46. Tatum
46
TATUM
P ax’s hold is tight as leads me inside, keeping me behind him. The thump-thump of my heart quickens with every step as we move toward the heavy metal doors separating us from whatever’s inside the building. Well, heavy metal doors and a tall, black man with a shaved head and arms the size of my legs crossed over his burly chest.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
Pretty sure the guy stole Barry White’s voice, but there’s an intimidating edge hidden beneath the low, smooth timber that is scary as fuck. Feeling out of place, I lean into Pax’s side, and he squeezes my hand.
“Tacos,” Paxton answers.
The guy nods. “Phones?”
“Left them at my bike.”
“I’m sure you did,” he replies. “Mind if I pat you down just in case?”
Pat him down? Okay, so they take this stuff seriously. Good to know. The security guard searches Pax for a phone, then crooks his finger at me, motioning for me to step toward him. When I do, he runs the backs of his hands along my torso, then feels my waist and down my legs, confirming I’m not hiding a cell phone anywhere. With an apologetic look, he checks beneath my boobs too, and I quirk my brow. “Is this really necessary?”
“Considering the people inside, yes,” he grunts. He drops his hands and bobs his head. Stepping aside, he gives us room to pass, adding, “You’re good to go. Have fun.”
Once we’re out of earshot, I turn to Pax. “Tacos?”
“Ford is obsessed with Mexican food,” Paxton answers.
“Who’s Ford?”
“One of Judge’s nephews,” he explains. “Whenever he gets to pick the password, he chooses a Mexican dish.”
I chuckle softly. “Okay, but why is that kind of adorable?”
Paxton smirks. “Bet he’d love to hear you call him adorable. Come on.”
As we move a little further into the building, I try to keep my jaw from unhinging, but it’s kind of hard, considering the atmosphere. Dim lights hang overhead, highlighting the lack of color in the entire establishment. Everyone is dressed in different shades of gray and black, and for once, I’m grateful to have chosen the same so I wouldn’t stand out. Not in this crowd. They blend into the cinderblock walls and concrete flooring while the musky smell of weed clings to the air. My nose wrinkles as Paxton tugs me around the crowd circling a round platform in the middle of the large space. Someone’s getting their ass kicked in the middle of it. Two shirtless men, their strong bodies on full display, go head-to-head. Or at least, it’s what I assume they’re supposed to be doing. Instead, the bigger guy is bent at the waist, covering the back of his head with his arms as his opponent wails on the dude like there’s no tomorrow. I squint, realizing I’ve seen the smaller guy before. Well, small is relative. Every inch of his body is corded muscle, but compared to the man who’s getting his ass kicked, he’s like a tiger compared to a bear. Not that it matters. He’s clearly the better fighter, and it shows.
“I’ve seen that guy before,” I tell Pax. “At the bonfire, maybe?”
“Jagger Harden. Another of Judge’s nephews.”
The ones Rory told me to stay away from. Guess she was onto something.
I nod. “Oh.”
“What do you think?”
Nibbling my bottom lip, I watch the fight unfold. Jab. Kick. Knee. Twist. Block. They’re both so fast. It’s like a blur. The half-naked torsos aren’t bad to look at, though. Peeking at Pax, I admit, “I guess I can see the appeal.”
“Glad you approve,” Pax says with a laugh. He continues tugging me through the crowd as a ref steps between Jagger and the unconscious opponent lying at Jagger’s feet. The ref grabs Jagger’s hand and lifts it into the air, making the audience’s cheers reach a fever pitch that leaves my ears ringing.
“Took you long enough!” someone yells behind us.
I turn to find Roman staring at me.
“You sure you want her here?” he asks.
“She won’t be a problem,” Paxton promises.
Roman hesitates, analyzing me before giving Pax his attention. “Well, hurry up. You’re late.”
My brows tug at the center as Paxton lets me go, grabs the collar of his shirt, then tugs it over his head, exposing his back and torso for the crowd to see.
