letting her go tonight is okay because I’ll get to see her in a couple days. She not only agreed to go to my fight but she even said she’d be fine in the UFL wife-seating area. They’re close to my corner, and as nervous as she seems, it’ll be good to have her sandwiched between Raven and Layla.