by Helena Maeve
“Yes, I got into a fight,” Imogen mumbled. “Pretty sure you were there and egging me on.”
Russell paid her no heed. “Did you pack those with ice?” He meant the bruises on her face. They were by far the more visible and the least painful.
The one on her ass was a different story altogether. Jaime had tried and failed to smother his laughter every time she’d grumbled about it in bed. By contrast, Russell didn’t even crack a smile.
“I’ll take that as a no.” He sighed, pushing away from the desk. “How do you expect to fight Luz in your condition?”
“Obviously I’ll forfeit the match and content myself with being second-best. That’s what I let Chernayevska beat me to a pulp for,” Imogen drawled, making to drop to the sunken couch in hopes of taking her weight off her aching feet.
Russell clicked his fingers. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Laying down arms, dude, what’s it look like?”
“Come with me.” When Russell beckoned, Imogen had found it was best to follow without asking too many questions. More often than not, he knew what he was doing.
And when he didn’t, he still fumbled his way through training better than Imogen had ever managed by herself. Today was no exception. Black and blue, and aching in parts of her body she was sure she hadn’t used in the ring, Imogen huffed and puffed her way down the same steep stairs she’d barely just climbed. They were easier on the way down—if there was a metaphor in that, Imogen chose to ignore it.
The women’s locker room was vacant most days, but today it was conspicuously barren, subject to the out of order sign dangling from a nail in the door.
Imogen eyed it speculatively. “You’ve been keeping secrets, coach.” The empty claw-foot tub at the center of the room gave her pause. “Okay, this is starting to remind me of a slasher flick…”
“Since when are you scared of me?” Russell asked, arching an eyebrow.
Since you bulked up like the Rock and started beating on people for a living. There was no heat in it. Russ could excite her to anger, to desire, but never to fear. That could yet change. Imogen folded her arms across her chest as if to say I need more to go on before I roll over.
He sighed. “When I was in the circuit, the only way I found to stop my body swelling up was an ice bath.” He gestured to the two portable coolers sitting idle by the far wall. Tendrils of condensation snaked from under their sharp rectangular edges toward the nearest drain.
Imogen started. “You want to give me hypothermia?”
“There’s not enough ice in those to put you in any danger,” Russell scoffed. He had never disappointed her before, but that didn’t mean blind faith came easy.
“This is going to suck,” Imogen groused even as she started dragging her hoodie over her head.
Her injuries being what they were, it took some minutes to undress. Russell had filled the tub with ice cubes and tap water by the time Imogen slid her thumbs into the elastic of her underwear and tugged it down her hips. She noticed Russell pointedly glancing away when she removed that last scrap of clothing, as if he hadn’t seen her naked and bouncing on his cock before.
“Now’s not the time to get squeamish about a few bruises,” she teased, knowing full well there was more to his reluctance than that.
The sound of her bare feet slapping the tile seemed strangely loud, but it was nowhere near as poignant as the sharp exhale Imogen expelled from her lungs when she swung a foot into the shimmering, ice-cold water. Needles pricked her ankle from every side, curling her toes as she found purchase on the bottom of the tub. It hurt more than Imogen had anticipated, but what the hell. She laughed, shocked at her own body’s resistance as she levered her other leg over the rim.
Russell reached out a hand to steady her. “Almost there.”
“Do me a favor and shut up,” Imogen gritted out, shuddering as she bent her knees and let the icy needle-prick sensation claim more and more of her body. She couldn’t help thinking of Jaime and his corner tub with the hidden jets—the fun they’d had there sticking out as one of the most pleasurable lays she’d ever had.
Suffice to say, this was nothing like it.
Imogen settled her aching back against the rounded end of the tub, gripping the edges with clenched fists. Her muscles ached, nerves curling like burnt paper, clamping down on hurt that had already flared before she came into the gym this morning.
“I don’t think it’s working,” Imogen hissed through chattering teeth.
“Wait,” Russell said, despite the moratorium on speech. He came up behind her and planted his massive hands on her shoulders as though to push her under.
Imogen stiffened. Okay, so maybe the fear thing comes and goes. “Think my tits are about to fall off,” she said instead, laughing hoarsely. She felt compelled to speak, to put her mind elsewhere than on the mantra pitching in her skull. Let me out, she almost begged. Let me go, Russell, please.
She clamped down on her supplications. Russell didn’t get to bring her to her knees without her consent.
“Jaime seemed to enjoy watching you get beat up last night,” Russ said, his voice reaching Imogen as though from far, far away.
“What?”
Russ didn’t bother repeating himself. “He was cheering with every punch,” he added. “Not sure what that says about the guy, but—”
“Says he’s in my corner,” Imogen shot back, incensed.
“Did it get him randy, watching you take a punch?” The hard edge in Russell’s voice was not unusual. He let it slip through whenever they were sparring, the better to arouse Imogen’s wrath. It never failed to yield results.
“Since when do you care?”
“Just wondering,” Russell said. Seen upside down, his expression was all crinkled eyes and the upturned curve of a sneer.
Imogen shuddered. “At least he believes in me. That’s more than I can say about you.” Two could play the vituperation game.
