We stare at each other over the piece of clothing, twelve years yawning between us. There's plenty of hurt and pain, but beneath the memories of how we hurt each other is more, so much more.
"Keep it," I tell her hoarsely. I like knowing she has something that belongs to me. Not much, but it's something.
She clutches the jacket to her chest and gives a curt nod. Something in me cracks a little, as if I'm relieved she didn't throw my gift back in my face. Fates, I'm still in deep with this woman.
I watch her strut to her car, hips twitching invitingly, and clench my hands into fists. I don't know what I want to do more: strangle her or fuck her. Probably both. Yeah, that'd be good.
I hold my breath until the taillights of her car disappear. When I finally blow it out, I feel winded, like I've run for miles. Like I've been punched in the guts.
Sheridan Green. Fuck me. Fucking fuck me.
TWELVE YEARS AGO
Sheridan
I HEAD up the walk to my house, my lips curved with a secret smile. After school time used to be reserved for homework and studying the cramped pages of my text books until my vision blurred. Trey changed all that.
I take the steps two at a time, feeling loose and supple and full of light. My body sings the song of a well-satisfied woman. I blush just thinking that. A woman, not a girl. Trey makes me feel alive.
My high lasts as long as it takes to turn the knob of the front door. As soon as I open it, my mom pops in front of me.
"Sheridan!" she cries. My dad looms behind her.
The smile falls from my lips. Fates, do they know where I've been?
"Mom? Dad?" I search their faces.
"So, when were you going to tell us?" my mom demands, and for a moment I'm about to pass out.
"About what?" I whisper, feeling sick. How did they find out about Trey? Did someone tell them?
A bright smile stretches my mom's mouth and I blink. There's no way she'd be smiling if she knew what I was doing after school with Trey.
"About Stanford, silly girl. Mrs. Stefani, the school counselor, called today to brag on you. Wolf Ridge is proud to graduate an Ivy league-bound senior!"
The nervous quiver I've had in my belly ever since Trey found the letter grows wilder, like a litter of eels circling around. "Well, I'm not sure about going."
My dad's smile flips to frown. "What are you talking about?"
"California's not that far away, honey," my mom says.
I fidget with the zipper on my backpack.
My dad's eyes narrow. "Is this about that Robson boy?"
My stomach sinks. "No," I lie.
Both my parents hear the untruth in my voice.
"Your future is way more important than a silly high school romance," my mom says.
"You're going," my dad insists. There's ice cold promise in his words, like he'll personally deliver me to school kicking and screaming if I refuse.
I try to appear unshaken, like this is still my decision, which it should be. I toss a casual shrug. "I sent in my acceptance but I'm still making up my mind." I attempt to infuse just enough brazenness in my words to sound like I'm my own woman, and turn on my heel to head to my bedroom.
"Do not walk away when we're talking to you." And just like that, the conversation one-eighties from we're proud of you to you're in deep shit, young lady.
For the first time in my life, I consider running away. It's a rash and irrational thought, but it pops into my head immediately, like it's the only solution. I'm eighteen now-they shouldn't be running my life like this. Would Trey come with me if I did?
I stop and turn, teeth grinding. "What?" Yeah, I can play bitchy teen to a T.
"You're going to Stanford," my dad says. "There's nothing to decide."
I want to argue and fight, but my dad's pulling an alpha and I know there'd be no winning. Maybe that's why my brain produced running away as my only other option.
Tears of defeat pop into my eyes, but I don't let him see them, instead I whirl and run for my room, slamming the door like I'm thirteen again.
Present
I'M BACK at Fight Club at a quarter to noon. Daylight doesn't do this place any favors, but I can't help calculating the cost of pavement, new paint inside, maybe some bleachers around the cage…this place could be legit. Of course, I'd want to kick out the vampires, or maybe just make them sign something restricting their activity. Part of the thrill of this place is the danger; I wouldn't want to take that away completely.
My thoughts are swirling around waiver forms and liquor licenses and costs of regular powerwashing when my eyes land on Trey's tall form. He stands in a pool of light, dust motes dancing around his powerful body. His tattoos really aren't bad. Works of art, really. I want to peel off his clothes and make him tell me the stories of how, when and why he got them. Except that would mean he was naked.
No! Down girl. Bad idea.
"You ready for this?" he calls and I trot over to him. I'm wearing yoga pants and a loose top, my typical gym wear.
His forehead creases as he reads the words on my shirt. "You only do buttstuff at the gym?"
I grin. "I got this shirt from Etsy."
"Do you even know what buttstuff is?"
I stick my chin out, wishing my cheeks wouldn't color. "Yes. And I stand by my t-shirt's assertion. At least, for now." I bite the inside of my cheek after I add that last part. Trey's bemused expression changes to starved animal staring down its prey.
I clear my throat and pretend we weren't just dancing around the topic of anal sex. "Are we gonna do this in the ring? Fight, I mean?" I clarify, lest he's thinking I'm still talking about buttstuff.