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“MMA?” I frowned for a third time. “What’s that?”
“Mixed martial arts.”
My tummy fluttered again, but this time it had nothing to do with sexual excitement and everything to do with stunned horror. “That barbaric sport where two guys try to beat the shit out of each other any way they can?”
“That’s the one.”
I swear to God, he sounded proud.
I wanted to hit him.
Instead, I shook my head. “You bought a two-million-dollar house with cash you made being a MMA fighter?”
He nodded and then changed the nod to a non-committal head wobble, his expression equally as ambiguous. “Yes and no.”
“Tell me about the no part,” I instructed.
He shifted on the bed. I thought he was going to reposition himself to a sitting position, but instead, he rolled onto his side, propped his head up on one hand and drew a lazy line up and down my thigh with a finger. “The no part isn’t pretty.”
“Neither are you,” I shot back, feeling snarky.
He smirked. “True.”
That was a lie. He was freaking gorgeous. Even with the dangerous mystery about him, he was gorgeous. Maybe even more so.
Oh man, what was wrong with me?
“Tell me about the no part,” I repeated, making my voice stern. I didn’t, however, move my leg. The simple caress of his finger tracing over my thigh was too…nice.
Who would have thought the words nice and Lucas fucking Pratt could ever go together?
His smirk slipped a little. For a moment, anger shadowed his face, and then it was gone, and it was his normal arrogant indifferent expression again. The thing was, I was starting to realize that expression was a façade.
“I’ve been fighting in the underground MMA circuit for many years now. Since I was fifteen,” he said, moving his gaze to where his finger touched my leg.
“Before you moved to Willow Falls?”
He nodded at my question.
“Do your parents know?”
At this question, he shook his head. “To start with, it was a way of letting off some steam. My biological father, Mom’s ex, was a prick who beat on us. I started learning how to fight back when I was ten.”
My stomach churned. I knew little about his life before his family had moved next door, and I hadn’t ever asked about it. So I didn’t now. Lucas hadn’t made me want to anyway, what with his dangerous arrogance and mocking demeanor.
“Lucas,” I whispered, letting my horror and sympathy fill my voice and face, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He flicked me a quick glance. Our eyes connected for a heartbeat and then he was looking at my leg again. “It was what it was,” he said. There was nothing bitter about his declaration. Rather, it was matter-of-fact and empty. But I sensed something deep and dark in those five words. Something scary.
“Did your mom press charges?”
“Hard to press charges against a dead man.”
My stomach didn’t just churn. It twisted into a knot. Dead man?
His finger on my leg grew still. His stare stay fixed on it. “He died in a street brawl a month after Mom finally got away from him. I was fifteen.”
Got away. Not left him. Not divorced him.
