“What did he want?” I ask.
“He sits there a while until I start to get up thinking this guy’s a creep, you know? Then he says his name is Jerry Percy. I tell him I’m Dominic and he asks why I’m not in school. I tell him I skipped, that he could call my parents or the school but neither of them would care so not to waste his time.”
I have to close my eyes to keep from crying at the thought of a little Dom sitting and feeling so alone. My throat squeezes so tight that I can’t answer or show I’m invested in the conversation. It’s impossible.
“He gets up,” Dom continues, “and I think he’s going to go call the cops or something, but he comes back with a bag. He sits again and pulls out a sandwich. It’s ham and tomatoes and lettuce and I don’t remember what else, I guess it doesn’t matter, and he handed it to me. Said his wife always packed him more than he could eat anyway.” He smiles sadly. “I ate the fuck out of that. Then he gave me a baggie of chips and a soda, and by this time, he could’ve kidnapped me and I would’ve gone willingly,” he chuckles. “So when he asked if I wanted to hang out at his gym for the rest of the afternoon, I said I did.”
“Percy’s,” I whisper. “That’s your gym now.”
“That’s my gym now.”
I have so many more questions, but I’m afraid to ask.
Before I can respond, we hear the front door opening and Ryder’s cries as Nate carries him past the bathroom and into their bedroom at the end of the hall.
We both exhale and then chuckle at our simultaneous reaction.
“Guess there goes your night cap, unless you can do it without screaming this time,” he winks.
“When is he moving out again?” I pout. “I should’ve made that a condition of my loan.”
“You’re a sucky loan shark.”
“I can’t be good at everything.” I stand, grabbing a towel off the makeshift rack and handing it to him.
He stands and dries himself off quickly before wrapping it around his waist. Before he steps out of the tub, he takes a deep breath. “Hey, you want to go stay the night at your house tonight?”
“You mean you’ll stay? With me? At my house?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I stammer. “I mean, yeah. Yes. Yes, I want you to come stay at my house tonight.”
He laughs at my reaction, stepping onto the linoleum. Bending so our noses are touching he whispers, “Then let’s get our shit and go before I make you start screaming right here.”
Dominic
THERE’S SOMETHING TO BE SAID for calculating the thread count in your sheets. That and sleeping in the bed of a beautiful woman.
The room glows, the all-white décor almost blinding, as I open my eyes. My body feels rested, lots of the aches I wake up with daily in my legs and hips aren’t as noticeable, and I wonder vaguely if maybe that means I’m dead. Then I look to my right and see Camilla asleep next to me and realize if I’m dead, I’m okay with that.
Last night wasn’t the best sleep I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t the worst. Once we got here late and fucked ourselves senseless, I had a hard time falling asleep. It was well past three before my eyes finally shut, but they did. They don’t always.
Cam’s on her side, facing me. Her hair is a wild mess against the pristine sheets. I glance at the clock, then back to her. Then back to the clock. Then to the ceiling.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I count to three and then turn to my side. Running a fingertip from her forehead down the side of her face, her neck, and over her shoulder, she wakes up under my touch.
Her lashes flutter as she opens her eyes. “Hey,” she says, her sleepy voice killing me.
“Good morning.”
“No breakfast in bed?”
“I’m not much of a cook,” I admit. “But I promise to buy you breakfast if you get up and come with me.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s early.”
She yawns. “Like five o’clock early or like ten o’clock early?”
“Ten isn’t early, babe.”
“It is to me,” she yawns again.
“It’s six.”
“Where do you have to be at six in the morning on a weekend?”
“I don’t have to be anywhere. I have somewhere I want to be and I want you to be there with me.”
She looks up at me with one eye, the other buried in the sheets. “What if I remind you I’m naked? Would that keep you in bed?”
“Nope,” I say, springing off the mattress. My feet hit the soft carpeting and I swear I sink a couple of inches. “Get your fine ass up, Miss Landry. The world awaits.”
“The world can wait.”
“Stay right here.” I leave Cam just inside the door and jog across the mats. Flipping on the switch, I wait for the hum of the halogen lights and watch them flicker to life high above our heads. “Welcome to Percy’s.”
“I can’t believe you brought me here,” she squeals. Almost bouncing on her toes, she claps her hands in front of her as I return. “So this is where you train?”
“This is it. Not super fancy or any of that, but it works.”
“It’s amazing.” She looks around the room, to the section with heavy bags and then on to the speed bags. I think her eyes will pop out of her head when she sees the ring in the back. “There. You fight in there.”
“Yup. That’s where I go at it with Bond.”
She rests her gaze back on me like a little kid at Christmas. “Teach me something, Dom.”
“What?” I laugh.
“Come on! Teach me something. Please?”
“What do you want to learn?”
“Hell if I know,” she giggles. “Teach me how to throw a punch. Or a kick. Or toss someone over my back like they do in the movies.” She makes her hands into fists and rolls them around like the fighters did in old blockbusters.
“Okay, killer. Let’s slow down,” I laugh, leading her through the gym. “One thing at a time.”
“I’m an all-or-nothin’ kind of girl.”
“Is that so?”
“It is today.”
I set my bag on the floor and look for a pair of gloves. I know Percy has extra ones in the back, but I don’t want to go get them. Finding them in the bottom, I stand up to see her circling a heavy bag the wrong way. She throws a couple of punches, terribly, then a kick that almost lands her on her ass.
“We’ve found the thing you aren’t good at,” I crack, tossing her the gloves. “Put these on before you wreck your manicure.”
“I’m so proud of you,” she nods, obviously humoring me. “You knew the word ‘manicure.’ I feel strangely accomplished.”
“You would.”
“What is a manicure called if it’s on your toes?”
“A . . . toe-icure? A foot-icure?”
She giggles as I help her into the gloves. “No. ‘Ped’ is Latin for foot. So it’s pedicure.”
“Thanks for that bit of trivia I’ll never need.”