Never Choose Flight (A Fighter Romance Novel) (6 page)

“Of course I did,” I said. “You’re not the kind of guy I could just forget the very next morning. I had to do a little research.”

“Well it’s true,” he said. “Never knocked out. Never lost a fight.”

“That’s really impressive.”

“I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve,” he said. We got into the car.

As we drove through the inky night, we didn’t say much. Clearly he didn’t want to carry on talking about fighting. But it was just so different. I managed to just stare at him for the first half of the ride, taking in every curve of his muscles that I could through his clothing, but then I needed to know more. “So what are the tricks?”

“Huh?”

“You said you’ve got tricks up your sleeve. What are they?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he said.

“You’re a fighter,” I said.

He looked at me, mischief in his eyes. “Right. Well, I actually have a… I think the doctor called in an anatomical anomaly. Kind of fun to say.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Something about the fluid in the brain. Thickness of the skull. I’m not sure of it, really, but the doctor basically told me that I would never be knocked out. Not from getting hit in the head, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“I went to a school in a kind of rough neighbourhood. When I was around eleven, I messed with the wrong group of kids. A group of them went after me one day after school. They held me in place, arms behind my back, and one of them brought out a baseball bat.”

“Like the bouncers have,” I said.

“It’s a classic.”

I laughed.

“So the leader of their group, he had the bat. He carefully placed it on my chin. Then wound up. Then he swung. I remember the cracking noise. I remember the feeling of my head getting whipped to one side. My jaw was broken. I lost a couple teeth. But I didn’t blackout. I stayed awake throughout. Called an ambulance myself, after the gang ran off. They were freaked by the fact that I hadn’t gotten knocked out.”

“Gee,” I said.

“So anyway, went to the doctor, he x-rayed me, and told me about this thing. And it’s true. Some fighters better than me have landed some solid blows in just the right spot. But I’ve never gone down.”

“That sounds almost like a fighting super power or something.”

“Kinda,” he said.

“How is it not?”

“Well the doctor cautioned me. He said that just because I couldn’t be knocked out didn’t mean I wasn’t getting my hurt. He even said that there was a chance if I took too many knock-out blows that I’d just die. Beat to death before blacking out.”

I didn’t know what to say. Eventually I managed, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” he said.

We were at his place by then. We stepped out of my car and walked into his place. It was weird him being in such a calm mood. I wasn’t even sure if I was going to get laid.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to tend to this for a while.” He gestured at his back with his thumb.

“Sure,” I said.

He pulled off his hoodie and his shirt, then went into the bathroom. I heard him sit down in the tub, but there was no water pouring. “You don’t
have
to wait out there,” he said. I walked into the bathroom and he finished his thought with, “But this probably won’t be fun to watch.”

There he sat, topless, and with a bottle or rubbing alcohol in his hand. He leaned forward, uncapped the bottle, and then poured some onto his shoulder blade.

I saw the thin clear liquid run down his back forming little streams and rivers between his muscles. And most of it ended up running down the seam that had been cut. Washing off the blood and young scabs.

He had placed a rag in his mouth, and he was biting down hard. I could see little bubbles forming in the liquid - a sign that it was burning away plenty of things that could have led to infection.

He poured out some more and I could practically hear the yells through the rag.

“Can I help?” I asked. “Can I do anything?”

I just meant to offer to, like, pour it for him. It isn’t easy pouring stuff onto your own back. But he looked at me like I’d just offended him, and then shook his head.

After a few more cups of the stuff ran over his wound, he stood up out of the tub. The wound was healing already. Dead flesh lined either side of it, but the bleeding had slowed down.

He spit out the rag, dried the wound with a towel, then pulled out some more bandage-tape stuff from behind the mirror above his sink. He rolled it over his shoulder, pressed it against the cut, and the cut it near the top with some scissors.

It looked like he’d done a pretty good job with it, but I still felt like it would have just been way easier if he’d let me help him with it.

“So does that kind of thing happen often?” I asked as I followed him into the living room where he flopped over onto the couch.

“Yeah,” he said, as if it was no big deal. “Once or twice a month I leave the ring bleeding badly.”

“Gee,” I said. “That can’t be good for you.”

“It’s not that bad for me,” he said. “All wounds heal.”

“You know that’s not true, right? Lots of injuries stay with you and hurt even more once you start getting old.”

He glared at me like I’d said the wrong thing. I sat down on the couch next to him, close.

“So what do you want to do?” I asked, placing a hand on his chest.

“It seems like you have something in mind,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, twirling my hair.