“That’s because I know you, Genie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It wasn’t worth adding that Russell more than knew her—he was her trainer, her mentor. And until recently, he had also been her lover.
It felt like a betrayal every time he voiced his misgivings.
He telegraphed his shrug through the sharp, painful jerk of his wrists. “You’re not a bad fighter, but you lack a killer instinct, Genie.”
“Bullshit, I beat Chernayevska—”
“—on points,” Russ recalled. “You couldn’t knock her out of the competition because you worried about hurting her.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Was she supposed to enter the ring wanting to break bones? Megan Luz didn’t fight like that. She didn’t hold with crippling her opponents. Until now, Imogen had been certain that Russ was of the same school of thought. “What, you want me to go in there and not stop until I’ve busted someone’s nose right open?” It could be done. In the men’s side of the tournament, the more blood stained the mat, the better. UFC aficionados loved that shit.
“I want you to do what needs to be done,” Russell said. He released his grip before Imogen could shake him off. “You’re done.”
“Already?” She found it in her to snark, but the ache of trying to right herself under the floating, translucent ice cubes needed a far better outlet. “You’re so full of shit.”
Russell held out his hands to help steady her, but Imogen batted them aside. She didn’t need his help. She needed—something else. Validation, perhaps, and wasn’t that messed up? She needed validation from a guy whose idea of praise was a gruff your left cross needs a little work.
“What’s your problem?” Imogen gritted out, hobbling to her gym bag.
“I’m trying to help you—”
Imogen snickered mirthlessly. “No, you’re sabotaging me.” She wrapped herself in a towel, shuddering. “You can’t just say job well done? Or, I don’t know, congratulations on making it into the final? Jesus, Russ, I was a nobody a year ago
. Now I’m fighting a tournament with a shot at the prize!”
“You’ve always overestimated your chances,” Russell said. “Don’t insult me for keeping a clear head.”
“Don’t insult me for not having fifteen fucking years of experience in the business!” Imogen shot back through chattering teeth. The shakes had dimmed a little, but they had yet to cease altogether “You weren’t like this before I hooked up with Jaime.”
That, if nothing else, seemed to ruffle Russell’s feathers. He straightened, drawing his shoulders back as though to make himself several inches taller. It worked, vexingly. “Hit the showers,” he bit out. “You’re not training today.”
“Like hell—”
Russell interjected before she could finish. “If you want to train, you’ll have to do it elsewhere. This is still my gym.”
“Not for long,” Imogen crowed, spoiling for a fight, and regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.
She read the flash of disbelief in Russell’s gaze like ink on a page, and for the first time since she’d met him, she braced for a blow. It didn’t follow. She wasn’t all that surprised. Russell’s Zen master bullshit was at least partially responsible for checking his awesome strength and keeping him from lashing out when annoyance bled into anger.
He brushed past her without another word, stalking out of the locker room like a wrecking ball. Imogen jumped when the door slammed harmlessly against the wall.
“Russell—” She turned, his name perched on the tip of her tongue, but the damage was already done.
If he heard, Russell didn’t deign to answer.
* * * *
Jaime’s phone call found her in bed, the TV crackling with unintelligible voices in the background. “This is beginning to seem like a pattern,” he laughed when she told him. “Russell let you have an afternoon nap?”
“Something like that.” Imogen switched the channel from Alf to some twenty-four hours news network parading the latest tragedies on a loop. “Tell me about your day.” Her own didn’t warrant the recap.
Not one to keep things to himself, Jaime obliged. He told her he had spent the morning in meetings and he was about to go in for another round now that his lunch break was over, but he had actually called with a purpose. “There’s this art gallery thing I’ve been invited to. It’s tonight. I was wondering if you wanted to join me.”
“An art gallery thing,” Imogen repeated.
“It’s the opening,” Jaime amended. “And you don’t have to say yes, but I need to put in an appearance because it’s the wife of an associate and—”
“Okay.”
“Okay…you’ll go?” Jaime gauged, a hopeful note in his voice.
Why not? She couldn’t be decent to her coach, the least she could do was make an effort with Jaime. “You’ll pick me up?”
“With bells on. In a white limo, like—”
“No,” Imogen said. “No white limos. The BMW is fine.” She felt like a pretentious asshole for even making the distinction.
Jaime’s laugh trickled soft and warm down the line. “I’ll see you at eight.”
It wasn’t until she had hung up that Imogen realized Desiree wouldn’t be back until later that night, seeing as she was spending the day with her girlfriend. The business of getting ready rested entirely on her own mottled shoulders. She glanced at the clock. Only five hours to go.
It was going to be tight.
* * * *
The bell rang as Imogen was putting the finishing touches on her freshly applied war paint. Covering the bruises and scrapes with foundation took more out of her than a full day’s training schedule. Her attempts had failed the first time, admittedly, prompting her to start again from the beginning when she’d figured out how to apply concealer without making herself look like a performer in a Noh play.
She still wasn’t sure of the result as she opened the door to Jaime. “If you laugh, I’m going to punch you in the face,” Imogen warned, more or less meaning the threat.
“Why would I…?”
