Page 10 of Sealed in Ink
“Okay, Mr. Brag,” I say.
He laughs again, just like earlier. I seriously need to calm down, but any positive emotion from him is like a tickle right to thereward center of my brain. “Do you think I’m trying to impress you, good girl?”
He frowns like he’s pissed at himself for bringing up the old nickname. I went through a super religious stage as a kid, soon after Mom died. This was before I found the DVD. I asked Dad, Brad, and even Rust to call me that.
“Good girl. I remember that. I must’ve looked silly with that big Cross around my neck.”
He shrugs. “I don’t care about people’s religion. I don’t care where that came from.”
“It’s okay. I kind of like it. It takes me back to those days.”
He tightens his grip on the wheel. I wish he were wearing short sleeves so I could see the tightness of his forearms, the power in them. I think of them twitching when he moves his hands over my body.
“Were those good days for you?” he asks.
“Good? No, not really, but they were simple. As a little kid, I believed so hard that it made everything okay for a while there. It helped me, but I could never get back to that. I tried so many times.”
“Maybe you’ll get back there one day,” he says.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you believe in anything?”
Rust is notorious for giving as little as possible away in interviews. His stoic demeanor has worked well, making him seem distant, tough, and imposing, especially as a heavyweight. It’s not like we’ve everreallytalked before. Thanks, Brad, for giving us some alone time. No,no, I’m so twisted.
“No,” he says darkly. “I never have, and I don’t think I will now. To me, the world has always seemed cold.”
“Because of… your childhood?”
The subtle curve to his lips is long gone. He stares bleakly at the rainy road. A flash of lightning floods his face with light. He doesn’t flinch or even react. He just keeps staring. “It has nothing to do with that.”
“How do you like your steak?” I ask after a shower. The heating makes the house cozy, and the lamps make it feel intimate. I’m wearing thick PJs and a hoodie, covering myself up. It’s not that I think he would be tempted, but it would make me act differently around him. I’d just be waiting—praying—for him to look at me.
He’s in the living room, watching a Cain Cruz fight on TV. No, notafight. That’s a younger Rust in there, squaring off against the only opponent who ever defeated him in a fight.
“Medium,” he says, glancing at me, his expression unreadable.
“Is this getting you pumped up?” I ask.
“I don’t need any more motivation, but there are mistakes in this fight, too many. I can’t make them again.”
“You won’t,” I say.
“It’s a fight. Anything can happen.”
He leans forward, wearing just a T-shirt now, his arms tensed as he watches his younger self. His hair is still a little wet, swept offhis face. My hand almost spasms with the urge to run my hand through it, trail down his back, feel him, savor him. Just for a little while. Not forever.
I busy myself with the dinner. When it’s almost ready, I return to the living room. The fight is over. The TV is turned off. Rust is leaning over a leather patch with a needle in his hand, prodding at it, making an electronicbrrsound.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Tattooing on fake skin,” he replies.
“Tattooing?”
He looks up, that subtle curve back on his lips, his dark eyes gleaming almost mischievously. “Fighters retire early—thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven. I’ll need a career when I retire. I’m not made for podcasting, coaching, public appearances, or shaking hands and kissing babies. However,thisI might be able to do, but it’ll take some work.”
I walk closer and look down at the piece. It’s a wolf’s head, drawn well and sketched to give it a sense of depth. “It looks good to me,” I say.
He switches off the gun, thebrrnoise dying. “There’s lots of work to do.”
