Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  The shrill chime of the claxon seemed to come from very far away.

  It felt like an eternity before the ref intervened to separate them, then Chernayevska was walking away, smirking over her shoulder at Imogen like a woman who knew she was on top of her game.

  “What happened?” Maggie asked, grasping Imogen by the shoulders and helping her to sit down.

  Imogen brushed off the question. She didn’t have enough air in her lungs to answer. She’s stronger than I am. She’s faster. I can’t get an opening.

  I’m going to lose.

  The pink blur dancing in front of her resolved into Maggie’s anxious expression. “Should I call R—?”

  Imogen shook her head. “I’ve got her right where I want her.” Water ran down her chin when she spoke, soaking into the front of her top. The men in the audience would like that. Maybe some of the women too.

  “You do?” Maggie seemed dubious.

  “Totally,” Imogen said.

  The claxon sounded again, announcing the beginning of round two. Four more to go.

  Imogen dragged herself to her feet, acting like it pained her more than was the case. If she couldn’t win on the strength of her arms, she’d have to find another way. Russell always said a fight was won in the mind as much in as it was in the body. He was right about some things, even if on average he was a manipulative, overprotective asshole who—

  Chernayevska put an end to Imogen’s distractions with a hard wallop across the mouth. Blood and spittle flew onto the ref when he didn’t recoil fast enough. Imogen made a show of staggering, of blinking back tears—and sure, it hurt, but not enough that she didn’t see Chernayevska when she made to chase that one lucky blow with a roundhouse kick. She turned her back on Imogen. That was all it took.

  Imogen ducked low, spun on one heel and used her other foot to send Chernayevska sprawling to the mat. Their audience gave a collective “oh!” like they, too, hadn’t seen it coming, but Imogen didn’t let herself get caught up in that petty victory. She snagged Chernayevska’s right ankle and twisted inward, letting gravity do the work for her.

  There was no howl—the Ukrainian was steel and stone when it came to public displays of sentiment—but her eyes spelled out the agony that shot up her shin and into her skull.

  Tap out. Imogen strained to hold her in place. Tap out, damn you.

  Chernayevska grabbed her under the arms and braced against the mat. There was nothing Imogen could do to avoid being flipped over and no way to mitigate the hard thump of impact. She righted herself quickly, at least, but it made no difference.

  The whistle sounded again, marking the end of another round. Imogen slapped the steel mesh wall.

  Chernayevska lay spread-eagled on the mat for a few moments, her chest rising and falling quickly as she fought to catch her breath. She righted herself with a little less grace than before, moving to her corner like a wounded animal.

  “Did you break her foot?” Maggie asked, bringing up the chair and towel and the bottle of water. All were appreciated, but none more than the water.

  Imogen could barely clasp the bottle in a shaking hand. “I wish.”

  She was going to have to try harder, find a weak spot—find a second wind. Hell, she was going to have to pull a rabbit out of the hat or lose face to a fighter who was obviously hoping to save hers.

  “Someone’s here to see you,” said Maggie, oblivious.

  “What? I told you not to call—”

  “I didn’t,” Maggie protested shrilly. She was pointing and grinning and it took Imogen a moment to understand why. “See?”

  In his pinstriped suit with his silk tie and gleaming cufflinks, Jaime looked so out of place in this crowd, but he was here. He had a front row seat—which shouldn’t have surprised Imogen, he could probably buy the whole venue if he saw profit in it—and he was staring straight at her. He, too, seemed worried.

  “Now you really have to win,” was Maggie’s decree. “You can win, right?” It wasn’t much of a vote of confidence, but Imogen nodded anyway as the claxon rang out.

  She could feel Jaime’s eyes boring into her back as she stood. He liked to map out her bumps and bruises in the shower—both the ones he’d left on her wrists and thighs, and the one she’d acquired in the ring. He didn’t mind her cuts, or her split knuckles. He’d never said I want you to quit.

