The moment I saw that bike, I lit up.
The moment I slid inside Kennedy’s tight pussy for the first time was a thousand times more beautiful.
That night we spent together wasn’t a mistake. It didn’t ruin anything.
It was the best night of my entire fucking life.
When I arrived at the arena earlier, I had a strange, prickling sensation at the back of my neck, telling me something was wrong.
Off.
It didn’t matter how much I forced myself to go through all my pre-fight superstitions and routines—that feeling never went away.
For the first time in my career, I walked through that damn tunnel uncertain, and I knew it had nothing to do with facing Mancuso.
As soon as I stepped into the cage, everything became crystal clear. I noticed her immediately. I couldn’t look away. Six years of pent-up frustration with myself—for wanting so badly to be the kind of man she had believed me to be and never delivering that to her—came rushing back. The impact of seeing her hit me in the chest like a damn tidal wave, leaving me breathless, but recharged at the same time.
My life had been fucked up. I always knew I wasn’t going to amount to anything, mostly because everyone I knew told me I wouldn’t. Kennedy has always been the only one who did.
I’d love to flip them all the middle finger now. If only I thought they’d care.
Walking out on her years ago was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. A life with me then wouldn’t have led to anything good. I wouldn’t have been able to give her anything she deserved.
Not at the place where I was—scraping by on a part-time mechanic salary and banging every chick who looked my way.
I don’t know if now is a better time.
But hell if I don’t want to do everything I can to prove that it’s different. I’m different.
Even now, standing in front of her, fucking begging her to just give me this…one night to get caught up…I already know I’m fucking it up.
I also don’t care much. I’ll take whatever Kennedy is willing to give me, over and over again, if it means I get to spend as much time with her as I can while I’m in town.
“Everything, huh?” she says and collapses back into the couch with her bottled water firmly clasped in both hands. “That’s a tall order.”
“I’m a demanding guy.” My lips twitch, and I fight the smile that wants to form.
Kennedy rolls her eyes but turns to face me when I join her on the couch.
“Tell me about college,” I say when we cross the line of awkward silence and neither of us has yet spoken. “How’d it go and what are you doing now?”
For a moment, it looks like she wants to bolt. Her jaw juts out and I see a flash of pain in her small flinch when she looks down at her hands. I want to reach forward, take her hand in mine, and demand she tells me who hurt her. Or what hurt her.
I force myself to hold back, too afraid of already knowing that whatever hurt her is sitting right in front of her.
“I work in Cambridge at an interior design firm.”
“Like wallpaper and shit?”
“No.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “There is a home interior department, but I work more with businesses, helping design the layouts and furniture in new offices.”
That sounds boring as hell. But Kennedy was always sketching homes and rooms and excelled in art at school. It doesn’t surprise me she’d do something like that. “Do you like it?”
She brushes a lock of her brown hair back behind her ear and shrugs. “It’s not some huge passion, but it’s a good job and it pays the bills.”
“What about Sarah?” I prod when she doesn’t ask about me. It hurts, but I can’t say I blame her. “How’d you two meet?”
Her nose crinkles and that flinch of pain is back before she says, “We moved in together our junior year. Rented an apartment off campus.”
Junior year. I don’t miss the way she doesn’t look at me. I already know what she’s not saying. She left to start school that year just weeks after I walked away from her. I feel like a dick for pushing this on her, forcing her to relive that moment.
“What were you doing at the fight tonight?” I ask when she still doesn’t say anything—no expanding on Sarah or school or her life. I’m scrounging for whatever scrap she’ll give up, and I don’t care. I want to take every morsel of her life that she’ll give me. “MMA doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”
Another quiet laugh, another shake of her head. Another nervous gesture of playing with her hair.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling my lips curl at the edges. “Don’t tell me you knew I’d be here.”
If she knows I fight, knew I was going to be in Vegas this weekend…
Something inside my chest swells with a warming, comfortable feeling, thinking she might have come just to see me.
“Sarah gave me the tickets for a birthday surprise,” she finally admits, sounding like I’m dragging her answer from deep in her throat. “Because I watch you.”
Yeah. I like that. I force myself not to pound on my chest like a caveman who just won a victory. “You do?”
Her eyes narrow, and she turns to me. “I watch all of your fights, cheering for the other guy to win.”
“Ouch.” I press a hand to my chest and lean into the back of the couch. “Well, that hurts.”
It does, too. I might be turning into a pussy, but it’s clear she’s not joking.
“You asked.” She looks away, out at the lights of Vegas, and runs her tongue over the front of her teeth.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” I tell her, leaning closer. “I’m sorry I was a prick earlier and that me walking away hurt you. I should have handled it better.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says on a heavy sigh, her shoulders collapsing. Her chin quivers as she pulls in another breath. Another shake of her head. She’s fighting against telling me something and my impatience intensifies.
“It does matter—”
“What matters,” she snaps, setting her tear-filled eyes on me. My gut tightens in pain. “Is that you didn’t even bother listening to a damn call I left you. Why? Just one…if you had heard just one of them…”
Her chin wobbles as she inhales a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, leaning forward to take her hand in mind. Thank fuck she doesn’t pull away. “I can’t go back now, though. If it helps, I wish I would have. Call it me being a dumbass or an idiot. I know that whatever you want to call me, I’ve called myself worse. I never had the guts to go find you later, but you’re here now…that has to mean something.”
“Yeah,” she sniffs, wiping her cheeks. “That Sarah’s crazy.”
I grin and tighten my grip on her hand. “I kinda like her.”
After another moment of silence, where I think Kennedy’s going to shut down and end the night—and who can blame her?—she blinks away her tears.
“How’d you get started with fighting, anyway—and where’d you go?”
The tightening in my gut grips me harder, making it difficult to breathe.
I owe her this. I just haven’t talked about it, ever.
Noticing my hesitation, Kennedy stands up and brushes her hands down her skirt. My eyes follow the movement, and I’m too stunned by her curves, her legs, and her ass to catch up on the fact that I’ve hurt her.
Again.
“It was nice seeing you, Grayson.”
“Wait.” I reach out and grab her wrist as she walks by. “I was just trying to figure out how to begin.”
She doesn’t look at me when she tries to pull out of my grasp. Like she could get away from me if I didn’t want her to.
“I didn’t mean to walk away from you that day.”
She makes a scoffing noise and I stand up, letting go of her wrist.
I hold my hands up, palms out, and then slide them into my jeans pockets. Shit. All these years and I’ve never had to tell anyone. Not that the reason isn’t visible beneath the ink stretched on my back.
Commentators and sports journalists have hounded me about why I have the angel wings on my back. It’s not some symbolism for some fallen, deep spiritual shit like everyone likes to think.
It’s because they’re the only ink design I could think of that’d be large enough to cover the scars.
Scars that happened after I left Kennedy and went home that morning.
“I was pissed that morning—scared and freaked out that we’d just fucked up everything between us, Kennedy, but I didn’t leave you that morning intending to never see you again. I know I said awful shit to you that day, but I really left to cool down and figure shit out. I had every intention of coming back or calling you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispers through a harsh, dry voice.
“When I got home that morning, my dad was awake for once in his damn life and fucking wasted. He was pissed at me, for whatever.” I wave my hand in the air and watch as her vacant eyes soften and fill with sadness. She knows the shit I went through. She definitely knows it was never pretty.
“What’d he do?” she asks, turning on her heels in slow motion. Hesitant.
I hate it that she feels like that around me.