Fight or Fall (8 page)

When I was swimming, Coach Trevails incorporated strength training in my workout regimen. It helped improve my vertical jumping strength and took off precious seconds from my start times. Now, as a fighter, it made flipping over guys who were twice my size easy and almost effortless. How big a guy was didn’t scare me. They could be a thousand pounds heavier than me, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how they fought, if they could knock me around, or even manage to catch me off-guard.

After running for an hour and taking a break by flipping over tires; punching a bag of sand and synthetic fibers later sounded like a breeze. I knew the strength and power of my body. I’ve pushed my limits hundreds of times. Four hundred push-ups, two hundred pull-ups, and forty sets of bench presses were mere warm-ups. People who called swimmers gay were a bunch of pussies. I could throw a punch as great or even greater than Manny “Pacman” Pacquiao. No disrespect to the man, but his former sparring partner was my strength and physical conditioning coach and was the one who branded that thought in my head. The mixed martial arts fighters on TV? Shit. I could have become one of them if I had wanted to. I was a black-belt in Taekwondo at the age of eight, won as many American Taekwondo Association competitions as U.S. Swim Meets. I just loved being in the water more than breaking slabs of concrete.

A movement on the side of the house caught my eye. No one’s supposed to be here. After dropping the last tire, I swiftly ran to the side where I saw something move.

A female figure with long dark hair, clothed in dark blue scrubs, stood on the side with a phone almost falling from her hand.

What the f-?

“Prissy Princess,” I started, standing behind her. What was she doing here? Why was she wearing scrubs? Or clothes? More than half the time she was dressed in some skintight outfit that a mosquito would be lucky to come out alive if it somehow got trapped inside one of her dresses.

Her neck twisted, her gray eyes opened in shock, and an ear-splitting scream came out of her mouth.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, hoping to let my ears recover from the damage she might have caused.

“Eeekk!” Another screeching sound filled the air. Shit. If I didn’t die from my bruised ribs, I’m pretty sure my ears would be hemorrhaging from her shrill screams.

I clamped a hand against her mouth. A mouth that felt so soft against my rough hand, and whispered, “I’m going to remove my hand now so please don’t scream anymore.”

She nodded and lowered her head. As I turned her body around, my other hand felt the dip in her waist, and I inhaled a flowery, feminine scent. Her head was still down. Maybe she was trying to regain her composure. I took her profile in, taking note of the messy, wild wisps of hair that hung loosely around her face, her ears beet red, the tiny diamond earrings sparkling brightly against her flushed color.

“Ava, Prissy Princess, it’s me...” I muttered. Maybe I had startled her into a coma.

She slowly lifted her face, and the second her gray eyes met mine, fuck, I’d seen women look at me. I’m not a bad-looking guy. I was never the type of guy who obsessed about looks. My face was just that – a face - complete with eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.

But Ava, the way her lips parted, the smoldering heat in those usually cold eyes, the redness staining her cheeks – she was looking at me with complete, unadulterated desire. Maybe she’s imagining a different guy right now? She’s never looked at me this way.

She licked her lips, her pink tongue rolling around her lips, the innocent act sending a lightning bolt straight down to my boxers. Before I could think twice about it, my hand drifted from her waist to her ass, and I squeezed.

“Milo...” she whispered. With my other hand still on her face, I pressed a finger down on her lower lip, her face now burning red. I felt the heat coming off her breath, she smelled of forbidden fruit – orangey, minty, fresh.

“What do you want?” I questioned, my body burning in heat, and my dick could hammer nails right now with how hard it was.

She closed her eyes, the long eyelashes dropping down, and turned her chin up. With a shaky voice, she said, “Kiss me.”

Kiss her?

It was such a simple request, but my body obeyed it like a fierce command.

My lips landed on hers in a second, gently at first, getting familiar in its soft layers. When my tongue started to make its appearance, she opened her mouth and invited me in. I sucked on the flesh and she responded with a restrained moan.

I realized her eyes were still closed, so I mumbled hard against her lips, “Open your eyes. I don’t want you imagining another guy when I’m kissing you.” This was the only explanation I could come up with why her eyes were closed. Ava and I – we’ve kept each other within arm’s length throughout the years. Not too far. And definitely not too close either. She never gave any indication, any sign, that she’d want me like this.

Her eyes opened, the piercing gray penetrating. “I know it’s you,” she said, her mouth leaving mine, a loss that my body revolted against. She added, “I’d always know it’s you.”

She flattened her hands against my chest, the sweat pouring out of me like a raging fever, as my hand squeezed on her ass tighter, pulling her closer to me, letting her feel me, feel my unmistakable desire for her.

She ground her hips against mine, and I wanted to rip off the scrubs covering her body. I urged, my voice probably sounding like the horniest guy in the universe, “Let’s take this inside.”

The heat between us could probably start a ten-alarm fire.

I let my hand dig into her hair softly, the tresses feeling silkier, softer than I ever thought they would be. The emotions on her face reflected indecision, confusion, want, and need. She responded with a catch in her throat, “I have to go.”

So this was it? She got a taste of me and now she wants to go?
Fuck that.

Sorry princess, you don’t get to tease me and leave me hanging.

Lowering my other hand to her ass, I picked the phone that she dropped by her feet, hefted her up and lifted her. She had no choice but to wrap her legs around me unless she wanted to keel over. I placed my mouth against hers, her hair falling down on my chest, her hands encircled my neck in a tight embrace. I kept licking her lips, sucking, milking her tongue, her body becoming pliant to my demands. I didn’t let her up to breathe. I could hold my breath for a long time. Only when she tightened her hold on my shoulders did I let her up for air.

