Pushing the Limits (15 page)

“Full coverage would be paid.”

She swallowed hard before asking the question she knew in her gut the answer to already. “And what if it was later discovered the illness had actually been the cause of death?”

“The paid-out premium amounts would be required by law to be paid back to Statewide Claims.”

Right.

Shit.

* * *

Hearing the door unlock, Colby ran a hand through her hair and leaned against the counter in Dane's kitchen.

He smiled when he saw her and her apprehension increased. He was happy to see her. Which should have made her feel better. Instead, she felt even more anxiety creeping into her chest.

“I assume Mrs. Everwood let you in?” he asked, dropping his training bag.

She nodded. “I hope that's okay. I wanted to see you.” The last few days had been torture as she'd struggled to resolve her conflicted thoughts. Between work and training, she'd barely seen him the last few weeks. Her memory of his gorgeous face failed to do it justice. His easy, tired smile as he walked toward her made her whole body tingle. How on earth was she supposed to do the right thing—tell him the truth—when he looked so damn hot?

Feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, she quickly turned away and opened the oven door, where Mrs. Everwood's leftovers were waiting for him. “Mrs. Everwood was awesome enough to feed me . . .” She started, but as she set the tray of lasagna on the stove, he grabbed her waist and, lifting her, he set her onto the counter. Kissing her hard, he wedged himself between her legs.

Oven-mitted hands went around his neck as she returned the kiss, savoring the taste of his lips as his aftershave filled her senses. God, he looked amazing, smelled amazing, tasted amazing. She willed time to stop, so she could stay right there
in that moment with this amazing, selfless man who was far too good for her, who deserved so much better than the way she was deceiving him. Her throat grew thick and she was grateful for his lips pressed firmly against hers, preventing the slight quiver.

Cupping her face with his hands, he broke away with a satisfied sigh. “I wanted to see you too,” he said, his intense gaze making her even more desperate for him than the kiss had.

She cleared her throat. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nope.” The slow smile that spread across his face made her heart thunder in her chest.

“Thank God,” she said, freeing her hands from the oven mitts and, fisting her hands in the fabric of his shirt, she dragged him closer. A confession would have to wait. She couldn't even think straight around him, especially when he looked at her that way. Desire and lust were in his expression, but also something else—dare she hope it was love?

“Can I take you right here?” he asked, already unzipping his jeans.

She nodded, moving to the edge of the counter and lifting her skirt up over her hips.

“Easy access, I like it,” he whispered into her ear as he dropped his pants and yanked his underwear down past his thighs.

His cock was already standing erect and she swallowed hard, ready for him as well. So much so that she reached into her pocket and handed him a condom. Her shy grin met his surprised look. “Wow, you really thought this through. Good thing I didn't say I was hungry.”

She laughed as the first real sensation of happiness she'd had in days filled her. For right now, it was the only emotion she would allow herself to feel.

Dane tore the wrapper and slid the condom over himself, moaning at his own touch. “I warn you, this will be quick,” he said, his voice husky.

“I've been thinking about it all day. Believe me, I won't last long either,” she said, moving her underwear to the side to allow him access.

“Damn, Colby, you're so fucking hot,” he said, moving between her legs. A second later, he thrust forward, entering her, and a cry escaped her lips. “Did I hurt you?” he murmured in her ear as he gripped her ass and pulled her even closer, pushing himself even deeper.

“No,” she panted. “Harder, deeper, faster . . .” she said, her fingernails biting into the flesh at his shoulders.

He thrust over and over, his cock reaching depths that she hadn't known were possible and sliding almost all the way back out before thrusting in again. Her breathing was hard and fast as she rocked her hips in rhythm with his body and his tongue trailed along her neck and collarbone. “I'm getting close,” he said, slowing down a little.

“Me too, don't stop,” she said, clinging to him. She'd never needed anyone the way she needed him at that moment. Needed his body tight with hers, needed the feel of his lips against her bare neck, and needed this moment to last. To help her forget everything else that would come later and give her something she could hold on to.

