Page 3

CHAPTER TWO

Cassius

It’s the first hit that brings the rush.

As I stagger back, colliding with the chain-link fence behind me, I fight the urge to snap my hands down to my sides. Sure, it hurt, but these rich elitist fucks don’t punch too hard. Just hard enough to convince themselves they’re badass, even if they’re paying to be a part of a fight they think they’re guaranteed to win. A thousand bucks here and there to find somebody willing to fight and lose is nothing to them.

The guy has his back to me now, pumping up the crowd of his friends with too much confidence, believing it’ll only take one hit to knock me out of the running for the top prize tonight. That’s not happening. One way or the other, no matter how many of these stereotypical, adrenaline-chasing douches I have to go through, I’m walking away with the couple grand on the line.

Participating in underground fighting rings might not be my first choice of supplemental income, but I’m doing this for Skylar. Life has taught me that it’s unpredictable. Things happen and change. Sure, we have nice jobs now that pay us more than we need, but what happens if that goes away? No. I can’t accept that uncertainty, so I’m building a nest egg for Skylar and me in case the worst happens. I’ve only been doing this for a couple of months, but I already have a nice little savings account filled with cash.

Because, whether it’s beginner’s luck or pure skill, I don’t lose.

My blood runs hot just thinking about something happening to my sunshine. He’s been through so much already—we both have—and I just want to guarantee us a good life. I don’t like lying to him about why I occasionally come home with bruises and cuts, but I guess you could technically call this a boxing gym?

Yeah, probably not.

But it’s been enough to appease him. Either way, he’s usually too busy with his new boyfriend of the month to pry. I grit my teeth as I think about it. Johnny who tried to trick Skylar into a threesome, Larry who refused to be seen with him in public, and Ricky who loved to humiliate and demean him. I count them all as the worst possible people to walk the planet.

With that thought, I surge forward and put my entire weight behind my fist, punching this guy in the back, and sending him sprawling to the floor. He tries to turn, but I have him where I want him. Just need him to stay still for five seconds and I win Fight Night. He squirms and tries to buck me off, and while he may be bigger, I’ve been fighting my entire life. After this, I can go home.

To Skylar .

My jaw twitches, and my momentary distraction has Douche Canoe #1 rolling out from underneath me. He tries to stand, but I’m too quick for him. I grab his ankle and yank him back, causing his chin to hit the ground with a disgusting crunch.

Once again, I try to keep him still, but it’s hard to deny how my blood soars at the upcoming victory. The rush, the thrill, the feeling of control… My mind spirals to places it shouldn’t, wild and raw with pure adrenaline.

“I thought he was the one.”

“But he’s such a nice guy.”

“I think I found my forever person.”

Week after week. Month after fucking month. Of having someone else hold Skylar’s attention. His heart grows full every time, while mine’s already calcified to save itself from the pain, with only a sliver left beating because of my sunshine.

I’ve loved Skylar for twelve fucking years . I was with him in that shit foster home we grew up in, with him when he came out, with him when we graduated high school and decided he wanted to move to Miami. Through all the tears, all the laughs, all the life we’ve lived together, I’ve been his only constant.

Every day with him is simultaneous torture and bliss. It’s not an exaggeration to say that my world revolves around him. Every single thought I have is of Skylar. When I’m not actively thinking of ways to make him smile, I’m holding myself back from picturing a life where he feels the same way about me. He’s in my blood, the very essence of myself, and I know I’ll spend the rest of my life desperately obsessed with him.

Because, whether he’ll ever acknowledge it himself, he belongs to me .

I don’t usually grow bitterly resentful, but I must be on something tonight, because when Douche Canoe #1 tries to get out from under me, I make sure he can’t.

By punching him straight across the jaw and knocking him out.

I punch until I have to be pulled off the limp and badly beaten body. The guy’s still alive, that much I know, but I also know just from looking at the commissioner through the chain fence that I’ve been put on a week's ban. Scoffing, I shake my head as I spit on the ground behind Douche Canoe #1, then make my way toward the commissioner. He already has cash in his hands.

“You sure were worked up tonight,” he says. Chewing on his toothpick, he glances behind me at the destruction I’ve left. “Ever consider playing with the big boys?”

I shake my head and hold out my hand. “Not interested.”

“Your loss,” he says, slapping the bills in my palm. “But call me if you change your mind, yeah? This schoolyard shit will bore you, eventually. I just know it.”

With a shrug, he pats me on the back as I pass him. I shoulder my way through the booing crowd to get outside. I’m sure all these suckers put their money on the pretty rich boy, thinking that I was a piece of easy trailer trash he could squash with a few unimpressive moves. Trailer trash is right, but easy is not.

Once I’m outside, I head to my bike and shrug my shirt back on, hating how it’s already sticking to my skin with the thick Miami humidity. The commissioner is always moving the ring around, so I have to head out of some ritzy neighborhood to hook back onto the highway.

With all the traffic, it takes me about thirty minutes to get home. When I do, I keep my eyes peeled in our crappy neighborhood as I park in the unprotected basement garage. I secure my bike with the anti-theft handlebar lock and grab my stuff, heading back out onto the street to get inside the building. Since the elevator has been broken for the last five years, I take the stairs two at a time, my backpack jostling with every step. Reaching the door, I go through the arduous process of unlocking all four locks. This place only had one installed when Skylar and I moved in, and after a pretty brutal home invasion a couple of doors down, I wasn’t about to leave him home alone with only one flimsy bolt to protect him.

