Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Jesse unwraps my hands from the tight boxing gloves while I’m babbling about my so-called combination. An uninformed person would suspect I had just taken down Arnold Schwarzenegger and Muhammad Ali together. I wince when I realize my knuckles are bright red and keep fidgeting with my fingers to help the blood circulation flow.

“You did good, Blaire,” Jesse compliments. “You should hit class more often.”

I smile and squeeze his hand. Jesse is nice, but I think I’ll stick to running and hitting yoga classes every once in a while. I’m still freaked out by MMA, and it’ll never be my scene. Plus, I’m pretty sure I was running on zero oxygen throughout the majority of class. Now I’m not a doctor, but this can’t be good, right?

The room is beginning to empty out, but people are still milling around Ty, asking him questions. Especially girls. My hair is plastered on my sticky temples and my cheeks are flushed.

My tight yoga pants and pink top are soaked, but I feel absurdly invincible.

Finally, Tyler walks back to us, taking a sip of his protein shake. There are still a few people scattered around the room, talking about head kicks and whatnot. Tyler stares at me, his eyes unwavering.

“Everybody out,” he orders, raising his voice. “Barbie stays.”

The chatter stops and everybody’s curious eyes are fixed on me. I fold my arms, trying to look indifferent, but my blush betrays me.

Jesse shakes his head, laughing to himself, and stands up from the stools we sit on. “Watch yourself, Blaire. This one takes no prisoners.” He walks away, slapping backs and herding people out of the room.

Everyone seems to accept Ty’s order and dashes off with no argument. He wears authority incredibly well. Another thing to add to the list of things I find irritating about him.

I watch the door closing behind the last person to walk out and close my eyes, inhaling all the oxygen I can get into my lungs. I can handle him. I can handle Ty Wilder.

Of course I can handle Ty Wilder.

I’m a (kind of) strong, (semi) independent woman, and I can. Handle. Ty. Wilder.

Jesus Christ. I so can’t handle him.

He paces around me like a tiger, checking me out head to toe, and doesn’t even attempt to hide it.

His eyes are scanning me like he’s trying to decide whether he likes what he sees. I’m acutely aware of my body, and I instinctively suck in my stomach and straighten my posture. When I realize what I’ve done, I’m horrified. Every feminist bone in my body instructs me to get the hell out of here, but Brain is momentarily kidnapped by Hormones and has duct tape plastered to its mouth. I’m melting like candlewax from the intentness of his gaze. I’m freakin’ mute. Just as well, since I doubt I’d make much sense when he is so incredibly close.

“Punch me, Barbie,” he murmurs, his hooded gaze boring into my clothes, making me feel oh-so-very naked.

“Stop calling me that.” I wet my lips, my mouth dry. He keeps circling me, his wifebeater tight against his muscular body.

“Punch. Me. Now,” he barks into my face. “What the hell are you waiting for? Come on now. Give it all you got.”

I lift my arm and send a weak punch into his bicep, barely making contact. He throws his beautiful head back and laughs, showing off a string of pearly whites. His smile dies quickly.

“Harder, Barbie.”

Thump.

“HARDER!”

Thump.

“H-A-R-D-E-R!”

I stop and stare at him. He moves closer. I know he expects it to throw me off balance, and I play along. I take a step back, so he takes two steps forward. He is now predictable to me, and I have every intention of taking advantage of it. Plan ahead, he said, right? We continue this stupid tango until I have him at an angle that allows me to throw a good punch.

“You get off on bullying me, don’t you?” I build momentum and throw the hardest blow I can produce. My knuckles throb as my fist collides with his taut stomach muscles. Even though I’m the one hitting him, I’m also the one yelping like a little girl who just got wedgied. The impact is so hard, my shoulder almost dislocates. I’d like to think I managed to hurt him, but judging by the lazy smirk plastered on his face, I doubt he felt it.

"Seriously?" I shriek. He didn’t even flinch.

He taps his lower lip looking upwards, pretending to think about something. "You do realize I’m a professional fighter, right?"

"Nah, I thought you were an astrophysicist." I bite my inner cheek and fold my arms.

