Page 88 of Best Kind of Trouble
I run my hands through her gorgeous hair. “You don’t cut it much.”
“I trim it myself,” she says in a voice that’s thin but strong. “I don’t want to let anyone else do it.”
I take a moment to try to choke down the feelings rising up in my chest. Anger, of course. Always anger. But also a softer feeling—the kind that can crush a man if he’s not careful.
“The doll,” I say, barely able to get the words through my clenched jaw. “How old were you?”
“Six.”
I release her and grab another pair of gloves—not mine, but I don’t have any patience for retrieving mine right now. In all honesty, I don’t want to wear any. I’d like to feel the give of my flesh when the punches land on the bag, but I also have that fight coming up, not to mention all the challenges at the brewery. It’s no time to break myself.
I put the gloves on while I prowl over to the heavy bags, leaving Briar to her bag as I pour my rage into mine. A growl tears out of me as I beat it with my fists, hitting as hard as I can. Needing to get the worst of the rage out.
But I keep seeing the way Briar recoiled from me the first time we were at this gym. It was because of that woman.Melly.That woman’s got no sweetness and light, but she might not have felt bold enough to try anything if Briar’s asshole father hadn’t encouraged her.
They hurt her. They all hurt her and stole from her—her hair, her strength, her safety—and I want todestroythem. The dark need consumes me.
I throw punch after punch, sensing Briar doing the same beside me, and then the seam splits on the old bag I’m going at, and stuffing explodes into the air.
I laugh and edge back, finally looking directly at Briar, who’s staring at me with wide eyes. Her pink lips are parted, and her hair’s a sweaty mess around her shoulders because I forgot to give her the elastic.
“Are you afraid of me?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t want that. That’s the last thing I want. I would die before I hurt her.
“No.” She drops her gloves, which she must have removed at some point. “I’m afraid for you.”
What a Briar answer.
“You think the bag’s going to take revenge?”
She takes a step toward me. Then another, spanning the space between us.
“I don’t like that you didn’t wear a helmet earlier. I hope you don’t do that a lot.”
“Only when I have to save a lady in distress.”
“You save a lot of ladies?” she asks, her voice hardening.
“Most of the women I’ve spent time with lately don’t need saving.”
Her expression falls, and I realize that for the first time in a long, long time, I care what someone thinks of me—and right now, she’s not thinking anything good.
“You don’t either,” I say quickly, tearing the gloves off and letting them drop. “But you make me want to rescue you.”
She reaches for my hands and runs her fingers over them before lifting one of them to her lips. She watches me as she kisses the knuckles. I’ve lost some sensation across my knuckles—too many hits—but I feel every millimeter of her sweet, soft mouth.
I wrap the other arm around her, feeling an impossible need pulse through me.
“You’re not going there for Christmas,” I say. It doesn’t come out as a question.
Surprise fills her eyes. “Why do you care?”
“I just do.”
“I’d be alone.”
“You won’t be alone. I’ll make sure of it.”
She licks her lips, and suddenly I can’t take it anymore. I can’t wait. I can’t hold her at arm’s length, when that’s the last thing I want to do.