I open the door and go inside, securing all the locks and the deadbolt. Every light is on, which isn’t unusual since Skylar has a particular fear of being home alone in the dark, but what is weird is the fact that he’s still awake.

Awake and only wearing my fucking shirt.

He’s bent over, rummaging through the fridge, his cute ass on display as my shirt rides up just enough to tease the outline of his butt cheeks. Like a man possessed, and still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, I stalk toward him. He yelps when I press my crotch against his ass, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief moment so I don’t start rutting him like an animal.

“What are you doing up?” I rasp, my hands migrating to his hips when he tries to move. “You got off work two hours ago.”

He straightens, looking over his shoulder at me. Skylar is utter perfection. He’s petite, the perfect size for me to pick up and carry. But he’s lean and strong, thanks to the nurturing and healthy eating I force on him every day. His eyes—one light green and one dark brown—have always been so mesmerizing. Right now, they’re coy and just a bit mischievous, and paired with the way he nibbles on his bottom lip, I know he wants trouble. “I got hungry. Can we?—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Cass! I just want?—”

I shut him up by spinning him around and planting my hands under his ass, lifting him until he’s wrapping his legs around my waist. Carrying him over to the kitchen counter, I gently deposit him on the surface while I run my hands up and down his smooth thighs. “If you’re hungry, I’ll cook. You’re not eating that shit.”

“But I want a nice greasy burger with fries,” he whines, jutting out his bottom lip. “And a soda!”

“There’s soda in the fridge.”

He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “ That’s soda? That’s fruit-scented bubbly water that tastes like garbage and you know it.”

“Chicken and broccoli.” I move my hands up under his shirt so I can skate my thumbs across his ribs. “With key lime-scented garbage water.”

Skylar looks like he wants to resist, but he doesn’t. He continues to pout, but when I lean forward and playfully nip at his bottom lip, he giggles and bats me away. “ Fine . Can you at least use that lemon-butter seasoning I like?”

“Of course, sunshine,” I mouth against his lips, never resting them there permanently the way I want, but only enough that I can pretend to have the life breathed back into me. “Anything you want.”

“How did it go at the gym?” he asks as I start up the stovetop.

I only wince a little at the lie. It’s just that I don’t want him to worry. I also don’t want him to question why I sometimes feel the need to beat someone to a pulp every month, particularly more often if one of his boyfriends is hanging around. “Yeah, it was good.”

He kicks out his legs adorably, watching and not offering to help me as I grab the chicken from the fridge. “So, I’m trying that new dating app I told you about.”

The damn chicken nearly slips from my grip. I turn my back on him and my fingers tremble as I unwrap the chicken and run it under cold water. “That’s great.”

“And I bought that pretty new lace piece I saw online. You know the one, right? You said the color matched one of my eyes.”

Oh, I know exactly which piece he’s talking about. It’s the one he showed me after storming into my bedroom at five in the morning because he was too excited to wait. It was ridiculously expensive, but we live frugally with steady jobs, and he said he was obsessed with it. That same two-piece lingerie set with fucking thigh-high stockings and a garter that I jerked off to minutes after he left, just picturing what he would look like in it.

“Awesome.”

I let him go on and on about the hits he’s gotten on the dating app and the wonderful qualities of all these men who are a literal recipe for getting past the Pearly Gates. I keep my mouth shut, though, because I don’t think anything I could say would be remotely pleasant. Fuck me, I just fought, but I’m itching to go back into the ring again.

When I’m done cooking, I bring him and the food over to our rickety excuse for a dining room table. Instead of sitting opposite me, he plops down on my lap, still talking a mile a minute, and I wonder how he manages to inhale what I cooked for him. All the while, I think about how perfect this is. How domestic. It’s just the two of us, happy together, and I wonder why it can’t be anything more. But the thing is, I do know why.

I’m a fucking coward.

Once he’s done eating, I pat his hip to let him know to hop off my lap. “Want to watch a movie?”

Right on cue, he yawns cutely, stretching his arms over his head, nearly exposing his fucking perfect little cock. “I might fall asleep.”

Again, I can’t help it. Basically throwing the dishes into the sink, not caring that they clatter as if they’ll break, I seize him. I tug him against me, where he hums happily against my chest, purring as I stroke his hair with one hand and grab his ass with the other.

“If you fall asleep, I’ll carry you to bed,” I whisper, kissing his forehead.

“Okay,” he mumbles and hugs me tighter. “Can I also get a foot rub?”

I chuckle against the top of his head, kneading one ass cheek. “Yes, Skylar. I’ll give you a foot rub.”

He perches his chin on my chest, gazing at me in a way someone might call adoring, and smiles. “Thank you, Cass. You’re the best.”

I almost grimace. The best but not the only one. Not the one. Not the person he wants to share his life with. Not the man he’ll call his lover forever.

I’m the person he’ll curl his body around at night sometimes when he’s feeling lonely, never noticing the tears pooling in my eyes when he gets up. I’m the one who’s there for every wayward thought, awkward selfie, and dumb-ass reel. I’m the one who compliments him, loves him, cries over him.

He takes from me and takes from me until I’m stripped bare, and I come back every time for more.

Forever and always.