  Imogen put up her fists, watching Chernayevska through the cage of her bruised forearms. The woman was walking a little heavily, favoring her left leg. Even if Imogen hadn’t broken the right, she was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t twisted the ankle hard enough to cripple her adversary.

  A girl could hope.

  She gave Chernayevska a few testing blows, the better to test if her hobbled dance was for show or something more permanent. Chernayevska dodged her fists easily, as predicted, but she grimaced, features contorting. Imogen saw her opening and, cheating her to the left, shot a hard kick against Chernayevska’s instep.

  The crowd roared, lights dancing on the sweat that prickled on the Ukrainian’s brow, and Imogen lost herself in the fight, just like Russ had always told her to do. It had happened before—the whole world narrowing to the cage, the din of announcers and hundreds of voices raised in unison bleeding away until Imogen was alone with her harried breaths, striking out, catching her opponent in the jaw, into the meat of her belly then right between the ribs, making it harder to breathe.

  She got a kick in the face for her efforts, but the pain barely registered.

  Got you. Imogen jerked back her fist without mercy and planted another calculated punch.

  Chernayevska never got to tap out. There was no need for the judges to deliberate or award points.

  The claxon sounded and Chernayevska didn’t get up.

  Slowly, as the ref held up Imogen’s hand, proclaiming her the victor, the world began to filter back into focus. She noticed paramedics rushing to Chernayevska’s side, her whole team surrounding her with worried grimaces twisting up their faces. She felt Maggie’s arms around her, hugging her though she was sweat-slick and feverish. She glanced over the crowd, searching for Russell only to find Jaime watching her instead, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

  She couldn’t read his expression, but chalked it up to relief all the same.

  Chapter Ten

  City lights shone like dots outside the window, but Jaime was drenched in shadow, his back to the breathtaking vista. He hadn’t even finished undressing.

  Imogen sighed and tossed the last, melting icepack into the bathroom sink. She had done her best to give him time to regroup after the fight. She’d allowed him the ride home in his BMW coupé, the ten minutes she spent soaking under a cold shower spray. But the silence was becoming hard to handle.

  “Did it shock you that much, seeing me knock her out?” she asked, hovering uncertainly in the bedroom window.

  Jaime shook his head, but his hunched shoulders and his aura of despondency didn’t shift an inch.

  “Was it seeing me enjoy it, then?” Chernayevska had come around as they were loading her up on to a stretcher. She’d glanced around, groaned and fallen back down, more annoyed than hurt. “It’s a rough sport,” Imogen said, talking because the alternative seemed to be letting Jaime dwell on whatever fears were populating his thoughts. “It’s not all glamorous posing and pumping iron, you know. Occasionally, I have to go out and beat someone up…”

  “Or get beat up yourself,” Jaime muttered, so quiet that Imogen almost missed it.

  She couldn’t deny that it happened. “Step one of learning how to throw a punch is making sure you know how to take one.”

  “Did Russell teach you that?”

  So that’s it. “Don’t tell me you’re still sore about what happened last night?” It was obvious from Jaime’s posture, from the way he’d dropped to the ottoman and hadn’t moved since unbuttoning his shirt that he wasn’t over Russell’s visit. “I talked to him. I told him I’ll start shopping around for a new coac
h—he wasn’t even at the fight tonight!”

  “Because you asked him not to come.”

  Imogen fell silent, her spiel interrupted. “How do you know that?” Maggie hadn’t had time to do much sabotaging as she’d gushed about the fight. She’d been pleased as punch when Imogen had told her to take the limousine back to the gym.

  “He called me,” Jaime said.

  “What?”

  “He told me you were trying to make a point and that you were going to need all the help you could get.”

  “Son of a bitch…” Imogen had seldom wanted to put her first through her trainer’s face more. “Jesus, he’s really outdone himself, hasn’t he?” A sharp, mirthless bark of laughter tore free of her lungs. “I could go over there and throttle him…”

  “He’s right.” Jaime wasn’t in the habit of raising his voice. He was a skinny guy, he wore three-piece suits and drove expensive cars, but he also had presence. When he spoke, people fell silent—Imogen, included.

