Both of them roll their eyes. Surprise, surprise.
“One day we’ll get her to throw them back… one day,” Emy says.
“Yeah and then I bet she’ll drink both of us under the table.” Shannon laughs and takes another sip.
Rolling my eyes yet again, I say, “You two are something else. Do you know that?”
“We do,” they say in unison. You’d think these two were best friends and I’m just the third wheel.
“Anyway, back to the match coming up in two weeks… You’re going to come, right?” Emy asks, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
“What?”
Emy pulls out the same flyer from earlier and places it down onto the table. “Two weeks. Straight fire. Look at these hotties.”
I stare at the ad in front of me but don’t really know what to say. Both of them want me to go, but I’m not sure I want to.
Shannon bites down on her bottom lip. “They are all freaking hot, but Guns is definitely the hottest one,” she says, pointing at the man in the center, the one she had nicknamed earlier today at my apartment.
Emy lets out a sigh. “He really is. What I would give to see him up close and personal.”
Shannon nods. “Me too.”
“Look at this one though. He’s just as hot… damn,” she says, pointing at another guy next to Guns.
Jesus, I can’t believe they’ve got me calling him that too.
Emy turns to face me. “So, what do you say? Are you down or what? It’ll be loads of fun.”
I scrunch up my nose. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tag along.”
“Yes! That’s my best friend! That’s my best friend!” Emy says in a singsong voice. “I’m going to get us tickets tonight when I get home.”
“Are you sure they’re not sold out?” Shannon asks.
Emy smirks. “Oh, they are. They’ve been sold out for a while now, but I’ve got connections.”
“You do?” My brows furrow.
Emy flashes me a wide, open grin. “I do.”
I can’t wait to hear all about how she has connections to an event that’s been sold out. “Do tell.”
“Yes, Em. Do tell,” Shannon repeats.
Emerson takes a sip from her glass, bats her eyes, and says, “I happen to personally know one of the guys fighting in the event.”
My eyes go wide. “You do?”
Shannon grabs Emy’s sleeve. “And you didn’t tell us before? Oh, is it Guns? Is it Guns? Tell me it’s Guns!”
Emy and I laugh.
Emy points at the man standing next to Guns. Jesus. I did it again. I shake my head.
“See this piece of eye candy right here, standing to the right of Guns? This is Ryker Manzoni, and I met him the other night. He was handing out these flyers at the mall. We struck up a conversation, and well, let’s just say we hit it off nicely. If we want it, we’re in.”
“Ryker Manzoni? Jesus Christ. Even his name sounds hot,” Shannon says.
“Doesn’t it?” Emy taps on the one named Ryker three times. “Yum, yum, yum. I can’t wait to see what he does inside the ring.”
I have a feeling this is going to be a very interesting event.
The two of them carry on in a full-blown conversation about the men who will be fighting in the matches, but all I can do is wonder about the man who had stormed out of here. Where the hell had I seen him before?
Chapter Six
Lorenzo
For the past week, all I’ve been seeing every night as I lie in bed and close my eyes are those same red luscious lips.
Luscious Lips. Fuck, she was something like I’ve never seen before. Her long dark curls, cascading down her back… her big brown eyes, and her amazing curves…
Wow. She was something else.
And yeah, I’m still referring to her as Luscious Lips. I seriously can’t get those plump, crimson, heart-shaped puckers and the way they wrapped around that candy cane out of my mind. Fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid.
I need to snap out of my thoughts. This isn’t the time or the place. I’m supposed to be focusing on my daughter, but I know she’s in good hands.
I shake my head and lean back farther into the plastic chair connected to the table. I watch as Gianna laughs and plays with Marianna at the Skee-Ball machine.
It’s crazy how much a tiny person can resemble the love of your life. The way her head whips back as laughter escapes her throat, with a twinkle in her eyes, reminds me so much of Sylvia, it hurts. She’s got her same sparkling blue eyes.
Tears well in my eyes, and I casually bring up a hand to wipe them away.
“You all right, man?” Max asks, then stuffs a mouthful of cheesy pizza down his throat. It’s been a week since our little altercation. I knew it wouldn’t last long. We’re family and very close-knit. Plus, we’ve had the same argument time and time again. I always end up coming to my senses and forgiving him. I know it’s not his fault. I know he—as well as the rest of my family—want to see me happy and settled down again someday. I know they’re tired of seeing me hurt. I can’t blame them for caring. It’s what they’re supposed to do. I love them for it. Sometimes I just start missing Sylvia so much, all I want to do is fight anyone who says I should move on. Fuck moving on. I’ll always love my wife. It was the promise I made her on the day we got married.
No. Scratch that. I promised I would love her for the rest of my life long before we were wed.
Anyone who suggests moving on always gets my blood boiling, and I’m instantly ready to fight them. It’s the reason I joined the UFC after all, to get my frustration out and not have to take it out on the poor fucker.
Moving on is not an option. But moving forward, maybe.
I turn to face him. “Yeah, yeah. All good. I was just thinking—”
He nods. “How much she looks like Sylvs,” he states more so than asks, turning his chin up toward where Gianna is playing. “I know. I was thinking it too.”
“Is that normal? Five years later, and I still tear up every time I think about her like that?”
He takes a sip of his drink and says, “Of course, Enz. She was your wife. I think it’s perfectly normal.”
I take his words into consideration. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, thinking something is wrong with me. We were together for so long, of course it still hurts.
Five years is not long when you spent just about half your life with someone who meant so much to you.
Five years is barely brushing the surface of a life together.
Max takes another bite of his pizza and swallows the mouthful. To this day, I still don’t know how he likes Chuck E. Cheese pizza. To me, it tastes like frozen, reheated garbage. It’s not my fault. I grew up on my mama’s good, homemade Italian cooking. We both did, but my brother was a pain with food growing up. He was picky as hell. When we wanted pizza, she made it from scratch. Call me spoiled, but it’s just the way it was—the way it still is whenever I go home.
I don’t know what’s wrong with my brother. We grew up in the same household, but seeing the way he eats this shit, you would never think so.