His smirk breaks into a grin, and he pins me against the wall and boxes me between his massive arms. I gasp my surprise and feel the heat humming between us like electricity. There’s crazy laughter in his eyes and I can feel his ribs and abs crushing against my chest. His forefinger presses on my lips as his weight shifts onto my much smaller body with force.

“Do. Not. Yell,” he whispers.

Every hair on my body stands at attention. I battle for air, my gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips. I’m under a deep spell, and I’m beginning to forget the reason I don’t want him in the first place. He is so sinfully sexy that it actually makes me angry. Angry at him, angry at myself, and especially angry at his mother, who raised a son who is so freaking sure he can have every girl he’s ever laid eyes on.

Ty is staring down at me, calculating his next move under those thick, dark eyelashes. His jaw is clenched, and he looks like million things are running through his head at the same time.

“Tyler…” I clear my throat. My voice sounds foreign to me. “Don’t kiss me.”

I don’t want to get hurt. And kissing him is hurling me in the fast lane toward a collision with this walking calamity. Cocky, over-confident, explosive.

And I have absolutely no control over my feelings around him.

“You’re scared,” he states evenly, his gaze steady on mine.

I nod, closing my eyes before I’m the one who kisses him.

“Good. You should be.” He untangles me from his grasp and takes a step back. Air leaves my lungs once I’m no longer clasped between his arms, leaving me deflated and cold. He starts walking toward the door as I hold one arm against the wall, regaining my balance.

“That was a good punch,” he mutters almost to himself, but the next thing he says is loud and clear and definitely meant for me to hear. “And you’re right, to be scared. I would never hit you, Barbie, but I’ll hurt you, alright.”

He shuts the door behind him with a thud, leaving me to stand alone in the big, empty room.

I slide down the wall to the floor and clasp my head, shaking it as I try to figure out what just happened.

I’m in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

***

“I’m not sure eating an egg salad sandwich before watching The Walking Dead is a good combo.” I moan, my head resting beside Shane’s shoulder. We’re both fighting our gag reflex, our eyes glued to the TV as a zombie’s head explodes.

“I’m not sure eating and watching The Walking Dead is a good combo, period,” he says.

On the TV screen, Rick is doing some father-son bonding with Carl as they both kill a bunch of zombies. I sigh and burrow into Shane’s “I Like Kids, They’re Delicious With Ketchup” tee.

“How was the practice today, dopey?” He runs his fingers through my hair, and I let him. So what if he squeezed my leg the other day? He’s also a close friend, and I’m sure he got the hint.

“Ten shades of super-weird. I did well during cardio and managed one good kick, but got really weird vibes from Ty.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “That asshole almost crushed my hand. Don’t let him hold any babies.”

I giggle uncomfortably, wondering if I should tell him how Ty kicked everyone else out of the room so I could punch his arm for five minutes. Probably not. After Shane’s recent I-Want-To-Get-In-Your-Pants vibes, I’m not sure spiking this disastrous recipe with Ty’s action is the right thing to do.

“How’s the Elizabeth Passion research going? Spoke to Izzy yet?” I ask.

"I’m sure Professor Penniman isn’t expecting me to talk to someone who actually models for them. I got an interview lined up with one of their PR people next week. I got shit handled."

"You’re kidding me, right?" I sit up straight, searching his face. "You grew up with one of their biggest models, and you refuse to get her help. What happened between you two when you traveled to France and met her there?"

Am I nuts for thinking these two did something behind my back that made them hate each other’s guts? Last night when I tried to talk to Izzy about Shane she switched the subject to the weather. The weather!

"Nothing. Nothing happened. No drama. Don’t act like we ever got along."

"You never avoided each other either. Well, up until recently."

"We move in different circles." He shrugs, his jaw tensing.

I sigh and shake my head. "Talk to her. Even if she acts like she doesn’t give a damn, I know Izzy. She hates it when people are mad at her."