Ooooh, okay. So we’re diving right in, I guess. Cool, cool, cool. Yup. That’s…that’s totally normal. To strip down in the middle of a crowded room with a solid hundred people scattered around. What isn’t normal is the way my heart can’t decide if it wants to give out or battle a hummingbird’s wings.
You’re just anxious. It’ll be fine , I remind myself.
But seriously, why am I freaking out right now? I just saw Jagger beat the shit out of someone and didn’t even bat an eye, so what the hell is wrong with me?
“Hey, wanna hold this for me?” he asks, offering me his T-shirt.
Fingertips tingling with panic, I take it, murmuring, “Do you have like a…a warm up period or whatever?”
Paxton rolls his shoulders, swinging his arms back and forth like he’s stretching out his muscles and glances at me. “We’re a little late, so there isn’t time, but it’ll be fine.”
“Fine. Yeah.” I gulp. “Sure.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Yeah, totally. I’m…just a little nervous. This is all new.”
His brows dip. “You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” I rush out. “Good luck.”
He nudges my chin up with his knuckle and kisses me. “I’ll be fine.”
Fine. Right. I stare at the man in front of me, praying he couldn’t feel my quivering bottom lip during our kiss as a strange, almost unrecognizable feeling ignites inside of me.
It’s fear.
Okay, I’m familiar with fear. All too familiar with it, if I’m being honest, but not when it comes to something like this. It’s a fight. A silly, five-minute fight. The realization makes zero sense. I’ve done stupid shit most of my life. I’ve jumped out of airplanes. Slept on park benches. Left with strange men for reckless one-night-stands. And none of them, none of the situations, ever left me with this feeling. This overwhelming sense of dread.
Attempting to keep my emotions in check, I paste on a fake smile as he starts toward the small stage, biting my tongue ‘til I taste blood as I fight the urge to call for him. To tell him to stop. To get out of here. To leave with me.
A smile plays at the edge of his mouth before his coffee colored eyes drift to Roman. “Keep an eye on her.”
No, no, no, you don’t understand , I mentally scream, but I can’t convince my tongue to work. To form words, let alone an actual sentence.
Instead, I watch as he saunters into the ring like he owns it. And maybe he does. Maybe he’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll be fine. This isn’t his first rodeo, right? So why do I feel like I’m going to vomit? I’m just nervous for him, that’s all. It’s completely normal. I’m completely normal. There’s nothing wrong.
Nothing. Is. Wrong.
The muscles along his back bunch and flex as the referee motions for him to come closer.
He’s fine.
He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine.
“Paaaaxton Six,” the referee booms. “Lead guitarist for the billboard-smashing band, IndieCent Voooows!”
Sweat clings to my hairline, and the world starts to spin, my bottom lip quivering like a freaking leaf. It hits out of nowhere. The panic. The fear. The full-blown fucking meltdown threatening to swallow me whole.
Breathe , I remind myself. He’s fine. He’s right…he’s right there. And he’s fine.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don’t care what happens to others. It’s what I promised myself all those years ago, and it hasn’t been an issue with the exception of a select few, including Rory who’s more averse to risk than I was to committed relationships before I met Pax. So why do I care? Why is my body being thrust into fight or flight mode when it’s only a fight? A simple, stupid fight? My brain gets it, but my other senses? Yup, I’m pretty sure I’m about to have a panic attack. Or puke. Or both. Or?—
“Trust me, your boy’s gonna be fine,” Roman interrupts. His words cut through my inner spiral like a cold knife through butter. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to keep me from crumbling to the ground. “Stand here,” he adds.
His touch is nothing but mechanical as his hand falls to my shoulder and he tugs me closer to him a bit away from the stage.
Stand here. Stand. Here. I can stand here.
I hold on to the order, willing my legs not to give out, no matter how much they feel like Jell-O.
Satisfied, Roman lets me go and folds his arms again, looking as menacing as before when another man takes the stage. Who is this guy? Tiger stripes ink the skin along his back, reaching around his ribs and fading along his front. I’d laugh at the ridiculousness if he didn’t look like he could kill me with a single swat of his meaty hand.
