Liv

I can see why Memphis likes it here at night. It’s quiet. Four boys have come in since we arrived an hour ago, and Memphis spent most of that time playing pool with them. From the little I know about him so far, I think maybe he missed out on having brothers when he was young. He’s good with them. He’s good with everyone.

I never wanted a sibling. Even before I knew how twisted and awful my household was, I was aware enough to know that bringing another child into our family would be cruel. Maybe I didn’t want to have to be responsible for getting someone else out of this place; I didn’t want a sister or a brother to get in my way. I ended up right back here anyway.

Amy, the girl that works here, is young—too young to be working in a place like this alone late at night. She’s in college. I haven’t asked, but I would guess she’s maybe nineteen or twenty. She’s mentioned not being able to drink twice. Ah, the carefree days of college when that was what mattered.

I can tell she likes Memphis. She doesn’t flirt, but her dreamy eyes are sweet. He’s kind to her, without leading her on. Just one more way he isn’t like Archie. My dad would have exploited affection from a college girl in a heartbeat. He probably still would if he could get his ass up out of that bed and form words.

When the group of boys move over to a video game console set up by two couches in the corner, Memphis flips his pool stick around his wrist once and turns his head toward me before walking closer.

“Come on. I wanna see how well your right hook adapts to nine-ball.” He holds the stick in front of him toward me, ready to toss it, so I stretch my legs out from the chair I’ve been planted in and rise to my feet.

“I broke a window playing this game when I was seven,” I say, holding out my open palm and catching the stick when he tosses it.

Memphis chuckles, but his mouth falls into an open awe when he realizes I am not kidding.

“With the right touch, those bumpers really act like ramps, ya know?” I shrug and move toward the table, and Memphis drags behind me.

“I’m sure your touch has gotten more delicate since then,” he says.

I pick up a cube of chalk and roll it in my palm, stopping with it between my thumb and fingers so I can dust the end of my stick.

“You saw Leo’s face this morning. You think there’s anything delicate about that?” I twist my lips and lean my hip into the table, locking eyes with him. His head falls slightly to the side and he takes a few slow steps toward me, halting at the other end of the table. He reaches for the chalk and rubs it on the end of his cue without breaking our eye contact.

“You make a good point,” he says, cutting his words short, like he has more to say.

He wants to know what happened between Leo and me, but I already told him once that I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t—at least, not about that. It’s not a simple story I can boil down into something relatable. It’s messy and complicated, and it’s woven in my family web; it won’t make me look very good—not that anything else Memphis has seen of my life has been a highlight.

“You break.” He racks the balls into a diamond pattern and rolls the white one toward me with a gentle push.

I stop it with my finger and line it up just slightly off center, wasting little time as I bend forward, resting my forearm on the wooden frame of the table so I can angle my shot.

“I wouldn’t stand there,” I say, glancing up and smirking.

Memphis takes a large stride to the right and I level my eyes back with the ball. I think Memphis thinks I’m hustling him, pretending not to be good just to toy with him, but I really am awful. Everything about the way I play pool looks good—all the way…up to…

The tip of my cue catches the side of the white ball, spinning it askew and directly into a pocket. My arms and body follow through with my motion until my chest is flat against the felt top and my stick is launched several feet behind Memphis—the crash of the wood against the tile floor pings and echoes. The teens gathered in the corner pause their game to stare for a few seconds.

“Wow. I don’t really even know what to say about what you just did. I’m…I think maybe I’m…” Memphis pauses and furrows his brow, his eyes shifting to the faint chalk line trailed along the table’s center from my massive fail to the place where my stick landed.

“Sexy, huh?” I joke, pulling my entire body up on the table and propping my chin in my palms. I warned him. My dad had to pay for that window I broke when I was seven. I wasn’t even supposed to be in the bar, what being seven and all. Just one more way I inconvenienced him.

“That?” Memphis points to the cluster of balls still pooled together on the table, then gestures his thumb behind him toward my stick. He chuckles.

“Liv, there was quite literally nothing sexy about that.”

He takes a few steps backward and bends down to get my stick as I push up with my palms and slide back off the table. I clap my hands together to rid them of the little bit of chalk left on them.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that was sexy,” I say, holding onto the table’s edge and stretching my arms out while I lean back. My eyes meet his; I move slower, my head falling to the side to cause my hair to slide slowly across my forehead, lips, and cheeks. Memphis’s mouth twitches just a little higher on one side, and mine reacts with the same, barely-there smile. A cool rush races up my chest and my pulse doubles.

