Page 32 of Pay the Piper

Raising his hands placatingly, he clarifies, “I’m not saying it that way. You’re all in. I’m all in. We can go kidnap her right now, man. What I’m saying is that…When Mila and I first got together, she was so adamant about not being touched that I should have had an inkling of her history way before she ever told me anything. Granted, I was pursuing her so hard, and a lot was going on, so I wasn’t paying enough attention to the details.”

He scoots over, pressing his sweaty thigh against mine and relaxing. I know he’s touch starved with Mila being away, but do we have to be this close in the goddamn sauna? He continues before I can move away.

“So maybe she was triggered by something you did, you know? That’s all I’m saying. I could be wrong, but it sounds like the first time I was with Mila, and she threatened to chop off my hands if I touched her.”

The heart eyes in his voice as he recounts my best friend’s threat are obnoxious and precious all at once, but I do have a newfound appreciation for how he feels. And as silly as he may be, I think Thatcher may have hit the nail on the head. Something I did triggered something awful for Abby, and the implication of what it could be makes my blood boil.

I hope I’m wrong, and that what happened was a fluke. Because if someone’s hurt Abby…I have a lifetime of training dedicated to making people hurt. Making them pay.

There won’t be anywhere in the world they can hide.

“Just make sure you stretch. I can tell when you don’t.”

“You can not!”

“I so can. It’s obvious when your hip flexors are so tight that you haven’t even attempted so much as a frog stretch.”

Abby’s tease as we put our skate guards on and head for the lockers is the most personality she’s given me all day. Our session has been polite but all business, and none of the heat that’s become a familiar hallmark of our time together. It kills me to see her withdrawn. My lesnaya is usually all fire, crackling and sparking, pushing me to be better. Today, she was too quiet, only the hint of a hiss here and there, as if water had been thrown onto her flames.

Instead of the usual purr of the Zamboni easing onto the ice at the end of our skate, the cavernous arena is tomblike, and the silence is thick as Abby packs her bag. I’ve learned over the years that plenty of people hate lulls in conversation. They’ll do anything to fill the gaps, anything to avoid being engulfed by the quiet. I embrace it. It gives people the opportunity to tell you things they didn’t intend to.

As our silence lumbers on, I lean against the doorway to watch Abby’s practiced routine. Skates off and into her pink bag, slides on, braid undone so she won’t get a headache. Although I don’t need the extra height from my skates, I’m not wasting any time taking them off. Every ounce of my attention is homed in on the conversation that’s about to occur, whether she realizes it or not.

“I’m sorry for pushing,” I say, and she freezes, as if she’s been caught doing something she knows she shouldn’t, but she doesn’t turn to face me. Somewhere, a slow leak from a pipe somewhere becomes magnified in the room, and after twenty-five drips, she takes a steadying breath and speaks, but shrinks in on herself instead of turning.

“You didn’t. I’m sorry for making things awkward and being so weird. It’s a me problem, I’m just—”

Finally, she turns, eyes trailing up and up until eventually meeting mine where I skulk in the doorway. From her seat on the bench and my higher-than-normal vantage point, I surely look more monstrous than usual. It’s not fear that laces her emerald eyes, though. Embarrassment, maybe. A touch of a blush creeps up her neck, her fair skin doing nothing to hide it.

I love that she can’t hide her feelings from me.

But the unmistakable lust that flashes as she takes me in is heady, and I let her look her fill before I push. If she says I didn’t push on the bike, sure. But I’m going to push my luck now. Just a little. More like a poke to test the waters.

“Please don’t apologize or call yourself weird,” I say gently. “But…may I ask what happened? Our kiss was—”

“Great!” Her squeak of protest makes me laugh, and the tenseness in her shoulders loosens just a bit even as her blush blooms a shade darker.

“An understatement, but I agree. It was many things. Certainly great.” Slowly, I join her across the room on the bench, not crowding her by any means but close enough for her to feel my heat.

She relaxes further, and I swear I see her nostrils flare with interest. There’s no telling what I smell like after such a hard skate, but she doesn’t seem bothered.

“I, uh…”

Once she starts, it’s like everything flows at once in an unstoppable torrent, and it takes everything within me to stay still, fighting the urge to wrap myself around her and force her to tell me who made her feel this way.

“Um, it’s not that I’m touch averse or anything. I just, I’m not really used to…kisses like that? It felt too good, and then I felt you…Your. You know. And I don’t really enjoy that, usually. I mean, I know that’s not really the point, but…yeah. It surprised me, and scared me, and I just felt really hot and overwhelmed.”

She makes eye contact, and the tears I find cement my resolve. Everyone who has ever made her cry will pay for each tear with a gallon of blood.

“I’m very sorry that’s happened to you.”

She waves me off with a sniffle, fidgeting with a loose thread on her sweatpants. “It’s fine. Like I said, I was just being dramatic.”

Then I realize what she said, slipped into the middle of her answer like an afterthought, and my patience pulls taut, fraying at the edges.

“What do you mean it isn’t the point?” I can’t keep the gravel out of my voice, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“You know…” She laughs, fake smile plastered back on her face as she pops back off the bench. “Sex is more of a man thing anyway. It’s not like…it’s not like something that I usually enjoy, which is fine. I was just really surprised because you felt good, and then, it’s…it normally, well. You know it can hurt for women, and—”