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“I’m not harboring a need.” I slouched deeper into the couch’s plush cushions. If my own couch was that plumped up, I’d probably leave the bed to Tray entirely and duke it out with my sister for the sofa.
My apartment was just too freaking small for three people with big personalities. And in Tray’s case, massive shoulders.
“A yen then, we’ll say. You walked away from mixed martial arts because Tray did.”
“No, not entirely.” God, I couldn’t lose that defensive edge to my voice. Why did I keep paying money I did not have to talk with the doc every week? She wasn’t helping me. The rhododendron my sister had bought for the apartment helped me as much, mainly because the plant didn’t use dopey words like yen to describe underground cage fighting.
I didn’t have a yen. Hell no. The desire to match my wits and my body against an opponent in the ring didn’t fall under some cute New Age-y term. Fighting made me feel alive. I conquered my fears every time I kicked out or punched. The blood and bruises were just bonuses.
“Then why did you walk away?”
“Because that was always the plan.” I jerked a shoulder. “I only started fighting to make money for me and Carly to start over somewhere new.” That was what I’d told myself anyway. “It was never supposed to turn into—”
“An obsession?” Dr. Phelps asked gently.
“No,” I snapped. “An…avocation. I don’t need to fight. Obviously I can live without it, since I haven’t done it in a professional capacity since February.”
“And now it’s September.”
I didn’t toss back a sarcastic response, though it was a close thing. “Last time I checked.”
“How often do you and Tray spar in private?”
“I don’t see how that has any bearing on anything.”
“Humor me.” Dr. Phelps offered me a thin smile that nudged my annoyance even higher. Smug, self-righteous know-it-all doctors weren’t going to heal my messed-up head.
If I hadn’t already known I had masochistic tendencies, my insistence on remaining in therapy proved it.
“Do you count when we spar as a prelude to fucking or just as part of an actual workout session?” I asked, blinking innocently.
She didn’t flinch. “Both.”
Christ. This woman. “I don’t know. We fight a lot, okay? But it’s not destructive. We don’t actually hurt each other.” Much.
“Those bruises said otherwise.”
“Bruises feel good to me. I know you think that’s more evidence of my psychosis, but whatever. He’s a hell of a lot more balanced than I am and he feels the same, so what does that say to you?”
He didn’t completely feel the same. Even knowing that, I continued to push him outside his comfort zone. That weighed on me, along with everything else.
“It says to me that you and Trayherne are very well-matched.”
The sound I made in my throat bordered on a snarl. I’d come a long way in the eight months since I met Tray but I was no one’s prize. Least of all my own.
Dr. Phelps continued to smile. Her lips were mauve too. That only made me dislike her more. I’d never had mauve anything. If I wore makeup, it was nail polish a shade away from black and enough eyeliner to sink a boy band. Pastels were not my friend.
God, I needed to go.
“Yet you appear even more edgy since he’s moved in,” she continued, oblivious to my reaction. No surprise there.
“It’s an adjustment, but it’s only temporary. He’ll be gone soon.”
Deep down, I wasn’t so sure. Not if he really would be leaving, or if I wanted him to. Then again, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to stay.
Nine months ago, I hadn’t had to deal with any of this. I’d never even been on a real date. Now I had a sexy guy in my bed, on my couch, eating my licorice. Leaving his razor on my sink and his shorts on my floor.
It was as scary as it was wonderful. Forget scary. Try terrifying to someone who was fighting a battle every day to be normal. Just normal.
