Chapter 2
TWO
Zia is an unusual name, but it matches the dripping man in my living room.
Androgynous would be the word I would use to describe him, a mix of masculine and feminine features.
He’s probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, even drenched.
It’s obvious he doesn’t belong in a place like this, driving a car like that and covered in diamonds.
He’s trouble in a pretty package, but I couldn’t seem to leave him.
He looked so alone in the rain.
Call me stupid, but I helped him when I normally wouldn’t.
Heading down the hallway, I grab what I need and come back to find he hasn’t moved, his eyes tracking me around the room.
His unnatural gray hair drips from the rain, highlighting his perfectly smooth and unblemished face, pink lips, and eyes darkened with makeup.
He screams wealth, and he’s definitely not someone who should be standing in my apartment, but here we are, and it seems he also doesn’t know what to do.
I throw a towel at him as I run the other one over my hair, then hang it around my neck as I walk to the kitchen—anything to fill the silence. I press the machine on to warm the water and turn to face him as he dries himself.
“Tea or coffee?” I ask. I shouldn’t offer. It might encourage him to stay, and I don’t like anyone in my space, especially strangers. I should just let him call whom he needs to and leave, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the fact that I found him laughing like a maniac while on the brink of tears . . . .
I have a feeling Zia needs a sanctuary at the moment, and I’m not sure why I offer mine, but I do.
He seems to shake off his shyness, and a cocky grin tilts up his lips as he runs his gaze over my kitchen. “I don’t suppose you have anything stronger, do you?”
I scoff. “Rough night?”
When he doesn’t speak, I lean back against the counter, running my eyes down the length of his body.
His clothes are practically transparent, his abs showing through the hole-filled material, and I can see the clear outline of his dick through his pants.
“I don’t drink, not while I’m training anyway,” I reply.
He nods, pursing his lips as he wanders through the room. I watch him as I pour two hot chocolates, and when I add whipped cream on top, I turn and find him sitting on the window seat, his eyes on the water.
Heading his way, I place the mug next to his legs, which are elegantly crossed, and I fold my big frame into the other side. Our knees touch, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I blow on my drink.
“What do you train for?” he finally asks.
Maybe I should tell him to leave, but honestly, he looks like a lost puppy, and something about him raises my protective instincts, so instead of demanding he go, I lean back and settle in, getting comfortable.
“I’m a boxer,” I reply. That’s putting it mildly.
“Are you any good?” He runs his eyes over me. He looks curious, not judgmental.
I shrug, and he smiles softly. It changes his whole face, and I find myself staring. “Either you’re shy or don’t like to brag. Both are dumb. If you’re good, admit it. If you don’t shout your praises, nobody else will. You have to be your own biggest supporter, you know? So . . . are you any good?”
“I’m aiming for the title this year. I’ve never lost a fight,” I say, understanding what he means, but I’m not one to boast. I just put my head down and get on with it. It’s who I am.
“So you’re good,” he surmises, his smile growing before he looks away again. “Is this the gym where you train?”
“Yeah, my family owns it.” I sip my hot chocolate. “What happened tonight? You look like shit.”
He lets out a full belly laugh that seems to catch him off guard, and when he looks at me, his eyes sparkle. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been told that.”
“I bet,” I grumble. Even drenched, this man is beautiful. “You don’t have to tell me.”
He nods and stares out of the window, and we lapse into silence.
That’s fine by me, as I usually prefer it.
It’s easier than conversing. No one ever says what they truly mean, choosing to dance around it.
I understand boxing. It’s about strength, speed, and skill.
The harder you train, the better you are, but everything else in the world?
Yeah, I don’t get any of it. My brain doesn’t work that way, or at least that’s what the doctors said.
“I just . . . You look like you went through something, okay? I didn’t mean to pry,” I mutter.
His eyes are still focused on the foggy window, his finger tracing shapes in the condensation. “Shit is an apt description,” he finally responds. “I realized something tonight.”
“What?” I prompt. A boat honks as it glides under the bridge, and he watches it for a moment.
“I can’t do this anymore.” He looks at me, his gaze steeped with hurt and loss, and I drown in his pain.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul, and this man’s is in so much agony, I can taste it.
“My boyfriend cheats on me all the time. Everyone knows it, and they all know that I know. We all pretend I don’t.
It’s like an unwritten rule. Deep down, I always thought he would stop, grow up, and love me again.
When you’ve been together for so long, you take each other for granted, but . . . it hurts.
“It hurts every fucking time because I still love that man. I think I always will, but I can’t do this anymore. I’m just so tired of being hurt and used and hearing his apologies. Sorry means he’s guilty.” He looks back at me. “How do you stop loving someone?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’ve never loved anyone that way, so I can’t tell you.”
