Fearless: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 5

  What is happening to me? And more importantly:

  What have I done?

  Some part of my mind suggests that, if I pause to pay attention, I might notice that some weight I hadn’t even realized I’ve been carrying has been lifted from my shoulders. But the rest of me tells that voice to shut the fuck right up. What does that voice know, anyway? If it’s had some great wisdom to share then where the fuck has it been these last fifteen years?

  The elevator dings and I get on, push the button for my floor. In the few seconds—that seem like a year long—it takes the doors to close, I gaze down the hall, still half expecting Theresa to come charging out of her room, possibly in a hotel bath robe, her dark hair flying behind her as she runs to me. But she doesn’t, and my gut feels hollow.

  What the hell? That’s not how I feel, not about any woman, ever. I’ve never looked back to see if they’re still looking at me as I walk away. Never wanted to be chased. Never had this strange, empty feeling in my stomach.

  I’m hungry, that’s all. Slightly hung over and hungry. Easy solutions to those problems. I go to my room and change into fresh clothes. Then head down to the lobby. Initially I consider having breakfast at the hotel restaurant, but then realize how easy it would be—how likely—for Theresa to have the same idea, wander in for a bite, and discover that I’m not in meetings but am, instead, hiding from her.

  I’m not hiding. I’m thinking.

  I walk out into the crisp morning air, squint when the sun hits my eyes, and tip the door man. He hails me a cab.

  Theresa

  When I get a good story, it’s like a steam engine stoking coal in my brain. The story’s in there, building pressure. It gets uncomfortable after a while, and has to come out. It has to. When I was a kid, I could get rid of all the stories in my head by telling them to someone. This wound up causing a lot of problems for me, because my stolid, midwestern parents saw a lot of these “stories” as being “lies”. But they weren’t. They were just people and events and feelings that, while not necessarily literally real, were real in my head, and really had to get out.

  As I got older, I learned to write these stories down and call them fiction. My family, pragmatic farmers that they were, still thought I was a bit weird, but at least they didn’t think I was a liar.

  Sean’s story, the story I traveled to Ireland to discover, that I had accosted him for in a press conference, and that he had freely given me after a night of passionate sex (Did I think of that as making love at one point that night?), is perhaps the greatest story I have ever had in my mind. And it exerts the greatest pressure to get out I have ever experienced.

  I promised him I won’t publish his story, and I won’t.

  But I have to write it or I might go crazy.

  After I shower, I take out my laptop and set up at the room desk. For the next four hours I pound away at the keys, not noticing the sun crawling up the curtains, paying no attention to the growling in my stomach. I write out Sean Kelly’s hidden history in one burst, making notes here and there for facts to cross-check. By noon, it’s finished. It will require some editing, but minimal. I’ve always prided myself on clean copy.

  For a while, I just stare at the screen, reading and re-reading the last line.

  The truth is that Sean Kelly, perhaps the greatest fighter who ever lived, a man famous for showing the world that he couldn’t care less about anything other than winning, actually cares a great deal. It’s just easier to face another fighter than his own past.

  I nod to myself. I am satisfied with this story.

  Who am I kidding? More than satisfied. I am astonished, triumphant, excited! This is the greatest story you’ve ever told.

  My eyes sting and the screen blurs.

  Now that the work is over, Sean’s abrupt departure hits me. Something about it makes me think that he isn’t planning to return.

  I’m not one to get attached to men quickly, and certainly not after one night, but last night had felt…different. Not at all like a one-night stand. There had been a connection there, something real, and I know he felt it, too. Otherwise he would never have opened himself up like that, never allowed himself to become so vulnerable.

  Then why did he leave?

  I can’t afford to think about that any longer.

  Things to do.

  I take my cell phone from my purse and call my editor. He picks up on the second ring.

  “You got something?” His voice is clipped, terse.

  “Good morning to you too, Bill.”

  “You didn’t spend all night with the guy and not get something. Give.”

  My jaw drops open. “How did you—”

  “You got a room at the same hotel he’s staying at.” His words were simultaneously oily and grating. “No reason to do that if you didn’t plan on sleeping with him, and if you’re not willing to sleep with someone for the hottest story in sports then you’re not worth what I’m paying you.”

  Fuck you.

  “I got something, Bill.”

  “Well goddamn, girl, don’t tease me. What is it?” He suddenly sounds interested, more interested than he’s sounded in a long time.

  “Possibly the greatest story in modern sports. It’s fucking incredible.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll be the judge of that. Send it over.”

  “Nah.”

  “What?” His voice sounds soft, and then louder again, as if he had been about to hang up the phone and now has to bring it back to his face to hear me. As if he had been just about to dismiss me.

  “I’m not sending you the story, Bill.”

  Now he sounds tense. “Why the fuck not?” He pauses. “It’s the money, isn’t it? You want more money. Okay, I can give you more money. If this story is as good as you say it is, I can get you an easy, what, fifteen grand a year. Sound good? Just send over the story and we’ll work out the details.”

  “It’s not money, Bill. I was just calling to say fuck you. That’s all. I quit.” And then I hang up the phone. I hear a tinny, “Wai—” but it’s cut off when I hit “end.”