“You do,” he said. “And I am glad you’re here. But this is all a lot more dangerous than you think.”

“What do you even mean by that? What’s going to happen to me?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe something horrible. But I’m mainly worried about what could happen to me.”

“Just be straight with me,” I said. I was honestly getting a bit frustrated with how indirect he was being about everything.

“I could die,” he said. “Any fight. I fight every Sunday, and every other chance I get. I’ve never turned down a fight, and I don’t plan to start.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And you know how I said I had a couple tricks up my sleeve? The two things that let me win fights? If you stick around, then one of them disappears.”

“What is it?”

“I have no one,” he said, plainly.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have any family. I don’t have friends. I most definitely don’t have a girlfriend. And that fact - the fact that no one will miss me if I die - that helps me fight. It makes me feel like I don’t have to fight back. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing to live for.”

“And a man who can’t be knocked out,” I added.

“So I don’t know what will happen to me if I let you get close,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll start losing fights. Start taking hits harder. Getting distracted in the ring.”

“So that’s the kind of thing you’re talking about? That’s why you want me to stay away?”

“Those are just my selfish reasons,” he said.

“What are the other reasons?” I asked.

“Most fighters don’t have girlfriends,” he said.

“So, peer-pressure then?”

“No,” he said, “it’s for a good reason.”

“What’s the reason?”

“Girlfriends are easy targets.”

“For who?”

“Tonight, tens of thousands of dollars were bet on that fight you watched. Maybe hundreds of thousands. If you know who’s going to win, you can make a killing.”

“But how could you know?”

“If a fighter gets a call right before a fight, and his girlfriend is on the line crying, reading a letter written by her captors, that can fuck with a guy,” he said. “And some guys are willing to go that far. Throw the fight if you ever want to see your girlfriend again. If anyone thinks the fight was thrown, she gets killed. I don’t have anyone they could kidnap right now.”

“But how often does that really happen?” I asked.

“It’s rare,” he said. “But still. You sell paper. You don’t know how to deal with thugs, or fights, or anything like that. I don’t want to ruin your whole life. I care about you too much.”

I looked at him. I had one hand on his chest, and the other over his shoulder. I could feel that he was getting riled up. His body was one hundred percent muscle.

I thought. And then I spoke. “I want my life to get completely ruined,” I said. “I spent the whole of last week wishing I was at a fight. Wishing something,
anything
, interesting would happen. But it didn’t. It never does in my life.”

He looked at me.

“But you’re my chance,” I said. “If I don’t take a shot on you, then I might be stuck forever. I don’t want to spend forty more years working this horrible job. Drinking coffee just to stay awake. Meeting a quota. I want to date you. I want to watch you fight. I want to meet these thugs, and I want to spit in their faces.”

A bit of a grin came onto his face.

“And you’re the best fighter around. But I still think you have one thing wrong about fighting.”

“What’s that?” he said.

“That the most dangerous fighter has nothing to live for. I think you’d be much, much more dangerous if you had someone. Someone who needed you to come home after the fight. Someone who
needed
you to win. Someone relying on you. Someone you cared about. Maybe even someone you loved.”

He stood up when I said that word, and started to pace.

“What do you think?” I asked.

He paced back and forth a few more times. “You really want us to date?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Even though I’ll come home bloody and bruised? Even though my income is totally based on my ability to beat people up? You could be kidnapped. You will be harassed. I can’t say no to a fight. I could die. I could be arrested. I could be broken.”

I nodded.

“And on top of all of that,” he said, “we might not work out anyway. We don’t know each other well.”

I smiled. “Only one way to find out.”

He didn’t smile. “I need some time,” he said. “I need to think it over. I can’t agree to anything yet. I need to sleep on it.”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s no problem.”

He sat back down on the couch. “So what do you want to do?”

I threw one leg onto the other side of him and pressed my lips against his. His lips engulfed mine erotically for a moment, but then he pulled me away.

“I can’t,” he said. “Not yet. I need some space to think.”

He looked me in the eyes, and I knew what he meant. I got off of him and walked to the door.

“I’ll have my answer in a day or two,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied, and then I was out the door.

* * *

The air was cold as I got into my car and started on the drive home. I felt good. Not quite as good as I’d hoped, but still pretty good.

But then I realized something, and it felt like suddenly there was a boulder in the pit of my stomach.

He didn’t have my phone number anymore. He didn’t know where I lived. He wasn’t going to call with an answer in a day or two. He just said all that stuff as a way to get rid of me. And it had worked.