Her body tightened around him, and a final thrust later, his head collapsed against her shoulder and he groaned.

Her own body spasmed at the sound of his release and she trembled as ripples of delight shot through her. She fought to steady her breath as he kissed her gently—a stark contrast to the way he'd taken her roughly, desperately, passionately, on his kitchen counter.

“I could come home to that every day,” he whispered.

And she kissed him again to stop the truth from escaping her lips and destroying everything.

The neighborhood hadn't changed at all since he was a kid and every time he went back there, he felt like he'd stepped through time. However, if time travel
were
possible, there were a million other places he'd choose to go rather than his past . . . or this neighborhood.

Driving down the familiar streets, Dane shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel of the truck. Passing the old playground should have brought back happy childhood memories. Instead, the peeling paint, exposed, rusting metal, netless basketball hoops that were bent and twisted, and the court covered in graffiti made his stomach turn. The memory of the other boys' relentless bullying echoed in his mind. They were all poor, but his family was the poorest, making him the obvious outsider, and the fact that he was tall and gangly made him an easy target. His gaze settled on the spot behind the back fence where every day one of them would decide to beat on him, and it brought back the feeling of weakness that had accompanied each undefended shot to his face and stomach.

He looked away and stared straight ahead as he passed the grocery store, the high school, and the medical clinic . . . All exactly the same. All with their own troublesome memories attached.

Getting out of this place had been his only goal for as long as he could remember. And fighting had been his way out. He pulled the truck to the curb as the only gym within twenty miles came into view. Frank's Gym had closed ten years before and the boards covering the busted-out windows and the graffiti-covered walls confirmed that even the greatest of places hadn't been able to compete with the harsh reality of life in the eastern valley neighborhood.

He remembered the first day he'd walked into the gym, eyes black from his recent fight, his toes poking through holes in his running shoes because they were two sizes too small and he knew there was no point asking for a new pair. His mother's disorder always made him question whether she cared about him enough to have bought him new shoes even if she'd had the money.

An older man had been inside a boxing ring with a kid a little older than him and they'd stopped as he approached. “Let me guess. You want to learn how to defend yourself against whoever did that to your face?”

“Yes, sir,” Dane had said.

“Well, go find a self-defense class or buy a gun like everyone else in this neighborhood,” the man said, turning back to the kid he was training.

“But I was hoping to just learn how to fight.”

“I only train people who want to fight to compete here at this gym.”

Dane had hesitated. He was done getting beat on, so the last thing he wanted to do was willingly climb into a fight. And he knew his mother would lose her shit if he told her he was even in the gym in the first place. “I'll train to compete,” he said after a long pause.

The man had studied him for a long moment. “You're Melinda Hardy's son, right?”

His jaw had clenched at the mention of his mother. Her reputation around the neighborhood as the crazy lady was one of the main reasons he was picked on. “Yes, sir.”

He'd nodded. “Then I guess you have no other options,” he'd said. “Go grab a set of training gloves.”

At the time, he'd had no idea what the man meant when he'd said he had no other options, but now, looking back on his childhood, he knew Frank had been right and had given him a future. One he'd clung to, despite his mother's constant yelling and demanding that he quit, despite the beatings he continued to take inside and outside of the cage . . . and despite the fact that as Melinda Hardy's no-good son, he had no other options.

It didn't matter. He'd only needed one.

He shook the memories away as he pulled back out onto the street, took three right turns, and pulled into the driveway of his mother's run-down home near Mojave Road. Nothing had changed here either. Paint still peeling from the same places, the same missing window shutter, the broken stair leading up to the front door where the screen hung loose, detached from one corner. The lawn was overgrown and his mother's old Chevy sedan sat in the driveway, a flat tire on the driver's side.

Not that it mattered. Her depression had been more frequent than the manic episodes over the last few years and he knew she rarely left the house. Reluctantly, he climbed out of the truck and went to the door. He took a deep breath as he knocked and simultaneously tried the handle. The door opened and his jaw tightened.