Damnit, I liked that.

There are so many cheesy things he could say right now. My tingling body, combined with the way he looks holding a pool cue—his rock-solid, denim-hugged body resting his weight to the side—are the undoing of self-control. I’d be his tonight. Hell, I’d be his right here on this table, demanding he close the place early and send everyone home. All he has to do is say one word, any word, and I will forget the rules I made when I was a little girl about kissing boxers.

The second his smirk evens out, though, I know that the moment has passed us in a blink, and there are a few words that will erase it for good. I’m about to hear them.

“What happened with Leo?”

I roll my eyes and let my head fall forward between my arms as I groan. I kick the toe of my shoe into the ground and twist it, like I’m squashing a bug. Maybe if I wait here long enough he’ll get busy and forget he asked.

The clank of the sticks being dropped on the rack happens first, and when I look up, he’s resting his weight on his palms, one wrapped around the orange solid ball. His head dips and his eyes beg me to meet them. We stare at each other like this for a handful of seconds, and his mouth slowly curves up; he shrugs.

“You’ll feel better if you talk about it,” he says, pushing the ball forward and sending it to me. I stop it in my hand and pick it up, rolling the smooth surface around my fingertips as I breathe out a laugh.

“I’ve been hearing that from therapists for years,” I say.

I toss the ball low in the air a couple times, then roll it toward one of the pockets on his end. It bounces off the edges and clicks against two other balls.

“I couldn’t even win this game if I got to use my hands,” I joke. Memphis leans toward my abandoned ball and rolls it back my direction, sinking it perfectly in the corner pocket. He chuckles and I roll my eyes in anticipation.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re good with your hands,” I say, moving back to the front desk area as Memphis follows.

“I wasn’t going to say it,” he says, and I shoot him a glare over my shoulder because bullshit. He holds up both hands, fingers stretched wide. “I swear. I was satisfied enough thinking it. It was a joke just for me.”

He drags the metal folding chair so he’s across from me, then flips it around and sits on it backward. It’s so cliché, but I can’t believe how unbelievably sexy it is. Only, he’s not doing it to be suave, at least…I don’t think he is. He folds his hands together and rests his forearms on the chair’s back, then leans forward, waiting. Patiently waiting. For me.

This genuine attention makes me squirm a little. It’s a foreign feeling. I fold my legs up underneath me in the chair and look at Amy, who’s working on the computer and shuffling paper stacks on the desk next to me.

“Hey, Ames? I was trying to find those sports drinks that guy donated the other day. I thought maybe I’d put some in the refrigerator and see if the boys wanted one. You know where they’re at?” Memphis keeps his eyes on me when he talks.

“Yeah, we put them all in the storage closet, by the craft supplies,” she says, turning and resting her arm on the back of her chair. Memphis scrunches his face and looks at her.

“I looked there, I swear. Didn’t see them.” He shakes his head a little. Amy’s eyes shift to me, and her mouth parts briefly then closes into a soft smile.

“I’ll get them.” She pushes in her chair before she leaves, her posture sunken.

“She has a crush on you, you know. And now she probably hates me, because you made her leave us alone.” My heartbeat picks up when his eyes meet mine.

“I wanted you to be comfortable to talk,” he says, a slight tilt of his head. Fucking charm oozes off him.

Archie.

“Ha,” I huff, unfolding my legs and stretching them out in front of me, resting my palms on my thighs. “You must love how girls do whatever you say. A snap of the fingers, one look with a smile, and it’s all ‘sure, Memphis. I’ll go get the drinks for you.’”

I snap my fingers for emphasis, and his brow draws in as his mouth twists.

“You’re deflecting. And you know what? I don’t think like that at all—not with anyone—but sure as shit never with you. I wouldn’t dream of manipulating you.”

There’s a little bite to his tone, and it stings. I hold his stare for a few seconds, a part of me waiting for him to kick away from his chair and storm away from me, maybe go kiss Amy to prove a point and reprimand me. That’s what Archie would have done. Enoch, too. With each passing second Memphis stares back, though, that sting—the one I earned from underestimating him—burns my gut a little more.

