11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Jordan
“Is that all you got?”
My arms are on the verge of unmovable, shaking, and still I manage to get them up.
“Oh, I could go all day.”
It’s a lie I’ve been telling myself through the pure exhaustion that settled into my bones the moment I woke up in a cold sweat, with Mac still in my arms, from yet another nightmare fueled by flames. The smoke was thick enough that my throat still feels scratchy, the heat so hot that my skin still burns.
Even after twenty-two years.
And is precisely why I snuck out of bed and have been getting my ass beat by Peach, a fellow bodyguard, ever since.
“Then let’s see it, big guy.” The man that’s smaller than me, shorter than me, and an expert in Akido or some weird shit like that, lifts his gloved hands and flexes his fingers at me in a bring it gesture.
Forcing a breath through my nose like a bull readying to charge, I bounce on the balls of my feet one way, and then the other in hopes of distracting my opponent before pulling an elbow back and throwing wide.
Too slow.
Peach darts inside, sinks a jab on my aching ribs, and elbows me right in the mouth.
The taste of copper coats my tongue and brings a smile to my face.
“You’re all mad, I swear,” Peach remarks with his own bounce and testing jabs to my forearms.
“He says with a smile.”
“Boxing was your idea, genius.” I snort at his comeback and tilt my head just out of his swing’s reach. “And as much as I love beating you up … you wanna talk about it?”
What a loaded question.
Do I want to talk about spending the night in my client’s bed, his body tucked into me like some kind of metaphorical puzzle piece, or that I dreamt of my parents dying all over again as if I haven’t thought about that night every day for the last two decades?
Or maybe I should talk about how I’ve never felt like a single thing in my life was steady enough to trust? No home or family placement lasting more than a few months at a time, the centers even shorter. That my foster care was filled with judgmental assholes and bullies for parental figures that made sure I knew I didn’t belong.
How this job is the one I’ve held the longest, and I think that’s only because nothing here is ever the same either, that each day brings something new for me to navigate?
That I’ve started having … this something tingling down my spine, like some kind of symbolic message from the universe, except they forgot to leave me the notes on how to read it?
And I’m not even going to let myself think about how part of my panic this morning included morning wood that got stiffer when I remembered it was Mac in my arms. How? I still don’t understand considering my heart was racing out of my chest, yet my dick kept pointing straight.
His ass and those fucking rainbow eggplants.
“No,” I snap out way too fast and duck under a swing he throws out. “I mean, no thank you.”
Peach snorts. “He thinks he has manners.”
I shrug and we dance, rounding the ring with light taps each of us block. “I think I’m funny,” I deadpan with another lift of my shoulder.
“You sound just like Mac.” Peach snickers.
My stomach flips at the mention of my drummer and a whole new wave of questions roll right over me, fast and hard.
Shit I hadn’t even begun to consider.
How do I know I’ve crossed the line between client and friend?
I pounce, using the rush to throw a punch that Peach not only deflects, but catches and twists. He holds on, his grip tight even with the gloves’ smooth surface.
“I—how did you … fuck.” We circle and I fight against the hold with a growl that’s all frustration and nothing to do with the spar.
“Go ahead. Talk to Papa Peach.” He dips and snickers when I throw an elbow with my free arm. “Not letting go until you say something.”
How am I getting my ass handed to me right now?
“Don’t wanna talk about it.” My chest is pumping and not from the exertion of working out with the fittest person I know.
No, it’s panic that’s bubbling up all over again.
Caging me in and closing my throat.
It makes me act before my brain can catch up, all of my thoughts whooshing right out of my ears as my head thrusts forward and my forehead connects with Peach’s nose.
The noise that escapes him is pure shock as he stumbles back, his gloved hand releasing his hold on me to go right his face, though the leather does nothing to hold back the gushing of blood that leaks out.
“ Again ? Mother fuck .”
His free fist flings out, the glove connecting with my jaw and splitting my lip wide open.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my tongue running through the blood filling my mouth.