Their house had been broken into twice because his mother always forgot to lock the damn door. The first time, his Nintendo system and small television he'd bought with the money he'd saved for a year from his paper route had been stolen, and the second time his training gear had disappeared.

His mother had nothing of value; therefore, both times, her few possessions had remained untouched.

“Mom!” he called as he kicked a pile of mail and flyers out of the way and entered the house. Obviously she hadn't
gone anywhere near the front door in a while. Overdue notices caught his eye. Envelopes with red PAST DUE lettering were not an uncommon sight in their home, but it angered him that his mother refused to accept what she called “blood money” from his fight paydays to help her stay on top of things.

“Mom,” he said again as he made his way down the hallway toward her bedroom.

The door was closed and the faint sound of a radio could be heard from within. “Mom!” he called again, knocking once on the door and slowly turning the knob.

Inside, she was in bed, her eyes closed. Her hair was a mess and makeup streaks stained her cheeks. Next to her on the bedside table were used tissues, glasses of water, and bottles of prescription pills.

Yet another far-too-familiar sight.

One that made him want to turn around and leave and never look back again. Forget about his past, this neighborhood, this house, and this woman who'd never been there for him. But Colby had been right. He needed to face all of this again. It was just another thing from his past that would always continue to haunt him if he didn't.

He moved closer and touched his mother's shoulder, shaking gently. “Mom.”

She rolled over and her eyes opened slowly. “Dane?”

“Hi.”

She sat up and ran a hand through her unruly, tangled red hair. “What are you doing here? Did the neighbors call you again?” Her eyes narrowed and immediately she looked ready to tear someone apart.

He
was the fighter, yet he had nothing on her anger or fighting spirit. “No, they didn't. Why? What happened this time?” The last time the neighbors had called him, his mother had taken their cat hostage for the return of her ladder, which they'd supposedly borrowed and never returned.

He'd freed the cat and found the ladder, broken in the back of the shed behind the house. When asked, his mother couldn't even remember why she'd needed it in the first place.

She tossed the sheet aside, and swinging her too-thin legs over the side of the bed, she reached for her cigarettes. She lived on cigarettes, stale bread, and weak coffee. As a child, he'd had to fend for himself. The sight of her with a smoke between her lips was truly the only image of her he could call to mind, and it had always angered him that somehow there had always been enough money to accommodate her chain-smoking habit.

She lit one and took a long draw before speaking. “They were having a party last weekend—loud music, lots of
people—until three a.m. All I could hear was the sound of hip-hop music making my walls vibrate.” She blew a puff of smoke toward him.

He waved the disgusting smell of menthol away. “So, what did you do?” A normal person would ask them to keep the noise down or even call the police past twelve o'clock.

“I turned on the garden hose and sprayed them all,” she said with a shrug.

He forced a steadying breath. “Mom, why didn't you just call the police about the noise?”

She waved a hand. “Police don't come into this neighborhood unless we report a dead body, you know that. Anyway, I handled it. So, if you're not here because of that, what do you want?”

Coming here was a bad idea. She'd never approved of his fighting, and he'd done it anyway. Why was her approval so damn important now? He swallowed hard. “I'm fighting again.”

She didn't seem to hear him as she struggled with the cap of her pill bottle, her cigarette dangling dangerously between her fingers. She'd always smoked in bed and more than once he'd taken a still-lit cigarette from her fingers after she'd passed out from her sleeping pills. He'd always thought one day she would set the place on fire.

He took the bottle and opened it. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you,” she said, tossing who knows how many pills into her mouth and taking a swig of the water, shivering as she swallowed it all. “What do you want from me?” She stood and left the room.

He followed. “I want you to tell me . . .” What? That fighting was okay? That killing someone inside the octagon shouldn't haunt him for the rest of his life? That she accepted who he was? He knew he'd never get any of that from her. And he still wasn't sure he deserved it. His shoulders slumped. “I just wanted you to know.”

