Doomsday Love: An MMA & Second Chance Romance (9 page)

“In… you… I guess. I don’t know.” I twisted my lips.

“What is it about me? Why can’t you interest yourself in other boys, like the rich fucks you went to school with?”

I noticed how he tried to distance himself, act like he never attended Lake Lane, like he had nothing to do with the school or his former peers.

“I don’t like any of them.”

A smile graced his lips. He tried to fight it. “But you like
me
?”

“I think you’re a good guy.” I sat forward. “I remember the boy I used to swing with, and I wonder how he’s doing now, is all.” My hand went on top of his entwined fingers. His eyes moved as my hand did, jaw locking again.

In an instant, he jerked away, fingers unraveling. “Well, if it’s affection you’re seeking, you’ve got the wrong motherfucker, Jenny. I can’t help you with that. We were friends in a way, yes. We kept each other company on the playground but shit has changed. We’re older now. You see that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I see it,” I retorted.

“Yet you pretend to be blind to what I really am.”

“I’m not blind to it. I know what you do,” I murmured. “And it’s not all that you are.”

Drake folded his arms, examining all of me. His intense green eyes ran up and down my length, roaming my long legs and then my pink wedges.

“You know what I do?” His voice was bland, more like a statement.

“Yes.”

“And what’s that?”

“Fight,” I breathed.

He straightened his spine a bit, as if he was uncomfortable with me knowing what he really did in the dark. “Exactly,” he murmured. “You know what I do. You know what I’m capable of. I am a totally different person when I fight, so why would you want to be around that?”

“I don’t mind a fighter,” I replied. “I’m a fighter myself.”

“You’re a pushover,” he corrected.

“To a certain extent,” I modified. “Plus, maybe it’s a good thing I can’t fully fight for myself. That would be what I have you for. Right?” I grinned like a fool, like he was really going to fall for that shitty line.

I thought he would, that is until his face fixed and turned serious. He stood up casually, almost too fluidly to seem real, and then he walked for his half-empty tray sitting on the table.

Picking it up, he started down the hallway without saying anything. Realizing he’d left our conversation open ended, I went after him, circling his large body and pressing my hand to his chest before he could make it to the kitchen.

“Drake.” My voice came out ragged. “Can you just… trust me? I won’t spill your secrets. I’ve never told anyone anything you’ve told me. I would
never
do that. You could trust me then… why can’t you now?”

“Back then it was different,” he said, avoiding my eyes. He was lucky he had a few inches on me. I couldn’t catch his eyes and it frustrated me that he was trying so desperately hard to avoid me, so I gripped his chin between my fingers, forcing him to look at me.

Alarmed by my grasp, his nostrils flared but when his eyes bolted with mine, something settled within those cold, beautiful green irises. Some sort of tranquility; something swift and sweet, easing the chaos.

We watched each other.

Our gazes held for quite some time. My hand fell, but I never looked away, not even as I heard Otto goofing off in the kitchen. Not even as I heard Oscar shouting at him to knock it off.

Not even as the round of applause from the banquet room filled my eardrums, a deep voice talking into the microphone, concluding the brunch.

Drake’s breath ran tattered through his lips, his chest poked out, his free hand balled into a fist. He wasn’t used to a touch so gentle. He wasn’t accustomed to this kind of proximity unless it resulted in fist throwing and bloodshed.

He didn’t want to hurt me, I could tell. That’s why I stood there. That’s why I watched him. That’s why I wasn’t afraid.

Distress flooded his eyes.

He was too defensive, wanting to destroy himself, but I could tell something was keeping him going. What was it? It wasn’t his mom, because he’d told me she died when we were younger.

So who?

Someone was keeping his head leveled. There was a reason Drake hadn’t been tossed in jail yet. I knew it wasn’t his Dad. That man looked too sinister to be any good.

Oscar and Otto maybe? No. They seemed to be the ones that looked up to him, then again that gave good cause for Drake to keep his head on straight.

But I knew it wasn’t them either. They could take care of themselves.

The banquet doors flew open and a flood of people in expensive clothing, diamonds, pearls—carrying copies of books I knew they wouldn’t read—walked out of the banquet room.

Drake finally pulled his eyes away, focusing on the glossy marble floor.

“Drake,” I whispered.

He refused to look at me. He hated what he felt, the same thing I felt.

Warmth. Solace.

I spotted a sheet of scrap paper on his tray, a pen in the pocket on his vest. I grabbed the paper, snatched out his pen, and jotted my number down.

“Anytime you want to talk, feel free to reach me at this number.” I tucked the paper into his front pocket, and he stiffened.

And I knew why. I was close… close to him. A private part of him. I felt my hand brush against his length, not on purpose of course but if I hadn’t had a killer headache a blush would’ve crept from my neck to my cheeks.

His face went as hard as stone, but he allowed me to put it there, and then return his pen. “I won’t text you,” he muttered.

Defeat washed over me, but I knew he was just saying that… or was he? I couldn’t tell, but his voice didn’t sound as assertive or rough as it normally did. In fact, his voice wavered a bit, proving he didn’t quite mean it.

He knew himself—that it would be difficult not to when he had all the permission in the world from me.

“Jenny?” Someone familiar called my name. I straightened up, stepping around Drake and spotting my Dad by the double doors. He frowned as he looked from me to Drake.

Drake returned the frown, unafraid of my father and his uncertain gaze.

“Coming!” I called. Dad nodded and turned as someone called for him, but I knew he was still watching. I didn’t care.

I looked at Drake again, lingering, feeling the urge to never pull away. He needed somebody. He knew it, but he had too much pride and way too much of a damn ego to admit it.

“You have my number,” I said as sweetly as possible. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He was staring at me intently, brows stitched together.