But wait. Why would he be joining Pax on the stage unless?—
“He’s fighting Pax?” I choke out.
“Goes by Killian,” Roman informs me. “Don’t worry. Pax can take him.”
My head shakes back and forth. “You don’t know that! He’s huge and?—”
“He’ll be fine, Tate,” Roman says, barely casting me a glance. “Your boy might look like he was spoon fed all his life, but he knows how to fight. He’s got this.” He hesitates. “He better, anyway.”
I pale even more. “Why?”
“Because I have two grand on him.”
“Two grand?” I squeak. “Are you serious?”
“That’s pocket change compared to some of the numbers we’ve been dealing with lately. Now, pay attention. Once the ref blows the whistle, the fight starts.”
Just like that, the whistle blows, the sound ringing in my ears, and Killian explodes forward, throwing a quick jab-cross-hook. Paxton narrowly dodges and counters with a sharp leg kick that echoes in the run-down warehouse. When it connects with Killian’s outer thigh, I flinch back, covering my mouth. Holy shit. Okay, so maybe this isn’t so bad. I’m fine. Pax is fine. And I have no reason to freak out.
Everything. Is. Fine.
And also, like, damn. That was kind of hot.
Or at least it would be if I could convince my body to stop freaking out for two seconds so I could appreciate Paxton in all his half-naked glory. How is it that my brain and body can feel so…out of sync like this? Is this normal? It sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. Focus. Focus on Pax. On the way he looks. Confident and shirtless and…see? Still hot. Now, if only I wasn’t so distracted by the possibility of Pax being on the other end of Killian’s fury so I could actually enjoy the view, that’d be great.
“How does it end?” I ask Roman, forcing my feet to stay planted where they are when all I want to do is climb on the stage and drag Paxton off of it. “How do they declare a winner or…whatever?”
“First to surrender loses.”
My eyes bulge. “I’m sorry, did you say first to surrender ?”
“Yeah. Now, pay attention.” His meaty hand falls on top of my head, and he turns my face toward the stage like I’m his own personal doll, but I’m not ready to drop the conversation quite yet. Not when Paxton’s in the center of the ring, fighting for his life.
I push, “And when you say surrender…”
Roman shrugs. “Tap out or pass out. Those are house rules.”
“Tap out or pass out,” I repeat. I turn back to the fight, my pulse thumping faster and faster with every passing second. Stay. Calm. “Perfect.”
Killian winces from another of Paxton’s solid hits but pushes forward, unleashing a flurry of strikes until Paxton is backed up against the edge of the mat. Using his forearms to protect his face, Paxton blocks Killian’s fury, then slips under a right hook and lands an underhook, following up with a flying knee attempt that grazes Killian’s temple.
“Holy shit,” I murmur.
Paxton’s fast. And Roman’s right. This clearly isn’t his first rodeo. Maybe all those bruises were worth earning after all.
The crowd’s roar is deafening, but I swear I can still hear Killian’s curse as he swings out his leg, sweeping Paxton to the ground.
“Holy shit,” I repeat, my stomach plummeting. “This is bad. This is bad. This is bad.”
“He’ll be fine,” Roman promises.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, my own anxiety ratcheting higher with every passing second while the crowd chants around us. The fighters roll on the ground, each fighting for the upper hand, until Killian lands a jab to Paxton’s face. His head snaps back, and I cover my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Using raw strength, Paxton rolls out from beneath Killian’s grasp and stands up, giving me a perfect view of the welt forming above his left eye. Blood trickles from his eyebrow, but no one even bats an eye. Why is no one batting an eye? Oh, that’s right. Because no one’s crazy like I am. Chest heaving, Pax winds up for another hit, striking Killian’s nose. The crowd gasps, and so do I before Killian counters with a brutal elbow, and Paxton’s knees buckle, but he manages to stay up. It isn’t enough, though. It isn’t enough because in one swift move, Killian flips Paxton into a chokehold, and my legs buckle.
No, no, no, no, no.
Paxton’s face turns red, his eyes bulging as he scrambles in Killian’s grasp, making my stomach flip in on itself.
