And finally my mind speaks to me. “Are those Remy’s parents?” I ask, bewildered and shocked.
Suddenly I realize his father’s blue eyes are unmistakable in color, and although white-haired, the man had incredibly large and healthy bone structure.
Pete nods and rubs his forehead, appearing extremely agitated. “Yeah. They’re the folks, all right.”
“Why won’t Remy see them?”
“Because the bastards locked him up in a psych ward at thirteen and left him there until he was old enough to sign himself out.”
An awful sensation settles in my gut, and for a moment, the only thing I do is gape. “A psych ward? For what? Remy’s not crazy,” I say, instantly outraged on his behalf as I follow Pete across the living room.
“Don’t even look at me. It’s one of the most frustrating injustices I’ve ever had to witness in my life.”
Chest wound tight, I ask, “Pete, were you with him when he was kicked out of boxing?”
He shakes his head in a negative, his stride not breaking. “Remy has a short fuse. You light it, he blows up. His competition wanted him out. Picked on him out of the ring. He bit the bait. Was kicked out. End of story.”
“Well, is he still angry about it?”
He opens the terrace doors that lead across the garden and to the barn, and I follow, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun with my hand.
“He’s angry, all right, but not specifically about that,” Pete says. “Fighting is all he knows. It’s all he’s had that he can control in his life. Growing up, it was pure rejection for Rem. It’s damn near impossible to get him to open up. Even with those who’ve been with him so long.”
“How do you think his parents knew where we were? I thought this house was to keep the press away since the egg incident?”
“Because this is Rem’s house,” Pete says as I spot the charming red barn looming ahead across the lawns. “After he got out, he made money fighting, then he got this house, trying to prove to the old folks that he could be someone … The folks still didn’t want anything to do with him. He got stuck with the house and now only uses it when we’re in the city to keep the press from hounding him at the hotels. He has a lot of fans in Austin.”
I feel shot at from all sides with this information. Pure undiluted outrage for young Remy fills me to my core, making me sound breathless. “What kind of parents abandon their child like they did, Pete? And why on earth would they look for him now?”
Pete sighs. “Why indeed.” He shakes his head ruefully, then we spot Remington inside the open barn, hitting a speedball Coach has hung from the rafters. Looking slightly panicked, Pete instantly snatches me up by the elbow and draws me closer. “Don’t let on that you know anything about this, I beg you. He’s been in a pissed-off mood ever since he knew we were coming here. His parents drive him totally speedy too, and his temper is for shit these days.”
I nod and squeeze back his elbow. “I won’t. Thanks for the confidence.”
“Hey, B, you might try stretching him, his form’s not ideal. Coach thinks it’s a lower back knot,” Riley calls.
Nodding, I walk over, and I hear, rather than see, Remington punching the bag harder and faster with each step I take closer to him. Frankly, I’m surprised that he doesn’t stop when I stand right next to him.
“Coach isn’t happy with your form and Riley thinks I can help,” I say, and as I watch this lean, mesmerizing creature keep slamming the speedball with both rolling fists, a deep, concentrated frown on his face, I can’t help but admire what Remington has made with himself despite the rejection he faced when he was younger.
“Remy?” I prod.
He doesn’t answer, and instead shifts sideways and pounds one fist after the other in a matter of nanoseconds, making that poor bag fly.
“Will you let me stretch you?” I go on.
He tilts his body yet again and gives me all his gorgeous back, and keeps on hitting like mad. I want to touch him, especially after everything Pete told me, so I drop the elastic band at my feet, for now the last thing I want is anything between him and me.
“Are you going to answer me, Remy?” My voice drops as I step closer, reaching out with one arm.
Whack, whack, whack…
I touch his back. He stiffens, drops his head, and whips around, removes his boxing gloves, and tosses them aside. “Do you like him?” His whisper is low, his touch gentle as he reaches out and puts his taped hand right where Pete touched me. “Do you like it when he touches you?” But his eyes, dear god. They blaze into me. His hand is double the size of Pete’s and doing all things to my body.
I stare into him, butterflies exploding in my belly, and whatever it is we’re playing, I want it to go on endlessly, but I want it to stop. There’s something incredibly animal about the way he acts around me that brings out the deep-rooted instincts from within.
“You have no right to me,” I say in breathless anger.
His hand clenches. “You gave me rights when you came on my thigh.”
My cheeks burn red at the reminder. “I’m still not yours,” I shoot back. “Maybe you’re afraid I’m too much of a woman for you?”
“I asked you a question, and I want an answer. Do you f**king like it when other men touch you?” he demands.
“No, you jerkwad, I like it when you touch me!”
After my lashing outburst, he stares at my mouth as his thumb dips into the crease of my elbow. His tone goes gruff. “How much do you like my touch?”