Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  “I’m sure that’s what you think. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I think the novelty’s finally worn off.” Jaime would be coming to his senses soon, probably writing up a spreadsheet to check that he was right in breaking up with her. There were surely some very attractive socialites waiting in the wings, ready to fill her shoes. Imogen couldn’t even blame these faceless, anonymous potential women—with his crooked, winsome smile, the slanted half-moons of his eyes, Jaime was a catch. He was rich too. He had a lot to offer.

  “I’m sorry.” Russ was leaning forward, his big, broad hand settling gingerly on Imogen’s bare knee.

  Coming from him, compassion meant nothing at all, but Imogen could only stare at his fist. One of his nails was dark. He must’ve caught it in a door or a drawer. For such a big guy, he was so accident-prone—just two left feet and limbs that lacked any coordination. He routinely smacked his head against the steel vent that dangled just above his desk. The only time Imogen had seen him move with any sort of grace was in the ring. He danced around his adversaries. He mastered the pace of the fight. He didn’t rush.

  Imogen touched her hand to his. “It was a shitty thing you did last night.” Russ made to pull away, but Imogen tightened her grip. “I need you to understand that. It was selfish and it’s cost me a pretty sweet relationship with a pretty nice guy… I know you don’t like him, but—”

  “I like him fine,” Russ interjected. He clenched his jaw as though he was trying to chew up the words rather than speak them. “Well, I like him a bit less after tonight, but that’s not because you and him have a thing.”

  “Had,” Imogen corrected, but that wasn’t the point. “Why, then?”

  Russ didn’t answer for a long moment. “Do you think you had a good fight tonight?”

  She wanted to accuse him of changing the subject, of trying to confuse her into forgetting her allegations, but didn’t. Russell was right. “No,” Imogen murmured. “I should’ve had her in the first round. She telegraphs every punch, she’s hyper-aggressive…”

  “And you’ve already proven that you’re better,” Russ added.

  “I couldn’t get inside her head.” Because you weren’t there. Imogen bit back that last bit, glancing away at the dusty television set. “I can’t win against Luz, can I?”

  With a callused palm cupping her cheek, Russ endeavored to make her face him. Reluctantly, Imogen obeyed. She was only a little nervous about what she might find waiting when she did.

  “We’ve got twenty-four hours to get you ready. What do we say about the odds?”

  “Fuck ’em?” Imogen said, huffing out a laugh.

  Russ nodded solemnly. “Fuck them.”

  The corner of his lips tipped upwards and that was all it took. Imogen pitched forward, pressing her lips to his in a chaste kiss. When she pulled back, Russell seemed bewildered, his chin trembling.

  Perhaps it was the late hour that made her own to it, perhaps it was the expression on Russ’ face, the way he was still staring at her like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Whatever the reason, Imogen hitched up a shoulder and said, “I love you too.” It was a long time coming.

  “Oh.” He withdrew as Imogen returned to her chow mein, putting distance between himself and the noisy slurping. “Like a friend, right?”

  Imogen shook her head.

  “A brother?” Russ asked, a reedy note of cautious optimism in his voice.

  “Nope,” Imogen answered and reached for the remote control. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Russ settle back into the leather recliner, his gaze trained dead ahead, unseeing. She bit the inside of her cheek to conceal a smile. “Did you TiVo the fight?”

  Russell quickly snapped back into himself. “What? Yeah. Yes. You want to watch it back?”

  “That’s what we do,” Imogen said, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “And Russ?” He met her gaze almost warily. “We’re going to talk about this after I win, all right? Seems my head hasn’t been in the game lately. Kind of want to change that.” She wanted to beat Luz and walk away with that trophy, with the money, but not at the cost of losing him.

  Russell took over the remote, their fingers brushing in the exchange. It wasn’t as gruff as she’d come to expect, but it was close enough.

  * * * *

  “You were awesome last night,” Maggie gushed from behind the front desk. “It’s a shame you didn’t come to the party. We had champagne and everything…”

  “So I see,” Imogen drawled. “You’ve got mascara on your cheek.”