“Leo stole money from me.” I boil it down to its simplest form, even though nothing that my family does to me is simple. I didn’t want to talk about it with Memphis, because I figured he wouldn’t believe me, that he’d take Leo’s side. When you’re under their spell and see how wonderful everything is—bright with potential and promises—it’s hard to fathom the bottom feeders they actually are.

But Memphis doesn’t react. He just sits there perfectly still, his face relaxed, waiting…waiting for me to tell him the rest.

“My parents didn’t get married until I was seven.” I shrug, but Memphis just waits. My muscles tighten, fighting against the grain. These aren’t things I talk about to anyone. I never have. At least, not unless I’m paying them to listen to my problems. Even then, I pick and choose what gets said.

I draw in a full breath. If I tell him too much, he’s going to look at this place—at my family—differently. It’s happened before. I tell people things and the image gets shattered.

And then they leave.

“My mom got pregnant with me on purpose. My dad was married to someone else, and she was his piece on the side.” My stomach rolls with a wave of nausea, but Memphis is still sitting still—his face calm and assuring. I can’t trust it too much, because I’ll overshare, so I look away.

“Anyhow, before he left his first wife—and before you ask, no…I have no idea who she was. They all pretend that part never happened. But when he found out about me, he sent my mom money. It was really hush money, but she wanted to show how important I was in this mess she made, and she set up a trust that the money went into. It was totally all for show—and to make my dad feel guilty. It wasn’t much, maybe five grand before he got divorced and married my mom.”

I’ve chipped away some of the gold. I can see it reflected in Memphis’s eyes. I should probably stop here, but he was right. Saying this stuff, this sludge that lives inside me and brews toxic waste that sinks everything good I try to achieve—it is freeing, if not unbelievable to hear come from my lips.

“Anyhow, I went to the bank to see if it was still there this morning. I kinda had a feeling it probably wasn’t, but then I saw Leo’s signature on the records, and it just pissed me off. He’s the only one who is ever on my side. Never fully on my side, but he has a shred of a moral compass, or at least I thought he did, and…I lost my shit. I came home, he had just woken up and was holding a mug in the kitchen, and I punched him in the face. I don’t know what pissed him off more—the fact that he got decked by a girl or that I broke his favorite mug and forced him to spill coffee all over his dumb T-shirt.”

My eyes move back to Memphis briefly, and he’s let his hands fall to his sides. It’s a lot to take in, and I know none of it is really surprising. My family doesn’t put on a great show that hides their true selves, but they do offer this sliver of hope that maybe they’re just shallow and not total assholes.

But they are. They’re all assholes. Even my uncle.

“Your uncle…was he in charge of the trust?” Memphis asks.

“Yup.”

I remember when Leo insisted on it. Money was tight, and my mom was talking about borrowing from it, and Leo stepped in. It’s one of the few times my dad took Leo’s side in a fight between the three of them. He was made trustee. She wore him down, too, though—the first withdrawal was right after I left with Enoch. Four more, each a few months apart, and it was empty.

“Funny, I found the drinks all right in the open,” Amy interrupts. Memphis slides back and I twist in my chair, taking a pen from the canister on the table and pulling a blank sheet of paper out to trace my hand.

“Yeah, I must have looked right over them,” Memphis says.

Amy responds, “Uh huh.”

I trace my hand with the same blue pen until the paper starts to tear and I hear Memphis leave our space to join the boys and their video games. I fold the paper and turn to slip it in the trash, catching Amy’s glare. She forces a tight smile, then turns back to the computer and continues typing. She’s jealous. I understand. My mouth hangs open, and I almost ask her about the paper she’s writing, but when her typing picks up, I decide to let it go. I don’t really care, and she doesn’t want to make small talk with the girl her crush brought to work for the night.

---

The air is thick and humid when we finally leave the center. A storm is threatening to pass through, and the air smells of the dirt kicked up by the wind. It’s my favorite scent—the thing I missed about this place when I was gone. Oregon and Seattle smell wet, but the desert is different. There’s a moment before it rains that smells like hunger. The land craves the water so much that bits and pieces literally take flight and race toward the clouds.

Memphis pulls in to the small alley space and kills the engine. When I take off my helmet, my hair sticks to my cheeks. I run my hand along the right side of my face, but stop when I feel Memphis touch the other. Our eyes lock, and he lets his hand fall away.

