Twenty-Five
Holden
“You’re sure it’s okay for me to come in?” I ask, glancing over at Phoenix while he unlocks the door of his and Kason’s apartment. “I know you don’t want him to know anything, so I can go—”
“You’re fine,” he says, shoving the door open into the dark living space. Light illuminates the apartment seconds later, and Phoenix turns to me. “Kason’s back home for his grandad’s eightieth birthday this weekend. We’ve got the place to ourselves.”
I try not to let my mind go anywhere crazy with that knowledge, instead letting the door fall closed and locking it behind us.
Phoenix is already in the kitchen grabbing an ice pack from the freezer when I slip out of my shoes and join him.
“I’m sorry I ruined our date,” I murmur before jumping up on the counter.
“You didn’t, I swear,” he says, flexing his left hand. “It was that asshole’s fault, not yours.”
“Still, if I hadn’t gone in the pit…”
“Hey, it’s fine. I promise.” He steps between my legs while pressing the ice to his hand, and I can see him trying his best not to wince when it makes contact with his busted skin. “It’s not on you when other people are dicks.”
He’s right, obviously. Though I still don’t like ending up here—my actions being the catalyst for this outcome.
“We can always catch another show.”
A small smile creeps over his face. “Yeah, but let’s go backstage next time.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, probably a good idea. Don’t need you throwing punches more than necessary.”
When my eyes rise to find his, there’s something different in his gaze as he looks at me. Something I can’t quite place, despite it being right there under the surface.
My hand moves without thought, lifting to his face and brushing away an errant strand of hair flopping over his forehead. I map his expression as I do this, as if that would be enough to get inside his head and see what he’s thinking.
“I really am gonna make it up to you with an equally-as-awesome second date, though.”
The smile he gives me makes my heart lurch. “You’re taking this seriously, I see.”
Hell yeah, I am. If this thing between us isn’t going to work, it’s not gonna be for my lack of effort or dedication to trying. I’ll do everything in my power to keep this guy exactly where I have him.
“I told you I would. You’re not the only one who can be true to their word, you know,” I whisper as my hand drops back to my lap. My eyes shift down to where he’s holding his iced hand. “How’s it feeling?”
“Like I decked someone,” he mutters dryly, even though there’s a small smirk still on his face that ties my stomach in knots. I’m still getting used to him looking at me like that.
With affection, rather than animosity. Like he actually…likes me.
“Understandably so,” I say with a low chuckle. “Weird way for me to find out you’re left-handed, though.”
He blinks. “Playing an entire game of beach volleyball—where I served and hit with my left hand—didn’t do that?”
“You were the one who told me to stop looking at you,” I remind him.
A sigh leaves him. “Okay, fair enough.”
I smirk while wrapping my fingers around his wrist to gently lift his hand. As carefully as possible, I remove the ice, noting the busted-up skin hidden beneath. “I thought bloody knuckles only happened in movies.”
“Must’ve not landed the punch right,” he says, wincing as he flexes it again in my hold.
“Oh, since you have so much experience with it, right?” I utter sarcastically, rolling my eyes for good measure. “But you definitely need to get this cleaned up.”
He doesn’t say anything; he just nods, bites his lip, and steps out of my space. Except something about his facial expression snags my focus, and I follow him as he heads to the bathroom down the hall.
“Wait. Do you have experience with punching people?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
Phoenix remains silent and focuses on rooting through the linen closet for a washcloth before pulling one free. Which only makes my spidey senses tingle more.
“Nix.”
His eyes flash to me as he wets it in the sink. “Yeah, okay? I’ve been in fights before.”
I’m floored by this information. Totally fucking bamboozled. Phoenix is no pacifist like Oakley claims to be, but I’d never take him for the knock-down-drag-out type, either. He seems more the type to fight with words over fists.
“Seriously? Why?”
His eyes stay fixed on the rag, wringing the excess water out before muttering, “Kason.”
What?
“You’ve punched Kason?”
“What? No.” He glances up from what he’s doing, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “I punched people for Kason.”
“We’re talking about the same guy who looks like he could snap both of us like a twig?” I ask, not bothering to hide the incredulity in my tone.
Phoenix rolls his eyes, not at all amused with my antics.
