Tyed

We arrive at a timbered wooden cabin, about the size of my living room, located far from civilization. Outside, there’s a stack of chopped logs and an old, beat-up truck. It looks like someone occasionally lives here, but rarely takes care of the place.

He opens the door and walks in, and I follow. The cabin is full of scratched and lumpy furniture, but I also see a huge flat-screen TV with XWL’s fight night dancing on the screen. A few lit candles flicker next to a big fluffy rug centered between a faded sofa and an ash-filled fireplace. Right next to the rug there’s an expensive bottle of 25-year-old scotch. The smell of old wood and fresh herbs wafts through my nostrils.

"What's your poison?" His eyes are roaming my body despite my best efforts to look casual, and I quickly glance at my watch. Twenty minutes have passed since we left my apartment. An hour and forty to go.

"Take a guess." I settle on the rug. The bartender in me is curious as to how he sees me.

"No cocktails or girlie shit for you, Miss Cool." He grins. "Beer, probably. Though you wouldn't mind something stronger from time to time."

He pours a generous glass of scotch, hands it to me and pivots to the little kitchenette behind him.

"And you like expensive scotch. Unless...you just got this to impress me, in which case, mission failed." I take a sip of my drink, making a point of telling him I hate this kind of flashy behavior.

Ty comes back with a tray full of sushi. Colorful, delicious, perfectly rolled sushi. With wasabi and salmon and sweet potato, avocado, and black and red roe and asparagus.

My mouth falls open. “Where did this come from? It looks yummy.”

“I made it.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I don’t lie.” He eyes me with pure ferocity.

He did this all by himself? I’ve never known a guy who knows how to cook. In my family, even the females have pretty limited culinary skills, mainly the occasional burnt omelet.

"But I can't eat anything with fish,” I say, “being vegetarian and all."

"Then stick to this side of the plate." He motions to the sweet potato and asparagus side, his hand briefly brushing my knuckles and sending a delicate shiver across my skin.

He joins me on the rug, getting in my personal space again. I inch away, trying to put some distance between us. He stirs something inside of me every time we're close. I don't need this right now. I just want to fulfill my part of this deal and walk away. No need to freaking snuggle.

"This is delicious. Do you bake, too?" I pop a sushi into my mouth.

“Now you're pushing it. No, I don't, and I never really eat sweets. Anyway, I’m cutting weight for my fight in June. Sushi is the guiltiest food I’m allowed to eat.”

“You need to lose weight? That’s insane. You’re all muscle.” I instantly turn crimson red.

Ty grins a busted beam at me and crashes his shoulder into mine. “I have to weigh in before every fight to prove I meet my weight class."

"And if you can't make it?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Then you can't fight. There's a penalty you have to pay, blah blah. But that rarely happens. Fighters know how to cut weight. If things get desperate, you sweat it out, running laps, wearing plastic bags."

"That's crazy."

"It is. And it makes you weak. I plan ahead and I don’t go easy on my competitors who don’t. Which reminds me…what's up with you and the blond guy?”

He can't possibly mean Charlie Hunnam, right?

"You mean Shane?" I wash the sushi down my throat with a big gulp of scotch. “We’re just friends.”

"And he's good with that, with you just being friends?" Ty’s eyes are probing mine, looking for the truth.

Well, no...

"Well, yes." I lift a defiant chin. "We grew up together. We go to the same university. We hang out, but that's it."

“I don’t like him,” he says simply. Like he has the right to. Like he even knows the guy.

“That’s okay. I doubt he’ll be asking you on a boys’ night out anytime soon.”

“His motives aren’t pure. He wants you.” Ty takes a small sip from his scotch, throwing a piece of gum into his mouth. I continue munching the sushi. He hasn't touched it, and after our little conversation, I doubt that he will.

“And you took me out on a date purely for my intellectual abilities,” I drawl.

“No, I took you out on a date because I want to fuck your brains out, among other things, and I know that the feeling is mutual. Unlike your buddy Shane, I don’t sugarcoat my intentions. I don’t want to be your friend. I have no interest in hanging out with you at the mall or choosing outfits with you or crap like that. I crave you. I want all of you, every single inch of you. And call it an only-child syndrome, but I. DO. NOT. FUCKING. SHARE.”