“Helmet head,” he shrugs. He doesn’t look away though.

“It’s amazing how it can be this hot at midnight.” I should be exhausted, but I’m not. My mind is racing, feelings of guilt for sharing too much crashing into a rush of lust and attraction. I shouldn’t be feeling any of it.

I look away and kick my leg over the bike as Memphis takes our helmets toward his trailer.

He sets them on the stoop, then puts his thumbs in his pockets and ambles back toward me.

“I won’t say anything, just so you know.” His eyes glance up and meet mine. “I’m not into gossip or drama, and I won’t let it change how I work with Leo. I don’t use people’s secrets. I…I just wanted you to know that. I know that was hard for you to tell me.”

“Ha,” I breathe out, shifting my feet and pushing my hands deep in my back pockets as I look down to my toes. “Yeah…it’s not really a subject that comes up much. I think maybe I spent the last few years trying to pretend this part of my life wasn’t real. But unlike you, seems I have a flair for drama.”

I lift my shoulders and give him a crooked smile.

I ran away from one nightmare and moved right into the center of another storm with Enoch. They say things like this come in threes, which worries me, because I like Memphis. All of the reasons I shouldn’t are there, but I like him anyway. What’s worse is I think I trust him.

“Thanks for letting me hang out tonight. I think I needed to just…” I pause and look around at our surroundings. “I needed to be away from this place for a while. It was nice. I…I had a nice time.”

Memphis smiles and closes his eyes for a quick nod.

“Miles will want to see you again I’m sure. You can come with me anytime,” he says. His head tilts and his eyes move down my face. It leaves me feeling warm inside. It feels real, and I tremble a little, so I push my hands in deeper, forming fists.

“Maybe,” I offer, the pounding beat suddenly vibrating in my chest echoing everywhere. I feel blood pumping in my balled-up fingers, throbbing in my toes, expanding and contracting in my stomach. My nerves are a mess, and this vulnerable feeling is unsettling.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, smiling as much as my numb lips will allow and turning toward my escape. I barely make it a step before Memphis’s hand brushes my wrist. I stop at the contact, and his hand wraps around my arm, pulling it from my pocket until our fingers are knotted together. The touch feels frantic and light as a feather, but we remain connected, even as I turn to look at our linked fingers, arms both stretched between us.

“I…” Memphis stops, and I look up at his parted lips, then to his long lashes shadowing desperate eyes. This is not the face of a warrior. I worry that when he steps into the ring soon he’ll be killed. Archie is incapable of this vulnerability. He always was. Memphis will be easy prey.

Wriggling my fingers loose from his slowly, I take the lead. His hand remains in the air between us for a second when I let go, and his teeth hold onto his bottom lip as he smiles through it, his chest shaking with a single laugh.

“Sorry,” he says, closing his palm tight and squeezing away our touch. I do the same. “I just wanted to remind you to be ready for our lesson tomorrow. No excuses.”

He takes a few steps back, and I let him go, nodding before I turn and head to my corner.

“I’ll be ready. I’d recommend you don’t bring coffee,” I say, my body feeling relief when I hear his laughter from my stupid joke.

“I’m not as stupid as Leo, don’t worry. I also don’t have a favorite mug for you to break,” he says.

Chancing it, I spin on my heels just before I round the corner. Memphis is standing with one foot on his stoop, both helmets in his hands.

“Goodnight,” I say. He lifts the helmets a little in response, then heads inside.

The door closes, and then I wait until I hear it lock. I squeeze my hand in a fist so tight that my skin turns bright pink, but no matter how many times I do it, I still feel his touch. It’s burned itself in my head just a little, and I stand here because it spawned a fantasy—one where he swings open that door and runs at me, placing his palms on either side of my face and pressing his lips against mine as I lose balance and stumble backward into the wall.

I stand here until I feel foolish, and then I stand for several seconds more to remind myself of what foolish feels like. I don’t like it—it leads to impulsive decisions and heartache. And like it or not, that man is going to be in a ring somewhere soon getting his face bloodied and his ribs broken.

I will not be the stupid girl waiting in the trainer’s room alone while a crowd of gamblers howls on the other side of the wall, hoping his face will hit the mat.

I’ve seen what that woman looks like, and she’s tragic. She becomes Angela Valentine.