"It's just that you kinda intimidate me. I'm sure you're a great guy. I just don't want to date you."
The few sexual encounters I’ve had were nothing to write home about. Sex was a way to be intimate with the two serious boyfriends I’ve had, not a tool for physical pleasure. They kneaded my breasts like it was cookie dough and drilled into me with the determination and grace of a drunken college kid jumping into a street fight.
I filed sex in my head as something rather underwhelming. Even if I could open up to the idea of dating a guy like Ty, I would embarrass myself no end the minute we stepped into the bedroom. He has the experience, the reputation and most probably really high expectations. I have nothing to offer him in this department.
He takes a step toward me, tilting my chin up with his finger and thumb. The hustle and bustle of the sidewalk blurs around me, the smell of food, body odor and pollution no longer wafts through my nostrils. His eyes shine with intensity. I want to break free from his gaze, but he is forcing me to stare at him, chaining me to this moment.
"You don't want to date me," he repeats evenly. No question mark.
I give him a quick nod, but my stomach is clenched, my body tight with anticipation. He takes another lazy step forward, his face unreadable.
"I'm going to kiss you now. If you don't want me to, turn away. Offer me your cheek. I won't be mad." There's a beat before he continues. "And you'll still get your interview."
My heart is crashing against my sternum when his forehead dips into mine. I’m swimming in a warm pool of honey.
Turn away, I tell myself. Don't do this. He's offered you an exit route. Move your feet and run.
But I don't. I close my eyes, my breath hitches, and I wait. And wait. Then wait some more, my skin itching for his touch. He's always chewing gum, and the minute I smell it—the minty sweet twist—I part my lips and let out a soft moan.
His lips find mine, brushing my mouth, leaving warm tingles wherever they touch. He's testing the waters. No tongue. No rage, just pure, surprising gentleness.
My toes curl when I feel him grasping my waist to bring me closer, body to body. He feels so firm and tight against my small frame. The only things separating us are a few pieces of clothing and my goddamn stubbornness. A stranger's shoulder bumps into mine by accident, and Ty is quick to shield me from the rest of the throng with his back, cornering me against a storefront, making sure that I'm safe.
His hand is in my hair and his body is pressed against mine, when he finally parts his lips, and not a moment too soon. His tongue explores my mouth eagerly, and I can't help but grin into his lips. He grins back, still kissing, so I allow myself to wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers trailing over his tattoo softly. I know that logically, we are not physically compatible. He is huge and I'm pretty small, but based on kissing him alone, it feels like we were created especially for one another.
We kiss for ten minutes, maybe a little more, but when we break away and I lift my eyes to his, my cheeks flushed, my heart stops completely.
The twinkle in his eyes is priceless. Different. Almost freaking vulnerable.
I want to remember this.
The surprise in his eyes, the tenderness of his touch, the sparks flying between us when I finally found out what he probably knew long ago—that I wanted him. Wanted this.
I touch my cheek self-consciously, so Ty lifts his hand to stroke my knuckles, his tone all business.
"Suffice to say you do want to date me."
I laugh into his chest, no longer afraid of his touch. I kissed him and survived. I kissed him and it was delicious. I kissed him and found out that despite his reputation, and the fears I failed to keep at bay, he was just a boy, kissing a girl, hoping she'd like it—and him—after all.
I stare at his face, not sure whose turn it is to speak. This is the first time I'm seriously toying with the idea of considering this as an actual date.
True, he is too hot to be mine. Hell, he is too hot to be anyone's. But weirder things have happened. I could probably name a few of them once I step out of the lusty mist I'm intoxicated with.
"So Shane...?" He leaves the question floating. This time I don't hesitate.
"Shane's just a friend. Honest to God, nothing less, but nothing more either."
Ty's eyes cling into mine, desperately seeking the truth.
“Good.” He nods once and swivels, leading the way back to the Hummer. “Now, get into my car before I do something that’ll get us both arrested.”
