Chapter 41 Rhea
Brighton wanders into the apartment after dropping Daisy off at her mom’s, scowling, a bag in his hand. “Here.”
“Oh, hello to you too…” I dry my hands on the towel by the sink as he kicks his shoes off and puts them away.
“Open it.” He points to the bag as he hangs his keys.
I roll my eyes at his dismissal and dig into the bag. “You didn’t…” I pull the box out and hold it in my hands. “Brighton.”
“You’ve been sulking around.” He wanders away as I look at the headphone box and smile, my eyes lifting to find him disappearing down the hallway like the gift is no big deal.
And maybe it’s not to him, but to me, it means everything.
When he returns, I’ve got them out of the box, they’re sleek and dark purple and fit over my ears perfectly.
“I couldn’t find the stupid—” he motions up and down over his chest.
“It’s okay, I love the purple. They’re comfy too.” I slip the headphones off and set them down. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
“Say thank you.” He stares at me; it’s not a demand, he doesn’t even want the praise or the gratitude. He just wants me to stop fussing over his kindness.
“Thank you,” I repeat back to him.
“What are you doing?” His eyes scan the kitchen across the mess I’ve made.
“Well… I was trying to cook you dinner, in a pathetic attempt to ask if you want a couch date with me?” I string the words together and straighten out to hide the mess with my body.
“Couch date?” His heavy brow furrows as he surveys the damage. “What’s wrong with a real date?” I can see he's panicking, questioning whether or not we’re even ready for that.
“It’s quiet, less busy, no variables,” I explain. “Just us.”
“And what were you attempting to make?” He cocks his head to the side.
"Sushi, but the rice got too sticky, and the nori’s gone soggy,” I groan, raising my rice covered fingers in defeat. “I’m a mess.”
“To your core, Hellcat.” He agrees softly. “I’ll clean up. You order sushi.”
I nod, letting him shuffle me out of the way, but not before he steals the softest kiss. I’m still not used to the tenderness that follows around Brighton in the quietness of his own space. But I like it. A lot.
I do as I’m told, and Brighton has the kitchen clean before the sushi arrives.
He gets us plates, disappearing downstairs for less than five minutes to make me a drink that tastes like Sprite but definitely isn’t—baby-pink over ice, lemon slices clinking against the glass.
He changes into his sweats and t-shirt that looks older than me before he settles into the cushions next to me.
“Okay,” he says, settling in. “What’s the next step of a couch date?” His hair is messy, and his smile lazy as I pull the blanket up around my lap.
“Wrestling,” I say with a grin.
“Seriously?” Brighton sighs.
“Dead serious.” I click on the start of the match and watch as he picks out the pieces of sushi he wants carefully. As we watch, he starts asking questions, and every time he does, it makes me feel warm and dizzy. Okay, focus, we aren’t starved for attention.
“Who’s that?” He points with his chopsticks at the TV.
“Roman Reigns,” I explain his backstory, and Brighton shakes his head.
“And that?” he asks.
“That’s Seth Rollins,” I tell him.
“And who’s your favorite?” he questions, handing me the last piece of roll without looking at me.
I sigh dramatically with a hazy smile. “CM Punk.”
I watch him search his name in the browser, and he looks up from his phone with a scowl. He searches the name, then looks up with a scowl. “Rhea. That’s an old man. What is wrong with you?” he groans, and I go full defense mode.
“He’s the rebel of the wrestling community, he’s a legend!”
“He could be your dad,” Brighton scoffs.
“Oh, I have major Daddy issues, Brighton.” I tease, and his eyes go wide. So easily undone.
"What about a grouchy, bossy, greying old guy is appealing?" He argues with a tight expression but it's soft and prodding.
“Did you stop to think that’s the point? I need structure, Brighton.” This only makes him scowl and causes me to laugh. “Oh, Daddy!” I cry out, and he gives me a shove on the couch.
“Stop it,” he warns.
“Daddy Punk!” I giggle, “Show me your wrestling moves behind closed doors!”
“That’s disgusting.” He shakes his head and tries to ignore me.
After about an hour, he looks slightly interested, and he’s still asking questions while he flinches at some of the moves and rolls his eyes at others. When he asks what my favorite moves are, all bets are off.
“No, up like this.” I show him with my arms, two seconds from climbing up on the coffee table, and he stifles a laugh from the base of his throat. “What?” I look down at myself and have no idea what he finds amusing.
“Nothing.” He presses his lips together in a thin line, his chin tilted up, watching me.
“You don’t think I’ll do it?” I snap, and he raises a brow.
“You just got that splint off, don’t be an animal.” His tone is cautious, shifting on the couch. He’s relaxed but still wary, like he knows better than to let his guard down around me. It’s hilarious and endearing. He likes that you’re unpredictable, even if he refuses to admit it.
I toss my head back and laugh. Brighton calmy leans forward, stacking the empty plates to the side of the table as I step up onto it and stare down at him. “Just admit you’re a coward.”
“I’m not a coward, you’re going to—”
Before he can say anything, I jump from the table, and he pushes back against the couch as my feet make contact on either side of his thighs. I go to throw a fake elbow at his shoulder, but he catches me around the middle and pulls me down into his lap.
Our faces come level with one another, and he scowls at me, but it doesn’t last long because I steal a kiss from him, and when I pull back, his expression has softened into something else.
“Good catch,” I whisper. He inhales slowly as his hands slide under my sleeveless T-shirt.
It has been nothing but small stolen kisses, passing remarks, and the occasional ass grab that makes Brighton growly.
