“Do you even like wrestling?” She slips her hand in mine and catches up to match her step to mine. “For real?”
“I like you,” I respond without skipping a beat.For real.
Rhea doesn’t say anything else because when we enter the stadium, she’s completely silenced by her shock. It’s busy, really busy, and just about every fucker that passes us puts his eyes on her legs. I squeeze her hand in mine because I can’t help the possession that floods me at the thought of someone else touching her.Ever.
Having sex was instantly a bad idea. I knew it then. I know it now. It just makes every feeling I have for her stronger. Her laugh derails me; her smile has me walking into walls. Last week, I nearly dropped a tray of glasses on the floor because she was flirting with some cops as she kicked them out of the Hollow and into cabs. It took me the rest of the shift, two hours of making her scream my name, and a cold shower to remind myself that she was doing her job.
Idiot.
I’m consumed—and happy to be stuck in her quicksand.
“Okay, you need a shirt,” she declares and drags me through the stadium.
“I really don’t,” I groan, but let her drag me. Tonight is all about her, and I will do anything she asks of me because it means there’s a smile on her face. “Slow down, Hellcat.”
It’s a wondrous thing to watch a woman so strong turn into such a little kid at the hint of something she loves. Every day, she gives reason to find joy in life despite all of the horrible things going on around her—and in her mind. She looks over her shoulder at me to make sure I’m still behind her, and even though the sadness is still there, it’s tangled with unbridled excitement.
“You pick one you like, and I’ll tell you if it’s acceptable,” she says. Her giggle is enough to get me to shut my mouth as she drags us into a line for merch.
I scowl at her before looking up at the selection they have displayed. I know nothing about wrestling and even less about the people on the shirts. “Is there anything plain?” I ask her, and she snorts.
“Don’t be a buzzkill,” she groans.
“Alright uh…” My eyes scan the shirts, trying to find the least offensive one on my eyes, and come up short. “That one,” I point to a black shirt at the end with some guy’s face all over it.
“Oof,” Rhea scoffs, “no. Try again.”
“Who’s that and why is he a no?” I ask.
“Just move on,” she pokes. Another group of guys wanders behind us, and one of them points to her skirt, but she’s none the wiser as she continues to talk in circles about the different wrestlers.
I slide in behind her and press my chest to her back, “What about that one?” I point over her shoulder.
“Much better. I approve.” She doesn’t skip a beat. “I need a CM Punk shirt, mine got destroyed in the condo.” She points to one with that old man on it, and I look down at her with a dirty look on my face.
"Yeah, yeah." I kiss the back of her head as we move in line. “Is that the only one you want?”
“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “I’m buying them. You’ve done enough for the day.”
“Rhea.” I stare at her, and she opens her mouth to say something about making it even. I know her better than she cares to admit. She hates this. But I lean down and pull her chin toward me with a finger, kissingher gently once before retreating. “Don’t argue with me in public, you won’t win.”
“Okay.” She falls silent and turns her attention back to the line.
“It’s also your birthday,” I whisper to her, and she whips around.
“Who told you that?” She glares at me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her mad face, at least not directed at me. It’s as cute as it is terrifying.
“I’m offended you think I didn’t dig,” I respond with a smirk.I’m not scared of you, Hellcat. Nice try.
“You shouldn’t have dug.” She rolls her eyes. After pulling up just about every single social media page she has, I couldn’t find anything about her birthday. Not even a post. So I went to the source,Sunday.
I cornered her in the bar last week.
“Did you ask Rhea?” She hops slightly to reach a cup hanging just out of her reach behind the bar.
“I’m asking you.” I follow her and the stupid ‘please don’t ask me for my number’ shirt out of the bar and across the crowded floor to the back wall of booths.
“How is that, by the way? She barely talks about you because she thinks it’ll gross me out, which it would, but… I still want to know what’s going on.” Sunday yells over the music as she hands the girl a fresh cup and pours her some water.