***
Recipe for a successful second date with a hot MMA fighter you're equally scared of and lust after. Ingredients:
One girl who blocks away thoughts about other girls, particularly ones named Nicole.
One guy who blocks away suspicions about hunky, hetero BFFs, particularly ones named Shane.
One cozy Mexican restaurant.
A problematic trio: Brain, Hormones and Heart, who are surprisingly well behaved and in harmony, for a change.
The Mexican restaurant is on the outskirts of Concord, and we sit in a far corner, on a padded red bench, eating, laughing and teasing each other playfully.
Ty sticks to water, salad and chewing gum. “Don’t worry,” he laughs when I guiltily push and shove my veggie burrito around my plate. “You and I have a binge-eating date in an all-you-can-eat Mexican grill right after the fight.”
We talk about Nana Marty and her life story, hold hands, gossip about the different characters coming to the XWL gym and confess what our dreams are.
"Let's say I retire when I'm around thirty-eight. I'm being optimistic here, because usually accumulated injuries mean you're lucky to make it to thirty-five." He rubs the back of his neck. My eyes flutter when I remember that's exactly where I wrapped my arms around just an hour ago when we kissed. "I hope I can save enough money to open up my own gym. But I'm more interested in kids."
I cock a surprised eyebrow.
Ty laughs. "In training kids, that is. I don't know, it seems more fulfilling. Lots of douchebags want to learn how to fight for all the wrong reasons."
"Like there's a right reason," I grumble, but drop the subject when I notice his expression is still warm and open.
"What's your dream, Barbie?"
"The immediate one is for you to stop calling me that." I bite my inner cheek, thinking about it. He deserves my honesty, but I'm not sure he'd make sense of it anyway. "I don't know what I want to do," I admit. "I want to travel the world, I want to learn how to speak French...I want to be happy."
God, this sounds so stupid. I cover my face, peeking through my fingers to watch his reaction. What kind of loser has no idea what they want to do with their life at twenty-three?
Moi, that's who. Well, at least that's one less word to learn in French.
Ty peels my hand from my face gently, enveloping it with his. "That's some deep shit," he says, and I allow myself to breath again.
It is...?
"It is?"
"Yeah, like that John Lennon quote. When his school teacher once asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, and he said happy, and she said that he didn't understand the question, and he answered that she didn't understand life." He paused, frowning. "I'm fucking this quote up, I think. Let's look it up on the Internet."
When he fishes for his phone, it's my turn to reach for him and hold his hand in mine. "No, you didn't fuck it up. I got it, and it's perfect. Thank you."
***
Ty insists on paying for dinner, and after a long argument in front of a cringing waitress, who shamelessly checked him out, I finally agree. We leave the restaurant with our fingers entwined and walk to a nearby diner, where I consume a slice of chocolate fudge cake the size of a mature seal, and he chuckles into his closed fist at how cute I am.
It’s weird how Ty shows me this different side of him, the sweetheart part, the kiss underneath the bleachers guy, who brings your mom flowers on her birthday and remembers shit like your first pet’s name and when you
get your period. I’ve never seen him so at ease. Usually, he avoids showing those cutie dimples at any cost. Tonight, he is flashing them like Miley Cyrus at a nudist beach.
When the date is over, we roll back to the busy street and he hugs me from behind. He enfolds me completely, tilts my chin up with his finger and locks his lips on mine. Every time we kiss a jolt of warmth flies straight down my spine. When he breaks away, he strokes my face softly.
“So, Miss Stern, where should we have this interview?”
“Your place. It would shed a lot of light about how you live,” I answer.
He clicks his car open. “One honest interview and a side of first base make-out coming right up.”
***
Ty lives in a rundown neighborhood in Concord. He has a chain link fence, and it’s dotted with girlie mementos firmly tucked into its holes. There are thongs and bikini tops and love letters and phone numbers on the fence, all in different colors and sizes. I brush my fingers along the fence links as we walk to the locked gate and instinctively pluck out one pair of undies and examine it, only to discover that it’s used and smells of the woman who wore it.
