Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton

 

 

Ten

 

Britney

 

I pull out my cell and check the address Becket sent me in a message this morning when the cab pulls up slowly, outside an old derelict building. Leaning forward, I show the message to the cab driver. “Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask, as politely as possible.

He huffs while looking at the screen. All I get in return is a “yep”, before he holds out his palm and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to pay for the journey.

“You’re sure?” I ask again, peering out the window, unconvinced. I don’t have a clue where we are. We’ve been driving for the better part of an hour. Are we even in Jacksonville anymore? I wouldn’t have a clue.

“Unless you’re ready to pay double, you need to get out of the cab.” His finger hovers over a button, ready to set the tariff counter running again.

“Fine,” I snap. “Thank you for the hospitality. FYI if I wind up murdered, it’s your ass I’m haunting.” I throw my hair over my shoulder and exit the cab as dignified as possible after my little outburst.

The driver hits the gas so hard the tires spin, throwing dust up in my face when he zooms off. When my coughing and spluttering subsides, I look up.

Becket is playing games again.

I’m about to throw in the towel and call another cab, hopefully with a different driver, when a sign above a door at the far end of the building catches my attention. There’s no harm in checking it out, I tell myself. Al’s is all the sign says, giving absolutely nothing away.

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. I turn quickly, and in the distance, my eyes focus on a figure in a black hooded jacket. Goosebumps cover my arms. I want to look away, but I can’t. I blink, and just like that, they turn and walk away.

I try to shake it off, telling myself it was nothing. I quickly come to the decision that whatever is inside the building can’t be any worse than what is outside. With that in mind, I push open the door, and step inside. The door slams shut behind me and I jump. I jump again when a bang echoes along the empty corridor, then another, and another. Then it stops. I daren’t move, so I wait, listening. It’s not long until there’s another loud bang. This time when it reaches my ears, I recognize it’s more like a slam.

Seriously, where has Becket brought me? There’s trash scattered all over the corridor which I try to step over as I walk and the smell that reaches my nose is questionable. The door at the end of the small corridor is slightly ajar and I pause before opening it. What I find isn’t a room filled with strung out squatters as I expected. It’s filled with mats, punching bags, and other equipment. In the middle of it all, sparring, is Becket. 

I watch as he moves effortlessly around the mats. I wasn’t aware football players could move so lightly on their feet. I always pictured them barging up and down a field with a turd-colored ball, being anything but graceful. How he’s moving … it’s beautiful to watch.

His opponent goes to take a swing, and I let out a loud gasp. Wrong move. That’s all it takes to draw Becket’s attention away from what he’s doing. He looks in my direction and in the same moment his opponent’s fist collides with his jaw. A loud crack fills the room and Becket stumbles back.

When he regains his balance, he dives straight back in. If he’s in pain, he doesn’t show it. They continue sparring for a few more minutes and I try not to move, scared of distracting him again and the result being more injuries.

When they stop, I move in closer, focusing on the other guy. Brad. I wonder what the NFL would say if they knew two of their most promising players were sparring outside of training sessions, putting their bodies at risk of injury. I put this little tidbit of information away in a box, just in case it’s ever needed.

Becket beams, holding his arms out as if he’s about to embrace me. “Here she is, our special guest.”

I take a step back, raising an eyebrow.

Brad snorts at my reaction and his shoulders shake with laughter.

“You could have told me where I was coming. I thought the cab driver was kidnapping me and bringing me to a drug den,” I snap.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Brit, no one would want to kidnap you. And drugs aren’t my thing. They’re yours, remember?”

Here we go again. Whoever turned up at my room last night, it certainly wasn’t Becket, because this is Becket in true form. I choose to ignore him. We have work to do. Rummaging through my bag until I find my notebook, I grin to myself when I pull it out, grateful I didn’t forget my trusty friend.

Becket looks at me bemused. “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“I can see that, but why do you have a notebook?”

“To make notes … that’s why I’m here.”

“Aaaand I’m going to leave. See you later, man.” Brad fist bumps Becket, nods at me then walks away.

“So …” I say, with my pen hovering over the page of my notebook when Brad has left the room.

“Put down the book, Brit.”

“Why?”

“You’re not here to make notes. You want to get to know me, then this is how we’re going to do it. On my terms.” He walks to one side of the room, stopping in front of the exposed brick wall. He begins rustling through a bag. When he walks back to me, he has something in his hands. Whatever it is, he tosses it through the air when he gets closer.

I reach out and catch a pair of wraps. “I’m not fighting you,” I say, attempting to pass them back.

“What’s wrong? Scared you’ll lose?” His eyes sparkle, challenging me.