“Roman,” I seethe, choosing to show him my fury over my crippling fear. Heaven forbid I give someone a glimpse into my mental breakdown or how close I am to losing my shit. “If you don’t get in there?—”
“Fucking watch,” Roman scolds. “Your boy has him right where he wants him.”
“Bullshit—”
The rest of my words get lost on my tongue as Paxton lifts Killian and slams him onto the ground, breaking free. Twisting around, Paxton charges forward with a final combination—jab, cross, uppercut. And it’s strange. Watching the lights go out. The way Killian’s face goes slack and his legs fold beneath him. Paxton’s opponent collapses onto the mat, buckling like a soda can as the crowd loses their fucking minds.
Everyone but me. Instead, I simply stand there, my hands at my sides, my vision blurring, my stomach swirling. I feel like I just stepped off the most vomit-inducing rollercoaster. Like I just walked through a serial killer’s house. Like I just escaped death. Now, I’m numb. Empty . And numb.
Stepping forward, the referee raises Paxton’s battered fist into the air, declaring him the winner while I stand on the sideline, reeling.
Pax waves at the crowd, taking a quick bow like he just finished playing a show in Amsterdam before striding toward me like he’s on top of the world.
Part of me wants to hit him. To yell and scream at him for making me feel this way. The other part wants to kiss him and pull him close and take away every ounce of pain he must be feeling after a fight like this. It’s strange and confusing and I have no idea how to respond or react or…anything at all. I wonder if I would’ve had this response with someone else. I wonder if I would’ve had this response if Archer had never died in the first place.
I wonder if I’ll be normal—or sane—ever again.
But there’s one thing I do know, and it’s that I need to get my shit together…now.
“Hey, Birthday Girl,” Pax murmurs. His bloody knuckles brush against my chin as he nudges my head up. “What’d you think?”
Don’t freak out.
I paste on a smile. “I think you owe me another chocolate shake for scaring the shit out of me like that.”
“Is that right?”
I smack his chest, forcing my lungs to dispel any pent-up oxygen.
With a laugh, he grabs his discarded T-shirt from me, tucking it into the back of his pants before he hooks his sweaty arm over my shoulder and tugs me into his side. “I believe this is the part where you tell me I did good.”
“You scared the crap out of me,” I repeat.
“And?”
“And…” He’s okay, a tiny voice inside my whispers. I hold onto it. The voice. The reminder. The evidence standing in front of me. He’s okay. “Good job kicking his ass,” I add grudgingly.
His smile widens, and he leans down for a kiss, but I’m too overstimulated to reciprocate. No. Now, all I feel is numb. Tingling spreads from my parted lips, down my body, and out to my limbs. He pulls away, a slight furrow in his brow, and a questioning look shining in his gaze before understanding replaces it.
“Fuck, Tate. I’m?—”
Rising onto my tiptoes, I hook my arms around his neck and tug him into me, kissing him with every ounce of fear and panic and…relief that he’s okay. And he takes it. He takes it all, wrapping his arms around my waist, forcing me against him. His hold is so tight, my ribs scream in protest, but I don’t care. I don’t care at all. Because this man? This man is okay, and he knows that all I need right now is proof that’s true. That he’s in front of me. That he’s still breathing. That he isn’t going anywhere, and fuck if that isn’t the scariest thought of all. Because I’ve never cared if the men I sleep with go anywhere. I’ve never cared if they vanish into thin air. I’ve never cared about their well-being or their safety. Not since Arch. And that’s the scariest thought of all. Because if something can happen to Arch, then something can happen to Pax, and the idea of something happening to Pax is…it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all.
Please don’t go anywhere.
“Pax,” someone interrupts.
Pressing his forehead to mine, Pax sighs. “Yeah, Rome?”
“If you’re gonna fuck, do it in the back room. We have another fight in five.”
Pax nods slowly, his forehead brushing against mine, before he drags his fingers along my arm and takes my hand, refusing to let me go as he tugs me through the throng of people and into a back room.