  At least, for a little while.

  “Come again?” she growled, pinning her hands to her hips. The T-shirt Jaime had lent her was just baggy enough to be comfortable without looking like a potato sack. She’d been counting on him peeling her out of it before they went to bed, but that seemed less and less likely.

  “He’s—”

  “I won the fight he said I’d lose,” Imogen snapped. “What about that makes it sound like Russell was right?”

  “You were off your game. You have been, ever since we started sleeping together.”

  “Time in which I’ve won four matches,” Imogen pointed out testily.

  Jaime nodded. “One more slowly than the other. You nearly lost to Chernayevska today—I was there, Imogen. I watched her catch you out at least half a dozen times.”

  “You know, I really wish I could sit in on one of your meetings once and offer an unsolicited performance review. I bet you’d love that.”

  “I’m trying to help—”

  Imogen had heard enough. “Who asked you?” she shot back. “For fuck’s sake, you’re my boyfriend, not my coach! I don’t need this from you.”

  It was no use. Jaime had already made up his mind. Whatever she said would only help convince him that she wasn’t thinking clearly—that he was bad for her and the only way she could get back in top form was to break up.

  “You know what? No. I’m not doing this again.” She grabbed her gym bag out of the bathroom and turned on her heel.

  “Where are you going?” Jaime called after her, something fractured and indignant in his voice.

  “Home.” She still had half of an apartment down in Englewood, if Desiree hadn’t yet decided to move her girlfriend in. It didn’t include marble floors or nice, fitted sheets, but at least it wouldn’t come with a lecture. The elevator couldn’t come quickly enough.

  She heard Jaime’s bare feet slap the polished marble as he descended the stairs. “Imogen, hang on—” The doors were already closing.

  The elevator cage plunged down, leaving Imogen alone with her reflection in triplicate and the warbling notes of some jazz classic she couldn’t name. It was a short ride to the ground floor, but not so short that she didn’t have time to get her scuffed sneakers on. The boxer shorts and misappropriated T-shirt would have to do because there was no time to change.

  The concierge balked at the sight of her.

  “Can I get a cab?” Imogen asked. “You know what, never mind…” She had some idea of what she must’ve looked like—a prostitute, bruised and battered, and fleeing her client—and didn’t want to deal with the contempt being directed her way.

  She flagged down a taxi herself. She knew where she was going and her money was just as good as Jaime’s. The cabbie didn’t even blink at the sight of her.

  This was Chicago. He was probably used to picking up passengers wearing a lot worse than pajamas, or lugging behind a gym bag and weeping into their hands.

  * * * *

  Imogen leaned on the doorbell with an open fist. “I know you’re up there, Russell!” Shouting had never earned her much result before, but it was one way to summon her trainer—or at least piss off his neighbors.

  The taxi was still idling on the curb, driver staring out of the window at her like he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t be better off driving away and calling it a loss.

  “Imogen?” The soft query came not from the apartment upstairs, but from the sidewalk. Imogen whirled around to find Russell ambling along, massive and imposing, a couple of bags of Chinese takeout clutched in one hand. She hid her relief as best she could.

  “A cardigan? Really?”

  “It’s cold,” he defended and Imogen mock-shivered on his behalf.

  “You got twenty bucks to spare?” she prompted. “I think I forgot my wallet at Jaime’s and this guy won’t take IOUs.”

  “Sure…” Russell produced the cash, but not without a couple of double takes lobbed in Imogen’s general direction. He covered the cab fare and the taxi sped away, its tires practically squealing against the tarmac. “What are you wearing?”

  “Pajamas,” Imogen answered with a shrug. “Jaime and I had a disagreement.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Russell had the good grace to duck his head. “I wish I was.”

  It wasn’t good enough, but the temperatures had dipped into the low fifties, so Imogen let it slide. “Are you going to invite me in or what?”