  ***

  It’s not that I expect a commitment of true and everlasting love after one night of connection. I’m not a fairy tale princess. But…

  Is it really too much to expect a call? Or a text? Maybe he hasn’t seen my message. But of course he has. It’s been three days. Even the most uncommunicative person in the history of cell phones would have checked their phone by now.

  It feels needy, not something I am accustomed to feeling, but I take out my phone. Open my messages and re-read the ones I sent from his phone, and my reply. “Now our phones know each other, too.” At two in the morning, my thighs aching from passion and my head groggy from lack of sleep and the remains of a whiskey buzz, the message had seemed right. Cute, even. Now it just seemed cutesy, and I my face heats up when I look at it. Maybe it put him off that I got into his phone to send myself the message.

  Maybe he thinks I’m nosy.

  I’m a reporter. Of course he thinks I’m nosy. I am nosy.

  And what the hell am I doing, anyway? Mooning? Second-guessing myself over a text message? This isn’t me. I go to the tough places and ask the tough questions of large, aggressive men who often are less than happy to see me. I don’t know fear, and I don’t second-guess myself.

  If Sean Kelly doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s his business, and fuck him, anyway.

  I look at the phone, reassured of my footing in life after the short pep talk. So I am somewhat surprised when my thumb presses the green image of the phone beside his name and the phone dials him up.

  “Fuck.” I move my treacherous thumb to the red phone to hang up, but then think, That will just make me look indecisive. So I put the phone to my ear and listen to it ring. My heart beats faster and there are butterflies in my stomach. On the third ring, the lines goes to voice mail.

  Sean’s voice, irritated even in his voice mail message. “I don’t know how the fuck you got thi
s number, because I don’t give it out to anybody, but leave a message. I probably won’t call you back.”

  I hang up. Switch to text. “Sean. Hey, I know you’re nervous about the story. Maybe about more than the story. Don’t worry about that. I gave you my word, and I’ll stick to it. See you around, I guess.” Send.

  He won’t text back. Sean Kelly has left the building.

  So I am somewhat shocked when, not two minutes later, my phone buzzes on the desk next to me. I reach for it, my hand hesitating before picking it up. Don’t get your hopes up.

  My hopes for what?

  I don’t have time to answer that. I read the four words of his text and my stomach drops. I swallow disappointment.

  Chapter 8

  Sean

  It feels as if all I’ve done the last three days is wander through the city. It’s not true—I’ve had hours of meetings in board rooms about my endorsements for products I don’t give a shit about in return for money I don’t need, more meetings with Charlie Bean and the rest of the WFA big wigs about my next fight and about, Hey, Sean, you think maybe you could open up just a little at the press conferences? It would be good for the fans. And still more hours of training, running, and more training.

  But all I can really remember is walking up and down the streets aimlessly, letting the daytime fade into night, feeling the chilly air become crisp and cold against my skin. I try not to think about anything. Not about Aiden, not about fighting, not about Ireland. Mostly, I try not to think about Theresa Vaughan.

  Don’t think about pink elephants. There. Now you’re thinking about one, and you can’t help yourself.

  I can’t help myself. The more I try not to think about Theresa, the more she is in my mind. The flash of her smile. Her gasp as she moves beneath me. The slickness of our bodies together. Her warmth pressed against me as I tell her my story.

  I close my eyes and she is there. I open them and see her passing me on the street. Then, when I look again, it’s not her, not even remotely like her, not as beautiful, not as elegant, not as…

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  I don’t think this way about anybody.

  I should call her. But what the hell would I say? I’m not very good at saying things, at least not things that people want to hear.

  She saves me the effort. I see the missed call and know without having to look that it was from her. But I do look. And when I do, my message notification lights up, as well.

  My stomach flip-flops.

  I stand there on the sidewalk, a hundred people passing, for what seems like five minutes staring at the notification. My pulse is fast in my throat and I feel a trepidation I haven’t experienced since I was hiding under my bed while Aiden took a beating, only this isn’t a horrible fear, it’s more of a…delicious one.

  But still fear.

  And that’s not me.

  Knowing the emotion, recognizing the fear, makes me mad, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Mad, I know. I can function with anger.

  I open the message.

  “Sean. I know you’re nervous…”

  Yeah. Nah. Not Sean Kelly.

  I type my reply.

  “I don’t get nervous.” Send.

  That felt good. Strong. I look at the screen with its four messages, three of them from Theresa. I wait for a fifth. What could she reply?

  Nothing, probably. Because my message was stupid. I shake my head at how silly I was for sending it. I re-read it. Goddamn. The kind of message a kid sends when he wants to seem tough. Is this who I am? A fucking pretend tough guy?

  I feel sick to my stomach.

  I’ve fallen for Theresa Vaughan. It’s stupid, and probably a bad career move. Dangerous. After all, I’ve given her the story I least want the world to know. A history I’ve been protecting for almost half my life.

  So this is what panic feels like.

  I send another text. “Meet me for lunch.”

  Theresa

  I sit back in my chair. I should be chewing my sandwich, but I find I’m chewing my lip, instead. Probably for the best. The sandwich, on a normal day, likely would have tasted wonderful. But today it’s like trying to eat wadded paper.

