12 Rounds (18 page)

It’s not until we’re about half way to the ring that I notice that there a lot of eyes on me.

Most of them are women.

A few gawk.

Another looks like she’s about to cry.

But the last one, a tall tan brunette stares at me through slits, scowling.

What’s her problem?

I’m so focused on Little Miss Mean Face that I don’t realize that Sean has stopped walking and I smack right into his back. Shit. Not only do I bite my lip, but I react instinctively by petting his back, trailing my fingers along the flimsy fabric of his wife beater. “Oh my God,” I gasp as he turns to face me. “I’m so sorry.”

Part of me expects him to fly off the handle, but he doesn’t. A relaxed smile curls on his lips and he grabs my wrists. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

“No big deal. It’s easy to get distracted around here. There’s a lot going on.” He points to the ring. “I’m gonna help you up. You okay with that?”

I smile and a rush of anxiety pumps through me when I think about his hands on me. Then I freeze.
What if I freak out? What if I say something stupid? What if I somehow fall and embarrass myself in front of the entire gym?

Sean senses my hesitation and leans in close, his lips a breath away from my ear. “Relax, Hadlee.” His voice is low yet comforting and he slips both hands around my waist. “I’m going to ease you up now. Grab onto the ropes.” I do as he says, clutching  the ropes tightly  and hoist myself over them. “Good girl,” he breathes.

Just when Sean is about to climb into the ring himself, Miss Mean Face saunters over and props herself up next to him. She flashes me yet another scowl that says
look bitch I got this
  and starts twirling a strand of her hair around her fingertip. “Hey Sean,” she giggles and there’s a part of me that wants to barf.

Sean just glares at her for a second, says, “Sup?” Then hoists himself up and over the ropes.

Miss Mean Face just isn’t taking the hint. Because now she’s trying to climb into the ring. Sean stops her at the half way point, hovering above her, arms stretched out along the ropes, the muscles in his biceps and forearms tighten as his fingers curl around the red rubber. “This is a private class,” he says coolly.

“Oh,” she pouts as she hops down and backs up. She puts on a seductive smirk when Sean turns his back and then she yells, “Call me sometime!” 

But Sean isn’t paying any attention.

He shrugs off his wife beater  and I do my best to keep a straight face, and not gape when I get a good look at his abs. Then I think the word shredded  might be an understatement if I had to describe them to someone. I have never seen a body like his, all cut up and toned in all the right places. And suddenly, I’m self-conscious  pulling my shirt down and glancing awkwardly in the opposite direction. I blink several times and exhale, making a mental note not to move.

Not a step.

Don’t even flinch.

Because I’m pretty sure if I move, I’ll fall or do something klutz-like, and there’s no telling where my equilibrium went. The minute Sean took his shirt off, I know it seeped through my pores and drifted off into one of the darkened corners of the gym.

“I’m going to touch you now, Hadlee,” he warns me. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Okay,” I breathe. He positions himself behind me and the overwhelming surge of his warm body pressed against me bleeds through my clothes, through my skin, and I feel like my organs are crackling embers, smoldering beneath a pile of blazing logs. “Open your eyes,” he says softly.

I didn’t even realize they were closed.

I open my eyes slowly and I see that we’re standing in front of a wide rectangular row of full length mirrors. Instantly, I notice his eyes as they stare back at me through the mirror. Sean smiles and when I see him smile, I feel at ease.

His smile does something funny to me. Something I can’t explain. It’s like the sun cutting through gray clouds right after a thunderstorm. A smile like his, so breathtaking, and mind-numbing, and vibrant, I’m convinced it can light up even the darkest days. “I’m going to slide my hands down your arms now and when I tell you I want you to move with me, okay?”

“Okay.” He looks at me sideways and I turn my head, our lips almost touching and I have to remind myself to breathe. His fingertips glide down my arms, bringing on goosebumps, and pricking my skin with tiny tingles. The tingles spread, shooting across my chest, down my legs. Pretty soon I’m tingling all over.

My eyes find his in the mirror again and I notice there’s  something missing from his face. “Where’s your ball?”

He makes an awkward face. Eyebrows half-scrunched. Lips half-smirked. “My ball?”