She had raided Desiree’s closet as well as her own for something suitably classy to match the occasion. The scavenger hunt had lasted the better part of the afternoon—but not, Imogen hoped, without reason. Between Lycra and sexy nurses’ outfits, she had eventually found a pleated skirt and a tight black top with a very deep V neckline. She had borrowed one of Desiree’s shimmery gold-tinted necklaces to go with it, hoping that would distract from the absence of a bra.
“You look incredible,” said Jaime, and there was nothing in his tone or in his expression to suggest he was just being kind. Seconds later, as he wrapped his arms around Imogen’s waist and backed her into the door, all remaining doubt was extinguished. “Makes me wonder if we shouldn’t just stay in. Skip the gallery altogether…”
It was an attractive proposition, but Imogen brushed it off. “Oh, no,” she chuckled, tipping her head up for a kiss. “I didn’t get all gussied up so we could play house, babe. I’m ready to compete with ink blobs on canvas.” And possibly leggy models.
She snagged the leather jacket off the coat rack and they were off.
Much to her relief, Jaime’s BMW even escaped unscathed from the slums of Imogen’s neighborhood.
“You seem…better,” Jaime said as they joined the flow of early evening traffic.
“Oh, thanks,” Imogen drawled. “You’re saying I clean up nice?”
“No, I mean—”
She reached over the gearshift and gave his knee an apologetic squeeze. “I know what you mean.”
“Guess a day’s rest helps, huh?”
Imogen bit her lip. He sounded so earnest, so curious, that she found it impossible to lie. “I had a fight with Russell. He, uh, sent me home.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Jaime steal a glance at her. “What happened?”
“The usual… Do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I don’t want to ruin our date.” It was partially true. Mostly, she was afraid she’d feel the full brunt of her remorse all over again and that made it hard to breathe as it was.
Jaime twined their fingers together. “Sure, no problem.”
You’re too good for me. Imogen beamed a tired smile. “Think the ritzy crowd will be able to tell I’ve got bruises all over?”
“I can’t tell you’ve got them…and I know they’re there,” Jaime said.
Imogen hummed her agreement. “It’s amazing what makeup and a good pair of tights can do.” She hadn’t been able to do much about her arms, so Desiree’s tailored leather jacket would have to stay on. The last thing Imogen wanted was for Jaime’s friends to get the wrong idea.
She felt the tendrils of trepidation slither down her spine as Jaime pulled into a parking space between a black Honda and a Prius with a surfeit of stuffed toys in the backseat. “We’re already here?” The whole journey must’ve taken less than ten minutes.
They hadn’t entered the swanky side of town and the sight of strip joints and sex shops left Imogen wondering just what kind of establishment Jaime’s associates patronized. She smothered her bewilderment as Jaime rounded the BMW and took her arm. There was no line outside the door, but a black-clad doorman checked Jaime’s name against a list on his iPhone before letting them through.
So this is what they call grunge chic.
A steep stone staircase led them into a basement illuminated by solitary light bulbs dangling from a ceiling crisscrossed by the meandering branches of exposed, ancient plumbing. The clamor of voices echoed from straight up ahead and within a half dozen paces, Imogen understood why.
The back of the building had been gutted, all floors demolished to leave room for a series of metal catwalks suspended on steel wires from the rafters. The artwork itself was displayed on similar cables, so it could be observed from different altitudes and angles while the viewer paraded up and down the walkways.
“I shouldn’t have worn a skirt,” Imogen muttered, reaching for the nearest champagne tray and helpi
ng herself to a flute.
“You’re not the only one,” said Jaime as he pointed to a pair of older ladies decked out in full formal regalia.
Imogen hid a laugh in the depths of her glass. Jaime’s presence beside her went a long way in giving her courage to progress into the gallery, but the champagne didn’t hurt, either. Both failed her when a redhead called out Jaime’s name, making a beeline straight for them.
“Oh, darling, we had almost given you up! I’m so glad you could come.” She buffeted his cheeks with kisses, European style, and promptly turned to Imogen.
Public displays of affection weren’t in Imogen’s repertoire and she didn’t come from a family that put a high premium on showing warmth, but she submitted to the woman’s airy pecks obediently enough.
“You must be Imogen!”
“I am.”
“Jaime mentioned you on the phone. Are you really a wrestler?”
Imogen cringed. “Does it show?” She’d never been embarrassed of her muscles before, but something about being under this stranger’s scrutiny was doing her self-confidence no favors. Jaime’s friend was all loose white silk and a ruby red choker that matched her fiery hair. She was at once stylish and natural, like she had simply rolled out of bed and into a Vera Wang minutes before the show.
“Well, perhaps if you showed off your biceps…”
“Paula, do you know where—?” Jaime’s friend spun around and Paul, the handsy fella from the bar, came into view.
An icy shiver skittered down Imogen’s spine.
Paul didn’t seem best pleased to see her, if the way his jaw dropped was any indication.
“What is it, darling?” Paula asked, snapping them out of their staring contest. “I was just getting to know Jaime’s partner.”
“His partner?” Paul arched his bushy eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little…sudden?”
Beside her, Imogen felt Jaime shrug. “When it’s right, it’s right. You two only dated for a week before you got engaged.”