Her brow furrowed, and instantly, I knew I’d said the wrong thing.
She snatched up the remote and turned the TV off. “Was it important to you?”
I shrugged. It was very fucking important to me, but I wasn’t ready to go down that road just yet. Talk about premature ejaculation.
“Stop shrugging and use words,” she huffed.
“Ren, let it go, okay?”
“I know you’re not telling me everything,” she said, moving her legs from my lap.
“Ren.”
She held up a hand to stop me from spitting out another excuse. “You know how I feel about that.”
Secrets were what drove us apart in the first place. Lies were what kept us from getting back together after the fact, and what was I doing right now? This had no bearing on our relationship or how I felt about her. This was between my parents and me, and I didn’t want her to know.
It might be selfish or stubborn, or it might even be my pride talking, but I didn’t want her to deal with it. Even if I did gather the courage to go see them, it was going to be ugly. I couldn’t have her being a part of that poisonous cycle, not after everything she’d had to endure with her own sister.
Monica Fuller had plotted with the man who’d attacked Violet, Hammer, to do the same thing to Ren. Her own fucking sister. They were going to take her dignity and break both her legs, so I stepped in to deal with Hammer once and for all. I couldn’t go through with it, so it inevitably landed me in hot water—with the cops and with Ren. I couldn’t let my own family drama touch her. Not even in the slightest. If I had to keep this secret, then I would.
“I know,” I muttered.
“Then what’s bothering you?” she asked more forcefully.
“I told you,” I exclaimed. “Nothing is bothering me.”
She snorted and shook her head.
“Ren, seriously—”
“I’m going to bed,” she snapped, getting up off the couch.
I went to stand with her, but she shook her head and wandered off down the hall.
I watched her disappear, totally dumbfounded. We’d had little arguments about stupid shit before but nothing like this. She’d never given me the silent treatment or walked away without us working it out. Problem was, Ren Miller could see right through me and right now, that was the thing causing the problem.
Determined to work it out, I strode down the hall and stepped into the bedroom. My heart skipped a couple of beats when I found our bed empty, and my skin began crawl. No Spitfire in my bed had to mean she was pissed big time.
I found her in one of the spare bedrooms, tucked underneath the covers.
I hovered at the door, my hand curled tightly around the jamb. “Ren?”
“I’m tired,” she murmured, and that was that.
I was in the doghouse, and it burned like hell.
Eight
Ren
I slipped out the next morning before Ash woke.
Maybe he’d changed his mind and was trying to ease out of it gently to spare my feelings. Or maybe he just had a feather up his ass about something. Either way, he wasn’t telling, and that was the thing that hurt the most.
After all the shit we’d been through to get to where we were, knowing that he was keeping something from me stung. It didn’t matter if it was big or small because, when it came down to it, the intent was there.
Beat was quiet tonight. Everyone had gone home, and there was no class scheduled, so Caleb had made good on his offer to teach me some of the ins and outs of boxing. I was glad to have something to take my mind off the whole marriage thing.
Glancing over to the ring where Caleb was busy setting up something he wanted to show me, I began to wonder what Ash was doing right now. As usual, the hulking specimen that was my nearest and dearest was closest in my thoughts when we weren’t together. When I didn’t come home tonight, he’d work himself up into a ball of anxiety.
Snorting, I shook my head. He had to learn to live without me being there once in a while. Co-dependency wasn’t healthy for a guy with the abandonment issues he had. Hell, we both had them, but I’d learned to deal pretty fast when my mum finally lost her battle with cancer. Ash never really had.
Flexing my fingers, I tested my wraps and found them tight. I cast a look at my gym bag, which I’d set under the bench, and wondered if I should at least text to say where I was, but then I shoved away the thought. If he wanted to keep something from me… What a selfish thing to think.
“You ready?”
I glanced up as Caleb appeared out on the mats. Unlike most gym-junkie fighter types I knew, he was wearing a tank top with the Beat logo on the front with his shorts and bare feet. His hands were all wrapped up in black, and he had this whole mean and lean thing going on. Definitely not an MMA kinda guy.
Standing, I said, “As I’ll ever be.”
My phone began to ring, and I tried to block out the annoying trill.
“Do you need to get that?” Caleb asked, nodding at my bag.
I shook my head. “Nope.”
It stopped ringing for a second, and then started up again.
“You sure? They’re pretty persistent.”
Bending over, I pulled the phone out of the side pocket and saw a couple of missed calls from Ash. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, at least not without it turning into a slanging match, so I switched the phone to silent and chucked it back.
“Sorted,” I declared, squaring off in front of Caleb. “Where do we start?”
“They have this saying in boxing,” Caleb said, turning on his teacher mode. “Styles make fights.”
“Styles?” I cocked my head to the side, my beef with Ash falling to the wayside as my natural curiosity was pulled back to the one thing I was good at. Fighting.
“There are a few different ways you can approach this kind of fighting. There’s the counter puncher who uses their book smarts to keep a safe distance from their opponent.” He tapped his temple with a grin. “Then they pick their spots to attack.”
“Defensive fighting,” I said.
“Right. Then there’s the boxer puncher.”
“Who just belts the shit out of their opponent?”
He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. But it’s more about wearing down the other guy. You’d be good at it, One-Shot. The fighters who have this style nailed down are known for their brutal KO’s.”
“Sign me up,” I retorted with a wicked grin.
“Then there’s the slugger.” Caleb smacked his fists together. He looked pleased with himself, his eyes sparkling much the same way Ash’s did when he was about to fight.
“You fought like that?” I asked.
“Yeah, it was my thing. Sluggers, or brawlers as some call ’em, fight with aggression.”
“So you were a hard-ass?”
“Something like that. It’s all about wearing the other guy down with relentless pressure. Fast and hard.” He wiped his forearm over his brow and shook his head like he was trying to rid himself of a bad memory.
“What?”
“To fight like that you need to be able to take a lot of hits. Because you’re moving so fast, it leaves a lot of defensive holes that are easily manipulated.” He bowed his head. “You get pummeled just as good as you dish it out.”
Yeah, I got it. I’d taken a lot of hits fighting at The Underground and in the AUFC, but not to the point where I was a borderline paraplegic. Not like Caleb. I could see the spark and the passion he had for his chosen sport as clear as day, and not being able to compete anymore must be tough. Especially since he was still at the top of his game.
“What are the punches?” I asked, turning the conversation back onto the task at hand.
He smiled weakly and nodded. “The five punches are the jab, cross, hook, uppercut, and overhand,” he explained. “You need a strong stance. Last thing you want is to lose your balance. The other most important thing you can have in boxing is your footwork. That’s why I do a lot of duck and weave training.”
“Sounds boring.” I was used to the freestyle and unrestricted freedom of using a variety of techniques. This all seemed so…sleep inducing.