Hayden gets the check for both of us. I try to protest–I don't want him thinking this is some kind of date–but my pleas fall on deaf ears.
"If it bothers you that much, I'll think of a way you can pay me back," he says.
I pull on my jacket, ignoring his suggestive eyebrow raise. "The way I'll pay you back is with my half of the check."
I follow him back to the car. It's not that I'm opposed to guys getting the check, but I know for a fact that if Jamie could see me right now, he wouldn't be happy about another guy buying me food.
We're only in the car ten minutes before he's pulling up to the same club I'd first seen him fight at. It's even busier than before, with a long line of people waiting to be let in by the bouncers. They're all dressed to impress too, with half of the women wearing dresses so tight, I can practically see every curve. I look down at my own outfit. Jeans and a pink sweater suddenly don't seem so appropriate.
"Come on," Hayden says, and I follow him over to the front of the line, ignoring the glares of those waiting to get in.
"Hayden," the bouncer says, grinning. "Good to see you, my man. You and your girl can go straight through."
I'm about to protest that I'm not his girl, but Hayden is already grabbing my hand and pulling me into the club. I want to let go of it, to feel bad about holding another guy's hand, but as we weave in and out of countless sweaty bodies, I find myself holding on tighter.
"Stay close," Hayden says, pulling me through the crowd. "Don't leave my side." He holds my hand tighter; it feels warm and solid on my own.
I shouldn't be here. It's a school night, I should be back home studying or talking to my boyfriend, not at a club with Hayden Walker. "Hayden, I don't know if this is a good idea," I shout over the music.
He pretends he can't hear me and leads me over to the bar, pulling out a stool for me to sit on. I sigh and take a seat, allowing him to swivel me towards him.
"What are we doing here?" I ask.
He flashes a smile and orders me a coke. "You'll see."
When the bartender hands me my coke, Hayden gives me a mischievous look. "Make sure you don't move from here," he says, and then he disappears into the crowd.
I nervously tap my nails against the bar. A few feet away from me is the ring Hayden had last fought in, and it's not long before the lights above it light up. People begin to crowd around it, but I have the perfect view from my seat.
Hayden and a boy I've never seen before both walk into the ring. My eyes widen, and I tense in my seat. The last time I'd seen Hayden fight in this ring, he didn't know I exist – now he is looking right at me.
He gives me a wink before facing his opponent. I take a slight breath, trying to ignore how good he looks without a shirt on. His abs looked rock hard and flat, separated into six beautiful ripples. I focus on the other one. He looks to be a year or two older than Hayden, with dirty blond hair and pale green eyes. He's shorter but stockier, not as lithe; I can't tell whether it's an advantage or not.
Each of them is introduced before the first round. Then, after a brief countdown, the fight begins. It's more like a dance; both boys patter around on the balls of their feet, dipping, swerving, like a carefully rehearsed routine. After a few minutes, Lucky, Hayden's opponent, throws a punch.
I flinch as though it's me he's punching. Hayden ducks and the next few minutes are a blur of glistening skin and muscles. At some point, I notice Hayden drops his defensive stance and takes more shots, leaving himself open to attack. It means that Lucky gets a swing or two in right across Hayden's face.
His cheek splits open. Blood trails his skin, but he barely seems to notice. He's landing punches left and right like a machine programmed to kill. Lucky is barely standing upright, and the next time Hayden swings, Lucky is knocked off his feet.
He doesn't get back up. Cheers erupt through the club as the referee jumps up and announces Hayden the winner. Somebody is already tending to Lucky, who's been forgotten about in the face of his defeat.
The triumph in Hayden's face is clear. He kisses his glove and puts his hand to the air to a round of applause. I feel myself grin, the sheer happiness on his face suddenly filling me with warmth.
Once Hayden steps back out of the ring, everyone goes back to dancing. Some of the girls make a swarm around him, desperate to get his attention. They are the kind of girls I can never compete with, not that I want to: tall, flawless, with the kind of hourglass curves I can only ever dream of.