“You can’t do that in the middle of the Hollow, Hellcat.
You’re going to get me reported to HR.” I can hear him even now—followed by Sunday’s inevitable loud gag and a quick reminder of, “You are HR.”
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, his eyes never leaving mine, and I shake my head.
“You softened the fall.” I scrunch up my nose, and his fingers tighten on my hips.
I lean forward, tugging at the collar of the old shirt around his throat.
“Why do you still wear those?” I ask him about the dog tags.
The chain is heavy over his skin, and I run my finger along the metal as my eyes drift to his tattoos beneath.
“Habit.” He scowls.
He watches me with careful glances, and I don't ask as I tuck my fingers into the hem of his shirt and push it up his stomach. He lets me with a small grumble as he lifts his arms. Once free of his confines, I pull them in and hold them in my palm. They’re beat up, but the engraving of his name is still strong and forever etched in the metal.
I let them go gently, and they fall against his skin.
It feels silly to be so enamored by him, and he never takes his eyes off me, but I take my time to admire his impressively large frame.
The broadness of his chest, the perfect combination of old muscle and new weight, he’s rigid but soft.
It’s contradictory and fucking hot. I exhale quietly, letting out the sexual frustration that courses under my skin, and drop the shirt to put my hands on his stomach.
He inhales a shaky breath as my fingers dance across the daisies tattooed on his chest.
“They’re so delicate,” I study them carefully, “any specific reason there’s six?
” I count them carefully and watch his throat bob uncomfortably as he shakes his head.
I lean down and kiss the petal that crosses over his collarbone, where the silver chain rests.
“And this one?” I point to a section on his bicep.
The rest of his tattoos are so heavy in comparison to the stark design of the daisies.
“I like foxes,” he says so simply that I snort. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. It’s an odd notion for him to just enjoy something when his entire personality is calculated.
“You’re telling me that every single one of these means something?
” His knuckles rake up my arm and over my shoulder before his finger hooks into my strap and pulls it down.
“That one,” he brushes his thumb over the jellyfish where the inky tentacles spread out and touch everything over my shoulder and tangle into a collection of ocean filler like seaweed and coral.
“It’s a man-of-war jellyfish,” I tell him. “They’re pretty, and dangerous.”
Brighton hums, “and that.” He points to my chest, his fingers tingling over the ink just enough to make my body shiver. It’s the biggest piece I have, an octopus painted in dark lines of black that cascades over my chest, its arms mixing with the rest of my tattoos.
“Octopuses are some of the smartest animals in the ocean; there’s not a box you can trap them in that they can’t get out of.” His eyes flicker to meet mine. Yeah, that means what you think it does. He frowns and keeps exploring.
“What are these?” he asks, leaning in slowly to kiss my skin.
“Mantis shrimp, tiny little things, but their punch is comparable to a .22 caliber bullet,” I say with excitement. “And these are dragon slugs. One of the most beautiful, but super poisonous. There’s a vampire squid…” I lift my arm and flex to show him my bicep.
“You really like the ocean that much?” he asks me with a cautious expression.
“Oh, I’m terrified of the ocean. Won’t even go in it,” I admit, and it takes everything in him not to question me further. I can see it on his face as he opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Okay, tough guy. What’s the meaning behind the scary raven?” I poked his chest.
“Death.”
I inhale. Alrighty then, there he is. “And that?” There are a few other tattoos on his arm, but I’m more concerned about the scar that wraps around his torso.
“Caught on a piece of scrap metal fresh out of basic training, it was just a scratch.” He shrugs like it means nothing, but it’s rigid, feels like it was deep just by the way the skin healed in a corded river up his ribcage. It tells me that it was never just a scratch.
“And this?” My fingers brush against a tattoo that at first I thought was a butterfly, but upon closer inspection, it’s a moth. I dip down to admire the way it tangles into the scarred skin in the most delicate way.
“It’s a moth,” he pauses, and I look up at him with my brows scrunched, “...for Ri.” Her nickname is a surprise; I’ve never heard him call her that until today.
He swallows tightly, clearly not knowing if he should lie or be honest, but I’m glad he told me the truth.
I curl down further, pressing my lips to it and feel his body stutter beneath my touch.
“Okay, how about this?” He points to a small tattoo that screams Boone in a gentle deflection that gives him the chance to breathe again.
“Is that a worm?” I tuck down to get a better look at it as he pulls down his sweats over his hip. I lick my lips and try to concentrate on the ink and not the sharp lines of his pelvis, or the trail of dark hair that leads beneath the fabric. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Means don’t make bets with Kaia Keegan.” He raises an eyebrow.
“There’s no way,” I start to laugh, brushing my fingers over it, and Brighton’s hips stir beneath me, making it very clear that I’m still sitting in his lap. “You’re too smart for that shit.”
“Drinking impairs intelligence, Hellcat.”
He reaches up, pushing his hand into my hair and moving it out of the way of his lips. “What are these ones?” he asks–the star, the sun, the moon, and the cloud.
“Addy, Sunny, Kaia, and Cosy,” I say to him, and our eyes lock for a brief moment before he smiles and kisses each one that trails along the base of my neck behind my ear. I try to hide the tiny yawn that leaves me, but he catches it and pulls back.
“Bedtime,” he whispers as he kisses my jaw.
“Alright, but I want to know the story behind that worm,” I giggle as he wraps himself around me and lifts me off the couch.
“Never going to happen,” he tuts, turning off the kitchen light as he passes.