Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  “Everyone has a weakness. You, for instance, don’t know when to quit.”

  Imogen grinned. She could taste blood in her mouth and her lip smarted when she moved her mouth. “Pizza, tonight,” she said. “Tell Jaime.”

  “Do I look like the postal service?”

  “Nah…you look hot,” Imogen panted as she slid her mouth guard back in. Her teeth were about the only part of her still intact. She was vain enough to want to keep it that way. “Pizza, okay?”

  Russ nodded. “You’ve got two more rounds to go. That’s all we need. Just two more rounds.”

  He might as well have said she had ten for all that it seemed to alter her outlook going into the next round. Even raising her guard seemed like a herculean task, never mind circling in and out of Luz’s reach. Russ wanted Imogen to puzzle out her weaknesses—either he was being deliberately obtuse or he was going senile in his old age. Sweat-slick and badly bruised, Luz moved like she owned the ring.

  Maybe her footwork was getting a little sluggish, but Imogen could hardly criticize. Her own was fast losing precision. Had this been the gym and not the venue in which Imogen’s future as a fighter was decided, she’d be listening to Russell bellow about how slow steps don’t scare no one, about waving arms like limp noodles—think that’s racist? So do something about it!

  Imogen dodged a punch, found herself too low to hit back and went ahead into a full squat, kicking out just before she hit the mat. She slammed her foot into Luz’s right knee, the one with the scar, and saw the other woman drop.

  Imogen was up again in an instant, breathing hard as she braced for a blow that never came. Luz was still down. Holy shit. Imogen saw her opening and did the only thing she could.

  She went on the attack.

  They tousled, grappling for an anchor they couldn’t find. Just when Imogen thought she had her pinned, Luz flipped them over, raining down punches like her limbs were machine-operated.

  She’s not human. Imogen covered her head as best she could when that became the focus of Luz’s unbridled violence. She struggled to get a knee between them, but she had no leverage and Luz was so fast, she hit so hard. She turned Imogen’s biceps black and blue before the final whistle rang out.

  At least she had the good grace to sound like she was out of breath. Small mercies. Imogen could barely stand.

  * * * *

  “What, no clever comeback this time?” Russ asked, taking a knee in front of her. He tried to put on a smile, but his crinkling eyes betrayed his fear. “Come on, buttercup. Talk to me.”

  “’S’not…looking good,” Imogen slurred around the mouth guard. She had bitten her tongue when Luz had sent her crashing to the floor and it hurt like hell. She wondered dimly if she could choke on it during the match. It would be a pretty mortifying way to go, but almost anything was preferable to getting another pummeling.

  “You’ve gotta learn to manage expectations. I think it looks a picture,” Russ said, patting the cuts that had reopened with a once-white towel. “Hey, hey. Hey! If you don’t hurry up and win this, I’m gonna steal your man, right?”

  Imogen blew out a snort. “Kick your ass.”

  “Don’t seem like you have it in you, to be honest…” He cupped the back of her skull in a meaty hand. “What are her weak spots, Genie?”

  He knew she hated it when he called her that, just like she hated all other pet names outside of the bedroom, but protesting took way more effort than Imogen could muster. “Her knee,” she wheezed. “There’s a scar.”

  “Surgery?”

  Imogen shrugged. It was possible. Luz had certainly howled like a banshee when Imogen struck her kneecap more or less by chance.

  “Good enough,” Russ drawled. “You get her to tap out, Genie. Whatever it takes.”

  She knew what that meant, what Russ was advising. It was a last resort in the philosophy by which he ran his gym and trained his students. You don’t damage a fighter irreparably. Your job is to earn their surrender, not cripple them until they can’t fight. Yet crippling Luz was precisely what he was suggesting.

  You don’t have a killer instinct, he had accused her after she first fought Chernayevska. He didn’t have to say it aloud. If it’s not her, it’ll be you. Once the fight went to points, there could be no doubt as to whom would emerge the victor. Luz had dominated the fight from the beginning.

  Imogen forced herself upright. How many eyes were on her now? How many people were hoping to see the great Megan Luz destroy yet another pretender?

