Page 35 of The Naughty List

Hollis rips my ability to control my emotions right out of my chest and dribbles it around like a basketball. Twirling it expertly on one finger while smirking at me.

Walking her out to her car in silence, I stuff my hands in my pockets so I don’t accidentally do something stupid like touch her.

I’ve made it clear that this—whatever it is we are to each other—can never go there. The last thing I want to do is send her mixed signals.

When we arrive at our vehicles, her Corolla and my Range Rover, Hollis looks over my shoulder at the building we just left.

“So…you grew up here?”

I open her car door, taking her keys and reaching in to start the engine so it can warm up before she gets in.

“‘Grew up’ being a relative term, yeah. In and out from the time I was three until I was fifteen.”

“What happened at fifteen?”

Here goes. Spilling my secrets and hoping she can handle them.

“I ran away. Well, technically I got kicked out for fighting but I didn’t come back when I got out of juvie. I joined a gang, actually.”

Her eyes widen and she blinks rapidly.

“Street thugs mostly,” I clarify. “Nothing more than a bunch of car thieves and vandals. Until I met Pops and started training.”

“For MMA fighting?”

“Boxing first. But I was a physical kid and kept getting DQ’d for kicking and body-slamming my opponents.”

“DQ’d?”

“Disqualified. So I made the switch to mixed-martial arts and never looked back.”

Hollis takes it all in, absorbing more of my past. I watch her features shift under the streetlamp. She’s fighting off the pity she knows I won’t accept.

“So before three you were…”

I shrug. “No idea. With my mom, I guess. I never knew her and she didn’t fill out the paperwork with any of her real information so…”

“I’m sorry, Jonah.”

Glancing to the side, I fidget with my keys. “I survived.”

Her gaze roams over me, assessing my discomfort level, I’m sure. “You did more than survive. What you do for the WDA, what you did in there for those kids tonight—you’re a good man, Jonah.”

I duck my head. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” She plays with the fluffy fabric around the edge of her skirt. “So…any chance you want to tell me what the X stands for?”

She’s hungry for more, but I’ve shared about as much as I can handle.

“You might be disappointed.”

She frowns at me. “I doubt it.”

“It’s not as mysterious as the media makes it out to be. It’s what my biological mother put on the form when she dropped me off with children’s services. Jonah in the first name box. An X in the last name box.”

She steps closer, and the urge is there—the one pushing me to touch her, to kiss her, to claim her. I beat it back into the corner of my mind, but just barely.

“Put this on,” I say instead, reaching into my vehicle then handing her my leather jacket. “I’m getting cold just looking at you.”