“You know,” I tsk and think about pointing to the spot on my face, but don’t because I like the way his fingers feel on me. “That piercing.”

“Oh.” He lets out a low laugh. “I take it out for training.” He stares at me, his eyes transfixed on my face. “Why? You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine,” I say, flustered.

“It’s fine?” he lifts an eyebrow. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that.”

“I just think you’re beautiful without it.” The words leave my lips rushed and jumbled together and I kind of hope that he didn’t understand what I just said.

I have shitty luck.

“Did you just call me beautiful?”

I really wish I had use of my hands right now so I could cover my face. “Umm.” A pause combined with a nervous chuckle. “Maybe.”

He lets out a husky laugh. “That’s a first. No one has ever called me beautiful, congratulations on being the first.” I smile. “Who knows, though? Next you’ll probably tell me that I’ll be even more beautiful without my tattoos.”

I drop my gaze and my cheeks flush, “No. I love your tattoos.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to him. But it’s the truth. I’ve always thought tattoos were sexy on a man. It’s funny because since I’ve met Sean, I can’t even picture what he’d look like without them. It’s like they’re a huge part of him.

“Good. Cause they’re not going anywhere.”

My eyes drop to his wrist and I admire the one just below his palm. The language isn’t English, so I’m not sure what it says, but the calligraphic way it’s written is striking. “Is bin bayel in a host.” I try to pronounce the words but they don’t sound right.

“Is binn beal ina thost,” Sean corrects me.

The accented way he pronounces the words, and the deep darkened tone in his voice, sets a large cluster of butterflies free in my stomach. “What language is that?”

“Gaelic.”

“And what does it mean?”

His eyes find my lips in the mirror. “A silent mouth is sweet.” I innocently chew on my lower lip, my nerves a jumbled mess of intrigue and paranoia. I peek up at him through my eyelashes. “Or in other words, Silence is golden.”

“Why that?” I inquire. “I mean I’m sure there are plenty of other sayings you could have chosen.”

His lips touch my ear and I shiver.

Shiver in delight.

Out of desire and nervousness.

And when his warm breath unfurls and caresses my eardrum before trailing down my spine, and  I gasp. Not only because I’m surprised by how much I love his lips touching my skin, but because  he whispers, “Because I’m good at keeping secrets,” into my ear.

That sends a spike of curiosity through me. “What kind of secrets?”

He lets out a low throaty chuckle. “They wouldn’t be secrets if I told you, now would they?” He changes the subject with a shift of his hips and a lift of my right hand. “Now, back to your self-defense lesson.” His head snaps up and I eye him through the mirror. He pulls my arms back and instructs me by saying, “Ball your right hand into a fist.” As I curl up my fingers he gently eases my arm back then snaps it forward. “This is called a jab.” He drops his hands from me and a saddened  feeling sinks inside of me before settling in my gut. Then he walks around in front of me, his thumb and forefinger on his chin. “Now you try it.” He stops directly in front of the view of myself in the mirror. “Right jab then left jab.”

I throw a right jab, then a left, feeling empowered and strong. But then Sean starts laughing. I frown. “What’s so funny?” I’m irritated by the way my one moment of triumph is cut short by his cocky persona.

“You throw punches like a girl,” Sean says, a slight vibration in his vocal chords.

“Well I hope so,” I bark at him. “Being that I am a girl and everything.”

He grips my forearms and stares at me deadpan. “If you’re trying to defend yourself you want to throw a punch like a man. Those sissy jabs won’t save you.”

I’m insulted and hurt by his blunt comments and laughter. First off, I didn’t even know what the hell a jab was a minute ago. Second, I’m trying. I mean actually trying and here he is mocking me. I throw a right jab, this time packing more punch into it and plant my right fist into his shoulder. “Jab that, Right Hook,” I huff with a hint of sarcasm.

Holding back a giggle, I will myself to look him in the eye. His seas of bluish green have a twinkle of amusement in them and his whole hand is covering his mouth. “Hmm.” He lowers his hand and cocks his head to the side. “Still weak, but better.”

I think about throwing another jab right at his mouth, but refrain. He has such a beautiful mouth. Full kissable lips. I’d hate to damage them. “Whatever,” I say in a snarky tone.  “That punch hurt and you know it.”