As if on cue, my BFF presses the pause button and grasps my shoulders firmly. I immediately know we are going to have The Talk. You know, the one when you smash your friendship into a million pieces because one of you decides they want to know how it feels to take a roll between the sheets. I need to put the brakes on this thing, fast. We cannot have The Talk. I’m not ready for The Talk. Talking is overrated. Why can’t we all just watch zombies being killed? (Sorry Ty, didn’t mean you.)

“Listen, Blaire, we gotta talk.”

Crap.

“What’s up?” I cock my head with a casual smile, but my discomfort is evident. I wish I were the zombie Rick has just smashed a rock into and not my human, flustered self. I can’t lose Shane, but I can’t date him either.

He is perfect, just not for me. In fact, if anything, he is way out of my league. I see how girls look at him, laugh at his jokes, whisper when his Mustang drives by. He is friendly, outgoing, funny and most girls would find him drool-worthy. Just...not me.

I never really got how best friends can turn into lovers. I know too much about him. Hell, he knows too much about me. There is nothing mildly mysterious or sexy about our dynamics, and that’s why all of this seems so crazy.

Guilt washes over me as Shane grabs his beer, tips his head back and drains it in one swig, slamming the empty bottle down on my table.

“Here goes...Blaire, you’re one hell of a girl, but I suspect you already know what I think about you. You’re the girl who can make a guy laugh, but also make him think. You can be one of the guys, but somehow remain so freakin’ hot at the same time…” Shane looks down toward his feet.

Maybe I should fake a faint. Or pretend to throw up. Scratch that. I can totally throw up for real right now. It’s just sad that all this delicious food will go to waste…

“And you,” he continues with a humorless laugh, “you have no idea how beautiful you are, which kind of makes you even hotter.”

Oh no, he’s still talking. So what’s it going to be, Blaire? Faint or puke?

I don’t want to hurt him. He is awesome, and deserves someone far better than me. I’m broken, I’m raw, I’m in trouble.

“…and it occurred to me that seeing as we’re both blindingly intelligent, passionately intellectual, sexy beasts, we could…”

I want to yell at him to stop. He’s driving in the Friend Zone. He cannot switch lanes to Boyfriend. That’s an illegal turn. Two double yellow lines.

“We could…”

Buzzzz. My doorbell rings.

Phew.

Talk about timing. I play exasperated, when in reality, Darth Vader could be standing on the other side of the door and I’d be completely okay with it. But…I’m not expecting anyone.

I dart toward the door like my ass is on fire and glance through the peephole. For some stupid, inexplicable reason, I hope to see Ty on the other side, despite the fact he doesn’t have my address and I basically rejected him earlier today by asking him not to kiss me.

It’s my mother.

“Mom?” I open the door. She rushes in, her hands full of paper bags.

“Hello little peanut!” she chirps, dumping the bags on my kitchen island. I stand in the middle of my apartment, shifting my eyes from a startled Shane to a cheerful Mom. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe this mess. My mom never shows up unannounced. She must come bearing a pretty insane piece of gossip. Shit, I hope Izzy isn’t pregnant.

“Oh, Shane, honey, I didn’t know you’d be here. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by and bring Blaire some…some—”

Some more reason to let Shane know this conversation is over?

“—snacks. I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun.” She waves the air frantically, like she is putting out an imaginary fire.

“Don’t be silly, Mom.” I start helping her unpack the groceries. I don’t rule out holding her hostage if it means I can avoid a confrontation with Shane. Seeing as this is my mom we are talking about, that says it all.

Shane stands up and puts his shoes on, hopping from one corner of the room to the other in an attempt to lace up his boots. He seems as comfortable as a cat trying to avoid the rain. “It’s cool, I was just heading out, anyway,” he assures. "How are you, Mrs. Stern?"

"Great. Thank you, Shane. And you? How is college life treating you?"

"Can’t complain. Doing my best." He flashes his confident smile, regaining his composure. He’s a slacker, just like me. Only Shane is too smart to fail at anything, anywhere.

They share an awkward hug, my mother’s grin hinting she’s intrigued at finding our ex-neighbor here.

"I’m so happy you two are still close." She scans the room, hoping to find what exactly? Evidence of a hookup?

