Page 44 of From the Ashes
After an hour on the club mat teaching Lana many other moves where she succeeded each time in acting against me, I look at my watch and notice it's about time we go grab a bite.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m starving.” She laughs, her cheeks red from effort.
“What would you like, sweetness?”
“Anything, as long as I can go there in my leggings.” She chuckles, and I want to smile at her, because despite having more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime, I'm glad we both have the same mindset. No need for fancy stuff. As long as the food is good and the place is nice enough, then it's alright. I've never been into sophisticated chicks because they always expect you to take them to luxurious places with suits on. Never liked that. I've always been a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy.
“There's an Italian place ten minutes from here. They make fresh pasta, I think you'll like it.”
“I'm definitely in the mood for pasta.” She smiles as I give her my hand to go down from the ring to the floor. She puts her sweatshirt back on, and I want to bite my fist when I realize, once again, after picking her up tonight, that she's wearingmysweatshirt. The one I gave her last time. “You okay?” she asks as she removes her elastic band and lets her long chocolate hair fall on her shoulders.
“I'm okay,” I grunt.
“It is about the sweatshirt? I can give it back to you if-”
I raise my palm in the air. “I really like watching you with my clothes on your body. I like it a lot. Maybe a bit too much,” I say flatly. “Let's go.”
I take her hand and mine. She laces our fingers right away, and I really enjoy the fact that she initiated it. The sound of a vibration takes my attention, and I notice that it comes from her phone. Lana looks at her side pocket, unlocks her screen, and winces. I don’t think it's her sitter, otherwise, she would already have answered. Must be someone she doesn't want to talk to.
“You can pick it up if you want. I'll just wait,” I assure her.
“No, it's nothing.” She falters and places a weird smile on her face. Less genuine. Less authentic. Might not be a smile at all. Why can't I read her right now? I drop it ‘cause it ain’t my business. In the parking lot, I secure her helmet, then lift her by the hips and help her onto the backseat. She doesn’t even gasp or flinch. Like she’s done it a million times. Like I’ve always pictured her doing this. Once we’re settled, I feel her lean into my back just a little, and I catch myself holding my breath. I could get used to this. Iamgetting used to this. I fire up the engine, and the rumble settles through both of us.
“Ready?” I ask, just loud enough for her to hear over the roar. She nods, her arms sliding around me, and it’s like everything clicks into place.
“Oh my God,” she hums, digging into her plate. Creamy sauce clings to her lips, and I have to look away before I do something stupid, like wipe it off with my thumb. “This is amazing. Fresh pasta is definitely the best. I tried making some with Noah once, total disaster. We were both covered in flour.” She laughs, eyes lighting up at the memory.
I inhale, then grab a bite of meatballs, watching my girl enjoying herself. I’m glad I brought us here. The owner’s a great guy, always has a table for the club members, and it’s not farfrom our warehouse. Simple food, just how I like it. It’s small, with red checkered tablecloths, candles, rustic wood chairs, and Italian music playing in the background.
“You improved a lot today,” I tell her, ‘cause she learned a bunch of new moves and nailed them each time. Don’t know if this has to do with picturing her ex, but it definitely brought the lioness in her. Her phone is on the table, screen up in case the sitter calls, she said. She’s a good mom, always thinking about her son and what she could do to make him smile. I like that about her. She’s caring, kind, smart, and strong. You don’t come across a lady like her every day. The screen lights up, and the name of her ex appears backward.
What does he want?
She locks the phone and makes the vibration disappear, but I’m starting to think that he’s been the one calling her before we left and once more on the drive.
“Thank you, I’ve got a good teacher,” she says with a hesitant smile, the corners of her lips not quite lifting all the way. Her fingers fidget with each other. I reach out, letting my palm rest gently against the side of her throat across the small table. I’m checking her pulse. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Maybe she’s starting to get used to the strange ways I show I care. It’s fast. Too fast. We just finished training. She should be tired, relaxed. Not flushed, not trembling, not breathing like she’s ready to run.
“Your pulse is racing,” I murmur. “You’re flushed, but not like when I stare at you in your leggings. Your hands are shaky. Pupils dilated.” I pause, scanning her face. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not.”
“Ben has been calling me all night, it’s… It’s stressing me out.” The picture of her ex buried alive with his hands and feet tied up flashes before my eyes.
No. I said I wasn’t going down that road.
“Why is he calling you?”
“I don’t know, to talk, I guess? It’s always the same thing…” She sighs.
“What do you mean?”
“He says I’m lost without him. That I need him. That I’m making a huge mistake.” My world tilts. The air thickens, heavy with the weight of her words.
“Is that how you feel, too?” I ask, clenching my hand, not breaking eye contact.
