It Started with a Kiss

“Make what?”

“If we survive each other when one is thrown a punch. You tell me who threw it, where to find them, and when we go to fight, I’ll fight. But not with you. Do you understand me?”

His tone is abrasive and unkind, but not toward me. He’s standing his ground not for himself, but for us. “I understand.” I walk toward the hallway, knowing I need to talk to my boss. Before I leave the living room, I turn back and say, “We ride at dawn. Dawn being one in the afternoon in this circumstance.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I head for the bedroom but then stop. Habits are hard to break, but if there’s anyone worth breaking them for, it’s Jackson. I turn back, and as soon as I see him, I run, flying into his arms, and I kiss his neck. “Thank you.”

“For what? I only did what any good boyfriend would do.”

“You’re not just a good boyfriend. You’re extraordinary.”

23

Marlow

My head throbs, but my heart remains intact.

That’s Jackson’s doing.

He didn’t make demands. He showed me I had a choice.

My mom broke me last night. Today, without so much as a peep of a text and no calls at all, I’m choosing to put my energy elsewhere.

Stopping on the corner, Jackson takes hold of my upper arms and leans down so he’s eye level. “Get in there. Figure out what happened. Address it and don’t take any shit.”

“That’s quite the pep talk, coach. Take no shit. Got it.” I bite my lip to stay in character. If not, I’ll start laughing too hard. The release of laughter feels so good but feeling like a team with Jackson is an incomparable high.

Laughter rocks his shoulders briefly, then he digs deep. “I don’t need to tell you what to do. You’ve been training for this your whole life or at least since college,” he notes. “You’re here. All you have to do is show them who they’re messing with.”

“You’re very inspiring. Have you thought about hitting the motivational speaking circuit or starting a quotational meme business?”

“No, you keep me busy enough.”

“Ha,” I say, barking a laugh, which causes my smile to break free thanks to the silliness. Incredibly, I was fired not twenty-four hours prior, but Jackson has managed to get me giggling like I have no cares in the world. I kiss him quick, clap my hands, and then rub them together, ready to take on Amelia. “I’m ready. Put me in, coach.”

With a quick shoulder rub, he says, “You got this. Now go get ’em, tiger.”

I remember him saying that to me not so long ago. Everything worked out great after that . . . well, other than I got evicted from my apartment. But I got Jackson, so everything turned out better than I could have imagined.

Walking toward the gallery, I’m dressed to kill in one of my favorite outfits—pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, and my red-soled black patent leather platforms. I chose a bold red lipstick and the blackest mascara I have, keeping the rest of my makeup lighter. We barely made it out the door once Jackson saw me.

He’s so damn good for my confidence.

We left under the premise of promises of playing secretary later in his office. I’ve been wanting to check out his desk anyway. Maybe he’ll give me an up close and personal view while bent over the top. My stomach tingles in anticipation.

Best sex of my life, and now I get it on the regular.

I must be doing something right.

But my mood sours when I approach the doors, riled up because I know I didn’t do anything that would warrant letting me go. To add insult to injury, I was fired in a text with no explanation whatsoever. So riled might be putting it mildly.

I’m actually surprised Amelia took the meeting. She’s rarely at the gallery on the weekends, even if there’s an exhibit or showing. She saunters in for the big names—artists, clients, celebrities wanting private showings—and then saunters right back out. I scout the new talent while she steals the credit.

I glance back at Jackson, who’s standing exactly where I left him. He gives me a thumbs-up, and now I’m laughing again. He’s really taking this coach thing to the next level. I appreciate the dedication.

Straighten your face, Marlow. I take a deep breath and then pull the door open.

Inside, my heels click across the concrete floors announcing my arrival before I reach the back office. I’m met on the gallery floor by jet-black hair upswept in a taut chignon in the back and a three-inch high swoop that falls to the side over her left ear, red-framed glasses with matching boots that feed out from under her shin-length military-style black jumpsuit.

This might be an intimidation tactic, but I feel good in my outfit, so I raise my chin. “Amelia.”