“Yeah, well, I’ve always been a big fan of your daughter.” Shane quickly adds, “The less famous one."

After a few more pleasantries, Shane leaves and my mom and I chat about work, Izzy (not pregnant) and everything in between. When she coos about how handsome Shane is, I refuse to cooperate. She then suggests I borrow one of Izzy’s cute, designer outfits next time I meet him.

"So he can see just how pretty you can be," she suggests.

Gee, thanks, Mom.

Jane Stern would love for me to have a boyfriend. I wonder what she’d think if I introduced her to Tyler. Actually, I know exactly what she’d think. Hair buzzed close to the scalp? Cauliflower fighter’s ears? An 80/20 ratio of ink to skin?

Nope, she would not be weeping with joy.

But she would be weeping, alright.

When she brings up the subject of school, I inwardly cringe. I don’t have helicopter parents per se. They let Izzy get away with whatever she wants to do. Then again, she’s financially independent. I, on the other hand, have always been the quieter, less confident one. For that reason alone, I was expected to shine academically, but instead, my grades were so bad that the only degree I’m qualified for is in communications, and up until this year, it didn’t look like I’d manage even that.

"How’s school, darling?"

"It’s good." I shove something in my mouth. Donut holes? Sponge cake? I’m not even hungry, just stalling to be honest. Mom’s powerful glare is burning holes in my face.

"If you’re struggling again and need any help..."

"I’m not struggling." I cut her off sharply, hating myself for being so harsh but knowing my mother will never back down. "I’m doing fine. I’m doing great, in fact. Acing my courses and everything."

"I’m just worried about you."

"No…" I start clearing the living room table of the plates Shane and I left. "You’re worried about the tuition bill you paid."

"Blaire!" My mother springs from her seat, but quickly goes back to her normal, unruffled self. "Don’t say such things. I’m just doing everything I can to make sure you succeed."

Yes, including threatening to revoke financial support if I don’t graduate this year. But I’m not in the mood for another argument.

"Mom, I promise, school is good."

After about an hour, our spontaneous get-together nears an end. Mom gathers her belongings and heads for the door. As I take a sip of my Diet Coke, she drops the mother of all atom bombs.

“Oh, by the way, your grandmother is getting married.”

I choke, spraying my Coke all over my coffee table and carpeted floor. There’s not a single hole in my face that isn’t shooting soda right now.

“Nana Marty?” I ask in astonishment. The name clarification is totally unnecessary, though, because my other grandma, Sally, has been six feet under for a decade now and is probably not planning a wedding in the immediate future. “To who?”

“A man she met at the retirement complex. His name is Simon.”

“Simon?”

“He’s seventy-four.”

“Seventy-four?”

“They’re moving in together.”

“Moving in together?” I choke again. My grandmother’s love life is more eventful than mine, and she’s like eighty-three. Doesn’t that make her a cradle snatcher? Or a wheelchair snatcher? Shit. Nana Marty’s getting married!

Mom delivers the wedding details through tight lips, meaning she is not happy about it. Well, is she ever happy, really?

"Right now she’s leaning toward a vineyard in Sausalito. Beautiful resort. Marvelous. The place has Victorian-era gingerbread architecture."

"Sounds fancy. How many guests?"

"Not many. Most of Nana’s friends are...well—dead."

"When?"

"The middle of June," she says cautiously, cocking one eyebrow to watch my reaction.

My mouth falls open. "I’m graduating the middle of June."

"Well…" Mom clears her throat and plucks at her pastel Ralph Lauren cardigan, removing an invisible lint ball. "There’s still time and we’ll see how and when and if..."

And if? My family doesn’t believe I’ll graduate? What the hell? I feel a knot forming in my stomach, but I know debating the point is a waste of breath. My parents made it clear that I entered their shit list the minute I failed a year of college. So I swallow the insult, as bad as it tastes.

"Thanks for stopping by," I say flatly, staring past her and motioning at the door. I can’t make eye contact with her right now without exploding into pieces of insecurity.

My mother sighs in exasperation. "Little peanut," she mutters almost silently, before I hear the door shut.