I could shoot a man twice my age in cold blood.
I’ve buried more bodies than I can count.
I’ve grown up around drugs, prostitution, and the gambling underworld.
Nothing—and I mean nothing—had ever been harder to do than forcing Trace to relive one of the worst moments of her life. Nothing was more necessary than that she do it, so I held her. I held her and I leaned in.
“Fight back.”
She squirmed beneath me, I could see the panic welling in her eyes. Maybe I was wrong, maybe she would crumple under the pressure, but she had to learn how to defend herself. As much as I wanted to be—I knew I wasn’t part of her future, I wouldn’t always be able to protect her. I gripped her harder. Trace’s nostrils flared as she took in a few deep breaths.
“Trace,” I whispered hoarsely as her body moved against mine. Shit, I wasn’t counting on my physical response to her, to being so damn near… Swearing, I tried to focus. “Think, Trace, think about how to move my weight, or use it to your advantage.”
Her eyes narrowed, and then she wrapped her leg around me and pulled my body tight against hers, making it so I couldn’t gain any leverage. It was a smart move; most people wasted their energy on trying to get the person off of them, then they gave up.
It was always wise, when in such a situation, to not fight against but fight with. Trace used her other leg to swing it around my body and then slowly pushed me so that I was on my side and she was on top of me. She wasn’t able to gain quite enough leverage, though. In seconds I had her flat on her back again.
In that moment, seeing a bit of sweat pouring down her face, I hated Nixon all over again.
Because he knew he was torturing both of us. He knew how damn difficult it was for me to keep my paws off what wasn’t mine to touch, yet he trusted me enough to put me in the damn situation every day.
Her body felt so right underneath mine, I could almost forget that it wasn’t real—that we weren’t just friends, that we were more. My chest tightened a bit as Trace wrapped her arm around my neck and jerked me down; my mouth hit her cheekbone, not hard, but that touch, that one sizzle of my lips grazing her skin, was enough to send me over the edge.
I wasn’t just teaching her anymore.
I was fighting myself.
I was living in hell—and she had no idea.
“That’s it,” I said hoarsely, “Now, use your leg again.”
Trace tried again; this time she was able to push me onto my back before I flipped her again.
Exhausted, she closed her eyes and sighed when I was back on top.
“I’m tired… I think I got it…”
“Hell no.” I gritted my teeth and leaned down so that the full weight of my body was on her. “You don’t got it, you don’t have it yet. So help me God, I will keep you pinned to this damn floor all day if you don’t fight me like your life depends on it. Go again.”
Her eyes flared with anger as she wrapped her arms around my neck again. Our mouths were inches apart, both of us breathing hard from exertion.
Correction; she was breathing hard from exertion. I was breathing hard from the supreme self-restraint it took for me to keep my lips off of hers and my clothes on my body.
She groaned in agitation.
Son of a bitch.
She groaned again, and really, I wondered, in that moment, would death be worth it? Was a lifetime of friendship with Nixon that meaningless that I would just toss it away for one chance with this girl?
Tracey must have felt me pause. She took her chance, swung her leg around me, and with a loud shout pinned me to the ground.
“Well done.” Shit. Shit. Shit. I needed to get a girlfriend or find a distraction. Anything. So close, so damn close to ruining everything.
“I did it!” Her chest rose and fell with exertion; her sweaty white t-shirt was pressed tightly against her body.
“Yup.” I reigned in the lust. “You were a regular Tito Ortiz.”
“Who?”
I chuckled. “Never mind. Now get off of me before I throw you against the ground again.”
She laughed.
I didn’t.
I was damn serious.
Hanging by a thread. Huh, never understood that expression until now. Fantastic.
Chapter Four
Nixon
I sent Chase a quick text to meet back at our hangout on campus, or as Trace referred to it, the Bat Cave. I had exactly ten minutes to wipe the blood from my body and change my clothes.
On a more positive note, I’d been wiping blood from my hands for the past ten years of my life, so it wasn’t a new experience for me.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge and reached for the salt and baking soda. I jerked off my jeans and held them under the cold water, then made a paste with the household stuff. After rubbing everything together I went and tossed them into the washing machine.