“All through middle school, he was actually a lot smaller than me, and that made him a target. He was still sort of new, too—having just moved to Nashville in sixth grade—and he wasn’t exactly making friends.
I was pretty much it, and I was the only person who’d stand up for him. ”
“So what changed?”
“The summer between eighth grade and freshman year, he grew four inches and bulked up overnight, making me look like a pipsqueak.” He lets out a soft laugh.
“Then he joined the football team after and ended up being really good at it. Between all that, no one even bothered messing with him again. At school, or at home, though he didn’t spend much time around his parents by then as it was. ”
A wave of understanding crashes into me, and though Phoenix is clearly leaving out some details, it doesn’t take a genius to fill them in on my own.
The words leave my mouth before I realize they slip free. “So you were his protector.”
He rolls his lips inward and nods, not meeting my eyes. “I always have been.”
I knew his more-than-overbearing nature was a big reason he never wanted Kason and I together. It was obvious from the very first time Phoenix stopped me from taking Kason home—even if there was another major reason that had nothing to do with his best friend.
Phoenix clears his throat and lifts his gaze. I can tell there’s plenty more to this story of Kason and him. More truths not his to tell me, nor are they mine to ask for.
But one thing is for certain: I had no idea how deep this loyalty ran until now.
And as if reading my thoughts, he quietly adds, “I’ll always protect the ones I care about. However I can.”
All the oxygen might as well have been sucked out of the room as I do my best not to let my mind run rampant with ideas it has no business thinking.
Like how his sentence could apply not only to Kason, but to me too.
Because this is new and fun, even if it is on his terms of exclusivity.
There’s no reason my heart should be stumbling over the thought of Phoenix not only caring for me but caring enough to fight for me. Not yet, anyway.
So yeah, my brain should stay far, far away from those thoughts.
Yet no amount of mental fortitude is enough to stop them from sneaking through the cracks.
Licking my lips, I let out a soft laugh and attempt to defuse the emotion and tension flowing between us in an electric current. Lord knows what might happen if I don’t.
“I guess I should be honored that you’d punch someone for me, then.”
A half-hearted chuckle leaves him. “Yeah, you should be, considering my coach is probably gonna kill me for it.”
From the looks of it, he’ll be fine in a few days. I doubt his coach will even notice.
“Just don’t turn into Quinton de Haas on me, okay?” I say lightly, poking fun at the hot-headed winger Oakley’s been at odds with for years now.
His nose wrinkles up as he puts his hand under the running water, only to pull it out immediately when it stings. “Yeah, I’ve got no intention of that. I forgot how much the aftermath sucks.”
Rather than letting him do the punching and the cleanup, I grab the cloth from his right hand before he goes back to work on the cuts.
My body slides between him and the sink, and I take his hand to slowly begin dabbing away the now-dried blood, careful not to reopen the wound already starting to scab over.
He lets me work in silence, though I can feel the heat of his stare on my cheek as more and more blood wipes away from his skin and disappears down the drain as I rinse out the towel.
It doesn’t take more than five minutes total, but it might be one of the most intimate moments we’ve shared together.
Just…comfortable silence while I take care of him.
“They look small enough that you shouldn’t even need bandages,” I say softly once I’ve finished, setting the washcloth down over the faucet behind me. “But I can wrap it if you want. Just tell me where the gauze is.”
He holds his hand up, clenching and unclenching his fist to check for bleeding. “It looks fine, just gonna be sore for a bit.”
His attention shifts from his hand to me, and once again, I see the same emotion as earlier swirling in his dark irises.
Maybe that’s what possesses me to grab his hand again and lift it to my lips, brushing a feather-light kiss over each scrape and scratch.
Like he’s a kid all over again, and a kiss can make anything better.
His stare is red-hot on my face as I do it, eyes never once leaving me, even as I release him. And though it might be crazy, I hear his words in my head well before he actually says them aloud in his gruff whisper.
“Thank you.”
Swallowing, I lower his hand back to his side despite the parts of me begging not to. Despite my body screaming to hold him tighter, closer, longer.
To never fucking let go.
“You don’t have to thank me.” The words come out gentle, barely more than a whisper. “I should be the one saying thank you.”
“For punching someone out?” When I nod, he lets out a little scoff. “I hardly think that merits it, but you’re welcome.”