Fighting for Flight

and hip-hop beats fill the room.
I nod to his back. I’m not a rap music fan, but, at this point, I’d agree to anything that takes the focus off of me.
“Come over here and I’ll show you where everything’s at.”
I exhale a breath. Thank goodness he didn’t make that more awkward than it was.
After a short guide to his available tools, we get to work. I get into a zone and concentrate on the build. He asks questions, eager to learn the process. We talk about our jobs and friends, falling into comfortable conversation.
A few hours into breaking down the engine, we take a break. Jonah grabs a bottled water for me from the mini fridge. Its diamond-plated chrome covering matches the cabinetry. Fanciest garage I’ve ever been in, no doubt.
I work to unscrew the cap from my water. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been working out every day, letting your friends kick your butt, and taking any fight you can get, all for a big ugly belt?” I attempt to summarize the UFL 101 lesson Jonah gave me.
His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. “They don’t kick my butt.”
Laughing at his defense, I struggle with the welded-shut water bottle.
He motions for me to hand him my water. “Here, let me.”
Unscrewing the stubborn thing with ease, he hands it back.
“I loosened it for you.” I drink deeply, hoping the cool water will quell my pounding pulse.
“Of course, you did.”
“Okay, but really, the belt is ugly. What do you do with it once you get it? Do you, I don’t know, wear it out to dinner or around the house? Do you, like, model it for your billboard ads?” Judging by the faint pink coloring Jonah’s face at the mention of his ads, I bet he gets teased often.
“Maybe a black and white layout of you and your belt on a sandy beach for, say, a protein shake billboard?” Sucking both my lips between my teeth to hide my smile, I watch in fascination a shy Jonah. He recovers quickly and narrows his eyes on me. I’d worry that I’d offended him if it weren’t for the humor lighting his face.
“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny,” he drawls.
“What? You do model, don’t you?” I tease doing my best Derek Zoolander face.
Exhaling, he throws his hand in his hair and drops his chin. Bringing his head back up, his eyes lock with mine. “Yes. I have sponsors that I’ve modeled for. Happy?”
I’m still smiling.
“You think that’s funny, huh?”
“Well, yeah, I do. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the modeling I think is funny. It’s the look on your face when I talk about you modeling that’s funny.”
Tilting his head, I see something working behind his eyes. Then, to my surprise, he dips his finger in black grease and swipes my cheek. “There. You think that’s funny?”
I stare silently, glaring in his direction. I snag the tin of grease, dip four fingers into it, and hold them up. “You’re going down, Slade”
I lunge at him and make a swipe on his neck. My instincts tell me to be careful, reminding me that this is a trained fighter and that I’m a lanky, twenty-year-old girl. But a comfort that defies explanation has me trusting him.
Dipping both sets of fingers into the grease, he gives me a look that says I better run or else. I turn to bolt just as I feel two strong hands wrap around my biceps from behind. With a girlish squeal, I’m pulled, my back forced to the firm heat of his chest. I swallow a moan that almost escapes my lips at the feeling of his hard body pressed to the length of mine. His strong hands grasp my arms, rubbing the oil with one long stroke from elbow to shoulder, and igniting the blood beneath my skin.
“You’re going to have to tap out. No way you’re going to win this one.” His words are spoken into my ear, making me shiver and practically sag in his arms.
“Oh yeah?” My question sounds weak in my own ears. Darn it.
“Mmm-hmm.” The vibration of his low voice rumbles against my back.
If I don’t get out of this hold soon, I may end up doing something stupid like rub up against him and purr.
I twist hard and he releases me. Darting around the Impala, back to the grease tin, I lather my hands up with ammo and slink towards him, hands held forward in warning.
He crooks his finger at me and lifts an eyebrow. I lunge again.
We chase and dodge, while laughing and throwing threats at each other, until we’re out of grease and forced to call a truce. Our clothes and skin are covered in the oily evidence of our horseplay. Against a wall, I slide down to sit and catch my breath. He tosses me a stack of shop towels and goes to work cleaning off his neck and face.
“Okay, all fun aside, whose booty do you have to kick to get this belt?” I wipe grease from my shoulder.
He sits next to me, cleaning the muck from his fingers. “Victor Del Toro. He’s the current heavyweight champion. No one’s been able to knock him off the throne—until now, of course.” The confidence in his voice makes it a statement of fact rather than a prediction.
“Hm. Well, good luck.” A quick glance has me locked in his stare, fiery hazel pulling me in. “Not that you’ll need it.”
His eyes roam my face and neck. My defenses try to push my gaze to the floor, but I’m captivated by his allure. Awareness, like a silent confession, passes between us igniting my blood. I suck in air and roll my bottom lip between my teeth to avoid saying something I’ll regret like kiss me.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “You should come to the fight.”
The way he’s looking at me wakes the butterflies in my stomach. Come to the fight? I’d say yes to anything