Worth the Chance
Page 10
I knock once, but there’s no answer. So I use my key. The TV is blaring so loud, I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called the cops. I find my mother sitting on the couch. She’s crying. She tries to hide it when she catches sight of me, but it’s too late, I’ve seen it. “What’s going on, Mom?”
“Nothing, Baby. Everything is fine. You can go home. I told you, you don’t have to check on me every day.” Her eyes dart to the bathroom and back to me. She has one hand on her cheek. I’d thought she was wiping her tears when I walked in, but she’s hiding something from me. I walk to her and take the hand from her face. There’s a hand mark and it’s bright red. Fresh, like it’s just been made, and the color hasn’t had a chance to change from stinging red to welted pink yet.
I look at the closed bathroom door and back to my mother. “Is he in there?”
“Don’t, Vinny. Jason’s a good man. Helps me out financially too.”
Yeah, helps her out by paying for her drugs. Then raises his hand to her. What a great f**king man he is. No f**king way. I can’t help it. I see red when his dirty, skinny face walks through the door.
He’s so f**king high, he can’t even protect himself when I beat him to within an inch of his life. What’s fair is fair. Mom was the same way when he raised his hand to her. Fucking useless piece of shit.
Mom didn’t even argue after the first punch. She knows how I get. There’s no stopping me once I get going. Especially when it comes to protecting my mother. I can’t keep her from pumping that shit into her own veins, but I can damn well keep her from being smacked around. It’s not the first time I’ve taken care of a loser who thought raising his hand to my mother would make him feel like more of a man. Started when I was fifteen. Lost count of the ass**les over the years.
Leaving the piece of shit on the floor, I carry my mom to her bedroom and tuck her in. She couldn’t walk if she tried. Too high and frail. Needs to eat more. I kiss her goodbye on the forehead and walk back to pick up the loser and toss him outside to the curb. I can’t stand my mother, yet I can’t let her be.
Chapter 11
Liv
I get to the restaurant and find Vinny at the bar. Ignoring all her other customers, the bartender stands and talks to him, leaning suggestively over the bar so he has a clear view of her ridiculously large, obviously fake br**sts. Her stance clearly intentional. Unexpectedly, I feel a pang of jealousy, but I push it down and force myself to ignore my innate reaction.
“Hey.” I walk over to the bar and greet Vinny. He stands and kisses me on the cheek, one hand on my hip, quickly forgetting the conversation he was in the midst of. His strong grip on me sends goosebumps racing and a tingle washes over my skin. I almost jump back at the power with which it hits me. Damn, I need to keep some physical distance from this man. I smile politely at the waiting bartender, but she shoots me a nasty look when Vinny leads us away without so much as a glance back at her.
We’re seated in a booth off to the back of the restaurant. It’s quiet, perfect for an interview. Although not an easy task, I force my thoughts back to business. But instead of sitting on the other side of the booth, Vinny settles in beside me, his arm casually draped around the back of the wide seat.
I’ve sometimes seen couples sitting beside each other in a booth and thought it looked odd. It just seems more natural to have a conversation sitting across from someone. Only now do I see what the appeal is. It’s intimate, allowing low spoken conversations and innocent brushes from the close proximity. But sitting this close to Vinny makes me flustered. I’m also seated on the inside, against the wall. It makes me feel cornered somehow, and it pisses me off that my body seems to like it, regardless of what my brain is telling me.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable over there?” I point to the other side of the table.
“No. I like it here. Does it bother you?” he says, a knowing smirk on his face.
“Not at all, it’s fine,” I lie.
Vinny twists at the waist and pulls one knee up on the seat so he’s facing me. He’s dressed in low hanging jeans and a black V-neck sweater, making him look casual and understated. With the way the clothes hang on his body, he looks more like a model than a fighter. A model who doesn’t really care about his appearance, yet he looks perfect without effort.
I take a deep breath and try to delve into my work. “So tell me, are you nervous about the upcoming fight?”
“No.”
“Your opponent has slung some mud at you, claiming you’re a drug addict. Do you want to respond to his accusations?”
“No.”
“Are all of your answers going to be this short? Because it’s going to be difficult to make an article out of the word no.”
“Ask better questions then.”
Offended, I take a defensive attitude. “There’s nothing wrong with my questions.”
“How about we take turns. I’ll give you longer answers, but we go question for question.” He scooches an inch closer to me.
“I’m not the one being interviewed.”
“Apparently, then neither am I.” Leisurely grabbing a breadstick from the table, Vinny casually bites off a piece. A twinkle in his eye tells me he’s quite enjoying himself.
“You’re really going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he says.
I get the urge to smack the smug smile off his face. He knows I need this interview and he’s arrogant enough to hold it over me to have his fun.
“Fine. But I go first.”
“Always.” The flirtatious smile is back.
“Do you have a drug problem?”
Vinny shoots me a hard glance. “No. But I did. I started doing some stupid stuff after I broke my arm last year and couldn’t fight. In the beginning, I told myself it was to stop the pain. But it got out of control. Quickly. I’ve been clean for six months. Nico, my trainer, wouldn’t train me unless I was. He does random testing to make sure I stay on track.”
His honesty makes me feel less guarded. Studying his face while he speaks, I can’t help but take in every masculine feature. The way his mouth moves, the five o’clock shadow that brushes onto his chin and frames the squareness of his jaw. I find it difficult to stop staring.
