Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

And I’m already about to walk away from almost three dozen people I know very well. I’m not sure I can add another one to that list and live with myself afterward.

But then she turns her head my way and opens her eyes. They are blue—I know they are blue—but right now, the sunlight plays tricks and turns them the color of the sea. Deep green one moment, bright teal the next. The corners of her mouth lift up into a small smile and she stares at me.

What does she see? The killer? The trainer? The game player? The diver? Which of these men is the one she likes?

Definitely not the killer or the trainer. Which is too bad. Because that’s who I am ninety-nine percent of the time.

She frowns, like she’s reading my mind. And she might be. You get good at reading expressions when people don’t talk. You learn to see inside them. You learn how to know them without their consent.

But this is a dangerous path to go down so I slip my hand up her shirt instead. She closes her eyes, but opens them back up almost immediately.

Closing them is giving in. You don’t have to be a mind reader or a mute to know that. And she’s not the kind of girl who gives in without a fight.

But that’s what I do best. I’m a fighter. So this comes off like a challenge to me.

I begin tracing bigger patterns over her entire back. Figure eights and spirals. Squiggly lines that start between her shoulder blades and end up in the small of her back, just above the waistband of her borrowed shorts. I keep my touch feather light and super soft. She winces and closes her eyes again, tensing her shoulders.

And this is a dead giveaway for ticklishness. So I poke her.

She giggles and draws back, opening one squinty eye to warn me with a half-assed glare.

I tsk my tongue and sloppily sign, Don’t warn me, girl. That’s just another challenge, with one hand.

She can’t even follow two-handed sign language, let alone my made-up shorthand. So she squints her eye a little tighter, putting some threat behind her warning.

I almost laugh, but then poke her again instead.

She wriggles away this time. But I grab her and pull her back. Poking her a few more times just to prove I can. She twists and kicks and elbows me as she tries to get away. But in my arms, she is very small. And all I have to do is hold her tight to make her helpless. I don’t even need to use both arms. So I have one free hand to keep poking.

She goes nuts. Like… this is the girl I want to see on the mat downstairs. That’s how nuts she goes. Her back is bucking, her knees are jabbing, and she’s laughing out loud.

God, she has a nice laugh. It’s a little high-pitched, like it was that first time we met on the ship. But it rolls too. Smooth and easy. Something you want to hear more of, not less. And suddenly, that’s all I can think about.

I want to hear her voice. Is it deep or soft? Hard or sweet?

I stop poking and rearrange my body so I’m just a little bit over the top of her, propped up on my elbows. I put one hand up and slowly sign, Talk to me. It’s an easy sign and she gets it, because she goes tense again, then shakes her head no. But then she repeats my signs back with modifications, pointing at me, tapping her chin with a sideways hand, and then pointing to herself. You talk to me.

I already did.

She shakes her head and makes a sign for ‘whisper.’

And now it’s my turn to go tense and just stare at her for a moment.

Because she got it right. The sign is ‘talk,’ but if your other hand is cupped on the side of your mouth, it means ‘whisper.’ Like you’re gonna whisper in someone’s ear.

Did she just… I squint at her and she frowns in response. Has she taught herself sign language?

That’s not possible. Not this fast. It hasn’t even been a week.

Then whisper to me, I sign.

She shakes her head again. And then she touches my lips with the edge of her fingertips and slowly drags them up my cheek before pulling away.

‘Kiss.’ That was the sign for ‘kiss.’

She wants me to kiss her.

I know this is a distraction. I know who I’m dealing with. A girl who has been silent so long, no one remembers her last spoken words. A girl who should be dead, but isn’t. A girl who should be anywhere but here with me, but is. A girl who four days ago didn’t know a single bit of sign language, and now knows enough to stun me silent.