When my alarm went off the next morning, I wished I was dead. Before falling asleep I managed to basically convince myself that there was no chance I’d ever hear from Malcolm again. I’d been had. He wanted a one night stand, I’d agreed, and everything after that was just his way of getting rid of me.

In the shower I tried to convince myself that it was for the best. Maybe all those things he’d said had been true. Maybe if we went out I really would be kidnapped or something. And he might actually become a worse fighter if we started dating.

But none of those thoughts made me feel any better. They just swirled around in my head, like the coffee I stirred, and kept my mind squarely focussed on the man who I needed to forget. Malcolm.

Of course, when you actively try to forget about someone, you always end up thinking about them nonstop. On my drive to work, I convinced myself that I was not allowed to look up anything related to Malcolm or to fighting at work that day. I needed to get my sales up anyway, or risk getting a talk from my manager.

I walked into the building, on time, and saw a smile on Samantha’s face. Her eyes were smiling as much as her mouth. But I guess my face gave away how my night had been, and her smile melted away into concern.

“What happened?” she said, more of a statement than a question.

“We’re not dating.”

“Did you get laid?” she asked, more quietly.

“No,” I said.

“Shit,” she said. Then she paused for a minute. “Was the fight good?”

“The fight was fucking awesome,” I said. And then I walked away, plopped myself down at my desk, and started looking through my emails.

“So,” said Derek, “How are you today Jessica?”

“Terrible,” I said, not thinking. An answer like that went directly against my strategy with Derek. I never wanted him to think that I had anything interesting to say.

“Oh no,” he said, feining concern. “What happened?”

I looked over at him. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he said. “But you should know that any time,
any
time, that you want to talk, I am there for you, okay? I won’t judge you for anything. I don’t need to give advice if you don’t want it. But I am a
fantastic
listener.”

As much as it pains me to say it, I almost took him up on the offer. Talking to someone about all this stuff sounded kind of like a good idea. Just explaining everything. Getting an outsider’s perspective. Maybe I was just acting irrationally. Maybe someone Malcolm would find a way to contact me even without my phone number.

I brooded at my desk all morning, procrastinating making phone calls, when I heard a voice that was becoming familiar.

“Does someone named Jessica work here?”

My head spun around to look at reception, where the voice had come from. I didn’t recognize the person at first. He was wearing a button-up shirt and some dark blue jeans with a black belt. Shiny black shoes. I stared for a moment before I realized that it was Malcolm.

My eyes darted to Samantha, who was staring at me with a huge grin.

Malcolm turned his head and saw me there. I got up out of my desk immediately and he was standing next to me in an instant.

He pulled his hand out from behind his back and he had flowers. Forget Me Nots. They were arranged with several other beautiful flowers, in a plastic bouquet.

I grabbed them and smelled them, trying to hide my far-too-big smile. He smiled as well, and we both laughed.

“I found you,” he said.

“I didn’t think you were going to,” I admitted.

The flowers smelled wonderful. He’d made up his mind. He wanted to give it a shot.

“I thought I remembered the name of the company from the card,” he said. “Found you in the phone book. I was totally prepared to end up in the wrong company a million times though, if it took me that long.”

Suddenly I felt so dumb for all of the worries I’d had. He wasn’t just trying to ditch me afterall. That was just my low self-esteem.

I just smiled at him.

“So are you going to be on lunch-”

“My name is Derek,” said Derek. He’d stood up and walked around the desk, positioning himself between Malcolm and I.

Malcolm looked at me with a smile and tilted head, and then at Derek.

“Nice to meet you, Derek.” They shook hands. It was ridiculous.

“So how do you know Jessica?”

“We met a week ago. Took the same flight.”

“Wow,” said Derek. “I’ve known her for seven years.”

Malcolm just looked at me. Like he couldn’t believe that someone like Derek really existed.

“That’s neat, Derek.”

“Were you about to ask her to lunch?” he asked.

“That was the idea.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

I had to cut in there. “I think it’ll just be me and Malcolm this time.”

“So it’s a date then?”

I looked to Malcolm. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a date. A lunch date.”

Derek looked concerned. “Well lunch isn’t for another forty five minutes.”

“We can go now,” I said. I grabbed my purse and Malcolm and I walked out of there.

Samantha blatantly looked Malcolm up and down while we walked by, and then gave me a wink. “Have fun, you two,” she said.

“That guy Derek sure is something,” said Malcolm as we walked down the stairs.

“Yeah,” I said. “Imagine sitting next to him for
years
.”

“Shit, you really do have an awful job,” he said.

“I really,
really
do.”

* * *