Vinny’s gaze slides over mine and a wry half grin graces his sinfully beautiful face as he speaks. “My turn.”
“Nothing, Baby. Everything is fine. You can go home. I told you, you don’t have to check on me every day.” Her eyes dart to the bathroom and back to me. She has one hand on her cheek. I’d thought she was wiping her tears when I walked in, but she’s hiding something from me. I walk to her and take the hand from her face. There’s a hand mark and it’s bright red. Fresh, like it’s just been made, and the color hasn’t had a chance to change from stinging red to welted pink yet.
I look at the closed bathroom door and back to my mother. “Is he in there?”
“Don’t, Vinny. Jason’s a good man. Helps me out financially too.”
Yeah, helps her out by paying for her drugs. Then raises his hand to her. What a great f**king man he is. No f**king way. I can’t help it. I see red when his dirty, skinny face walks through the door.
He’s so f**king high, he can’t even protect himself when I beat him to within an inch of his life. What’s fair is fair. Mom was the same way when he raised his hand to her. Fucking useless piece of shit.
Mom didn’t even argue after the first punch. She knows how I get. There’s no stopping me once I get going. Especially when it comes to protecting my mother. I can’t keep her from pumping that shit into her own veins, but I can damn well keep her from being smacked around. It’s not the first time I’ve taken care of a loser who thought raising his hand to my mother would make him feel like more of a man. Started when I was fifteen. Lost count of the ass**les over the years.
Leaving the piece of shit on the floor, I carry my mom to her bedroom and tuck her in. She couldn’t walk if she tried. Too high and frail. Needs to eat more. I kiss her goodbye on the forehead and walk back to pick up the loser and toss him outside to the curb. I can’t stand my mother, yet I can’t let her be.
Chapter 11
Liv
I get to the restaurant and find Vinny at the bar. Ignoring all her other customers, the bartender stands and talks to him, leaning suggestively over the bar so he has a clear view of her ridiculously large, obviously fake br**sts. Her stance clearly intentional. Unexpectedly, I feel a pang of jealousy, but I push it down and force myself to ignore my innate reaction.
“Hey.” I walk over to the bar and greet Vinny. He stands and kisses me on the cheek, one hand on my hip, quickly forgetting the conversation he was in the midst of. His strong grip on me sends goosebumps racing and a tingle washes over my skin. I almost jump back at the power with which it hits me. Damn, I need to keep some physical distance from this man. I smile politely at the waiting bartender, but she shoots me a nasty look when Vinny leads us away without so much as a glance back at her.
We’re seated in a booth off to the back of the restaurant. It’s quiet, perfect for an interview. Although not an easy task, I force my thoughts back to business. But instead of sitting on the other side of the booth, Vinny settles in beside me, his arm casually draped around the back of the wide seat.
I’ve sometimes seen couples sitting beside each other in a booth and thought it looked odd. It just seems more natural to have a conversation sitting across from someone. Only now do I see what the appeal is. It’s intimate, allowing low spoken conversations and innocent brushes from the close proximity. But sitting this close to Vinny makes me flustered. I’m also seated on the inside, against the wall. It makes me feel cornered somehow, and it pisses me off that my body seems to like it, regardless of what my brain is telling me.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable over there?” I point to the other side of the table.
“No. I like it here. Does it bother you?” he says, a knowing smirk on his face.
“Not at all, it’s fine,” I lie.
Vinny twists at the waist and pulls one knee up on the seat so he’s facing me. He’s dressed in low hanging jeans and a black V-neck sweater, making him look casual and understated. With the way the clothes hang on his body, he looks more like a model than a fighter. A model who doesn’t really care about his appearance, yet he looks perfect without effort.
I take a deep breath and try to delve into my work. “So tell me, are you nervous about the upcoming fight?”
“No.”
“Your opponent has slung some mud at you, claiming you’re a drug addict. Do you want to respond to his accusations?”
“No.”
“Are all of your answers going to be this short? Because it’s going to be difficult to make an article out of the word no.”
“Ask better questions then.”
Offended, I take a defensive attitude. “There’s nothing wrong with my questions.”
“How about we take turns. I’ll give you longer answers, but we go question for question.” He scooches an inch closer to me.
“I’m not the one being interviewed.”
“Apparently, then neither am I.” Leisurely grabbing a breadstick from the table, Vinny casually bites off a piece. A twinkle in his eye tells me he’s quite enjoying himself.
“You’re really going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he says.
I get the urge to smack the smug smile off his face. He knows I need this interview and he’s arrogant enough to hold it over me to have his fun.
“Fine. But I go first.”
“Always.” The flirtatious smile is back.
“Do you have a drug problem?”
Vinny shoots me a hard glance. “No. But I did. I started doing some stupid stuff after I broke my arm last year and couldn’t fight. In the beginning, I told myself it was to stop the pain. But it got out of control. Quickly. I’ve been clean for six months. Nico, my trainer, wouldn’t train me unless I was. He does random testing to make sure I stay on track.”
His honesty makes me feel less guarded. Studying his face while he speaks, I can’t help but take in every masculine feature. The way his mouth moves, the five o’clock shadow that brushes onto his chin and frames the squareness of his jaw. I find it difficult to stop staring.
Vinny’s gaze slides over mine and a wry half grin graces his sinfully beautiful face as he speaks. “My turn.”
