Page 62 of Only You
The implication hung in the air between them but neither seemed to know what to say. Yet, her skin was vibrating in anticipation as she realised that a barrier had just broken. It seemed the further she ran from him, the more they were drawn together. She should be devasted.
She was almost embarrassed by the amount of relief she felt.
‘Try Mali,’ he said suddenly. ‘I went to see an exhibit on the griots and—’
‘Wait. Don’t tell me right now.’ She watched his face fall at her interruption and licked her lips nervously. There was no turning back when she said, ‘Tell me when I call tonight.’
Watching the smile stretch across his face was like watching the sun break through the clouds and for a moment, she foolishly thought it might be worth their impending doom.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Detroit
March 1946
‘Focus! Focus!’
Demir’s coach repeated the words so often, they echoed in his head even after his fists finished meeting the wall. His knuckles cried out in pain, but he was used to the burn. It greeted him like an old friend.
‘Watch the hook!’
Demir shifted his footing so he could throw a left hook. His speed was good, but his power was superb – in his own opinion. Still, there was room for improvement, especially if he was going to enter bigger, better paying fights.
‘Aye, watch it!’
He gritted his teeth as his hand hit the wall harder than he intended. Pain crackled up to his wrist, and he stepped back, cradling his hand.
‘Fuck,’ he groaned as he unravelled the tape. He cursed again, feeling the bruises beneath his dark skin beginning to form; he tried to bend his pinkie finger.
‘Gonna blow your fucking hand out doing shit like that. I keep telling you, D,focus,’ his coach, Jack, yelled as he walked over.
Out of instinct, Demir looked around to see if there were any peering eyes. The other boxers, scattered around the room, were minding their own business. They were used to the sight, he supposed, of the two of them. Demir, tall and Black with dark brown hair and eyes to match and Jack, a few inches shorter than him, white, blonde, Irish and loud as shit. The fact that they were both twenty-four made it even stranger, with Demir often getting mistaken for thirty while Jack’s easy-going smile made him pass for barely twenty.
They were undeniably an odd pair. Most saw the arrangement as Jack, a budding boxer until he blew his knee, using Demir to fulfil his own dreams. Maybe there was some truth to that, but it didn’t take away from the fact that he was a great coach most of the time.
Pain shot through his hand as Jack looked it over with a frown.
‘Fuck, that’s ugly.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and pulled one out. ‘You’re lucky I got a new doc that costs less. Jimmy would’ve charged me out my ass for this shit.’
‘I don’t need a doctor,’ Demir told him easily. ‘Just need to snap it back. Worry about your blood pressure.’
‘Youaremy blood pressure. And you doing reckless shit before our fight this weekend will fuck both of us.’
Demir shook his head at his coach, rewrapping his hand. He didn’t need some street doctor telling him to pour some weird ass oil over it. ‘You don’t have to worry about this weekend. I’m fine now. I’ll be fine by then.’
‘You’re damn right, because she’s here already.’
‘Who?’ Jack stepped around him and headed for the stairs, a crescendo of catcalls beginning to rise as their guest descended the stairs.
So, he had heard right when the coach said ‘she’. By his side was what Demir classified as the American Beauty: slim figure, curled hair and big, wide eyes. Her dark blue dress clung loyally to her curves; while sheer stockings kept her technically appropriate, she had a smile that was anything but shy. If it wasn’t for her mocha-coloured skin and full lips, he was sure she would’ve been on every motion picture poster.
She walked arm in arm with Jack, talking animatedly while waving at the other boxers. Her wave may have been inviting but Jack’s stare was not, so the other boxers stayed in their corners, even as their eyes lingered. Not that Demir could claim any differently; he couldn’t look away either.
‘The fuck is you doing, D?’ Jack asked once the pair got close. ‘Why are your wraps back on? Take them off so she can look at your hand.’
‘I’m fine, miss,’ Demir said politely as he stood. The woman raised her brow before taking the clutch purse from under her arm and tapping it on his knuckles. Demir hissed, snatching her bag.
She whistled. ‘Impressive reflexes, but clearly, your hand is hurt, so if you don’t mind…’