  “So. You called me here. Asked me to meet you. So what are we doing, Sean?” He’s staring out the window. He hasn’t said much at all since he walked in ten minutes late and found me waiting for him.

  “What do you mean, what are we doing?” He seems impatient, as if he wants to get up and walk out. His words are fast, clipped.

  I realize I’m being abrupt and icy, as well. I make my voice softer. “I mean,” I say, extending my hand so my fingers brush his, “you and I, here. What are we doing? Is this a meeting?” I rest my hand lightly on his. It is warm. The skin is strangely soft, and I can feel hard tendon and bone beneath the surface. “Is it a date?”

  He pulls his hand back and I sigh. Sean looks me in the eye for the first time since he walked in. “This is two people eating lunch together. Well,” he eyes my almost untouched Reuben and his mostly-devoured steak, “it’s one person eating lunch while another person watches.” He tries for half a smile, but it wilts on his face.

  I nod, my lips pressed together to hold back the disappointment I feel.

  The thought runs through my head again that I don’t have any reason to be disappointed. We had a great night together. Couldn’t I just let it be?

  Sure. Sure I could.

  So I smile, even though my mouth feels strangely brittle. Force myself to take another bite of my sandwich. “There,” I say around a mouthful of corned beef and sauerkraut, “you happy now?”

  He makes a face. “Fuck no. What a disgusting thing to eat. I fear for your well being.”

  I swallow. “It’s delicious.” Should I reach for his hand again?

  “I was drunk,” he blurts.

  Nope. Not reaching for the hand.

  He seems troubled, at a loss for words. Searching for them as carefully as you would look for a missing child, staring down at the table as his mouth worked in silence. Then he met my gaze again, his ice blue eyes sorrowful. “I made a mistake and told you some things I shouldn’t have.”

  My head nods, but it feels as if my soul moves out of my body. I am numb and I’m pulling up and out, whether from sadness or shame I don’t know. I just know I don’t want to be here.

  “It might have made you think—” he stammers to a stop. “Whatever you think is between us, there isn’t anything. It was just…a night.” He moves his hand toward mine, almost touching but not quite. “A very good night. But just that.”

  My lips move. “Why are you telling me this? Couldn’t you just blow me off with a text or something?”

  That troubled look crosses his face again. He flicks a finger at his phone. “I hate these fuckin’ things,” is his only answer.

  “I see.” I don’t, actually.

  “It was a mistake. Telling you. Spending the night with you. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  It couldn’t hurt as much if he just punched me in the stomach with his much-vaunted knockout power.

  “Oh.”

  “I hope you can understand.”

  What else can I say? “Of course.” The words feel like dust in my mouth.

  Sean sits up straighter in his chair. A ray of sunlight glows across the baby blue of his tee shirt. He glances at his plate, then pushes it aside.

  “Please don’t publish what I told you. It would expose me in a way that—”

  “I’ve already told you. That’s the last thing you have to worry about.”

  He considers this. “All right. Yeah, okay.” He nods, and now he does touch my hand. It feels like goodbye. “Thank you.”

  Then he stands up, tall and lean and imposing. He looks down at me for a moment. It seems as if he might say something else, something moves behind his eyes. But he doesn’t. Instead, he throws a fifty dollar bill on the table, turns, and walks out of the bistro.

  I don’t want to wa
tch him go, but my eyes are doing their own thing, and they follow him out the door and onto the street. It is as if they are memorizing one last look at him, taking in the smooth, cat-like movement of his legs, his narrow hips, the wide V of his back stretching his shirt.

  For a while I only sit there. Then, almost mechanically, I push my mostly-intact sandwich away and walk out of the building as well.

  The air is cold in my lungs. It feels good. Cleansing. Helps me find a little perspective. Okay, so Sean Kelly has flitted out of my life. But I’d had a pretty good idea about that all along, right? For that matter, was he ever really in my life?

  And now I am left with…no job. No real obligations. No prospects for a job. A story that would basically guarantee me a job anywhere I want, but a promise not to use it.

  So right now my future looks super bright.

  Chapter 9

  Sean

  Air burns in my lungs. Damp sand shifts beneath my feet, trying to hold onto the bottoms of my shoes as I run. To my left, the ocean sighs and shushes. The occasional seashell crunches beneath my tread. The air is cold with the onset of winter.

  After reclaiming my title from Ricky Hendon, it had seemed a good idea to return home.

  To Ireland.

  I have not stepped foot on the island since I left fifteen years ago. I am definitely here to recharge from my last fight and start training for my next one. I am definitely not here because I’m running away from how I feel about a woman.

  Because I don’t feel one way or another about her.

  Liar, liar. Careful, or your pants will catch.

  That’s not my voice.

  Six months. That’s how long until my next fight. Plenty of time to wind down a little, enjoy a slower pace for once. So what do I do?

  I run.

  Sea birds cry overhead, and in the distance I can see a squat fishing boat churning through the iron gray chop. To my right the sand gives onto a rocky soil and a swath of thin, tall sea grass.