Legend (Real, #6)(21)

I purse my lips and focus on piercing his skin again. I do a total of twelve stitches. Even while my heart is running like Seabiscuit in my chest and I pray he doesn’t notice how fast my chest rises and falls.

“There. You’ll live to fight another day.”

I pull away and then put almost half the room between us as I search for something to say. “I brought ice cream to celebrate. It’s your first fight at the Underground. Tell me!”

Back to the business of celebrating, I bring out my ice cream pack.

He leans forward, elbows to his knees, watching me in curiosity. “It was nothing special.” He curls his fingers into his palms and watches my profile intently.

Then Oz says, “It was spectacular! He KO’d three!”

Maverick’s eyes flash on Oz, a spark hot enough to melt steel. He growls angrily, shaking his head. “Not enough.”

“Better than any starter fighter I’ve seen in a long time. You broke Twister in one round.” He stares at Maverick, who’s staring at me.

“Twister?” I ask, impressed.

“I’ll get you a cab so you can go home, Oz,” Maverick tells him. I notice how meaningfully Maverick’s eyes slide toward the door.

Oz’s eyebrows fly up.

So do mine.

Maverick looks unperturbed.

I have the strangest feeling that he wants to be alone with me.

A kernel of panic settles in my gut.

And two of excitement.

Three of lust.

“Boy, I’ve been taking care of myself before you came along, so f*ck off. I can get my own cab.” Oz slaps the first-aid kit closed and carries it under his armpit as he sips from his flask and grabs his coat.

“’Bye, Oz,” says Maverick, and when the door slams shut as Oz grumbles, Maverick looks at me and smiles.

I take out the ice cream.

Please god, let him not smile at me like that ever again.

We’re so alone, and it’s so quiet, and he’s so . . . bare-chested.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, still smiling.

“Plastic spoons,” I say, like they’re the best invention ever. I purposely ignore his question and make a big ceremony out of studying the spoons—as if there’s a difference between them—and finally I hand him one.

He watches me and takes it between his thumb and forefinger. I almost feel connected when we’re both holding the spoon at the same time. Which is ridiculous.

“It’s dietetic,” I say as he slides the spoon into the bucket of ice cream. He jams it into his mouth. I watch him, uncertain. “It’s good?”

He takes another spoonful and frowns, as if considering.

“Tell me about the fight.”

“Why?” His voice is rough and dry, unlike the cool ice cream he’s eating.

“I want to know. How did it feel?” I ask.

“Why are you not eating?”

“I . . .” I stare at the ice cream.

He lifts his spoon to me.

My eyes widen.

My lips part. And as he moves the spoon forward, I let the ice cream trail on my tongue. I suck it back and grab my own spoon and nervously gobble down another bite.

“Tell me about the fight,” I say again. “I bet you already have fans.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, come on. You must notice girls.”

“Oh, I notice.” He grins, his eyes twinkling. “A distraction I don’t need.”

I didn’t expect this admission from a guy as young and blatantly hot as him. But then, Maverick is so focused on his career that I can believe getting laid is not a priority. Getting laid, for him, must be something easy and accessible any time he wants it. But fighting in the Underground at the level he wants to fight is not.

For some reason, I feel a new connection with him and I hear myself admit something I’d never even told Miles.

“I’m a virgin,” I whisper.

His eyebrows shoot up, and the surprise mingled with respect mingled with something unnamable I can’t decipher on his face makes the tips of my ears go hot. He opens his mouth as if searching for words, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead as he finally says, “Why?”

“Insecurity about my body, I guess. Wanting it to mean something, not just . . . feel good.”

“What’s there to be insecure about?”

I shrug.

“Seriously, Reese?” he asks softly, disbelieving.

I laugh nervously, nodding with a smile. “Seriously, Maverick.”

I’m talking more with this guy than I’ve ever talked to anyone. Because I want to listen and make him talk to me too.

Listening takes on a whole new meaning with him.

Talking too.

Words.

Looks.

Tones of voice.

A whole new meaning.

He holds my gaze with his, and then he says very quietly, a little huskily, “I think that’s cool, Reese.”

We hold stares for an eon. The room shrinks in size, and his hands spread out over his knees and he drums his thumbs restlessly on both.

I just don’t know what to do with my hands, with my eyes, with myself.

For the first time in my life, I’m aware that in the deepest part of me, I hurt. Then Maverick glances around the room with a frown and rubs a hand restlessly across the back of his neck. “Sorry about this place.”