  The guys back at the gym would be watching. Maggie, with her pink hair and pink nails, would be crossing fingers and toes on Imogen’s behalf. Desiree, too, would have the whole club hanging on Imogen’s every punch.

  Somewhere in that audience, at Imogen’s back, Jaime was following her every move. Should’ve asked for something gourmet, Imogen thought with the kind of addled conviction that makes the extraneous seem all encompassing. Had to go for pizza.

  She was glad when Luz came at her, stony-faced and staggering. She got two hits in, then on the third Luz broke her rhythm by shoving Imogen into the metal net that surrounded the ring. It was nothing new, just a constant stream of pain, with Luz firmly hanging onto the upper hand.

  They wound up on the mat in a flurry of blows and growling kicks, most of which didn’t find their target. It didn’t matter, the fight was winding down either way. In less than two minutes, it would be over, whether Imogen found her opening or not, whether Luz knocked her out or didn’t.

  One moment’s inattention became the opportunity Imogen had been holding out for. She got Luz pinned, one arm twisted under her and the other lashing out despite Imogen’s best attempts to parry. Luz worked a knee loose and made to catch her in the chin with the kind of blow that could make grown men cry.

  For once, though, Imogen had the upper hand and the space to move. She swung her fist, slamming her knuckles into the faint discoloration surrounding Luz’s kneecap. The joint popped with a horrific, audible crunch.

  Luz wailed in pain so visceral Imogen could barely imagine, but the sound was lost to the roar of the audience. Like wolves, they had scented blood and crippled prey. Imogen had to bite back the urge to recoil. There wasn’t much time left before the whistle. She couldn’t risk leaving it to the judges.

  With the very last of her strength, Imogen straddled her opponent’s waist and laid into her with fists and blind rage, hitting and hitting until Luz could barely parry. She felt her twist, saw her reach out a hand over the blood-speckled mat.

  She saw Luz slam her open palm against the mat once, twice, three times.

  Luz wasn’t the only one to sprawl like dead weight as the crowd erupted in cheers. Imogen fell down beside her, shoulders shaking with the heaving-bellows of her gasps. Victory tasted of blood and salt.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Pretty sure the doctors said no alcohol,” Russell noted with a pointed sigh. “And what are you doing?”

  Imogen shrugged, holding up her paper cup for Jaime to refill. “Taking a creative approach to self-medication?”

  “Relax,” Jaime said, “I’ve checked with the nurses. She’s on surprisingly mild medication. I guess they don’t trust her to overdo it, either.” He stroked his thumb over Imogen’s wrist as he pulled away, but whether that was meant to be a proprietary touch or something more in the region of an apology, Imogen couldn’t say. In fairness, though, she was in a hospital bed, recovering from a hypotensive episode, so maybe puzzling out the complicated non-verbal communication of the human male was probably just slightly beyond her reach.

  “Smart folks,” Russ said, standing there awkwardly with the bouquet of yellow roses still clutched in one hand.

  “Gimme,” Imogen said, flicking her hand in his direction.

  “Greedy,” Jaime chided.

  “They’re for me, aren’t they?” Wait for your own, she almost added, biting back the retort before she made things more awkward between them.

  Russell, o
blivious, handed over the bouquet. It was a nice one. Two-dozen roses tied with ivory satin ribbon and shaved of their thorns. Imogen plucked out one of the blossoms, twisting just under the flower to liberate it from the bouquet. “They’re talking about holding me overnight,” she groused, sliding the rose behind her ear. “Think this’ll convince them I’m too pretty to lock up?”

  At her request and after considerable badgering, the nurse had procured a mirror so Imogen could examine her new bruises to her heart’s content. They were many, the most dramatic by far on her belly and thighs. Her face was relatively clean, barring some swelling in her right cheekbone and a few shallow cuts here and there. By some miracle, she still hadn’t lost a tooth.

  This wasn’t to say that Russell’s wince was simply gratuitous.

  “I know I’d feel better if I knew you were in safe hands tonight,” he sighed, hovering at her bedside. “You gave me a scare.”

