“I believe in you, Mr. Machine,” I said. “Good night. Check your phone.”

I leaned past the couch and peered up the staircase. I could hear Alexis and Eric talking to Juliet still. Sinking back into the cushion, I fired off a message, thinking about pleasure and giving in and taking what you wanted.

Can I make one of your sexual fantasies come true? I texted. Pressed my phone to my chest nervously until he texted back.

You’re already a fantasy, Tabitha.

I glanced at the wall and imagined him standing right there, hand touching it, with a smile on his face.

What about another one? I texted. Based on what he’d said last night, Dean Knox-Morelli was a man with unmet needs.

I was eager to meet them.

His response had me grinning. This fantasy was so like him—a timeless classic, no frills, to the point. Just like Dean himself.

When I knock on your door tomorrow night, you’re going to want to open it, I sent.

Now I needed to get myself a sexy trench coat and some lingerie.

25. Dean

Twenty-Five

Dean

The boxers on the screen opened their mouths to show the ref their mouthpiece. They touched gloves. The ref said, “Fair fight, clean fight,” while the two glared at each other. Behind them, an audience jostled and applauded.

The trip gong sounded, and three years later I still got a massive head rush of adrenaline. Still had synapses firing off an attack response though I was only on the couch in my living room.

They were light heavy-weight boxers, like I had been. In fact, I knew them both, and if I did this commentator job, I’d be analyzing bouts like this one.

The boxer on the left took a jab that opened a gash on his cheek. The crowd roared with bloodlust. There was no other way to describe it. Sometimes in the ring I felt like a Roman gladiator and wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

They danced around each other, occasionally getting a hit in. The upbeat commentators talked about every move they made carelessly and critically. I thought about what Rowan said: No one’s making money off whether my arm’s having a good day or a bad day.

There was money to be had in every hit these guys took to the temple. Money for me to make. I glanced around the first floor of my house. I kept it neat. Tidy. But it was still shabby and a little run down. I was frugal, had managed to live off my winnings and the meager income I made as a handyman. But I’d peeked at my bank account yesterday morning and gone queasy.

If things didn’t change, I was about to be in more than just a rut.

I took in the first round by maintaining a kind of impassive interest. It was just bodies. Just fists and gloves.