I remember the box of clothes I picked out last night, yesterday now. I was, we both were more than just a little distracted with things, but I still feel embarrassed and blush bright red.
“Sorry, Dillon… how selfish of me…” I admit.
I do like seeing him with nothing on though.
I take his hand and lead him back upstairs. I hear Baxter barking, wanting back in, but I think it's best if he stays out for now.
Back up in the attic, we both feel the same stirrings as we did only yesterday, even though it seems like a lifetime ago already.
I’ve changed so much, a properly claimed woman now. Not the girl I was yesterday.
But the box of clothes is still there.
The owners of the house, their son. He’s around the same height but not quite the same build.
Far from it.
Luckily we find a track suit and a t-shirt that Dillon manages not to tear apart when he tries it on.
“I hope he doesn’t mind,” Dillon says apologetically.
“He’s over it,” I assure him, “I think he’s a senator now, a little older and thicker in the middle…”
Dillon shrugs awkwardly, tearing the sleeve some more as his huge arm flexes along with his shoulders.
I grip both my arms, hugging myself, willing myself not to hurl myself at the man.
I thought he was hot naked… my god, put him in some skin tight clothes…
“Are you alright?” he asks me, genuinely concerned, until he recognizes the familiar shudder in my breath, the stiffness of my chest through my own clothes and the look in my eyes.
“I’m fine,” I purr, reminding myself I’ve had my fill for the day of Dillon. The man has work to do yet.
“It only has to last until the fight,” he says thoughtfully, picking through the box, making me laugh by holding some pretty dated clothes against his body. Clothes that would look fine on anyone else, but Dillon…
Dillon has a presence that only a certain style of clothes could live up to.
“Now,” I challenge him, “Give me those stinky shorts and I’ll put them in the wash,” I tell him, reaching for those skimpy, stained and bloody shorts he’s been wearing around since yesterday.
But he holds them to his chest, like a child holding their favorite toy.
“These are my lucky shorts, my fighting shorts!” he exclaims, “I have to wear them tonight…”
I screw my face up, then shrug. I can’t see them washed and dried by the time we have to leave, which I suspect is soon by the look in Dillon’s eye.
“Fine,” I tell him, “but as soon as we’re home, they’re getting washed,” I tell him, putting on my serious face and voice.
But his face drops a little and he looks past me.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“Home?” he asks. “You’re coming with me after the fight… we have to… I should explain,” he says. And for the first time all day, I’m not just thinking about me and Dillon anymore.
I’m thinking about us.
Our future family too.
This just got serious very quickly.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dillon
It’s hard for me to explain to Roxy how it’s gonna be. So much depends on if this fight goes to plan and if we live to tell the tale, escape the arena let alone the city.
If it comes down to that. But who knows?
I threw a rigged fight last night with Marconi, something that’s unheard of.
Tonight I plan a repeat performance, but betting with my own money, which is risky.
Because he keeps the fight information so secret I don’t know who Marconi will have fight against me, how many or for how long before he reaches the point where he feels he’s made enough to forgive me for last night’s treachery.
Anyone else would be a dead man, but Marconi knows I’m the best so he keeps me.
I just need that privilege for one more night…
“I need to go talk with the Russians,” I tell Roxy, who furrows her brow and breathes in long and hard.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” tell her and we both walk down the stairs before I turn to kiss her and step outside. The Russians are already standing at the door, making her jump.
Me, I’m a little more used to them. But not by much.
Like I said, they’re like fucking ghosts sometimes.
Great to have on your side, I’d rather make an enemy of Marconi than these guys any day.
They both stand silent, one looks Roxy up and down, which draws a low growl from me and his eyes are front and center again.
I don’t want to make an enemy out of these guys, but if he looks at my woman again, all bets are off.
The other of the two slaps the back of the looker's head, so quickly I hardly notice it but I narrow my eyes and let them both know they can’t even look when it comes to my woman.
“Roxy. Inside.” Is all I say, and she obeys.
I’m about to tell the Russians just how it is when it comes to being around my woman, when the larger of the two, the one who wasn’t ogling Roxy, thrusts out a ringing cell phone, putting it straight into my hand.
I pick up.
“Yeah,” It’s Jake.
“Jake.” I cut him off before he can get started, “Tell your red friends here that if they look at my woman again, I’ll be painting the house with their blood, fight or no fight. Money be damned.”
Jake goes silent and the bigger of the two Russians leans in, his nose almost touching mine, “Tell them yourself…” he says in a thick accent, but perfectly executed English.
I cough a dry, quiet laugh, only taking the phone away long enough to repeat my words straight to his face.
It’s no empty threat, and once the mutual satisfaction of chest beating is over, The Russians hold out their hands and apologize like gentlemen.
“We only here to fight Marconi… not Dillon.” Is all the smaller one