He was… confused. He didn’t understand me.

Good.

That meant he had questions and there was only one way to get answers for them. “I hope you decide to shoot me a text soon.”

“I won’t text you,” he grumbled.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling that nauseous feeling from when I first woke up. “Okay, Drake,” was all I said before I turned my back to him and met up with my Dad by the portraits upfront.

I was out of the door, but when I looked back, I could still see him. He wasn’t looking at me, though. He had pulled out the paper from his pocket.

He read it over and over again, and then he frowned. I witnessed him crumple the paper in his hands and toss it in the nearest trash bin before entering the kitchen… as if it were nothing.

As if
I
was nothing to him, and never would be.

I sort of hated him for it, but I knew myself—knew my heart. I couldn’t cast hate on someone who already hated his existence.

It just wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

* * *

A
s soon as
I’d gotten home, I took a four-hour nap. It seemed like the longest nap of my life, but it was utterly refreshing.

Having not taken a shower since the day before, I leisurely put myself between the walls of the glass case, allowing the water to drench me. It felt nice, and necessary.

As I washed myself, I tried getting Drake out of my head but I couldn’t.

I won’t text you.

It hurt watching him crumple my number as if it were annoying him, but I vowed not to care anymore. I stepped under the stream, rinsing the suds from my hair. The soap burned my eyes for a moment, a lucky distraction.

Stop caring.

Stop caring.

Collecting my thoughts, I stepped out of the shower, my bare feet hitting cold tile. I stepped in front of the mirror, and as I studied myself, I questioned what it was about me that Drake truly despised.

Perhaps he was just accustomed to living his life alone, not talking to anyone at all. Maybe he’d gotten comfortable with where he was and there was no need for me to interfere to throw him of kilter.

I sighed, running my fingertip across the bag under my left eye. I looked horrible. I turned on the faucet, clearing my face with cool water and then turning for my bedroom.

My bedroom door was open when I walked out. It was definitely not the way I left it. I always closed my door.

No one was here, but a thin hardback book on my bed caught my attention. It was a Jenny the Fairy book. I rushed towards it, snatching it up and reading the sticky note posted on the top.

Downstairs. Now.

I frowned at
her
note.

Fuck her. I wasn’t going downstairs and she couldn’t make me.

I got dressed in a pair of leggings and a long tee, brushed my teeth again, and then raked my hair up into a messy bun. My phone then buzzed on the nightstand and when I spotted Kylie’s name, I smiled.

“Finally, the beast has awaken,” I teased, jumping on top of my bed.

“Please tell me you’re still hung over? Please?” she whined. “I can’t be the only one.”

“No, I’m actually okay right now. Got home after that stupid brunch, took some aspirin and a nap. I’m still a little foggy, but better.”

“Ugh.” She groaned. I heard something rattling in the background, the sound of ice. She only used a ton of ice when making smoothies. “Do you think you can swing by? Maybe help me salvage the house? My parents will be back in the morning.”

“That place is a wreck.” I climbed off the bed, slipping into a pair of black vans to match my t-shirt.

“I know. I only made it to the kitchen. I’m too afraid to look by the pool or the backyard.”

“I didn’t even check, but I’m sure it’s just as bad.”

She laughed, then groaned, and then laughed again. “Oh my goodness, Jen. Bring some of that aspirin too, please? The door will be open when you get here.”

“Will do.” I hung up, hearing footsteps trotting towards my bedroom.

Mom appeared between the frames of my door, arms folded, still dressed in her nude Louboutins and knee-length navy blue dress.

“How long have you been out of the shower?” she questioned, tone assertive.

“Just got out,” I muttered, picking up my keys.

She looked at the keys in my hand, and then at me. “Where are you going?”

“To Kylie’s.”

“Didn’t you spend enough time there last night?” I ignored her question. She knew I wouldn’t respond so she went on to an even more annoying topic. “Jennifer, your behavior today was reckless and rude. You should really be ashamed of yourself. You are letting your father and me down more and more each day. You know, your father won’t always be around to protect you. You are becoming an adult but still acting like a toddler. How is that even remotely possible? And why do you look so bad right now? What was with you this morning, coming in late? Dressed in that boring dress? Did you even bathe?”

I was looking at her, watching her ramble on and on, wishing I could just pop her right on the mouth like some moms did when their kid was acting out. Because that’s what she was acting like right now. A child.

And she had the nerve to say I was acting like a toddler.

I didn’t react. That was what she wanted—a reaction from me, just to start another mother-daughter war.

I pulled myself together, finding my glasses on the vanity. I wasn’t in the mood for putting in contacts today. Today I needed to bum it out, eat lots of ice cream and watch a bunch of rom-com movies. None of that was going to be accomplished here.

“Can I go now?” I asked, but I wasn’t waiting for a reply. I walked around her. Luckily, she moved out of the way, otherwise I’d have shoved her a bit.

“Jennifer,” Mom said, almost stoic. Barely. “I just… I just don’t understand. I wrote that book for
you
. I thought you would be happy that it had
your
name on the cover.”

“You didn’t write it,” I snapped, turning back around to look at her.

Her face went pale.

“That’s what ticks me off the worst about it. You, claiming you wrote something that you paid a college student to do. I saw her coming here late at night, helping you in the study. We all knew—Me, Sue, and Dad—so don’t act like this is something special. All you did was tell her your little stories about me and made her twist my reactions.”

“You have no respect for me,” she said, walking towards me.

“Why should I? You had none for Mitchell. I’m just doing myself a favor and learning to survive while I’m still in this house…that is, unless you want to lose two children. Then who would you write about?” I stared at her, my hand curled around the metal of my keychain.