She turned on the tap in the kitchen sink and filled an old, dirty-looking coffeepot. “I don't know why. I've always made my feelings clear. You've always ignored them.”

“I didn't ignore them.” Didn't his mother realize how her words, her lack of support, her criticism, and her turning her back on him had affected him? He rested a hand against the counter, blocking her access to the coffeemaker. “But what other future did you possibly see for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don't blame your lack of opportunities on me.”

Who else should he blame? His absent father? The teachers at the school who treated him like he was stupid, when the truth was, he'd never been able to do his homework because his mother had refused to help him, calling him an idiot when
he got something wrong? So he'd never done the assigned work, falling behind, and no one at the school cared enough to investigate the issue, labelling him a special-needs kid who would inevitably fall through the cracks. Were they the ones to blame? He'd been a child at the mercy of his circumstances. And he'd done what he could to survive.

He moved out of her way and lowered his gaze to the torn linoleum. The faded flowers looked as desperate and pitiful as he felt. “Fine. Well, before I go, do you need anything?”

She hit the button on the coffeemaker and snorted, gesturing at the cluttered, disorganized mess around them. “What more could I possibly need?”

He nodded, the urge to flee overwhelming. “Okay.” He headed toward the front door and turned back when he reached it. “Will you at least start locking the door? Two break-ins—you'd think you would be worried about leaving it open.”

She shot him her famous you-poor-stupid-boy look and he wished he'd kept going out the door. “You still believe that story, huh?”

His breath caught in his chest. His unvoiced suspicions were confirmed, breaking off the last piece of the compassion he held for his mother.

“How do you think I bought groceries that month . . . and, well, you should never have had the nerve to bring the training gear inside my house,” she said, reaching for another pack of cigarettes.

Without a word, he left the house, knowing this would be the last time he walked out the front door.

* * *

The sound of her door buzzer woke her and, rolling to her side, Colby checked the time on her cell phone. Twenty after one? Probably one of her neighbors locked themselves out of the building again. They would buzz everyone until finally someone let them in. She contemplated letting it be someone else's problem that night, but then, with a sigh, she tossed the sheets aside and headed toward the door. She was awake anyway. “Hello?” she said, suitably annoyed as she pressed and held the button.

“Hey, it's me.” Dane's voice surprised her. “Can I come up?”

“Of course,” she said, hitting the button to let him into the building. She rushed back into the bedroom and checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror, grabbing the bottle of mouthwash from under the sink. After gargling, she ran back out to the living room just in time to hear his knock.

She opened the door. He stood in the hallway, wearing the pair of jeans she loved with the tear in the left knee and a
white T-shirt that stretched across his biceps and chest. He leaned against the door frame and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. “Dane, it's almost one thirty in the morning. What are you doing here?” Not that she minded a late-night visit from him, especially when he looked so freaking good, but she suspected this visit wasn't prompted by something positive.

He reached for her, drawing her into him, causing them both to sway slightly. “I wanted to see you.”

The smell of whiskey nearly knocked her over. And she'd been worried about
her
breath? “Are you drunk?” she said, holding back away from him as he tried to kiss her.

He smiled. “Little bit.”

She sighed. “Come in.” Taking his hand, she led him into the apartment and locked the door.

His arms were instantly around her again and his lips were on a mission.

She placed a hand over his mouth. “Let's talk first.” She knew he wasn't a big drinker, especially when he was in training. Obviously something was bothering him.

“I'd rather kiss you,” came his muffled reply from behind her hand.

She shook her head. “Nope.” She led the way to the couch and he sat. “I'll get you some coffee.”

“No. That will sober me up. Do you know how long it took to get this buzz going?” he said.

She started the coffeemaker. “I'm not sure I understand why you need one. I thought you were training today.” She hadn't heard from him all day, which was odd, and he hadn't responded to her text earlier that evening, but she'd assumed Tyson was working him at the gym in preparation of the fight the following weekend.