If Landry scoots any closer, he’ll be touching me in multiple places. My pulse ratchets up further. This was a bad idea. How did I expect to be in the middle of so many people and not be touched or knocked into by an unknowing bystander?
“If I were to sit close enough so our sides were touching, would that make you feel safer or make it worse?” Landry asks.
Biting my lip, I eye his body, considering if I’ll panic if I know the touch is coming.
He shrugs. “I was just thinking, if I was already protecting that side of you with my body, maybe you wouldn’t get bumped because we’re in contact already.”
What he says makes sense.
“I don’t know.” I’ve never considered it.
“If I sit still and keep my hands to myself… can you touch me?”
I frown. I normally don’t touch people, but when I have, it doesn’t trigger my crazy. If it did, I’d never be able to work with anyone in the career I have. I tentatively lay my hand on his forearm, holding my breath, waiting.
Nothing happens.
Landry grins. “Don’t move your arm. I’m going to sit right next to you and wait for you to move until the side of your body touches mine.” His gaze keeps mine. “I won’t hurt you, Reese, and I’ll kill any of these fuckers if they try to touch you.”
I nod, believing him.
I concentrate on my breathing as he scoots back in his chair. “Trust me.”
I do.
He’s Rowdy’s friend.
He’s part of Cap’s family.
He holds his hands up. My hand still resting on his goes up too. “I won’t move.”
He wouldn’t hurt me.
I know that logically, but my damage is rarely logical.
I slowly sit back in my seat and edge closer to him. A cell at a time, I make contact with the side of his body: shoulder, arm, thigh. My hand remains on his arm, moving down to rest on his hand, not holding it, just making contact.
There’s no panic.
It’s just… touch.
A cleansing breath fills me with relief.
I can do this.
Holy shit, I can do this.
THE FIRST TIME SOMEONE’S TOUCH SENT me into a panic was in middle school.
A new guy to our school—who I thought was cute—walked up to me, humor blazing in his eyes, and slung his arm over my shoulder. In an effort to escape him, I went down like he’d saddled me with a fifty-pound bag of potatoes.
He didn’t know.
He thought he was being cute and charming.
I reactively thought he was trying to hurt me.
He wasn’t, of course.
But my crazy—that I didn’t even know existed—took root that day and preened like a big ole peacock. Its tail splayed, swaying back and forth as it stalked the hall, shaking its feathers, putting on quite the display.
Meanwhile, I cowered on the floor, my face buried in my knees, begging him to stop, not to hurt me.
Not my proudest moment. Sadly, not my worst moment either.
Not then, nor any episode since, have I thought I could sit here in a crowded arena of thousands, sandwiched between two big men—Landry and Jess—touching me from side to side, and beam at Rowdy as his fight song, “Wolf Totem,” plays on the sound system, watching him walk to the stage—octagon—like he owns the world.
The noise of the crowd is deafening.
It doesn’t set me off.
The three of us don’t move. We don’t stand up. Even as everybody around us is on their feet cheering for our guy, we stay put. They’ve sacrificed for me.
And I don’t let them down. My crazy peacock is asleep—or dead if I’m lucky.
Sorry, peacocks. Nothing against you. I like peacocks. They’re beautiful, majestic birds. But Crazy Town doesn’t need a mascot—it needs shutting down.
When Rowdy passes our seats, he pauses, tensely doing a double-take, his eyes flaring between Jess and Landry plastered to my sides. His scowl is incriminating until his eyes land on me. He bathes my face in his light blue gaze. One brow twerks, and his mouth twitches, fighting a smile when he sees I’m okay.
I don’t move. I barely breathe, but I try to convey my state of mind: I’m okay.
He doesn’t need to worry about me or pause to celebrate my tiny victory when he has a bigger one of his own to win.
Focus on your fight, my Shadow.
He hesitates a beat more before giving a slight nod and moving on.
Jonah and Coach Long have his ear as he removes his hoodie, but his eyes zoom in on me at every opportunity.
Heat. I can feel his from here. It’s all consuming. My skin tingles, and my body clenches, preparing for an onslaught of what his gaze promises: I’m coming for you, Kitten.
I tremble with anticipation. Endorphins rage through me.
“You okay?” Landry whispers in my ear, mistaking my reaction.
“Yeah.” I haphazardly nod. My only focus is the man getting ready to kick some ass in the ring.
Rowdy’s eyes narrow to slits, taking in our interaction as his competitor enters the ring.
The world narrows. It’s just the two of us. Everything is swirling around us, but in the vortex of Rowdy’s locked gaze, time stands still.
He bounces, fists jabbing at air, his pecs bouncing in rhythm with his feet. Nostrils flare, chin juts outs only to be tucked back in. Hooded eyes glare daggers at the world—at his opponent—only for me, they are all heat and want, teaming with protectiveness.
If I believed in God, I’d be praying for my soul.
As it is, I pray for Rowdy. He needs the protection, not me. And though I might believe God has dismissed the Stone family as a lost cause of sin, pain, and anguish, I don’t totally reject the idea that He might have brought this dark Shadow into my life for a reason.
Yeah, I know I said I don’t believe in Him. Perhaps what I really mean is He doesn’t believe in me.
The ref’s voice comes over the speakers, talking about a fair fight. Rowdy rolls his shoulders, dips and dodges, knocks fists with the other fighter—whose introduction I totally missed.
I don’t really care. The only man who matters is the one I’m rooting for. The one who ties my insides in knots and loosens them all at the same time.
Right before the bell rings, Rowdy breaks our gaze. His eyes swing to the dipshit in front of him. As his opponent bounces around, a smirk on his face, and says something no one but Rowdy can hear, Rowdy’s face morphs from confidence and dominance into pure, murderous rage.
It’s a split-second action. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it.
Rowdy hits the guy with a left cross.
His opponent staggers, blinking in confusion, shaking his head.
But Rowdy isn’t done.
The right-handed uppercut hits the guy square on the jaw, sending him flying backwards.
The roof on the arena vibrates from the sheer volume of cheers.
“Holy fuck.” “Goddamn.” Jess and Landry scream, exploding out of their seats.
I hug myself, trying to replicate the security of their protective bubble. But I’m so happy and struck by what I’ve just witnessed, I don’t register panic or fear, only awe for the man in the ring, standing over his opponent—who’s out cold—bending down, saying something into his ear.
Coming to his full height of about ten feet tall, he swings our direction, his arm raised by the ref, who announces he’s the winner by KO.