  She didn’t need to ask twice. As much as she might’ve wanted to head to her own apartment, for some reason she had found herself giving the cabbie the address to Russell’s brownstone walk-up instead.

  She slipped past the reinforced glass doors and took the stairs up to the first floor without comment. The pervasive scent of boiled cabbage wafted through the stairwell like a ghost, as much part of the building as its international cast of residents. Russ was a little slower, but he wasn’t out of breath by the time he hit the first floor landing.

  “Don’t act so surprised,” he said, reading her gaze. “I’m not that big of a wash-up.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You were thinking it,” Russ sighed and gestured Imogen into the apartment. The difference between his humble two-room rental and Jaime’s palatial penthouse was stark. No white marble here, only checkered linoleum tiles between the front door and the swath of gray-brown that carpeted the sitting room.

  Imogen knew the rules. She toed off her sneakers by the door and ambled inside on socked feet, sprawling on Russ’ sunken couch before he could claim it for himself. She knew things had changed between them when he didn’t immediately call her a sloth or berate her for wandering around in cold weather without a jacket on. It was his job to make sure she stayed healthy—or it had been. Imogen turned her face into the couch cushions, smothering a groan.

  She could hear Russ puttering about in the open kitchen. She made no move to offer her aid. Sometimes, if Russ was in a good mood, he’d allow it. Mostly, though, he relegated her to providing running commentary while he fixed their dinner. Imogen didn’t mind.

  “Here,” she heard, as the aroma of chow mein wafted closer. When she turned her head, she found a carton of take-out laid within arm’s reach and Russ’ retreating back, cashmere cardigan pulled taut over his broad shoulders.

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “Thanks,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Relax, it’s from that greasy spoon you despise.”

  “I don’t despise it,” Imogen countered, for the sake of disagreement. Her tastes in take-out were as varied as a connoisseur’s, but she wasn’t so deluded as to think there was much difference between one and the others. She righted herself on the couch and crossed her legs under her for warmth as much as comfort. “Did you see the fight?” It had to come up sooner or later. Might as well bite the bullet.

  “I did,” he confirmed and settled into his favorite La-Z-Boy with a carton of steaming, caramelized pork
and thick, crinkled noodles.

  Imogen waved her chopsticks. “And?”

  “You won. Congrats.”

  Russell’s performance reviews were as legendary as they were unpleasant. They were by far her least favorite thing about working with him—she didn’t want to think about what the first might be. He had never before settled for casual approval, not after a fight she’d almost lost.

  “You called Jaime.” She didn’t mean it to come out as an indictment, but whenever discomfort struck, she found herself reverting to familiar belligerence, her eyebrows knitting as she stabbed her chopsticks through the tangled, greasy mélange of her supper.

  Russ didn’t deny it. “He came to see the fight?”

  “Had to skip out on a meeting.” Imogen wasn’t pleased about that. She didn’t want to become a problem for Jaime. Hard enough to make a relationship work with her job being what it was, but relationships that started to demand more out of her lovers than they could take were the ones that broke down first. See Russell.

  “If he puts work before you,” Russ started.

  “He doesn’t.”

  “So what’s the problem?” He arched an eyebrow. “Did he throw you out?”

  It was asked softly, but Imogen had known him long enough to decipher the soft thread of suspicion in his voice.

  Imogen shook her head. “I thought we needed some time apart. He was starting to come around to your point of view.”

  “Oh.” She could read surprise in Russell’s gaze, in the flick of his brows. He hadn’t seen that coming.

  “Yeah, so now I’ve got two men in my life making my decisions for me,” Imogen went on. “I could pinch myself, I feel so lucky. Maybe next you two can get together and revamp my wardrobe, fix up my finances…” She shrugged, too tired, too bruised to rehash their argument.

  Russ looked similarly exhausted when he said, “I’m not trying to control you.” He had no business sounding so earnest, so dejected. He was getting his way, whether Imogen liked it or not.