  “I did?” Imogen beamed. “Mission accomplished.”

  She’d be lying if she claimed it had been intentional, but at least she had picked a good time to do it—Jaime had already set her mind to rest on that score. She was the undisputed winner.

  “I hear I’m a rich woman now,” Imogen went on.

  Jaime clicked his fingers. “Yeah, one million bucks, wasn’t it?”

  Imogen glanced at Russell, waiting for him to make the correction. She should’ve known he wouldn’t.

  ”It’s not written in any contract,” Russ said, shaking his head. “I’m not going to hold you to the terms.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes. “Because I’m a woman or because I’m laid up in bed like an invalid?” Russell’s arched eyebrows foretold a quarrel, which was why Imogen interjected before he could speak. “Or is it because he’s still around?” she asked, jerking her chin toward Jaime.

  The man in question arched his brows. “I’m sorry?”

  “Here’s the deal—Russell thinks we’ve got unfinished business, you and I, and I’m inclined to agree. And seeing as I’m currently wearing a paper robe with no back, I think there’s no time like the present to get it all into the open. What do you think?”

  Jaime said nothing, but he set down the small wine bottle and stuffed his hands into his pockets, standing at what might have been approaching attention in the Hamptons.

  “I had a great time going to bed with you,” Imogen said. “And I want to do it again. I kissed you before the fight because I like you. A lot.” She felt no shame in admitting as much and didn’t think it would come as any news. There was something about the way Jaime looked at her, the way he touched her when they were in bed together that Imogen couldn’t give up. He was good company, the kind of man she could see herself with in the future.

  She went on, “But I’m not going to give Russell up for you, either. I know you haven’t asked me, that you’re too noble to mention it… Truth is, I have feelings for him. And unless I screw up dramatically—which let’s face it, can totally happen—I think he’s going to be a part of my life for a while yet. So that’s where I stand. You want in, that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  “You want to date us both,” Jaime surmised.

  “Yes.”

  “At the same time.”

  Imogen nodded. Given Russell’s not-so-helpful fuck-up the other night, she didn’t put much faith in Jaime seeing this as a viable arrangement, but it was freeing to admit to herself what she wanted, however unconventional.

  “And you’re okay with this?” Jaime temporized, pitching the question to Russ.

  “That was going to be my second question,” Imogen said, tracking his gaze to the man who had held her hand through countless fights, telling her when to pull back and when to apply pressure. She was less fearful of his answer.

  Russell might’ve looked ill at ease in his suit, elbow patches and checkered shirt and all, but he nodded solemnly when Jaime appealed to his faithful foot-dragging. “I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  It meant a lot. Imogen reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, because Russell was one of the most conventional people she knew and expecting him to go along with something like this was like throwing dice.

  Jaime shook his head. “I don’t know, Imogen. An open relationship isn’t really something I’ve ever wanted to try before. I—I’ll have to think about it.”

  She could pretend her heart didn’t sink all she wanted, but the fact of the matter was that hearing Jaime’s wavering voice was enough to make Imogen doubt the whole spiel. Could she have been more convincing? Not without lying, or at least baring a secret that wasn’t hers to bring up. She bit her lip. “You don’t have to make up your mind now. I know it’s a lot to swallow.”

  They hadn’t been together long, but their passion had kindled into a solid flame after only a couple of nights. She suspected it wasn’t so different for Jaime, who for all his money and his sprawling corporate agenda still lived alone in a six-bedroom penthouse in his ivory tower. Asking him to share her with Russell—the man who had point-blank asked him to step aside—was ambitious, maybe even too much so.

  “Take all the time you need,” Imogen repeated. “You know where to find me. You have my number…”

  “Yeah.” Jaime’s smile was soft, tepid. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I should… I should go. Leave you guys to it.” He seemed suddenly like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

  Imogen nodded. What else could she do?

  It hurt to see him slip out of the door and disappear down the blue-painted corridor, into the amorphous mob of visitors and patients ambling the halls of the hospital.

