Legend (Real, #6)(22)

“Oh no, it’s good. Cozy.”

“I used all my savings to help my dad.”

“I . . . I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Shit, I guess.”

“I’m sorry, Maverick.”

His eyes meet mine, and I detect a strange look on his face when I call him Maverick. It’s such a puzzled look that I pause and immediately want to retract.

“Would you rather I call you Cage? You . . . stiffened when I said your name.”

“I’d rather you tell me about you,” he says, shifting forward in his seat. “What are you looking for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re here at night. What is it that you’re looking for?”

“A friend.”

“I’m not a friendly guy.”

“But what you see is what you get with you, and I like it.”

“You get nothing from me, that’s what you get.”

“That’s fine. I got a penny. And at least I can eat ice cream without you telling my mother.”

We eat a little more. I spot the old, worn gloves by the nightstand and get up to touch them.

“Those aren’t mine. These are mine.” He leans back to grab the others, hands me the pair of new gloves, and sets the old ones aside. “The old ones were my dad’s.”

I glance at the gloves. Well, he must’ve given quite a few people a very good beating with those. “He must’ve been good.”

When he talks about his father, there are clouds in his eyes, and something inside me makes me ache to remove them. “I never watched him fight, but I’ve seen a few videos online. In the early days he was good. But not the best.”

“And you want to be the best.”

“I want to be a legend.”

“Ambitious, are we?”

He laughs softly.

My phone is ringing. “I need to go. I only had one hour.” I answer the call. “Hey, I’m on my way, I’m fine.” I hang up, then steal one last glimpse of him. “Sorry. It’s annoying; my mother asked my cousin to keep a close eye on me.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s nice they give a shit.”

The honesty suddenly makes me realize that when I leave, he’s alone in this room. I compare it to the bustle of people at the Tates’ and shake my head, stunned.

“Don’t you have anyone?”

He shrugs and slips on a shirt. “I’ll take you home.”

It’s the most tense cab ride of my life. Maverick and I are both silent as the cab heads toward the Tates’ hotel, but we stare at each other every couple of minutes. Each time our eyes meet, we smile. But inside me, other things happen. My body squeezes in places and I ache between my legs.

I glance at the skin I sewed above his eye and feel somehow really possessive of him.

I notice, as he hops out of the cab to walk me across the lobby toward the elevators, that people stare at him as he walks next to me. There’s something about him that just calls your attention. Even from a distance. The confidence, the stride, his carriage, his body, his face, and his eyes.

I don’t want the team to see him though. So the moment we hit the elevator bank, I spin to face him even before I press the Up arrow. “It’s fine. I’ll go up.”

Just then, my phone buzzes again. I’m suddenly concerned. What if it’s Brooke already sending the cavalry, aka Pete and Riley, to look for me? I glance at it in dread.

Instead, I read Miles’s name on my phone screen. I tuck the phone quickly away.

Maverick lifts his brow, his eyes smiling down at me.

“Your cousin?”

“No. A boy back home.”

And Miles seems like such a boy compared to Maverick. Maverick is a bit boyish sometimes but so manly, so grown-up and mature. I wonder what made him mature so fast. The kind of tragedy that gives you that look in your eyes, the one that warns people not to get close. That tells them they will never be able to get close.

As if deep in his own thoughts, Maverick looks upward speculatively and then back at me. “Next time, I’ll get a nice place like this.”

“Next time?”

“Next time you come over.” His eyes flick down to where I hid my phone, and then up to me. Was that . . . jealousy?

“We’re leaving to the next location tomorrow.”

He nods. I don’t know where he plans to work out, but it’s the only place I get to see him. I blurt out, “I’ll be at the Body Factory Gym in Denver. I can get you in there too.”

His eyes flood tenderly. “Some people might easily take advantage of how nice you are.”

“I’m not nice on the inside.”

“You’re nice all over.” His eyes run over me, and my toes curl as his eyes reach my feet, and then he catches himself, clenches his jaw, and looks up at me, sincere and strangely puzzled.

“I don’t want to be nice,” I blurt out. “I want to be un-nice. Badass and special and unforgettable. People mistake nice with weak, and I’m not weak.” A man as hard as Maverick should despise weakness.

“I don’t think you’re weak. It takes strength to be kind,” he says in a haunted tone. But his eyes gleam in approval of me.

I want him to say what he thinks of me, but maybe I’m not ready to know. If it’s bad it will funk me out, and if it’s good I’ll be gone. I’ll be gone.