Knocked Up By Love by Ella Goode
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bear
There’sa question in her eyes that I don’t want to answer. “Let’s go to bed. Paige is sleeping, and my body needs a little tender loving care.” I bend down to sweep her back into my arms, but she scoots out of my grasp quick. I try to reach for her, but the wound in my shoulder screams at me to stay still.
“Bear, maybe we should talk.”
Those have to be the four most hated words in the English language. “I’m not good with words, Honey. I’m an action guy. A physical one.” I tap my chest.
She folds her arms across her chest and stares. Hard. I know she wants answers, and I’m not trying to protect her from the truth by keeping stuff to myself. Rather, I don’t want her to hate me or turn away in disgust if she knew my shady past, but from the look on her face, if I don’t start talking, she might walk.
I grab the back of my neck and squeeze the words out. “Most fighters don’t come from middle class suburbs. They fight because it’s the only way out of a bad situation. Fists are sometimes the only language that some men know, so if you want to stay alive, a display of force is often the way to win safe passage. Others recognize your strength and flock to your side, and little by little your own existence becomes a little easier, a little less dangerous. The thing is that fighting can be addictive in the way that drugs or booze are. Some guys like the pain and others…” I check her expression. She doesn’t appear like she’s about to walk out the door.
“Others what?” she prods softly.
“Others like me like hitting people. I don’t do it often anymore and only in a sparring match or in the ring, but I feel good when my fist connects with someone’s jaw. I like seeing men got knocked on their ass. It pleases me to know that I can take someone out with my bare fists. That’s what knits together people like me and Johnny and Randy. We don’t seem much alike, but we are, and the scary thing is, Honey, I’m not made much different from Mad Dog or the hitman that I took care of earlier today. I didn’t kill Lawrence, but he was next on my list, and I would’ve enjoyed it, too.” I don’t know why I’m spilling everything to her, but I feel like if I don’t, she’s going to walk out.
“I’m not the good guy you think I am. I grew up in the gutter, swam in the mud, got my hands dirty until I could fight everyone off and with it came this.” I spread my arms. “The house, the bank account, the cars. It’s all because I enjoy the fight. That’s not politically correct, but it’s who I am. Never thought it would matter until now.”
“Why now?” she asks softly.
“Because I could lose you, so maybe if I had to do it all over again, I’d go and be a banker or some shit even though I don’t got a head for numbers.” I drop my hands to my side. My heart is thumping hard, and there’s a hot sensation at the back of my neck. I never cared before what anyone ever thought of me. I didn’t care of people hated me or loved me and somehow that made me irresistible—that and my perfect record in the ring. Now I have to lock my knees so she can’t see me trembling with the fear she’s going to leave. Or maybe I don’t want her to see that I’d do anything to make her stay, including locking her up in my bedroom and not letting her out until she agreed that the best thing in life was to stay with me. Man, I’m sick.
“The landlord?”
It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s asking. “Nah, not him.” I slap my knuckles. “I’m a physical guy,” I remind her.
She tilts her head. “Then who?”
“Man was scum. It could’ve been any number of people. I can check into it if you want.” I’m sure he’s somehow tied into this mess, but that wasn’t me.
“No.” She lets out a small half laugh, half sigh and then bites her lower lip. “I’ve my own confession to make.”
My eyes pop wide. “You killed the landlord?”
She blushes. “No. Not me. I didn’t kill anyone but”—she steps close to me and places a hand against my thundering heart—“but I’m not sorry you killed that man. I’ve been living in fear for months now, and it has sucked. I’ve had to move repeatedly. I can’t make friends—" She breaks off with a little cry and leans her head against me. My arms come up automatically to clutch her close. “I just want to live a normal life, and all I feel is relief that the man is dead. I’m not sorry Ted is dead either. I guess that makes me abnormal.”
“Ted?”
“The landlord.”
“Oh, right.” I stroke my hands along her back. “I don’t think that makes you abnormal. We do what we need to do to survive. That man took money to kill you, and he would’ve kept coming after you. You don’t need to feel bad about wanting to be safe.”
“You don’t need to feel bad about your past either,” she mumbles into my chest.
“The past? That was just a few years ago.”
“Like I said, you don’t need to feel bad about your past.” She pushes away as far as my arms will allow, which isn’t very far. “You have any other secrets from me?”
“No. That’s pretty much it. I own the gym. This house. Have some millions in the bank. Got a kid upstairs. And you. That’s my whole story.”
“Then take me to bed, fighter.”
I don’t have to be told twice.