  “Oh! Where?” Maggie reached up before Imogen could stop her, scrubbing under her eyes with dry fingertips.

  “No, don’t—” But it was already too late. Imogen grimaced. “That only makes it worse. Come on. We need water and a mirror.” She bundled Maggie into the restroom without preamble, nudging the door open with her elbow. The mess on Maggie’s cheeks was not improved by the garish neon.

  “I look like a panda,” she cried when confronted with her reflection. “Aw, crap—”

  Imogen patted her shoulder with one hand and ran the tap with the other. There hadn’t been a women’s restroom when she’d first joined the gym, just a unisex monstrosity that only men ever entered. It had taken her a couple of weeks’ worth of badgering to get Russell to cave. The new facilities were decently appointed and clean enough that she didn’t think twice about slipping off her shoulder bag and hefting it onto the counter.

  “So did you get some?” Maggie asked, going as scarlet as her hair under the bright lights.

  “What?”

  Maggie grinned. “You know, with the boyfriend… Was it all hubba-hubba until morning?”

  “Not so much,” Imogen said, swiping at Maggie’s cheeks with a damp paper towel.

  “Really? Is it because you’re all bruised?”

  More like it’s because I bruised that other girl. Imogen shrugged. “Don’t ask me to explain how men think. Simple creatures, my ass.” She lobbed the used towel in the trash with feeling. Russ had been awkward and cold this morning, mindful to keep a foot of distance between them at all times. He hadn’t appreciated Imogen offering—jokingly—to join him in the shower, either, if the stricken expression he’d worn was anything to go by.

  “You ask them to leave you alone and they cling like brambles. You make a move and they get all weird,” Imogen groused. “I give up.”

  “Aw, don’t say that,” Maggie said and turned to examine her face in the mirror. She pouted at her reflection, posing this way and that as she sucked her cheeks in. “That’s better. Thanks, Genie.”

  “Anytime.”

  In the doorway, Maggie rocked back on her heels, hesitating. “If you want my opinion, you should just accept Russ’ going to have some flaws. Old dogs, you know?”

  Imogen froze still. “Who said anything about Russell?” Was he ranting to his staff now, too? Was she just transparent?

  “Please, he’s been hung up on you for ages.” Maggie shot her a wink. “Don’t make him worry again, okay? He’s been like a kicked puppy since you hooked up with Jaime. All late nights and no play.”

  He’s been getting plenty of play, Imogen wanted to argue, but that would be admitting that their relationship was more than just complicated.

  “Thanks,” she said instead, glad for the edge of the sink at the small of her back. So much for concentrating on fighting Megan Luz tonight. Her thoughts were already fused to the sharp slant of Russell’s eyebrows as they’d made their way to the gym this morning, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The way he’d stared Jaime down that night at the penthouse, deflating when he’d realized he was about to hit the guy.

  Something, maybe the ill-concealed hurt when Jaime had insulted him, had lingered in his stance even as he withdrew, like the chink in his armor had widened to an open wound. Imogen hadn’t been able to make sense of it before, attributing it to hurt feelings and flimsy ego—both of which were not traits she would’ve used to describe Russell. But the blur
suddenly resolved into a clear picture. The puzzle pieces aligned.

  How had she missed it before?

  She left the restroom behind and made a beeline for Russell’s office, taking the metal steps two by two with very little strain. She’d had a good night’s sleep on his couch. She was in decent shape.

  She found Russell on the phone when she entered, his sneakered feet propped up on the desk like he owned the place—which, in fairness, he did.

  “We need to talk,” Imogen said sulkily.

  Now? Russ mouthed, pointing to the phone cradled between cheek and shoulder like it was easy to miss.

  Imogen could’ve answered, but instead she chose to march forth and disconnect the call on his behalf. “Ask me.”

  “What?” Russ scowled. “Genie, that was a very important—”

  “Ask me if I care that you’ve got the hots for my boyfriend.” She had left the door open, so she kept her voice low, the charge meant for Russell’s ears only.

