“Because I’m the one who can still walk, and you’re the one in the chair.” She pushes me closer to the mirror and we look at ourselves in our floral dresses. Mel added a little cashmere sweater to hers and a flower to her gray-and-white wig, while my blond wig has an Alice-in-Wonderland black headband holding the hair in place.
I look completely unlike me, and if I added the big glasses we got, I would look even doubly less like me, but they’re so big and disturbing to wear, I tuck them into my dress pocket as we head out to the elevator. “I don’t want to distract him, all right? Remy can’t see that I’m there. He might get angry. I don’t even know what he’ll do—he’s too unpredictable. And we’ve never really fought without breaking up before, Mel.”
“My darling chicken, judging by the roses he’s sent, he wants to make up. And don’t you worry! I will have you back here in an instant, and in the meantime we’re getting you out of this GODDAMNED ROOM! Woo-hoo!”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER we discover that the Underground is not a handicap-friendly place. We learned this when Mel tried to get me out of the cab, then into the chair, then into the nightclub, down the elevator, and into the Underground. She’s huffing and puffing and telling me she doesn’t look all that cool anymore, “thanks to you, pregnant chick.”
I’d be laughing over how ridiculous she looks trying to get people to let us pass, but as we enter the crowded arena, it feels a little bit like coming home, and the mingled feelings of happiness and frustration over not being invited collide in me in a complicated little combo.
This is where I met him. Where I lost my heart in one breath. Where he f**ked my name. Where he kissed my lips. Where he took the ring by storm, before he took me.
After about a thousand “excuse me, sorry, coming through” notices, Melanie finally draws me up to our seats. I had to buy tickets with my own card and I splurged, so I got us front-row seats, although not exactly center. They’re good, and I’ll be able to devour every inch of my Riptide from up close. He’s not anxious to talk to me? Not anxious to see me? I’m dying for a mere glimpse.
“Remember to look the part of an older woman, Mel,” I whisper as the first fighters of the evening start pounding each other’s faces in.
“That woman keeps following us,” Melanie says worriedly and points behind us, but I can’t even turn. “She’s like a she-male. A little scary.”
I scan the area for Pete and see him, and right next to him, in the seat I usually occupy, is my sister Nora, grinning and flirting with him.
“Wow, Nora got Pete to get her a ticket?” Melanie says.
I don’t know why, but seeing someone, anyone, even my sister, in my seat, sparks a thousand snakes of jealousy awake in me, and I am angry all over again. Not angry. Furious all over again over Remington telling me I couldn’t come here. Bastard.
Suddenly the ring is vacated and I think I see Riley starting to walk over to take his place near the corner of the ring, and my pulse skyrockets.
“The last time he came to this arena, he gave us a record knockout and chased after one of our very own. . . .” The voice through the speakers flares, and the women scream and my heart just heats as I remember the way he came after me. “You know who I’m talking about. The MAN you are HERE to SEE! Say hello to the one, the only, Remington Tate, youuuuuuur Riiiptiiiiide!!!!!!”
Melanie holds her breath, then murmurs, “Ohmifuckinggod, I see him.”
My pulse has shot up to the ceiling as I strain to see a flash of red, trotting toward the ring, but I can’t see anything from this stupid chair. “I can’t see him!” And god, I hate that everyone can see him but me.
“Dude, he’s coming to the ring! Some chicks are coming over, but he’s pushing through. He’s a god, Brooke. Oh my god . . .”
And then I see him at last, and my heart literally stops and my stomach immediately constricts with emotion. I love him I hate him I love him.
He comes into my line of vision, a flash of red, and swings up into the ring, so lithe and muscled, so sleek and agile. The lights shine down on him as he gets rid of his red robe, and suddenly he’s there. So masculine and raw. Every woman’s fantasy and my real.
I will never forget the way he looks in his boxing attire, every muscle of his ripped torso hard and cut, tanned and glistening. I will never forget the way he smiles for his crowd. I. Am. Dying. He looks amazing. Perfect. Radiating male strength and vitality. Like he’s been on a f**king beach and I’ve been in hell. It even feels like all the lights above rush down to kiss his suntanned skin. His rock-hard arms spread out, muscles taut as he starts slowly turning around. The arena almost trembles under my wheels—the screams are deafening.
“Fuck them over, Riptide!” people scream behind me.
“And then f**k me!”
His dimples flash for them, his eyes glint for them. He looks so blatantly happy I want to hit him. In fact, I want to go up there and crush his mouth with mine while I hit him.
“Brooke, I feel like such a bad friend that I lust over your man, but please tell me you understand!” Melanie says anxiously.
I groan in disgust at myself. I have been abandoned, and here I am, chasing after him like some groupie. Lusting after him because he is mine.
MINE.
“And now, laaaadies and gentlemen, we welcome the Mother of All Monsters, Hector Hex, Herculeeeeeees!” the announcer cries, and Melanie mutters, “Hooooly shit.”
The moment the Mother of Monsters takes the ring, I swear I almost see the floor caving in with his weight. I’ve never seen this one before, but he looks even bigger than Butcher, and the knot in my stomach tightens tenfold. The new fighter looks like some sort of Paul Bunyan–enormous giant.
“What galaxy did that piece of meat come from?” Melanie asks, as perturbed as I am.
Remy taps boxing gloves with him, then he draws back and flexes his arm muscles, and I watch the tattoos between his shoulder and biceps ripple. And all my body ripples in remembrance of how his feels.
Ping.
They go center. My heart hammers inside me as the Mother of All Monsters slams Remington’s ribs, and Remington comes back with a triple punch that is so fast and so powerful, it knocks the guy back three steps.
“Brooke, ohmigod!” Melanie says. “OH. MY. GOD!”
The giant comes back with a swing that strikes Remy straight in the gut. I hear the sound of the punch and wince, but suddenly I hear the sounds of the way Remington hits back. Fast and hard. PAM PAM POOM! The giant falls on his ass. Remington circles the ring as he waits for him to get up, sinuous, graceful, my powerful blue-eyed lion.
All my body remembers the way that lion moves over me. In me. The way his h*ps push with perfect precision. The way his hands coast all over me. Squeeze me. Tease me. The way his tongue rasps against me, tastes me, licks me.
The monster slowly gets up and shakes his head, as if he’s confused, and before he can get in another punch, Remington hooks him with his right and knocks him back down—splat on his back.
Melanie jumps and screams.
“YES!! YES! REMY, YOU’RE THE KING OF THE FUCKING JUNGLE!” she screams. And he turns with that smile, and I freeze when he spots us. He’s smiling indulgently at us, his fans, facing in our direction, when suddenly his stance changes—and his body seems to reengage. His dimples are still in place, but his eyes narrow just slightly as he surveys us, like a predator in hunting mode.