Chapter Twelve
Emma
I had fun with Aiden and Carson last night. Although I am not the biggest fan of eel, I did love all the other food. Carson challenged me to a sushi eating contest. I ate my weight in sticky rice and wasabi.
Today, Aiden has his game face on. He spends the day working out and preparing for his match. I go sightseeing and check out Hoover Dam. I can’t go to the casinos since I’m not of age. Mostly, I just people-watch. Vegas must be the greatest place on earth for that pastime.
Aiden’s match is the second in a long lineup. There’s a knock on my door about an hour before. I expect Aiden or Carson, not a bellman with a large white box. I tip him and place the item on the bed. There is a note.
Hey, Emma,
Thought you might want to look nice. —Aiden.
Okay, how should I take this? It implies I don’t usually look nice. But then again, Aiden’s not exactly a man who waxes poetic. I lift the lid of the box. Gasping, I take in the dress…the red dress from the store window. He must have seen me looking at it.
Shit.
This dress is ridiculously expensive. Not that he’s let me pay for anything so far. The room I’m in is really nice, too.
I turn to the urn.
“What should I do, mom?”
She doesn’t reply.
I decide to wear the dress. He’ll be hurt otherwise, and it’s so beautiful. I spend an extra long time on my preparations, blow-drying my hair until it falls like a silky curtain around me. I go a little heavy on the makeup, too. I have to do my shadow over three times to get from singed-eye to smoky-eye, but I finally achieve the effect. Even though it clashes with the outfit, I put on my dad’s watch. It gives me a sense of comfort.
A final check in the mirror confirms I’ve done a decent job. I wonder if Aiden will think I look nice…for once. I leave my room early, unable to sit quietly in this rocking dress. Aiden and Carson exit their rooms at the same time.
“Hi, guys,” I greet them.
Carson’s mouth drops open. He plies me with so many compliments I feel my head inflating. Aiden is quiet, though.
“Thank you for the dress, Aiden.”
“Welcome,” he grumbles, barely glancing at me.
“Do you like it?” I ask, spinning around.
He shrugs. “It looked different in the store. I expected more.”
“More what?”
“More dress,” he says through clenched teeth, before walking into the elevator.
Thank you, red dress, for sponsoring yet another awkward moment between Aiden and me.
As we exit the elevator, Carson pulls me aside.
“You look incredible. Aiden’s kind of a jerk.”
“Thanks. I’m glad someone thinks so.” I regret my thoughts. Aiden has a fight to prepare for. The last thing on his mind is me in this dress.
…
Aiden
The last thing on my mind should be Emma and that fucking red dress. I’m really taking this masochist thing all the way. Yeah, it makes perfect sense. Take the girl you’re lusting after, put her in a backless, sexy-ass dress, and sit her right in the front row. Yeah…’cause that’s not distracting.
I should focus on my opponent. Instead, I’m trying to figure out if I have enough time to jack off. I don’t. I’ll have to postpone my gratification and use this pent-up need in the fight.
Time to get my head in the game.
I enter the zone, meditating deeply as I always do before a match. I find my center. I run my finger across the scar at my waist. The scars on my body give me a menacing look. Carson wants to exploit that. He says the media will eat it up, but I’m not interested. Carson knows a little about the stuff I went through. What I’ve told him barely scratches the surface, but my body speaks for itself. I used to be ashamed to go without a shirt, but once I discovered how much I could do with this body, I stopped caring. I wear my scars like the battle wounds they are—with pride and honor. Perhaps there’s a bit of arrogance thrown in, too, but arrogance is a million times better than humiliation.
By the time I’m in the cage, my veins are pumping adrenaline. My opponent outweighs me by forty pounds. I’ve studied his fights. I’ve memorized his stats. I’ve prepared myself physically and mentally. Come and get me, bitch. I’m ready for you.
He chases me. He’s got more power in his fists. I’m faster, though, so I let him pursue me to tire him out. His fist lands on my rib cage once. Mine knocks him on the head. I deliver a swift kick to his back. He bloodies my nose. I put him in a cross lock. Our grappling goes on until the adrenaline shifts. Then my opponent’s face disappears. It becomes the face I see in my nightmares. The one I hope to see when I train for hours and achieve that work out high. I will win this match. I always do when the face changes.
Hello, Father.
I catch the look of fear in his eyes and seize it. My arms let loose. My fists fly with an unrestrained abandon. The man doesn’t see me coming. I’m pulled off him before I realize it. The ref holds my arm in the air. As much as I need this, I don’t enjoy it. It’s not a victory. It’s my sad attempt at trying to let my demons die, or at least rest.
When it’s all over, Emma sits with me in the locker room, cleaning my wounds. It’s apparent she’s upset by what she’s seen.
“You okay, Cooper?”
She cracks a small smile. “I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine. Answer me.”
“Honestly, I didn’t watch most of it. I had to close my eyes.”
“Not your thing, huh?”
“You were amazing, but all I kept thinking about was that you could get hurt.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I know I don’t need to. I just do.”
“Ouch,” I say as she applies the burning antiseptic to me.
She laughs, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious? You’re scared of a little antiseptic? After that huge guy knocked you around in there?”
“First, he didn’t knock me around, Miss I’m-keeping-my-eyes-wide-shut. Second, they have people here for this.”
Her gaze lowers, lingering on my waist. There is no lust, only sorrow. “Something tells me you don’t see those people. None of the scars have healed quite right.” She hovers her hand over my stomach where the word freedom in inked, a permanent reminder of the time I made my own escape. “What does this one mean?”
I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. I’m torn between sweeping her up in my arms, and telling her to get the hell out of my life. The reality is I just want to get the fuck out of this conversation. Like I said, when the choice is between stupid and stupider, I go for stupidest. “Emma, I have to tell you something, and it’s really hard for me to say.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go ahead. I’m listening.” Her voice drops with anticipation. She holds my hand and squeezes it as if to lend me strength.
“That dress makes you look fat.”
It’s meant as a joke, a way to defuse the tension, but I’ve gone too far. I open my eyes in time to catch her gaping. She’s debating whether I’m joking or being mean. She should deck me. I deserve it. She snaps her mouth closed, her look of determination back with a vengeance.
“Well, I guess I’ll look fat tonight because I sure as hell love this dress. Even though the guy who gave it to me is a total dick.”
The dress does not make her look fat. She fills it out perfectly.
“I’m sorry—”
“Shut up.” She sashays out of the room, swinging her hips extra wide for my benefit.
“By the way, Aiden, I think you should watch your own weight instead of worrying about mine.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, your shorts are way too tight.”
I look down at the bulge lifting against the material.
Fuck me.