Glass House

THIRTY-FIVE

I thought about my dad often. I've thought about him more since I saw him than I have in those years I waited for him. I had the finest, most gentle and kind, rich, man standing next to me right now, but my mind was away. And Nas sensed it.

I felt his large hand delicately nudge the small of my back, guiding me to the inside of the pavement as we started on the trail to the beach. He intertwined our fingers, brought our tangled fists to his mouth and placed a kiss. Small gestures like this, his commitment to keeping me safe, was one of the many reasons I wanted to protect him equally as much. Maybe I convinced myself that was the reason I hadn't told him what I discovered at Tabitha's.

I examined his face: calm and content. His features sat comfortably as he spent this quietness thinking about whatever his mind desired. He deserved that.

My mind replayed that Ring camera footage, and Jace's clear words on a loop: "Anger management issues, huh? Yeah, I can work with that. Think about the payout I can get from the press of I let this information go."

This is what he was protecting his career from. The reason he joined my group in the first place. The reason we met.

The list of people who knew was growing longer and longer, which made the possibility of this spilling out to the public more of a risk. Santana knew, Fallon and now Charlie and Jace. Jace was proving to be a loose cannon, but I trusted Tabitha to secure Nas' freedom the same way she did with mine.

"What you thinkin' about?" He interrupted sweetly.

"You," I said without hesitation.

The soft sound of our steps smashing the ground as the pavement slowly turned to sand filled the short silence. My mind was away but walking with him calmed me.

Nas swiftly turned in front of me, walking backwards while I continued forward. "Stop before you run into something. You ain't got eyes in the back of that big head." I joked.

Just then, he moved to the left a nanosecond before a woman leaving the beach passed to our left where he just was. "I'm a boxer," he boasted proudly, "I got instincts." His smile could make me melt quicker than the 89° sun beaming on us at 4pm.

He kept his eyes on me while he walked backwards, "What you really thinking about?"

"You, I'm serious," I repeated.

"What about me?"

"I don't know, I'm just proud of you."

"I ain't did nothing yet," he cheesed, "four more matches until championship."

"That's not the only reason I'm proud. You been making good progress in therapy, you been training better and eating good, you been keeping your emotions level, you bought your childhood home."

"I got a lot bankin' on this W. I gotta be locked in."

Hearing that made my heart flutter uneasily. Of course I expected him to want to win, but knowing it could be ripped from under him at any second was nerve-racking.

"Yeah, but hypothetically, would it be the end of the world if you didn't win? Or you didn't fight at all?" I said that last part under my breath.

I avoided his eyes, but felt them on me. He rejoined me at my side, eyebrows furrowed together trying to piece together what I was insinuating.

"What you mean by that?"

"I guess I'm just saying, what do you wanna do after this? You want to box until you're 50?"

"You saying that like I'm washed up." Annoyance grew slowly in his voice, but I could tell he was trying to keep it contained. "I'm winning matches left and right."