Chapter 46 Brighton
“Where are we going?” Rhea asks as I open the passenger door for her.
“Do you understand the definition of a surprise, Hellcat?” I help her out onto the concrete and exhale a breath at the sight of her.
“Eight-hour drives are not surprises, they’re road trips. If we’re camping again, I’m going to kill you,” she warns, and I scoff.
“In that outfit?” I look at her in disbelief.
I told her to dress up, and what I had in mind wasn’t even in competition with how she looked.
Her strong thighs in the tiniest leather skirt, that barely covered her ass, and those boots she was wearing the night she hurt her hand—the ones that hug her perfect calves.
“I’m going to jail tonight,” I grumble under my breath, and she laughs.
“What, you don’t like my skirt?” she asks, fluffing the pleats with her ring-laden hands and showing off the red underwear she has on beneath it.
“Cut it out, or we won’t even make it inside,” I demand, and she gives me a tiny shrug.
“Killjoy,” she grumbles, and I tap her ass as she wanders in front of me. “There better be a good reason you dragged me all the way out here.”
“Read.” I point to the sign about the stadium.
Her eyes scan the big letters that say WWE in bright white, and then her head snaps to me as I hold out two passes in my hand. She grabs one, reads it over, and looks up at me with glassy eyes.
I laugh, caught off guard by her reaction. “Why are you crying?” I step forward, using my thumb to catch the tear that falls and threatens to ruin her pretty, dark makeup.
“This is really nice,” her voice shakes.
“It’s just SmackDown, Hellcat.” I inspect her face to make sure there are no more tears before stepping back and helping her put the access badge over her head.
“It’s ringside SmackDown,” she says, staring up at me with her brows pinched tight. “These must have cost a fortune, Brighton!”
And every bit is worth that look on your face.
“Nope,” I say. “Come on, before we're late.”
“Do you even like wrestling?” She slips her hand in mine and catches up to match her step to mine. “For real?”
“I like you,” I respond without skipping a beat. For real.
Rhea doesn’t say anything else because when we enter the stadium, she’s completely silenced by her shock.
It’s busy, really busy, and just about every fucker that passes us puts his eyes on her legs.
I squeeze her hand in mine because I can’t help the possession that floods me at the thought of someone else touching her. Ever.
Having sex was instantly a bad idea. I knew it then.
I know it now. It just makes every feeling I have for her stronger.
Her laugh derails me; her smile has me walking into walls.
Last week, I nearly dropped a tray of glasses on the floor because she was flirting with some cops as she kicked them out of the Hollow and into cabs.
It took me the rest of the shift, two hours of making her scream my name, and a cold shower to remind myself that she was doing her job.
Idiot.
I’m consumed—and happy to be stuck in her quicksand.
“Okay, you need a shirt,” she declares and drags me through the stadium.
“I really don’t,” I groan, but let her drag me. Tonight is all about her, and I will do anything she asks of me because it means there’s a smile on her face. “Slow down, Hellcat.”
It’s a wondrous thing to watch a woman so strong turn into such a little kid at the hint of something she loves.
Every day, she gives reason to find joy in life despite all of the horrible things going on around her—and in her mind.
She looks over her shoulder at me to make sure I’m still behind her, and even though the sadness is still there, it’s tangled with unbridled excitement.
“You pick one you like, and I’ll tell you if it’s acceptable,” she says. Her giggle is enough to get me to shut my mouth as she drags us into a line for merch.
I scowl at her before looking up at the selection they have displayed. I know nothing about wrestling and even less about the people on the shirts. “Is there anything plain?” I ask her, and she snorts.
“Don’t be a buzzkill,” she groans.
“Alright uh…” My eyes scan the shirts, trying to find the least offensive one on my eyes, and come up short. “That one,” I point to a black shirt at the end with some guy’s face all over it.
“Oof,” Rhea scoffs, “no. Try again.”
“Who’s that and why is he a no?” I ask.
“Just move on,” she pokes. Another group of guys wanders behind us, and one of them points to her skirt, but she’s none the wiser as she continues to talk in circles about the different wrestlers.
I slide in behind her and press my chest to her back, “What about that one?” I point over her shoulder.
“Much better. I approve.” She doesn’t skip a beat. “I need a CM Punk shirt, mine got destroyed in the condo.” She points to one with that old man on it, and I look down at her with a dirty look on my face.
"Yeah, yeah." I kiss the back of her head as we move in line. “Is that the only one you want?”
“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “I’m buying them. You’ve done enough for the day.”
“Rhea.” I stare at her, and she opens her mouth to say something about making it even. I know her better than she cares to admit. She hates this. But I lean down and pull her chin toward me with a finger, kissing her gently once before retreating. “Don’t argue with me in public, you won’t win.”
“Okay.” She falls silent and turns her attention back to the line.
“It’s also your birthday,” I whisper to her, and she whips around.
“Who told you that?” She glares at me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her mad face, at least not directed at me. It’s as cute as it is terrifying.
“I’m offended you think I didn’t dig,” I respond with a smirk. I’m not scared of you, Hellcat. Nice try.
“You shouldn’t have dug.” She rolls her eyes. After pulling up just about every single social media page she has, I couldn’t find anything about her birthday. Not even a post. So I went to the source, Sunday.
I cornered her in the bar last week.
“Did you ask Rhea?” She hops slightly to reach a cup hanging just out of her reach behind the bar.
“I’m asking you.” I follow her and the stupid ‘please don’t ask me for my number’ shirt out of the bar and across the crowded floor to the back wall of booths.
“How is that, by the way? She barely talks about you because she thinks it’ll gross me out, which it would, but… I still want to know what’s going on.” Sunday yells over the music as she hands the girl a fresh cup and pours her some water.
“It’s fine.” I shrug, and Sunday gives me a dirty look. “I like her,” I admit, unable to defend myself from the glare. “A lot.”
“It’s in two weeks, on the thirteenth,” Sunday says, like she’s ready with the information.
“She hates her birthday, though, she spends them cleaning up after her siblings in that stupid fucking house where her Mom rarely remembers, and when Gabe does, he makes fucking pasta. Do you know how much Rhea hates pasta?”
“She hates pasta?”
She had eaten two bowls that night with a smile on her face and let Gabe pack her leftovers for her lunch the rest of the week.
Actually, every time she comes back to the apartment, there's a container of pasta in the fridge the next morning.
But now that I think about it… She never touches it.
It goes bad, and I throw it out a week later.
“Listen, Bri, birthdays sting for Rhea.” The severity of the situation is driven home by the tone in Sunday’s voice when she stops moving and stares me down.
“It’s on your employee form,” I lie, and her brows furrow.
“No, it’s not,” she says as the line moves. “I put a different date every time I apply for a job.”
“Isn’t that illegal?" I shake my head at her.
“Maybe,” she muses. We’re only a few bodies back from the main counter now. “Which one of the little shits snitched on me?” She teases, and the memory of that night floods back in.
“Day,” I laugh, directing her focus. “Go pick your shirts." I lift her chin with a finger so she makes eye contact, "and pick two.”