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“You miss it?”
I nod. “I do, but the longer I’m away, the less it feels like home to me. I looked the part, but I never really felt like I belonged there. Old money turns its nose up at the‘nouveau riche,’” I say, using finger quotes. “Generational wealth is cruel and vindictive. I was raised to work hard and be grateful for what I have. I guess I don’t really fit in anywhere.” I drop my gaze to the floor. It feels wrong to complain when my life has been so fortunate, but sitting beside Jace in the quiet of evening, the truth simply slipped out. I’m an outcast everywhere I go. “What do you normally do for fun? I mean, besides fighting?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
The corner of his mouth curls up. He takes a long drag from his cigarette and turns his head to blow it away from me. “Usually just drive around. Find a place in the woods to drink and hang out, things like that. Ain’t much else to do.”
“Is that why you got into MMA? Boredom?”
He laughs. “Nah. I needed a way to channel my anger after my dad died. I was gettin’ into fights at school and got suspended a few times. It was a lot, ya know? Anyway, I beat the hell outta this one kid for makin’ fun of the way I talked, and it turned out to be Jimbo’s son.”
My jaw drops. “No way.”
“Yup.” He nods. “After the dust cleared, he came to my house and offered me a job in exchange for lessons.”
“You’re really good at it.”
He takes a swig of his beer. “I hold my own.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. The way you just … unleash.”
“Guess I still got a lotta fight in me.” He takes a final drag to the filter, then flicks it out into the gravel. Orange wisps explode around it like a miniature firework. “What about you?”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I reply with a wry grin.
“You’re more of a fighter than ya think,” he says with a chuckle. “But I meant for fun.”
“Oh, um …” I tuck my hair behind my ear and roll my beer between my hands. “I know it probably sounds trite to you, but I really love fashion.”
He curls his lip. “You mean, like, clothes?”
“It’s more than clothes. It’s a whole concept of being. Take those ratty jeans, for instance. You think you’re being ironic throwing on a pair of torn-up pants, but what you probably don’t know is that ripped denim has been a part of haute couture since the late 1870s, when Loeb Strauss first brought the idea to Levi’s. At one time, denim was associated with the working class of men in uniform, but old Loeb thought that ripping them up would give everyday guys a look into the life of these workers. So while you stumble out of bed and throw on a pair of destroyed dirty jeans to show how ‘working class’ you are, you’re actually putting on a pair of pants designed to do just that.”
He stares with a blank look on his face as I finish my lesson. By the time I’m done, my heart is slamming against my ribs, and I’m flushed with excitement. Passion is intense in all its forms, be it romance or fortitude. It’s a roller-coaster ride, yet my feet never leave the ground.
“Get the fuck outta here,” he says after a moment.
“It’s true. Look it up.”
He pulls out his phone and starts tapping on the screen. Anticipation sits on my chest. I watch the expressions roll across his face one after the other until he slides it back into his pocket in a huff. “How the fuck do you know all that?”
“Just do.” I shrug.
“So what do you plan to do with all this useless fashion trivia?”
Goose bumps break on my skin. “It’s not useless.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna put food on the table, that’s for damn sure.” He tips his head back and takes the last swallow of his beer.
I pull my brows together with a pout. I can do anything I put my mind to, and fuck Jace Wilder for believing any different. I stand from my seat and stop in my room to get my sketches, then bring them out to shove in his face.
When the book lands in his lap, he stares before opening it. My stomach lurches as he begins flipping the pages. Regret is a dish I don’t desire. I’ve opened myself to a world of backlash in a venture I’ve only started, but Jace doesn’t say a word. He simply turns the page and scans the design before moving on. “Did you draw these?”
“I mean, I’m not an artist or anything—”
“These are really good.”
My mouth goes dry. “They are?”
His blue eyes lift beneath dark lashes. “I mean, I don’t know anything about clothes, but yeah. It’s a good start.”