He nods and sweeps his gaze over my face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to trauma dump on you. There’s just something about you that’s easy . . . different. Everyone around me is looking for a handout, and they’d use this like a weapon, but I have a feeling you won’t.”
“No, don’t be sorry. I asked. I don’t understand love, but I understand someone close to you hurting you and letting it happen until you can’t take it anymore.
We hope that person will change, but people don’t, not really.
They just pretend they do. I don’t know you, Zia, but you shouldn’t let someone hurt you like that.
Don’t give your heart to someone who doesn’t deserve it. ”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“It is.” I shrug. “When you strip away all the shit and excuses, that’s what it boils down to.”
He glances at me, and I climb to my feet. I feel him watching me as I stride to my kitchen and crouch, rooting around in the back of my cupboards before finding the wrapped bottle. Pulling it out, I turn and present it to him.
He grins. “I thought you didn’t drink?”
“Eh, I usually save this for victories or other pointless celebrations, but this feels like the right moment.” I grab two glasses.
Twisting off the lid, I pour two fingers’ worth and hand it over.
He taps his glass to mine and drains it, and then he offers it to me again.
Shaking my head with a grin, I top it up, and we nurse these, drinking quietly.
“So what do you do?” I ask, parroting a question I have heard others ask a lot but never understood.
“Can we just not?” he inquires as he looks at me. “I don’t want that meaningless shit tonight.”
“Then what do you want?” I ask softly, unsure why my heart starts to race as he looks at me.
“I want . . . to be free for one moment and not have to be what they expect me to be. I want to be . . .”
“Safe. Not alone.”
He nods.
“You might struggle to get a tow tonight anyway. It’s late. Stay the night and call them in the morning.”
I don’t know why I offer, but I don’t take it back.
He laughs. “Are you sure? I basically pushed my way into your home.”
“It’s nice having someone to talk to,” I say.
“You should get a cat.” He winks as he sips his drink and leans back. “Did you always wish to be a boxer?”
“No.” I shrug. “I know most people say yes, that it’s always been their dream, but it was the only thing I was good at. School, friends, and even my family confused me. It’s the only time my mind could turn off and just let go. I guess it stuck.”
“What about your family? Do they like it since they own this gym?”
“My dad used to be a boxer. He was the one who put me in the ring. He saw me struggling and thought it would help. He was right. My mom left when I was little,” I tell him, divulging something I don’t share with anyone.
“I’m sorry.” He speaks so truthfully, I look away.
“Why? You didn’t make her?” The words are out before I can stop them.
He laughs, even as I wince, realizing I made another mistake. This is why I don’t talk to people, but he doesn’t appear to mind. “My mom is gone as well,” he says. “She died when I was a kid.”
“Do you remember her?” I ask.
“A little. I forgot the color of her eyes and hair, but I remember the way she smelled and her dimples when she laughed. I remember . . . I remember the night she died. That’s something I can never forget.”
“Your family?” I press, taking my cues from his conversation.
“It’s just my father and me now. He’s a good man. I would do anything to make him proud.” There’s something in his voice.
I read between the lines, recognizing how hard that must be, which is something I understand.
“Me too,” I say. “I want this title, but I think I want it more for him, so he’ll be proud.”
“To daddy issues.” He taps my glass with his, and I grin. “Are you in a relationship? Oh god, you aren’t married, are you? I don’t know if I could be a homewrecker.”
“No, it’s just me,” I admit.
“It’s better that way sometimes.” He glances out the window.
“I’ve been with my partner for so long, I don’t even remember what it feels like to be alone, but I imagine I would feel less lonely not being in a relationship than I feel in this one.
I used to think there was one person out there made for everyone, but I’m starting to think it’s more about the person who comes along at the right time and works hard to make it work, but what do I know? ”
“It is his fault, not yours,” I assure him. “Whatever reason he has for cheating on you, it isn’t enough. If he’s unhappy, then he should leave. Are you happy, Zia?”
He looks at me, his sad eyes drifting over my face. “You’re the first person to ever ask me that. No. I’m not happy.”
“Then figure out what makes you happy. It’s never too late to start over.”
He swallows as he considers my words. “Enough of this sappy shit,” he finally scoffs, wiping his eyes. “So, boxer guy, tell me, do boxers go commando in the shorts they wear?”
I laugh. It isn’t forced, and I’m not looking at anyone else to see if I should be laughing. It just flows naturally, and his grin only makes mine grow.
We talk for hours about everything and anything. He rips me apart with his questions, dissecting me, and I do the same to him. Before I know it, I fall asleep in the window seat, pressed against this stranger who seems to know all my deepest, darkest secrets when no one else does.