"Well, Finch, I am afraid I'm going to have to teach you to mind your own goddamn business."
"She's my business," Finch declared, popping the lollipop out of his mouth, holding it out toward me. "Hold this for me for one minute, darling. I need to show this asshole how we handle bullies where I come from."
How they handled bullies in Louisiana involved a lot of quick, confident footwork and tight, rapid-fire, close-contact jabs and hooks. In short, street fighting.
Jake was trained in a lot of types of fighting, street was absolutely not one of them. He was used to practiced, precise movements paired with the desire for the opponent to protect themselves.
Finch didn't give a damn about keeping up his guards, protecting his face. I suddenly understood how he'd managed to get such a nasty scar on his cheek.
That said, though, it didn't mean that Jake was winning. If anything, they seemed pretty well-matched. Jake had a slight advantage of sneaky, specific moves. Finch had more speed and ruthlessness.
My air felt constricted in my chest as I stood there, unable to get up and get out of the ring, not even when Jake's punch made Finch slam back into me, pushing me back against the ropes.
"Sorry, doll," he grunted at the impact. "I'll be done with this in just a minute, and we can get going."
Though how we could get going with the gashes splitting his lip and eyebrow was beyond me.
I took a deep, steadying breath, only to feel it rush out of me on a gasp as another strike sent Finch's body flying, landing flat on his back on the mat.
This was where Jake got cocky. And Finch took advantage of that, flying upward, jamming his head under Jake's chin with so much momentum that there was an audible cracking sound as Jake's teeth slammed together.
He hadn't worn a mouth guard.
He never did when training with me because he knew I rarely got the better of my male instructors. He would regret that move when he woke up.
Because he was out cold at the moment, body splayed like a starfish.
"Alright, princess," Finch said, sauntering over toward me like he wasn't actively bleeding down his chin and onto his white tee. "Thanks for holding onto that," he told me, taking the forgotten lollipop out of my hand, slipping it into his mouth, split lip and all. "Did I hurt you when I slammed into you?" he asked, eyes roaming over me, making me suddenly very aware of my tight black leggings, my white racerback tee that exposed much of my light pink sports bra.
"Wha.. oh, no. I'm fine. Finch, you're bleeding everywhere," I told him, watching my own hand as it rose, gently touching his chin, turning his head to the side so I could check out the cut near his eye, hoping it hadn't done too much damage.
"It'll stop. You ready to head out, or you want to change first?"
"Finch, you need to clean out these cuts."
"Nah, I'll be fine, sweetheart. I mean, unless you want to nursemaid me. Because, I'm not going to lie, I could really be into that," he told me, eyes warm.
"I mean...we have to at least get the bleeding to stop before we go."
"Why? Think I might look intimidating bleeding all over the place when we show up to coerce this bastard into giving us the press he promised us."
I liked the way he used the word us, when he spoke of the two of us, more than I should have, more than I thought was normal given that we just barely knew each other.
"I think this one might need stitches," I decided, my finger sliding across the top of his cheekbone and under the long cut that came down from the edge of his eyebrow.
It was impossible, this close, to focus on that part of his face, and not to notice the way his eyes seemed to go a little hooded, a little heavy, as my finger stroked across his skin.
It was equally impossible not to notice the way my chest felt strangely tight at seeing it, the way my breathing felt shallow and short.
"Jake, you better not even think about it," my mother's voice called.
The panic that flooded my system was two-fold.
First, realizing both Finch and I had been to absorbed in our little... whatever it was... to notice that Jake had recovered and regained his feet, and was clearly considering another attack.
Second, because it was my mother. Standing there where I was stroking the face of a man she didn't even know existed.
My mom was known as the fearless, ruthless, intimidating leader of Hailstorm. And those were all true aspects of her personality.
But there were private things only close friends and family knew about her. Like under all that badass lady leader stuff was the heart of a true romantic, a woman who read hundreds of romance books every year, who had a hand in many of the love pairings in the town of Navesink Bank.
I absolutely did not want her to see what she would interpret as an intimate moment between me and a man. First, because it wasn't intimate. I didn't do intimate. Second, because her fanciful heart would run away with her. She would be planning my wedding before the week was out.
I didn't want to have to crush her with the truth.
I was never going to find a man.
I was never going to marry.
I was never going to make her a grandma.
But she would get her hopes up.
And I would be a source of disappointment in her life.
She would never say that, of course. She likely wouldn't even admit it to herself. But I knew it was true.
Finch twisted half back at the words, making my hand fall.
I wasn't sure if the two men puffed chests, inclined chins, mouthed wordless threats, or acknowledged each other for a good fight. Because my focus was on my mother, and hers was on me, eyes curious, and maybe even a little hopeful.
"Mom," I said, not sure what I planned to tack on to that, but needing to fill the suffocating silence between us.
"Christienne," she said, back, lips pulling up into a ghost of a smile as I remembered myself, sliding out from between the ropes, hopping down.
Not a few seconds later, Finch hopped down beside me.
I was opening my mouth to say something. To, I guess, introduce him.
"Finch McAwley," my mom said first, smile going just a tad devilish.
How did she know his name?
I had to dig for weeks to research counterfeiters, to try to track down any leads. And then add some more parameters to track down Finch.
But Mom simply knew him by sight?
If she knew him by sight, I didn't doubt that she knew his reputation as well.
"Everyone knows you," Finch said, head tilting to the side, giving her that lazy, charming smile of his, making him look boyish despite all the blood. "I can't figure out how you know me, though."
"No, you likely wouldn't remember. I met you when you were maybe seven or eight. Right when that gash on your cheek was red and raw still," she added, making my gaze shoot to his face, brows pinching together.
I guess I had always assumed that he'd gotten that scar by some random bar fight, or a fight in prison; something that happened as an adult. I never would have guessed it happened in childhood.
"Really?" Finch asked. I doubt my mom heard it because she didn't know just how open he was typically, how light and laid-back, but I heard it. The hint of tension, the tightness of his jaw as he spoke, the way his body had stiffened ever so slightly.
His past, it seemed, was a sore spot. Much like much of my own.