Christ on a cracker. I think I just totally lost my faith in humanity.
Fan letters are jamming his mailbox full and a huge American flag waves from his red-roofed, one-story house. A vintage, custom-made Harley-Davidson is parked on his wooden porch, and a black-lace bra rests on its leather seat. The image of Ty screwing a girl on his Harley in the middle of the exposed yard makes my fingers shake with fury. I feel whiplashed, sick and frustrated.
I can't believe I kissed the guy. What the hell was wrong with me?
Yes, I judge a book by its cover, and it’s becoming apparent that the content matches the cover pretty perfectly.
We get in the house and Ty slams the door shut with his foot, but I’m still haunted by the sex shrine fencing his place.
There is something about the reaction Ty gets from girls that seriously pisses me off. It’s the same reaction I have to him.
Complete. Lack. Of. Self. Control.
The letters. The underwear. The bra. Even if Ty were the nicest, most loyal guy on earth, it’s too much to handle. We sit across from each other and he rests his head back against his armchair. His living room is slob-central, full of men’s gadgets, books, Xbox games, three laptops, clothes and weightlifting equipment. I press my fingers to my eye sockets and try not to think about all the underwear I’ve just seen outside. The man is literally surrounded by pussy 24/7. How can I even concentrate on the interview?
His low voice soothes, “They’re just fans, you know.”
I drop my head into my hands. “And they're majorly supportive, in more than one way.”
“Come on, that’s bullshit. They don’t even have the guts to come and see me face to face.”
“Some of them do.” I think about the bra hooked on the Harley.
“Yeah, some. And they're good for killing time. I think I'm done killing outside the cage. Now let’s do this interview.”
I place the recording device on a table between us in his living room and take out a notepad and a pen. I hate taking notes when I interview people, afraid to miss the flicker of emotion in their eyes when they say something important, scared they'll close up when I scribble something like a shrink and remind them that, ultimately, this is not a conversation, more like an interrogation. But busying myself with setting everything up allows me to gather my thoughts. Tyler really does seem to be genuine about his intentions toward me, but it's difficult to place my trust in his hands, because these hands have touched, caressed, pinched and stroked so many other women.
I turn the recorder on. "Start from the beginning. What made you become a MMA fighter?"
"Anger tantrums, mostly." He chuckles to himself, running a hand over his buzzed hair thoughtfully. He stares hard at the floor, not meeting my eyes. “I’ve always been physical, and as a kid, I was all over the place. Everyone knew how easy it was to get Tyler into a fight. I wouldn't back down, no matter how big, older or scary the other kid was. It wasn't bravery, it was rage."
I purse my lips, drawn to his sudden fragility. Tyler is always honest, but he isn't the brooding type.
"Let me guess, you always won?"
"Nope," he answers casually. He sends me a lazy smile, shaking of his weird mood. "And it didn't matter. Still doesn't. I want to win...but I don't need to. I want everything else that comes with the fight. The anticipation, the head games, the thrill, the fear, the pain, the touch of my skin against someone else's. I need it like I need to breath. And if I manage to pay my bills by entertaining a bunch of people while doing what I love...well, it's a win-win situation."
He enjoys pain. Thrives on it. How sick is that?
"So you were a handful as a kid?" I steer the conversation back to the original subject. My body is inferno hot, and I feel a bead of sweat traveling down my spine.
"That's a nice way to put it. After I got into a lot of trouble and was suspended from school, my mom signed me up for this wrestling class for kids."
I smile. "You got hooked."
"Yeah, the rest is history."
"And the anger tantrums?"
He cocks his head to the side, a funny look plastered on his face. It's more of a personal question than a professional one. I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. “You're right. None of my business. Do you have any hobbies other than MMA?” “Sure. Krav Maga.”
I roll my eyes. Tomayto, tomahto. Krav Maga is just an extension of MMA.
