I pulled up my panties and jeans, yanked down my shirt and barely bit back a scream. Good thing I’d loaded up on antibacterial wipes. Before I went to the bathroom to get cleaned up, I detoured to the table near the door. A little folded note from Carly sat on top.
Be back late. Cute guy I work with asked me out. Think he’s a nerd, but he’s cute underneath the glasses. See ya soon.
The smile lasted until I set the note aside. On the up side, she was going out with a cute guy who did not appear to be Giovanni Costas. Along with being older, jaded and an underground MMA fighter, Giovanni also had a sexual scorecard that would give any caring big sister nightmares. I’d tried to warn Carly away from him, but all of my impassioned speeches had been ineffective.
Plus, talking about sex completely unnerved me. Still.
With my background, that was kind of laughable, but there it was. Who said I didn’t have a finely honed sense of the ironic?
For a couple of months, Carly and Giovanni had danced around each other so much that I’d begun to think it was inevitable. Then Giovanni had started seeing Vanity, another female fighter—seeing being an euphemism for feeling her up at every opportunity—and abruptly Carly had stopped coming to visit me and Tray at the gym where we worked and Giovanni trained.
It was a good sign she’d gone out with one of her coworkers from the Salad Hut. Perhaps she was finally moving on. Maybe a little bit too much, since a quick glance at the phone I’d shoved in my front pocket showed it was after midnight.
At eighteen, Carly didn’t have a curfew. She was an adult and could come and go as she pleased. That didn’t make me feel better about her being out so late with a new guy. Then again, if she hadn’t been, she would’ve walked in on me and Tray banging against the windows, and that wasn’t exactly kosher either.
Sighing, I pushed my fingers through my knotted hair as I shuffled toward the bathroom. Tray always took down my hair from ponytails or braids as fast as possible. Tonight he’d just shoved his fingers through it, leaving snarls and dangling rubber bands in his wake.
I came to a halt outside the bathroom, a lump rising in my throat. Tray stood in front of the mirror, head down, shoulders slumped, blood-streaked hands flexing as they gripped the edge of the sink.
One guess who’d done that to him.
“Tray,” I whispered.
His shoulders braced but he didn’t look up.
I stepped into the bathroom, squinting a little at the light, moving toward him without thought. I did have some iota how to offer comfort, even if I’d caused the hurt. I’d spent a long time learning how to comfort myself.
I pressed my cheek to his bare back, unsurprised at the muscles that coiled beneath his skin. My touch now made this sweet, honest, beautiful man stiffen in preparation for an attack.
Yeah, I was awesome in every way.
Closing my eyes, I slid my arm around his waist and kissed his shoulder blade, trying to show him with that simple gesture that I was sorry. Sorry for asking him for more than he wanted to give. Sorry for being unable to be the woman he needed. Sorry that my past kept coming back to knock me on my ass. That was bad enough, but it wasn’t fair that I kept taking him to the ground with me.
He gripped my hand, clasping it so tight that my fingers cramped. I didn’t ask him to let go. We needed this moment of connection, without words or sex. It had been so long since we’d just taken a minute to be.
Eventually, he tugged me around until we stood facing the mirror with my back to his front. He tilted up my chin and met my eyes in the glass. Saying nothing, he forced me to look at the toll we’d taken on each other.
My hair hung in sweaty clumps around my face. Mascara, tears and perspiration streaked my cheeks. My lipstick looked like it had been applied by a demented clown. And my eyes…my
eyes just looked exhausted. And sad.
I didn’t dare look at him below the neck. Focusing on those Caribbean blue irises was all I could take. Somehow there was no judgment there. That, more than anything, made me want to weep. Again.
Tray grabbed a couple of antibacterial wipes to clean my tattoo. Next he took the jar of Vaseline out of the medicine cabinet and rubbed some gently into the fresh ink, making me wince and also easing the sting. He had such incredible hands. That those long fingers and wide palms could be so tender constantly amazed me.
After a moment, he reached for the brush I’d left on the back of the sink. Carefully, patiently, he worked out the rubber bands and dragged the bristles through my hair in slow sweeps, not stopping until the long length was smooth and shiny. By then I was swaying from fatigue, barely able to remain standing.
Wordlessly, he undressed me and carried me into the bedroom. He didn’t kiss me, didn’t say goodnight. Just curved his body to mine in the bed that had become ours and shut off the light.
He knew. He always just knew what I needed and gave it to me. I fell into sleep clutching my gratitude for him to my chest, even if for once he’d kept his hand to himself. Normally I cradled it between my breasts like an adult version of a teddy bear. I didn’t consider it spooning because usually I put distance between our bodies, as much as I could and still keep my hold on his hand. Tonight I had to settle for the warmth of his breath on my neck.
The next morning, I woke alone.
That shouldn’t have surprised me but it did. He had a training session with a new fighter later that morning and work at the bar in the afternoon, as did I, followed by class in the evening. Still, I hadn’t expected him to be out of bed by—I glanced at the bedside clock—seven-fifteen. Tray hated mornings.
He’d been working out when I came home last night so he probably didn’t need to get in a session now. That didn’t mean he hadn’t gone to the gym. We were both compulsive about working out. In his case, he was as compulsive about eating junk food as he was about training.
I just liked the burn. Nothing new there.