Sick Heart: A Dark MMA Fighter Romance

“This is what I sound like.” She stares into my eyes, so serious. “But it’s the last time I’m going to talk to you. Don’t ever. Ask me again.”

Then she turns in the water and casually swims towards the underbelly of the rig, rising and falling on the large rolling waves like she really is a creature of the sea. Heading for the rusty ladder and leaving me behind.

I shake myself out of the stupor she put me in, then swim after her, overtaking her easily and then finally cutting off her retreat. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

She says a lot of things back to me in the language of her silence. She speaks to me in a language I’m fully fluent in by now, and that’s fine. Because all I want is her attention.

I grab her face. Both of my palms flat against her cheeks. And then I lean in and kiss her.

Our lips touch and she tastes like an unsettled ocean of regret. Our lower bodies drift closer, our feet making small currents, treading water to keep us afloat.

She opens her mouth first and this causes a rush of satisfaction inside me. Our tongues tangle together, doing a little dance only they understand. It’s not a light kiss, but it’s not a heavy one either. Her lips are soft and mold against mine in just the right way. I grab her around the waist and pull her right up next to me, pressing us together, trying to make us one as we continue the kiss.

She reaches up and threads her fingers into my wet hair. And then she pulls back and shakes her head no.

“Why?” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer. Just turns, reaching for the ladder.

“Hold on. Hold the fuck on. This is not how this night ends.”

She turns in the water, eyes flashing. “Why? Because you didn’t get sex?”

“What? No. What the hell, Anya? That’s not fair and you know it. I don’t care about sex.”

“You seem to want to have it with me. Even though I know you’re not supposed to be doing that. Maart told me. He told me I was fucking shit up and that was one of the examples.”

“When did he say—you know what? Fuck Maart. This has nothing to do with Maart. This is about me and you. And the fact that after three months of complete silence, you just spoke to me. And that’s it? ‘Don’t ask me again?’ That’s all you have to say?”

She shrugs her shoulders, her face blank. Emotionless. It’s an expression I recognize. We all get it at times when we shut down. That’s what she’s doing. Shutting down so she can get past this conversation and not have to deal with something messy. “That’s really all there is to say.”

I stare at her for a moment. “What are you doing?”

She points her finger towards the sky. “Trying to go up there.”

“That’s where you’re going. No. I want to know what you’re doing. Why are you suddenly angry? Because I got you to speak?”

“I chose to speak. And now I’m choosing not to do it anymore.”

“So you’re what, failing at that on purpose? Because you’re still talking, Anya. And fuck that, anyway. No. I have questions for you.”

“No one gives a fuck about your questions, Sick Heart.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Call me that name.”

“Isn’t that your name?”

“What the fuck is your problem? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t force you to talk to me. You chose to do that. So if you’re mad at yourself—”

“I’m not mad. And trust me, Cort”—she sneers my name a little and I’m truly baffled at the complete one-eighty of her mood—“I learned to take responsibility for my own actions a very long time ago. I have no use for blame.”

She turns, once again reaching for the ladder.

But I place my hand softly on her shoulder. “Anya. I’m not here to piss you off. I don’t hang around with you hoping for a fuck. And if you’re mad about talking to me, then…” I blow out a breath of resignation. “Then fine. Don’t talk. But don’t go up yet, either.”

“Why?” She doesn’t look at me when she says this. Just stares straight ahead at the rusted-out ladder.

“Because.” I sigh. “Because you’re the first person in a very long time who has made me want to talk.”

She scoffs.

“No,” I say, reading her mind. Because I can hear her thoughts like they are my thoughts. And they are, I think. Because we are the same, somehow. “This has nothing to do with you talking to me, Anya. Whatever secrets you’re holding for Lazar, I don’t want them. I don’t need them. That’s not why—”

“Because you’re out of here, right?” She peeks over her shoulder at me. “That’s why you don’t need them. You’re out of here.”