“You’re a giant and I’m … not,” I reply sweetly. There’s actually a strong chance I’ll win, not that I’m going to let him know that. He doesn’t need to know I’m a black belt in Krav Maga.

I was thirteen when our neighbor heard Mom’s boyfriend screaming and smashing up what little there was in our apartment to destroy. One day shortly after, he knocked on the door and told me to get my shit together, that he owned a gym on the outskirts of town and that he was going to teach me self-defense. I didn’t question what he was saying, because the place he was talking about had a rep for being one of the best Martial Arts Academies in the country. I told him I couldn’t afford it and all he did was shrug, stating that money wasn’t an issue. When I asked why, he looked at me sadly and said he didn’t like the idea of me living like I did, defenseless. After my first training session, I never looked back, and Mom’s boyfriends never laid a hand on me again.

“Ok, I’ll play the game,” I say, placing the notebook back in my bag and setting it down beside his. Thankfully, I opted for semi-casual clothing. Not as sporty as the black shorts and fitted grey T-shirt Becket is wearing, but enough that I can move freely on the mats. “How about we up the stakes?”

Becket looks at me intrigued. “Go on …”

“If you win, you get to gloat and bitch about it however long you please.”

He chuckles.

“If I win, I get to ask some questions … with my notebook.”

“Ok I’ll take that.”

He accepts the offer too easily and I know it’s because he genuinely believes he’s going to win. I’m not about to clue him in that there’s a strong possibility he won’t. It’s more fun this way.

I start to wrap my hands and Becket steps forwards to help. I shake my head and say, “No need.”

He frowns, watching as I wrap each hand carefully.

When I’m done, I walk into the middle of the mats, spin around and place my hands on my hips. “So, are we doing this or what?”

He looks suspicious but says nothing.

We start by warming up and I move around the mats, careful not to give the game away. Every now and again I throw in an innocent, “Like this?” Being the hero he is, Becket dives in to help, exactly like I want him to. When he isn’t looking, I smirk to myself. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit him … literally.

When we’re done warming up, he says, “Ok, I think you’re good with the basics. Why don’t we try for real now?”

“Are you sure I’m ready?” I ask, fluttering my eyelashes.

“I hate to break it to you, Brit, but I don’t think you’re going to win. I promise to try and go easy on you.”

Game on, Becket. Game on.

We bounce our weight from side to side, circling each other. Thanks to the Florida heat I’m already feeling hot and bothered and I pray my body can hold out. I might be out of practice, but I shouldn’t worry, it’s like riding a bike. The first couple of sparring rounds are easy and I can tell Becket is holding back. He barely comes near me, and the fighter in me begins to get frustrated.

Without meaning to, I say out loud, “Come on, show me what you’ve got.”

He pauses, assessing how to handle the situation. I wink. It’s the signal he needs. He darts forward going straight in with an eye strike. Brutal, but not brutal enough. I slam the heel of my palm down on his arm, deflecting his attack. Raising my arm, I go straight in with my own strike to the eye. Becket flinches and my hand stops millimeters from its intended target.

I smile sweetly. “Is that a point to me?”

He stands with his mouth hanging open. “What the fuck, Brit?”

“Come on,” I say stepping backwards and wiggling my eyebrows, “or are you scared you won’t win?”

He cricks his neck from side to side. Shaking his arms out, he darts forwards. The aim: a full-frontal kick to the stomach. One that would result in me tumbling down to the ground. I have an advantage though. Becket is built like a house. My petite frame works in my favor. I’m able to dart away from him.

He’s fast, I’m faster.

He charges in, fists raised. I block his extended arm with my own. I then shift my weight and step to the side. It throws him off guard. I swipe my hand up towards his jaw, careful not to put my full force behind it. I can’t risk injuring him. Grabbing his wrist, I drive my knee into his thigh. He buckles. I then slam my arm into the crook of his elbow. It folds like I know it will. I use the opportunity to wrench his shoulder forward and up. Keeping his shoulder and torso pressed to my body, I force him to the ground to my two o’clock. I rest both knees firmly against his back.

Keeping his arm pinned in place, I lean forward and say in his ear, “I win.”

Shifting my weight off his back, I kneel beside him, watching him groan into the mats. When he’s recovered, he rolls onto his back with his eyes closed and I wait.

One emerald eye flickers open and he smirks. “What the hell was that?”

I shrug and make a show of observing my nails. “Just a little something I picked up.”

“You are little. That was not little. I’ve been doing this for years, and by the looks of it so have you.”

“What does it matter if I have?”

“It doesn’t. It’s just … interesting. Not many chicks know Krav Maga like that.”

I narrow my eyes. “I guess I’m not a chick.”

“Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

A couple of butterflies take flight in my stomach at the way his gaze softens. “While we’re at it, stop calling me Brit. Only people who know me call me that.”

“I think I know you better than you think.”

“You know nothing about me.”

My heart, settled from the exertion of our sparring, begins to hammer in my chest as I watch Becket move up onto his knees. He shuffles towards me and when he’s close, leans forward, getting into my personal space. My eyes are captivated by his and as hard as I try, I can’t look away.

“Do you want to know why I know more?”

Through gritted teeth, I reply, “Enlighten me.”

“Only people who have something to be afraid of learn to fight like that. Who are you afraid of?”

Blackness creeps in. He’s forcing me to think about things I buried deep a long time ago. But that’s the thing about burying secrets, there’s always someone waiting to dig them up. I close my eyes and focus on inhaling and exhaling slowly. When I regain control, I open my eyes, only to find myself lost in his, again. I swallow hard before replying, “No one. Especially not you.”

His eyes trail down to my lips and for the briefest of moments I think he might kiss me, but that would be crazy, because he has a girlfriend, Lola, and he hates me. Backing away, he shakes his head in frustration and I’m left feeling useless. Whatever control I had, disappeared as soon as we finished sparring.

“I—I won. You owe me some answers.” I flinch at how pathetic I sound, even to my own ears.

He grabs his bag from the floor, then turns back laughing. “You already know all my secrets, remember?”

“You promised,” I huff.

“Actually, I didn’t promise anything. You assumed I would comply.”

I clench my fists at my sides and watch as he stalks towards the door, leaving me alone in this virtually derelict place. But then he stops, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall dramatically. I stand up from the mats at the same time he spins around and walks back towards me.

“What now?” I snap, as he gets closer. “Coming in for anoth—”

I’m silenced when he closes the gap between us. His lips come down on mine, hot and urgent. Nothing about Becket is discreet or gentle. He’s like a bulldozer, taking down anything in his path. I’m no exception. It’s instinct to push him away, ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. But when my hands reach his chest, ready to push him away, I ball them into fists gripping his shirt. I pull him in closer. He groans and kisses me harder. His hands snake round my waist. His fingertips dig into my flesh with the perfect amount of pressure. A moan of pleasure falls from my lips. When he sweeps his tongue slowly against mine, I’m a goner. My knees almost buckle as I become overloaded with sensation after sensation.

The kiss ends as quickly as it began, and Becket steps back. There’s a storm in his eyes. This, whatever it is, could never work. Too much has happened.

I watch as he walks away, for good this time, grabbing his bag from the floor where he dropped it, on his way towards the exit. Over his shoulder he says loudly, “I’ll make you a deal, Brit. I’ll tell you some more of my secrets when you tell me yours.”

The door slams and I’m left in the empty room, wondering what just happened.

 

***

 

Becket

 

I never should have listened to Coach. There’s a reason I haven’t played the nice guy in all of this. Britney has a way of getting under my skin. Up until now I’ve refused to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else. The night we met, kissed on that plane, sparks fired. Even she can’t deny it and if she did, I know the truth. I felt the way goosebumps covered her skin when I touched her, teasing her; the way her nipples pebbled when she pressed up against me.

“Earth to Becket,” says Brad, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes.

“What?” I bark, looking up from the ground where I’m sitting taking a much needed water break.

He holds his hands up. “Sheesh, B, will you fuck her already?!”

I clench my jaw and grit out, “Don’t talk about her like that.” Typical jock. He can be as much of a dick as I can, especially when it comes to respecting people’s boundaries, which he isn’t doing right now.

He throws his head back and starts laughing. “Priceless. You like her, don’t you?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He narrows his eyes. “Actually, I do. It comes with being your best friend, and as your best friend I know when you’re pussy whipped. You have been since the first time you met her. Admit it.”

I clench my fists at my side, my blood boiling. I can’t do or say anything, because it’s true. I love to hate her and I’m losing control. Bringing her here was wrong, I’m losing sight of what we’re doing and that kiss we shared at Al’s, made me feel alive, made me feel things I haven’t been capable of since the first night we met.

Accepting that I’m not going to give anything away, at least not yet, Brad asks, “What’s the next part of the plan then?”

I can’t chance another moment with her like we had at Al’s. “We go to Miami.”

Brad frowns. “Lola will be pissed.”

I know he’s right, but I don’t care. “When is Lola ever not pissed?”

Admitting defeat, Brad says, “Whatever, man.” He throws his water bottle down on the ground beside his bag, before sprinting off to complete more drills.

I smirk to myself. Nice Becket is gone. We’re back to playing the game my way.