Page 10 of Sweet Addiction
You know what they say about faking it till you make it?
Maybe someone should tell me when they figure it out. In the meantime, I’m going to go with what I’ve got. “And why would I do that?” I ask with an extra oomph of confidence that’s 100 percent fake.
“Because I saved you from wasting your night with a boring finance bro?—”
“He’s in the music industry,” I correct him.
“He’s an asshole,” Rome answers.
This—arguing with Rome—this I can handle. This I excel at. “And you’re not?”
“Invite me in and find out, Dillan.” He pulls the two sides of my pale-pink coat closed and holds me there. Like he’s giving me time to decide. Like there’s any real decision to be made.
I lick my lips as a shiver runs down my spine. “I think I’ve got a bottle of tequila in my freezer.”
“To Don Julio and bad decisions,” he almost whispers as I watch the freezing air leave his lips.
And I can’t help but think he’s got at least half of that right.
To bad decisions.
Very,verybad decisions.
ROME
Some people think I’m the biggest dick they’ve ever met.
Some fear me and some say I’m a teddy bear.
Believe them all. They got the version they earned.
—Rome’s secret thought
Dillan sits across from me on her living-room floor, her sun-kissed hair tied up in a messy bun and her dress swapped out for black leggings hugging every single curve of her tight little body. She’s sporting a dark-pink sweatshirt, cropped enough to give a gorgeous glimpse of toned skin. Bright-pink fuzzy socks slouch at her ankles, and a bottle of beer dangles from her fingertips. One she’s been nursing for over an hour, which must be as warm as piss. She’s got this look on her face that’s hot as hell but also has me on edge because this woman is observant, and she’s been observing me since we walked through the door going on two hours ago.
“Okay, but why do you do it?” she asks pointedly, and my hackles raise. “Do you like the pain?”
I nod my head slowly and sip my own drink. “Something like that.”
She wouldn’t understand.
“What’s it like?” Her voice softens. “Knowing when you step in the ring, there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’re either going to get hurt or hurt someone else?”
Before I have a chance to formulate a smart-ass answer, because what the fuck does she think it’s like, she keeps going.
“Just thinking about it makes my stomach flip,” she murmurs more to herself than me as she looks off to the side and gets lost in the snow falling outside. When she finally brings her eyes back to mine, her smile has softened. “I think I’d hate having all those eyes on me.”
I lean back against the couch and stretch out my legs, hating the idea of Dillan Ryan standing in the middle of a ring. She wasn’t made to be hit. She was made for a softer life. “Here’s the thing. Anyone who trains at Crucible will tell you there’s no fifty-fifty chance at anything. We don’t train to lose. We train harder, longer, and more intensely every day than anyone else, so when you walk into that cage, you know you’re going to win. I don’t ever walk in, thinking there’s a chance I’m losing the fight—because I won’t. I might get hurt, but I’m going to hurt my opponent worse.”
Dillan’s arms rest on bent knees as she studies me quietly.
Deciding whether my honesty bothers her.
The silence is nearly unnerving.
“And . . . ?” she asks.
“I like the crowd. The energy. The bigger the fight, the bigger the crowd, the more energy they bring to the arena. It all adds to it. Builds. But once I’m inside the cage, I don’t hear a thing. Don’t see anyone but whoever is standing in there with me.”
