Page 19 of His Daughter

"Beautiful," I whispered against her skin.

She pulled me down to her. I let myself go. I couldn’t think. I just felt her — how she opened for me, how her body pulled me in, her heat, her core, everything that made her Thea Calloway.

I made sure it was as much for her as for me. I angled my body, used my hands, brought her to pleasure at the same moment that I…I groaned.

She moaned. I held her tightly as my body jerked in response. It was…I couldn't quite put my finger on why this dance with Ms. Calloway was so different from the others. And I didn't want to.

By morning, I offered to call her a car. She said she could take the subway, but I insisted. She let me, because she would be tired, and the fight wouldn't be worth it. She left, and we both pretended it was just a night.

But to me, it wasn't just a night.

SIX

DECLAN

Left hook. Right cross.

The bag swung. I hit it again. The tape on my knuckles was damp with sweat, and the impact shot through my wrists and up my forearms and into my shoulders. I kept going.

Left. Left. Right.

Her face flashed before me. Her dark curls spilled across my pillow. She lay on her stomach, face turned toward me, one arm tucked beneath her head.

I hit harder.

With her back turned, she dressed. The zipper climbed up just as I'd drawn it down the night before, but the gesture had changed entirely. Every inch of her was tense, rigid, sealed away. She didn't have to tell me this was goodbye. I could feel it.

And that was why I never got attached.

Right cross. Left hook. Right.

I hit the bag so hard it jerked on the chain. The ceiling mount groaned.

It might be hard to believe, but I used to dream of love. My parents sold it well. I envied them. That was until that one night eighteen years ago. I came home early from practice because I forgot my gear bag. The door was open three inches. His hand on the back of a woman's neck. My father looked up. He saw me. But his expression didn't change. He didn’t even have the gall to pretend to feel guilty.

He came to my room that night, sat on the edge of my bed, and put his hand on my shoulder.

“People stay for what you provide, Declan. Remember that,” he said.

Right. Right. Right.

The next morning, I told my mother. She was in the kitchen, drinking coffee from the blue porcelain cup she always used. I stood in the doorway and told her everything. What I saw, who I saw, what he said after. I was shaking.

She put down the coffee and looked at me. Her face was calm. Perfectly, architecturally calm. "I know," she said. "Now finish your breakfast."

I hit the bag until my arms burned. Until the tape on my left hand split and the skin underneath stung with sweat. Until my lungs screamed.

I didn’t understand. Was my mother okay with it? Or did she just hide her pain because she didn’t know what else to do?

Eighteen years later, I still didn’t have the answer. That experience had scarred me from relationships, from commitment. Until I met Kira.

It wasn’t her beauty or her long legs that attracted me. It wasn’t her silky blonde hair or her lips shaped like Cupid’s bow. It was her laugh. I heard it first before I saw her at that fashion show Julian dragged me to. I remembered wondering how I’d missed her on the runway.

Kira made me break all of my rules. Don’t commit. Broken. Get a new apartment every year. Broken. Don’t live with who you’re dating at the time. Broken. Don’t let anyone into your heart. Broken. Don’t let them walk out on you. Broken.

The last one was the hardest to deal with. I was always the one who left. It was hard, and it drove me half mad because I didn’t know why she left. I did everything right. I was present. I got her flowers. Women loved flowers, right? I even negotiated a modelling deal with a top agency for her.

If I did all that, why did Kira leave me?