“A headbutt? Seriously ?” Peach scoffs and uses his teeth to rip the Velcro back so that he can free a hand and pinch at the bridge of his nose. “You assholes and your big feelings. Pfft .”
“Shit, I’m—” Shaking myself from the shit in my head, I dash across the in-house gym to the paper towel dispenser on the wall and tear off a giant stream.
Wadding it, I pass it to Peach who accepts and drops to the ring, crisscrossing his legs.
Guilt washes over me and I sit with him, though I can’t quite sit like he does so I let my legs stretch out in front of me and rip off my own gloves. “I’m sorry.”
“Uh-huh,” Peach mumbles, though it comes out nasally. “You guys have to stop breaking my nose. The shit hurts.”
I hang my head, and he hisses.
And then something crunches, and I nearly throw up at the idea that the fucker just reset his own nose.
He lets loose a deep groan, his eyes watering when I look back up, confirming my suspicions.
“Now fucking spill, you dick.”
I pull my knees up and rest my elbows on top of them. “Should I get med for that?”
“No. Stop stalling.”
Huffing, I stare right into the daggers he’s throwing at me with his green eyes.
And my mouth just opens.
“How did you know … y’know …” I trail off and throw a hand out, though I have no clue what I’m gesturing to.
I feel the heat creep up my face.
“Know what?”
“That you’re …” I swallow hard. “Like bi or whatever.”
My stomach rolls.
Peach’s spine snaps straight.
“How did you know?”
I think I might throw up.
Peach’s head tilts like a dog trying to hear me better and though he might look like a funky Pomeranian with all the ink and piercings and highlighter orange hair, he’s actually more like a German Shepherd.
“I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m so—”
“No, no. Don’t take it back now.” He drops the paper towels, unveiling his crimson grin. “It’s called gaydar, boo, and clearly you got one.”
I blink.
“What’s that mean?”
Peach just shakes his head and tries his best to clean up his face with the already fucked wad of paper in his hands.
With a smile.
“Yes, I’m bi,” he confirms.
I swallow. “How’d you figure it out?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal to suddenly have that questioning thought gnawing at the back of your mind as if you’ve been missing a piece to this fucking puzzle you have no clue was lost to the void of life.
Am I … Am I attracted to—
“My dick got hard in a locker room.” He snickers then winces and brings a hand up to his face only to stop midair and drop it. “And then it stayed hard for the cheerleaders, too.”
My mouth works like a fish, my brows meeting in the middle of my forehead.
“It was always there for me,” he clarifies as if he can see the struggle written all over my face. “Not everyone is like that, especially if there’s any trauma barring self-actualization.” He licks his lip, then swipes it away with the back of his hand. “It’s totally normal to question those ideologies later in life.”
I nod, though I don’t understand most of what he just said.
“It’s not like I’m …”
I’m what?
Gay? No. Bi? That doesn’t feel quite right either.
Broken? Probably.
I huff, push to my feet, and start pacing.
“What’s Mac say?”
My chest constricts, another wave of guilt nearly stealing my breath.
“I haven’t …”
“Oh. Ohhh ,” Peach drags out. “We’re ignoring that. Got it.”
I nod again, though I’m not really trying to ignore anything about the drummer. It’s just easier to avoid thinking about how having him in my arms felt like more .
Didn’t it?
How I want to do it all over again because I know he felt good about it.
Didn’t he?
And that makes my dick twitch.
Shit, I’m so fucking confused.
“If a guy made your dick hard, then you’re not straight.” Peach pushes to his feet with a groan. “How about that?”
Biting the inside of my lip, I stare at a spot in the floor.
“But what if it wasn’t just that? What if … what if it was the feeling ?”
Peach’s non-bloodied hand lands on my shoulder. “I’m gonna text you something. Look it up when you’re alone . Give it some thought. I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”
I barely nod and Peach leaves me to my crisis.