We were in a frenzied battle of tongues and lips as I led us inside the house, without missing a step towards the sofa. My back hitting the couch, her eyes were wild, uninhibited, as she sat on top of me. Her chest rose in uneven breaths as her mouth coaxed my tongue to delve in deeper. She pushed up against my chest, her face leaving mine, exposing the creamy expanse of her neck. My tongue nibbled on the side of her neck and ears. Even here, she tasted heavenly. Her breathing even, she relaxed against my mouth which was exploring her neck down to the small shallow dip between her neck and collarbone, as I pulled the top of her dark blue scrubs to the side with my fingers. I continued with kissing her, grazing her neck with my teeth and my tongue from time and time again, until suddenly I felt her body relax completely against me. Her hands loosened their hold, and if her legs weren’t under my ass she would have fallen off.

I tilted my head up to look at her, stabilizing her with my hands on both of her arms, wondering what the hell was going on. This time, her eyes were completely closed, her face peaceful, and a tiny smile adorned her mouth.

Fucking A, I just put a woman to sleep.

"You doing okay?" Bob, the nurse in the dark gray scrubs asked, while checking the flow of blood from my arm to the bag that my blood was being filtered into.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I replied. I felt good. I had grabbed a bunch of protein bars and shoved a glass of the protein drink mix down my throat before rushing over here.

Leaning my head back down on the pillow, I knew that the ceiling of this mobile van would be the only thing I'd stare up for the next half hour. Most of the time it only took fifteen minutes, but in my head it took forever.

Forever was okay. As long as I’m able to do this, as long as my body permits it, I could do this forever.

I lifted my head up, eyeing Lorraine, the older nurse who's in charge here, giving her a smile. She was carrying a small carton of orange juice. Last time she gave me a cranberry flavored drink. It tasted like shit, but it seemed to make her happy when I drank it, so I did.

“Here’s your treat for the day, young man.”

“What? Are you sure? You promised me champagne the last time," I joked, holding back a laugh. "This is unacceptable. You should treat your regular clients better than this."

She let out a laugh, Bob and the older lady, also a blood donor, who kept sneaking glances at me and was now reading a magazine, joined her in laughter.

Bob, walking towards the machine that held a bunch of medical equipment, stated, “You’re a regular alright. Next time we’ll make sure to stock champagne for you.”

I nodded my head, smirking. “Yeah, yeah…promises, promises.”

Promises held no water, no value for a lot of people. But it did for me, heavily. Before my sister, was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, Aunt Margie and I had gone to many ER visits because she had had these weird, huge bruises on her knees, elbows, and legs, without anyone laying a hand on her. March tenth, the day that our parents died from a boating accident, was the day I believed there was no God. No God would be cruel enough to leave two good kids orphaned and alone in this world. January twelfth, the day that Bee, after a doctor had diagnosed her with osteosarcoma, was accepted for a research trial, was the day I believed there was a God again. No God would have been cruel enough to take my sister, the only link I had to my parents, my heritage, from me.

Bee? She's the strongest person, the most resilient woman I know. Even when she had to go through the rigorous chemo, the bacterial infection that scarred her for life, the endless IV sticks - she still managed to comfort me, tell me that she was okay, despite the many tears she had shed down her little face. She's had many blood transfusions from strangers I've never met; strangers who had no clue just how much my sister meant to me. So as soon as I turned eighteen, the day after her birthday, I went to the nearest blood donation center, and no matter what city I'm in, I made a visit every two months. What was a bag or two or three of blood? My body replenished it every month or so, according to one of the nurses I had talked to before.

One time, a middle-aged guy, told me, "You know, a lot of men are scared of needles." He was also donating blood at UConn's visiting Red Cross Blood Donation van.

I shrugged my shoulders at him. "Yeah, I guess."

Needles? Sure they hurt when they prick your skin. But scared? Scared is when you see your sister become as frail as a friggin' plastic doll that you can't even hug her because she'd bruise or her bones might break. Scared is when you receive the news that your aunt, the person who took you in after your parents' accident, had gotten into a head-on collision with a drunk driver. So yeah, needles? There's no reason to be scared of them.

Now, if I had to be honest, one thing that I'd probably shudder and get scared at is if a doctor stuck a finger or two up my ass on one of those health check-ups that Bee said a guy should get. Shit. I hope my ass would no longer have the nerves to feel it if I ever needed that exam or I'll just run out of the fucking room.

“Almost done,” Bob said, checking the bag of blood hanging on a small pole, the liquid so precious, so vital to life.

“Cool. How was your vacation, man?” I questioned. Last time I came in, he had mentioned that he was going on a trip to Puerto Vallarta with his wife and two daughters.

His brown eyes smiled as he started telling me about his trip – how they enjoyed traditional Mexican cuisine, visited tourist spots, and swam at the beaches. At the mention of swimming, my body tightened; tight enough for it to show on my face and him saying, “Sorry. I know how hard it must be for you.”

The older lady on the other bed, raised her head up, "I thought I recognized you." Her bushy eyebrows crinkling. "You're Milo Tanner. The guy who framed Kieran Stone for drugs."

I took a dry swallow, my face a mask of indifference as I replied to Bob, "It's okay. Not your fault." He was probably thinking that he outed me to the lady or some shit like that, which was not even true. Even if it was, it wasn't his fault. It was all my mistake. My fault. All my fucking fault.