"You’re called The Zombie in the XWL. Why?"
“People say my eyes look kind of dead when I enter the ring." He pauses. "And all the other cool names were already taken.”
I laugh, and this makes him grin, like he's succeeded in doing something he wasn't sure he was capable of.
"Why do all MMA fighters have huge, dead-ugly, in-your-face tattoos?"
"Multiple blows to the head?" He scrunches his face, and I laugh again, and now his face practically radiates happiness. “Same reason the mob throws around body parts in neighborhoods—to spread fear.”
I stare down at the next question on my notepad and fidget in my seat. That's an awkward one, but I had no problem running it with Jesse, so Ty needs to answer it too.
"You make sweet money—50k per fight, and another 75k per win. Hey, dude, just reading your stats." I smile angelically as his face tenses. "What the hell are you still doing on the wrong side of Concord?"
"I like it here. It's close to the gym, to my friends..." He shrugs. "And it's not like I'm rich or anything. I get by, but I can't fight more than three or four times a year, I need time to recover, and paying for the gym, equipment, nutritionist, etc., drains your bank account." He lets this sink in before he finally adds. "Last but not least, I'm not money-driven, and neither are you, Blaire."
My chest tightens. I'm glad he picked up on that. I'm not sure how, but he did. It's one more step toward not being referred to as Barbie.
"What’s the worst injury you’ve taken in a fight?"
“Broken nose, arms, legs. Cuts, blood loss. Hematoma right above my brow. I looked like the elephant man for two weeks.” He touches the bridge of his nose, smiling, like the memory of it is sweet and laced with nostalgia. God, he is crazy. And sexy.
"Er...okay." I lose my balance, going through the pages without focusing on their content. It's still too hot for my liking, but I'm starting to think it might just be me.
"Are you nervous about your fight with Eoghan Doherty? June 13th is less than two months away."
“No, but he should be.”
I continue the interview with a lump in my throat. The AC is on, and I know why I'm hot. I'm hot because I'm nervous. I'm nervous because I hated what I've seen outside his house, in his yard.
But I still can't hate him.
Frankly, sadly, I'm not even close to hating him right now. And that's just a crying shame for Heart and Brain.
Chapter T
en
I’m not ready to face Ty again yet, now that I've seen the fence, the bra, the letters.
After mentally falling apart.
I go to the I Prevail gig with Shane the next night, and he finds himself a shiny, new toy while I’m in the bathroom. A freshman, American history major named Gemma.
Well, at least he's off my back now.
Time drags painfully slowly all week. Izzy is still working abroad, and I spend my days lonely as a cloud. Everyone around me seems to be busy with life, with planning their summer, with living, while I go back to floating through life aimlessly, with only school to keep me going. If you really need a description of what my life looks like right now, I'll keep it short and simple: meh.
I study during the days and work at night. Ty calls once, the day after the interview while I was at the concert with Shane, but I didn't pick up. A pile of text messages he left remains unanswered.
Sunday: Feel like catching a movie or something?
Monday: So I tried listening to Neck Deep, that band I saw on your playlist. What's their deal? They sound like Blink-182, but they're British.
Tuesday: Hey gorgeous, your music sucks
Wednesday: Have I been humped and dumped, Barbie? I'm shocked and hurt
Thursday: Okay, the shock and hurt just turned into anger. WTF, Blaire?
Friday: Fine.
This was his last word. Fine. Only it isn't fine, because I keep thinking about him. I just can't give in and date him. Rottweilers don't turn into neutered Chihuahuas. I don't want to get hurt, but my days without him seem empty, boring, lacking. I'm desperate to stay away. I need to stay away. But I'm no longer sure which will hurt more—staying away or seeing him.
So on Saturday, when I know I'm ahead of my game with the MMA assignment and well prepared for an upcoming exam, have already finished scrubbing the apartment clean and have ticked every single to-do-list box I have hanging on my fridge, I text him back.