Get off on the Pain
Page 13

I take a better look at the cut and realize it’s a little bigger than I initially thought. It’s still nothing to freak out about.
I’ve been standing here a couple minutes, starting to think he got lost, when he comes walking back down the hall with a first aid kit. Turning off the water, he grabs me by the hips and lifts me onto the counter.
I can’t help but to get lost in his look of concentration as he gently cleans my cut and disinfects it. He does it so meticulously I bet he’s done this a thousand times. He seems so comfortable doing it, and my stomach fills with butterflies at the thought of this big, strong man taking care of me. Not that I need it. I’ve never needed it before, and I still don’t.
Reaching for the bandage, he unconsciously runs his fingers up and down my arm before wrapping my hand and looking up to meet my eyes. His eyes look soft for a brief moment before he puts his guard back up and clears his throat. “Better. I’ll send this kit home with you and you can clean it again in the morning.”
I watch as he closes up the kit. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“I’ll be back. Just relax a bit.” I watch as he walks away, leaving me sitting on the counter, completely surprised by his moment of tenderness. This isn’t exactly how I imagined my night would turn out, but a part of me enjoyed this moment, even though the rest of the night is sure to suck.
I was having fun. We were all having fun . . . until Memphis showed up and the whole atmosphere seemed to change. Ryder turned into a straight up asshole and other people in the bar seemed more tense than they had been before he showed his face. I didn’t get it. It confused me and had me curious. Then when Ryder continued to talk shit about Memphis after he walked outside, I asked him to stop. That’s one thing that I hate. If you have some shit to say about someone—say it to their face or keep the fuck quiet.
Ryder stepped up in my face, trying to show the size of his balls and said, “Why, because you want to fuck him just like my girlfriend does? Well, get in line with the rest of the sluts around here.”
One word and I lost it. I threw my drink at him. That was me being polite. I wanted nothing more than to punch him right in the face. I haven’t felt that feeling in a long time. At that moment I knew I needed to just get out of there, so I ran outside in hopes that I would catch Memphis to avoid having to walk so far in heels. I got lucky and wasn’t taking no for an answer, although, I could tell he wasn’t too keen to have me on his bike.
Screw this. Who knows when he will be back. He’s probably avoiding me now that I saw his soft spot. I jump off the counter and walk into the living room. It’s inviting, but masculine. I sit back on his black, plush couch and once again go through the photo shoot I took of this girl named Jenna and her boyfriend. I did the session over two weeks ago at this beautiful park, but for some reason I haven’t even been able to pick out my top ten shots to edit, let alone send them to her. Maybe I’m just becoming picky and nothing seems to live up to my standards; either that or I’m just losing my passion.
I sit here for at least thirty minutes—maybe forty, scrolling through the pictures and deleting more of the ones I don’t like before I hear Bailey’s car pull up next door, saving me from my misery. “Yes. It’s about damn time. I’m bored out of my fucking mind.”
I stand and walk over to the window to look outside. Bailey is standing next to her car wrapped up in Landen’s arms while texting on her phone, looking frantic.
That’s when I remember that I left mine at home and she’s probably wondering where I ran off to. Knowing her she’s probably freaking out by now. She knows I’m well capable of taking care of myself, but still . . . she worries, and I should let her know I’m okay.
I’ll just let Memphis know that I’m leaving, thank him for being an asshat, and go home. The only good thing about this night was getting a few sips of my drink. It was pure deliciousness before I dumped it all over Ryder and myself. Now, I’m just ready to jump into my nice comfy bed and pretend this shitty night never existed.
I wander down the hall in search of the right door and realize that I’m standing in front of it when I get an earful of some rock music and the sound of him punching something, hard.
It doesn’t take much for me to figure out that it must be him letting out his anger and frustration on a punching bag; probably one similar to the one I found him punching in his garage the other day. How many bags does this guy need?
A huge part of me says to turn around and leave without telling him, but the other part has me feeling bad at the thought, remembering the look of concern in his eyes when he asked me to come here. Obviously he knows Ryder much better than I do, so I trusted his judgment and the sincerity in his eyes was real. It was a moment of weakness, but that moment is far gone now, thanks to his dickhead attitude.
Pulling the door open, I slowly walk down the stairs, listening to him growl out as he lets out his frustration. I have to admit, there is something oddly sexy about hearing his grunts; to the point that I almost want to sit back and just watch him pound his fist into the bag, all sweaty and out of breath. The thought gives me chills, but I move past it and keep walking.
Once I get to the bottom of the steps I look around the corner to see him standing shirtless and sweaty, his back muscles flexing as he continues to beat the big, black bag in front of him. It’s somewhat dark and almost hard to see him from this distance, so I walk further into the basement.
Each swing seems to pack more heat as he continues to work out his anger. I’ve never seen him shirtless. Holy fucking shit! It has rendered me speechless just from his back alone.
Every single muscle in his back is defined and flexed, changing visually with each steady hit to the bag in front of him, only stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat from his forehead. There’s also a huge tattoo that stretches across his back that reads, Never back down. Fight. And the O from the word “down” turns into a pink ribbon for breast cancer.
It causes my anger toward him to slowly fade and for me to be able to meditate on the beauty in front of me. He’s obviously had someone in his family battle breast cancer and seeing the ribbon on his back just proves how supportive he must have been. This is real beauty to me.
I find myself grabbing for my camera, pulling the lens cap off, and snapping a few pictures of him from behind. With each move that he makes, the pictures only seem to become more stunning to me. The human body is an extraordinary thing and his is a work of art. I continue to snap a few shots until he freezes and grips the bag. That’s when I notice the huge mirror on the wall in front of him. He’s now looking at me.