When Hayden looks down and grins at one, my chest tightens. I hop off my barstool and head to the bathroom, squeezing myself between the two other girls near the mirror.
My reflection stares back at me. My stomach sinks. Sometimes I can convince myself I look a certain way, but then when I look in the mirror, I realize I've only been fooling myself. I'm not the confident, beautiful girl who goes clubbing with strangers; I'm the skinny girl next door who doesn't belong.
I run my fingers through my hair before making my way back out. Hayden is on me in an instant, grabbing my hand before pulling me into him. When I look up, his expression is a mix of concern and annoyance.
"I thought I told you to stay put," he says.
I pull my hand back. "I'm not a puppy, I don't have to follow your orders. And I'm surprised you even noticed what with your gaggle of admirers."
The concern drops from his face and is replaced with a smirk. "Are you jealous, Maddison?"
I scoff in his face. "Why would I be jealous?"
Someone tries to push past behind him, so he steps even closer to get out of the way. It leaves only a sliver of distance between us. "That's my question exactly," he says, his voice low. "Why would you be jealous?"
I swallow hard. This whole evening feels wrong, somehow. I shouldn't have come. "I'm not, I'm just saying there are probably easier ways to get girls than by getting punched in the face."
He grins now, and it is one of those grins where you're really trying not to but you just can't help yourself. "I didn't come here to get girls, I came here to teach you a lesson."
For a second, I think back to the reckless way he'd fought. "You kept leaving yourself open. You purposely took some of those hits. Why?"
"I needed to show you how easy it is to slip up," he says. "All it takes is one wrong hit and it can change your whole life. Come on." He grabs my hand. "It's nearly past your bedtime, isn't it?"
I ignore his comment and allow him to lead me back to the car. I am quiet for most of the journey home. There is this underlying sense of relief I feel in knowing that Hayden wasn't interested in those girls, and I hate myself for it.
Hayden must notice that something has changed, because when he pulls up to my house, he kills the engine and turns to face me. "What's wrong?"
I force myself to glance at him. Even in the dark, I can see the outline of his cut and some of the dried blood on his cheek. "Nothing. You know, you didn't actually have to get hit just to tell me it's easy to get hit. I mean, words would have done just fine."
He continues to stare at me, his gaze intense. "Like my dad used to say, actions speak louder than words."
I laugh a little. "My dad used to say that, too."
I've piqued Hayden's interest. "He doesn't anymore?"
I glance at my hands. Somehow, I'd managed to go an entire evening without feeling anxiety, but now it is back. "No, he doesn't." I look up now, finding Hayden's eyes on mine. "I know you brought me here as a way to deter me, but it didn't work. I still want to learn how to fight."
Hayden doesn't look surprised. "I knew when I met you that you weren't the type to be deterred." He stops and gives me a little smirk. "Like I said, predictable."
I fold my arms. "You know, one day I'm going to do something to shock you."
"Let's hope," he replies.
Without thinking, I reach up and touch the side of his cheek, unable to help myself. He flinches slightly but doesn't move. The muscles in his jaw contract and his eyes are alert. I have never seen him like this before; I think I've finally caught him by surprise.
For about half a second, I wonder what it would feel like to kiss him. That would certainly shock him. His lips are red and full, with a perfect Cupid's bow. I imagine myself taking his bottom lip between my teeth and gently nibbling it.
Then common sense kicks in. I drop my hand away from his face and watch his eyes cloud over. "Your face is a mess," I say, ignoring the burning heat in my stomach. "When you get home, you should ice your cheek every 15-20 minutes. Keep your head elevated all night and it will stop a lot of the swelling. You're still going to have a nasty bruise in the morning, though."
He pulls away slightly to look at me. "You sound like you've had experience with this kind of thing."
I feel my eyes darken. "Not really. It's late, I should get going." I undo my seatbelt and go to move, but Hayden grabs my arm to stop me. I turn to look at him, praying he's not about to do something stupid.
He pauses for a second as though he wants to say something, and I'm so afraid of what might leave his mouth that I shake free from his grip, throw open the car door, and hurry to my house.