  He seemed aghast, if only for a moment, before he folded his shock behind a mask of staunch resolve. To his credit, he didn’t hurry to deny it. Imogen might’ve punched him if he did.

  “How did you find out?” He swallowed hard. “Does Jaime—?”

  “Don’t know, haven’t talked to him. And, shockingly? This isn’t about him. It’s about me, right?” Russ had told her as much, looking earnest and convincing, putting on his best trust me, young padawan face. He’d been very persuasive. “You’ve wanted me since god knows when, but suddenly I tell you I’m yours if you want me…and you treat me like I’m contagious?” Imogen snorted, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re blowing hot and cold for a reason. Now I know why.”

  Russ thrust out his chin. “What do you want me to say?”

  “You can start with Imogen, I’m sorry for being such a fucking moron and continue with the homophobe in me had a little freak-out, don’t take it personally.” She leaned in close, both hands propped over the wealth of bills and paperwork scattered across his desk.

  “I’m so—”

  She didn’t let him finish. “This doesn’t change anything for me, idiot. Everything I said last night, everything you want—that still holds true. But I’m not going to be pushed around because you’re anxious about your street cred. You’ve got a problem, you deal with it.” That, at least, was what Russ had always told her. He’d made it sound like maintaining a personal life when she was in the gym upward of ten hours a day and spent her evenings getting beat up was easy. He was supposed to know what he was doing. This was his chance to prove it.

  With that in mind, Imogen spun on her heel and made for the door, narrowly avoiding whacking her gym bag into Russell’s pencil holder.

  He didn’t stop her. He didn’t try to make himself appear anything less than culpable. Imogen caught his eye through the glass walls of the office as she made for the weights but couldn’t read his expression. It felt good to be in the right for once, even if guilt predictably followed shortly thereafter.

  * * * *

  “Do you need someone to spot you?” he asked, an hour later, once Imogen had worked up a good sweat and the morning crowds had thinned as casual gym-goers went off to their jobs.

  She craned her neck to see Russ hovering a safe distance away, his arms crossed defensively across his chest. With one last push, she lifted the bar over her head and onto the prongs designed to hold it in place. It was only eight kilos. She didn’t want to strain something on the eve of battle.

  Imogen sat up, wiping at the sweat on her brow. “I was actually going to take a break…unless my coach has other ideas.”

  He cracked a reluctant smile. “One more set, then you should eat something.”

  “Chocolate and vanilla ice cream?” Imogen asked, playing along.

  “Chicken and steamed broccoli,” said Russell.

  Imogen rolled her eyes with little enthusiasm. “My favorite…”

  “Can we talk?”

  She glanced around to see if anyone was listening in, then shrugged her shoulders as if to say go ahead, talk. The ball was in his court. It wasn’t much of an advantage.

  Russ looked awkward standing there all alone. He’d never been much of a talker and this had to count as one of those conversations he must’ve been hoping to avoid. Imogen took pity on him and scooted back on the bench, patting the empty space. “Hand me that bottle?”

  Her gym bag was only a few feet away, easily within reach if she tilted slightly to the side, but Russ wasn’t the type to accept ordinary kindness. He handed her the bottle. He sat too, curving his back like he was bracing for a blow. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

  “Never happened before?”

  “It’s happened,” Russ said, very softly, “but that’s not the kind of thing you want people to know in this business.”

  Imogen paused, water bottle raised halfway to her lips. He had a point. Challenges came from every quarter, other fighters talked big, then had to put their fists to work toward proving they were better. Sponsors went for the hyper-masculine, the alpha-male types. The female side of the sport favored big tits and hair extensions. It was more tolerant of homosexuality, though, if for all the wrong reasons.

  She hadn’t given much thought to the reverse.

  “But you’re retired now,” Imogen pointed out. “It can’t hurt your career even if Jaime raises a stink.” Which, frankly, she doubted he would. For all his silver spoon ways, Jaime didn’t strike her as the type to give in to gay panic.