  “Well, that was a disaster,” she drawled into the ensuing silence.

  “He’ll come back.”

  Russell’s quiet certitude drew a snort of laughter out of Imogen. “That’s what you think? I’m willing to be he gets amnesia and misplaces my phone number all in one fell swoop. Next time we hear about him will be in the papers—billionaire executive and real-life Bruce Wayne marries Windsor princess. Something like that,” Imogen said, finding it hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  Beside her, Russell glanced at the roses in her lap. “Do you think it would’ve helped if I said something?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Imogen sighed, bringing their joined hands to her lips. “You’re not leaving, too, are you?” She meant it as a joke, but it came out a little more wary than light-hearted.

  Russ must’ve heard the note of genuine panic in her voice, because he shook his head and said, “Not until the nurses kick me out. You fought well out there.”

  “Just well?”

  “It took you five rounds,” he pointed out, making every attempt to conceal a smile and still failing.

  Imogen scoffed. “Changed my mind, you can so leave. I think I need to be alone with my wine and my flowers—” She gave up the lie the minute Russell bent to take her lips in a soft kiss. He knew about her injuries, so he kept it light and careful, clearly forgetting who he was dealing with.

  Imogen snagged a hand around his nape and pulled him to her.

  She could only get so much mileage out of the rose behind the ear thing, so she let it drop as Russ began to draw back after a few moments and Imogen followed, keen on prolonging the kiss. It was to no avail. “You know, if you’re going to use your height to your advantage like that,” she whined, “this relationship won’t go very far.”

  “You’re pretty banged up,” Russ countered. “I just think you should take it easy. Heal up first.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” he echoed, arching his brows with a mischievous smirk.

  He wasn’t Jaime, he didn’t follow that up with a point-by-point description of what he would do once he got Imogen to himself, and she didn’t ask him to. It was enough to have him at her bedside, his hand in hers.

  She could convince herself that it felt complete.

  * * * *

  It took two days for Imogen to get over the worst of the inj
uries. By the third, she was back in the saddle. A few funny looks on the train were quickly dismissed as the usual busybodies forgetting to mind their own business. It wasn’t until she reached the gym and saw the fight on replay on every screen that Imogen understood.

  “You’re famous!” Maggie gushed, throwing her arms around Imogen’s neck. She was ninety pounds soaking wet, but Imogen was still recovering from the fight and she winced badly. Maggie desisted. “Oh, did I hurt you? I’m sorry—it’s just so exciting! You’re, like, a real life celebrity now!”

  “I am?” Mixed martial arts didn’t draw the crowds that wrestling or boxing matches did and the female end of the sport often seemed more preoccupied with the size of one’s bosoms.

  But Maggie was nodding fiercely. “Didn’t Russ tell you? Registrations have gone up fifty percent! We’re going to run out of room before you know it. I keep telling Russ we need to buy the building next door and expand—”

  They had entered the main floor of the gym and Imogen stopped short, balking at the number of people sparring, lifting weights, spotting each other by the sandbags. A girl not much taller than her was doing upside down crunches.

  “It’s awesome, right?” Maggie gave her elbow a squeeze. “I’ve never seen the gym so full. The fight was great for business…and you, of course,” she added, bumping her shoulder against Imogen’s. “Do you want to—?”

  “I think I’ll head upstairs.” Russell’s glass-walled office was a familiar constant in a sea of change and right then and there, Imogen felt like she needed the comfort of the known.

  Maggie released her without objection. She had the front desk to man, she said, smiling with more self-assurance than Imogen had ever seen her exhibit. She’s getting paid at the end of the month. That was well worth skipping around for. Why, then, did Imogen want to hide?

  Russ glanced up when she stepped through the door, his smile immediately giving way to a mask of wariness. “Hey… Everything okay?”

  They had parted just a couple of hours earlier with Imogen still in bed, sipping at her coffee. It had been a simple sort of luxury, domesticity beyond anything she’d ever believed she could appreciate. It made her want to call her mother and apologize for the horrible things she’d said at Sherry-Ann’s wedding, what felt like a lifetime ago.