Page 42 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires
For the first time since meeting him, I witness pure sympathy in his eyes. I probably would have seen it a few hours earlier if I had looked at him when he sat next to me.
“I bet breaking your femur was a bitch. Haven’t broken that yet.”
I give a tepid smile, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, it’s alright—”
His phone rings, and he glances at it before saying, “I need to take it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He slowly walks away into the kitchen and out the glass backdoor, answering it. Is the caller whoever he’s been dressing up for? Just who gets his undivided attention like that? I eye his back, basking in this reality. He stands with one hand in his jean pocket, leaning on that leg, his body in view from the sliding doors.
Him being in such casual clothing—and not remotely in a fighting mode—is fascinating, having only known him as a maverick in the ring, followed by knowing him as a hardened asshole when we first met.
What if I actually can’t hack it? Like, do I really have a crush here? That’s not fair to him as a fighter. I know I’d be pissed if I was competing and someone on my team had a raging crush on me,andthey’re the ones rubbing my body down all the time.
I pretend to be busy on my phone while he paces around. My body freezes when the glass door slides open, anticipation like delirium.
“Sorry. Family,” he states, sitting back down.
Maybe it really is family? A forbidden hope blooms, like there’s a real shot for me if it’s not a woman he’s hooking up with. I don’t even know when, how, or why that would ever happen... but I just chalk it up to the crush from ten years ago still trying to burn itself out.
I tease, “I take it you don’t talk about family?”
Without even giving it a second thought, he leans back in the chair and exhales, “Nope. Family knows me as a different kind of guy. I don’t mix Joey with Ryder.”
Damn. The murky shadow that the devil on my shoulder resides in pines to witness that guarded part of his life.
But I can respect him for that. It’s the least I owe him after defending my honor, coming to my rescue, and even opening his truck door for me.
* * *
Ryder bailed swiftly after his phone call, a text prompting him to leave. It took nearly an hour of sitting on my bed to comprehend the storm of emotions that batter me. There are only so many existential moments of crisis in a single day—or decade—that a person can handle.
I now carry an extra blanket to the couch, because it’s eleven-thirty at night and I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I either see Jeremy or my dilapidated home.
So, Netflix it is.
It’s already hovering onThe Great British Baking Show, and for the sake of inside jokes, I hit play, snuggling into the blanket. I take my hair out of its messy bun while turning the volume down, because Ryder is somewhere in the house; I heard him come home about a half hour ago.
I’m not sure how long I’m watching the show before Ryder’s heavy footsteps echo on the stairs, prompting my heart into a speedy rhythm; he snickers when he sees what’s on.
But I’m not even looking at that anymore.
He’s wearing thin black sleeping pants and a tank top to match. It’s such a private outfit, and it hugs him differently than his usual thick sweats.
“I don’t know why, but I love the shit out of this show,” he says, going to the kitchen to grab some water.
“It’s competition without all the angst,” I remark.
“Yeah, that’s a good point.” As he walks back into the living room, he asks, “Can I sit?”
“Yeah, of course.”
My heart races as he joins me, his legs spreading as he leans into the chair.
I can only smile at the image of this MMA fighter staring at a gentle show, all of his own volition. His bulging muscles exaggerate the juxtaposition, a light gruff on his cheeks enhancing his masculine aura.
It’s preposterous how bizarre this day has been. Ryder defended me, then my house broke apart, then he hugged me, and now we’re here, watching television with what’s basically our freaking jammies on.