  Russ dug his hands into the bench. “I have no desire to tell Jaime.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you two have unfinished business.” He flashed her a smile. “I wanted to take you up on your offer this morning more than you know. But I don’t want you to misunderstand—when I said no sex before a fight, I meant no sex. With him or me.”

  Imogen groaned. “And here I thought he was all dominant and shit. You’re even worse.” It was said without heat, far from a complaint. She swung her foot against Russell’s ankle, merely brushing her sneakered toes against his slacks. “Did you rub one out in the shower after I left?”

  Russ scowled, but she caught his gaze dipping to her lips and knew she had him.

  “Was it good?” In for a penny. Imogen rocked her hips against the bench. To the casual onlooker it might have seemed utterly innocent, but she knew that with the idea planted in his head, Russell would be hyperaware of her presence.

  His nostrils flared, as if he could scent her arousal. “Not as good as it would’ve been with you.”

  “No kidding.” Imogen cocked her head. “Would you’ve had me suck you off? Get your cock nice and wet before you bent me over the edge of the tub?”

  “Does it turn you on, thinking about it?” Russ seemed surprised, the words leaving him in a rush. What did he think, that all those times they’d gone to bed together Imogen had been doing it for his sake?

  She huffed out a breath, nodding. “No harm in that, is there? ’Cause I have to warn you, I don’t think I can stop thinking about sex even if you asked me nicely.” She was willing to change her diet, her workout regimen—even the way she spent her evenings. But her fantasies were her own.

  Russ chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Maybe tonight,” Imogen breathed, “you and me could—you know—put another couple notches on my bedpost? If you’re done being all tortured, I mean…”

  He was still watching her mouth. “Think you’ll be up for it?”

  Imogen grinned shamelessly, twisting her bruised arms this way and that. “If you don’t mind me in shades of blue.” She couldn’t help a flicker of pride. These weren’t just any odd marks. They had been earned on the field of battle. She’d have more by the day’s end. She just needed to beat the undefeated, reigning champion to get there.

  “Get some more ice on those bruises,” Russ advised, levering slowly to his feet. It was as good as a yes.


  Chapter Eleven

  The locker room was quiet but for the drip-drip of the leaking faucet. Imogen ignored it as best she could, gaze trained on the flat expanse of the ceiling where a spider was presently charting unfamiliar territory. It was a brave, long-legged monstrosity, ambling haphazardly to the left and to the right as if it didn’t really know what it was doing. Imogen watched it retrace its steps before striking out all bold and quick-footed, bound for some unknown destination.

  Don’t go that way. The spider made for the door of the locker rooms, the same one that led to a wide cinderblock corridor that spilled out into a vast and noisy auditorium. That way lies danger and stomping feet.

  She dismissed the squeak of footsteps on tile, at first, believing it to be Russell returning from his customary pre-fight cigarette. But then her visitor cleared his throat emphatically and Imogen knew she’d been wrong to assume. She sat up, pinning both elbows to the wooden bench.

  “What are you doing here?” It came out a lot more vitriolic than she’d intended. Imogen winced.

  Jaime stopped in his tracks. “Russ said I could come in.”

  I bet he did. Imogen knew it was unfair. Whatever his feelings, Russ had her best interest at heart. He rarely got it wrong.

  “That was nice of him.”

  “Yeah,” Jaime agreed, scrubbing a hand through his slicked-back hair. He was remarkably consistent about the Don Draper look, even if he lacked his stature. “I wanted to wish you luck out there… Unless that’s taboo, like in the theater.” He glanced at Imogen for confirmation, more uncertain than she had seen him since the night they met.

  “It’s not,” Imogen said, because he seemed to need the encouragement.

  “Good. That’s—well, good luck, then.”

  Imogen rolled her shoulders as she drew herself up to standing. “Is that all you came for?”

  “What else is there?” Jaime’s poker face left a lot to be desired. He was a businessman. Surely he could lie better than that.