Chapter 27
twenty-seven
JO
“Quit holding back!” I yell, breathing heavily. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, and my ankle is sore, but I’m getting so sick of Ezra pulling punches.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. At least he sounds just as out of breath as I do.
We’ve been at this for two hours. It’s only the second time we’ve sparred, but I don’t need to know his every move to know he’s going easy on me.
Nothing pisses me off more than a man thinking he needs to handle me with kid gloves because I have a vagina.
Just to prove my point, I sweep a leg out and take Ezra out at the knees.
His legs fly up in front of him, and he lands on his back with an oof.
“Patrick isn’t going to care about hurting me, Ezra.
He’s not going to play defense and throw weak punches.
He’s going to overpower me, incapacitate me, and then slit my throat.
And that’s the quick and easy outcome,” I say to him.
He’s still lying flat on his back, my sweat dripping from my nose onto his already soaked shirt.
Ezra lets it happen. He has the decency to look remorseful and not argue with me. “Don’t. Pull. Punches.”
Holding out my hand, he takes it, letting me pull him to his feet. I hold his stare, trying to convey how serious I am. He nods, then backs up to assume a fighting stance.
“You asked for this, Bambi,” he says, not even giving me a chance to respond before he attacks.
There’s no holding back this time. His hands are quick, and his feet are even quicker.
He lands a jab to my ribs and a kick to my thigh before I have time to react.
I’m down on one knee, holding my ribs, staring up at Ezra.
“Starting tomorrow, we work on your speed.”
Ezra’s halfway up the stairs before my brain even registers what just happened. I knew he was holding back, but not how much. Laughing, I get up and follow him. This is exactly what I needed. A challenge. And to maybe get a few punches in along the way.
“Want to watch a movie?” I ask Ezra as he loads the last of the dishes from dinner into the dishwasher.
He turns to face me, brows furrowing. I get it.
We’re not friends, but hating him is just going to make me lose Maverick in the end.
I’ve had too much time to think about it, and being friends with Ezra, or at least civil, is the only outcome that doesn’t make everyone miserable.
I’m also running with the utter delusion that I can be friends with Maverick and watch him be with Ezra.
“Sure?” he says like a question. He moves like he’s going to join me on the couch but pauses before sitting. “Why?”
“We’ve been here for weeks, and it’s been miserable. We’re acting like enemies, being forced to coexist, and Maverick would hate it.”
“He would,” Ezra agrees, sitting next to me on the couch. Not that he has much of a choice. It’s a small couch, and he’s a large man. The chair is facing away from my laptop and too far away to see the small screen, so he wouldn’t be able to sit there. This place needs a TV.
“There’s a movie that just came out based on one of my favorite books.
Are you cool if we watch that?” I ask. I’m forcing a lightness into my tone that I don’t feel.
There’s always this lingering resentment hovering around the two of us.
It’s suffocating, and I refuse to let it continue.
I grew up in a house full of resentment.
Me resenting my parents for how much they worked and little time they had for me. My parents resenting me for existing.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll pick next time,” he says, looking at me with such confusion I have to turn away or risk laughing. I don’t want him to think this is some big joke.
“Buckle up, Buttercup, you’re in for a wild ride.”