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“Yeah… I ran track all through high school. It was my therapeutic alone time, you know, to deal with the crazy family without paying for actual licensed therapists.” She smirks. “Angry rap was the icing on the cake.”
“Why don’t you run anymore?”
She shrugs. “I fell and busted my knee last November. I don’t really know what happened; it was good, I was running, then something snapped and down I went. We thought I’d torn my ACL, but it wasn’t so bad. Dislocation, a bit of a sprain, stretched tendons, best case scenario, really, but it hurt so friggin much. I wore a brace for a couple months, and still wear it every now and again when it’s sore. It probably could’ve been an easy fix, but that same month, my dad was diagnosed with cancer.” She shrugs. “I didn’t get back to training, I gained weight. Now I have Jack and barely enough time to sleep.”
“Does it bother you when we train now? Your knee?”
“Yeah, a little bit, especially when we do take downs.”
“You didn’t write it down in the medical section of your gym forms.” I know that for a fact, because I read her forms a million times.
“I dunno, I feel like it’s not a very legitimate injury, you know? It was only a sprain…”
“If it hurts you, if it worries you, if it’s in your history, you should’ve told us. Why don’t you wear your brace at training?”
She smiles shyly. “Didn’t want to draw attention to it…?”
Such a fucking martyr. “I want you to wear it from now on. No point in hurting yourself again and actually tearing the muscle, genius.”
She salutes obnoxiously. “Yes, sir.”
I turn to her with a serious face. “Call me sir again. I’ll show you what that really means.”
I pull into the parking lot of Club 188 and watch as she swallows nervously. Shaking my head, I climb out and race around the Rav to her side, boner at half-mast and heart skittering in my chest. I open her door, but before I allow her to slide out, I place my open palms on her thighs.
She watches in silence as I slowly slide my hands from the hemline of her dress down to her knees, then I look up in question.Which knee is injured?Shyly, she puts her hand over my right, and after a moment of caressing it, I lean down and press my lips against her skin.
She lets out a content sigh, and when I look up, her eyes hold my whole world in them. Love. Lifetimes. Forever. Hopefully not delusion. Straightening my spine, I place a quick kiss on her lips and help her from the car. Throwing my arm over her shoulder, I pull her in tight and we walk toward the front entrance.
The club’s busy tonight. The tables mostly all taken. I smile and think of my tiny fairy friend – it’s good to know people in high places. To my immense satisfaction, we’re seated in a booth in a dark corner at the back, the alcove with a narrowed opening, that gives us the most privacy possible in a public space.
Thank you, Tink.
I gesture for Kit to slide in first, and I thoroughly enjoy watching her attempt to scoot gracefully without showing off too much leg. I slide in next and throw my arm over her shoulder. We’re finally here, so I’ll be sitting as close as stalker laws allow.
A skinny hipster looking waiter steps up to our table, with tight black jeans and a trendy haircut, his lip and eyebrow piercings twinkle in the light as he smiles atmydate. “Welcome to Club 188. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Vodka and orange,” Kit asks softly, “please.”
I wait for him to peel his eyes from Kit’s chest. “Beer.” Then I turn back to her and dismiss him.
She stares up at me with flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes. “That was weird.”
“The waiter?”
“Mmm. He stared, like,” she presses a hand to her heart, “into my soul.”
I let out a deep breath as her giggle relieves the tension coiled in my gut. “I mean, I can’t blame the guy. You look stunning. Did you look in the mirror before you left your room?”
She rolls her eyes and cuddles into my chest. “Of course I looked, funny guy. That’s how girls know if we tucked our dresses into our panties. That shit isn’t funny after kindergarten.”
I laugh and pull her close until her chest is flush with my ribs. “So we’re on the same page, then. You look amazing. So beautiful, I almost choked on my tongue.”
She laughs nervously. She doubts my words, but I’ll make her a believer. I’ll never stop telling her she’s beautiful.
The waiter returns with our drinks a few minutes later. He works hard to not look at Kit at all – message received loud and clear – and clearing his throat awkwardly, he takes out a pen and notepad. “Are you ready to order?”
Kit hastily picks up her menu, though she rattles off a pasta dish without reading it, and after ordering a steak for myself, I hand him the menus in dismissal. He walks away as she shakily picks her drink up and sips. She’s nervous again.