He howls with laughter and I can’t help but laugh with him. Mainly because I think we both know my comment was ridiculous. This guy has taken punches to the face by dudes with boxing gloves on. And those punches probably sail into him at what I assume to be at least 25 miles per hour. Yeah, my weak excuse of a punch probably felt like the poke of a fingertip.

Sean gains control of his laughter and presses his body against mine from behind again. “Moving on.” He instructs me again, telling me to make both hands fists and bends my arms to my chest, pressing them into parallel lines against my breast bone. “This is called an uppercut,” he informs me. Then he guides my arm, sweeping my hand in a circular motion, downward then upward. He steps away from me and I feel the sadness bubbling inside of me again, but I ignore it, thrusting both arms upward in a right uppercut then a left. Sean smiles intently, then claps. “Great job Hadlee,” he compliments. “Maybe you’ll get the hang of this after all.”

A gratifying feeling swirls through me and I beam. “Thanks,” I gush. And I find it stimulating how a tiny bit of praise can work wonders on a person’s ego.

I feel invincible.

Unstoppable.

Ready for whatever he’s about to throw at me next.

I think.

He positions himself behind me again and inserts his hands under my armpits leveling my arms into a vertical line. But then his fingers slide up my back crossing my shoulders and inching too close to my neck.

Way too close.

I know I sort of know Sean, but that slight action takes me back.

Because I see them.

The thick, dirty calloused hands of my attacker.

I swear I can feel them caressing my flesh.

Clasping around my throat.

Suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe.

My whole chest vibrates and my stance starts to waiver, falter. I swallow hard, trying to hold back the sobs stuck in my throat, and just when I think I’m going to hit the ring floor, Sean catches me. He catches me and covers me with his arms, holding me tightly. “Hadlee,” he says gently. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stammer. I keep trying to gain control of my emotions, but nothing I do seems to work. I breathe in and out. Think calming thoughts. Have visions of metal bars, orange jumpsuits, and men lifting weights in a prison yard. I tell myself that I’m okay. That I’m not in any danger, but I can still feel my attackers hands. I can still hear his voice. Suddenly I’m falling apart, sobbing, and trembling and Sean’s arms seem to be the only thing holding my together.

He whispers soothing
shhs
into my ear, cradles me in his arms, and rocks back and forth slowly from foot to foot. Smoothing my hair away from my forehead, he looks into my eyes. His eyes are full of hurt and agony and remorse when he asks, “What did he do to you?”

I’d like to answer him with a question and ask,
What didn’t he do to me?

Somehow with insistent hands and forceful slaps, my attacker managed to shred me up like smokehouse cheddar spit out of a cheese grater. He managed to tear away every ounce of confidence I had and make this weak, feeble person whom I hate. But not only that…No… He managed to fuck me up in the worst way possible, making me fear simple human contact.

Something that is supposed to be natural between a man.

And a woman.

Something that is supposed to beautiful.

Now here I am, wrapped up in man’s arms, curled into a ball of hysteria, not knowing what the hell it’s going to take for me to get over my shit.

I snake my arms around Sean’s back and cling to him. He’s like the life vessel I’ve never had and I’m too overwhelmed with emotion and too terrified to let go. I bury my head into the crook of his neck and at last let go. The sobs come out muffled against his skin, and now embarrassment mixes in with my fear, and I don’t know how to eliviate  myself from this awkward situation.

Should I run from the room? Apologize again? Thank him for trying to teach me self-defense, but explain that I’m a lost cause?

Tell him that there’s no hope for me.

That I’ll be fucked up forever.

But he doesn’t give me a chance to say anything else. Because the second before I go with my notion of running from him, his lips find my ear again. They caress my lower lobe, sending shooting shocks of warmth through my skin. Then he whispers, “You’re safe now, angel. Everything will be all right.”

The words.

His words.

They’re beautiful.

Familiar.

Haunting.

They plummet to dark corners of my brain and realization blows up inside of me when I finally understand why they’re familiar and beautiful and haunting. I lift my head, staring up at him wide eyed, through my long tearstained lashes, and choke out, “Oh shit.” Then I gasp, “It was you.”