Trick Roller

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “Levi,” Dominic said, his face lighting up, “are you saying—”

  “Fight me,” said Levi.

  Dominic circled the mat, eyeing Levi over the few feet of space that separated them. As luck would have it, Levi kept a packed gym bag in the trunk of his car—in case he found time to squeeze in an extra session of Krav Maga training, he’d told Dominic. He’d paid the gym’s guest fee and changed into loose sweatpants, a T-shirt bearing the logo of his Krav school, and a pair of MMA gloves. Now he stood across from Dominic in the same open-handed fighting stance Dominic had seen him use in a confrontation with three gangbangers in April.

  Neither of them were wearing any protective gear besides their gloves, not even cups, so they wouldn’t be able to go all out. Dominic was still on fire with anticipation, though. He’d been imagining this since he first learned what a skilled fighter Levi was.

  “You sure you don’t want to back out?” he taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his own fists raised in front of his face. “I’d hate to put the LVMPD’s best detective out of commission.”

  “Give it your best shot,” Levi said.

  Dominic started with a couple of feints, gauging Levi’s reflexes, but Levi just kept his distance and gave him an unimpressed look. When Dominic threw a genuine left jab, Levi deflected it with his left forearm. In the split second it took Dominic to follow up with a right cross, Levi had already brought his elbow up to block it and was uncoiling with the force of his own momentum, bopping the side of his left fist against Dominic’s cheek as he slid smoothly out of the line of direct attack. Dominic was able to block the couple of open-handed strikes that came next, though not the light, barefoot kick Levi landed on his stomach.

  Levi disengaged, backing up a few feet. “If this were a real fight, I would’ve kicked you in the balls.”

  “If this were a real fight, I would’ve already knocked you on your ass,” Dominic said. He waggled his eyebrows.

  “That’s big talk,” said Levi, smiling.

  Their next sally lasted longer. They traded blows back and forth, mostly able to block or evade each other, though they both managed to land a few glancing strikes that wouldn’t have done much damage even at full force.

  Then, as they got closer, Dominic went for a right hook. Levi threw his left arm up like a goalpost to block it and simultaneously counterattacked with an uppercut—but Dominic had anticipated that reaction, and he weaved out of the way as his fist connected solidly just under Levi’s rib cage.

  Levi gasped, barely redirected his next punch, and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back several steps. They remained separated while they caught their breath, though they stayed in constant motion.

  “You really like to kick,” Dominic said.

  “A person’s legs are their strongest weapons.” Levi raised a disdainful eyebrow. “That’s one of the biggest problems with Western boxing—you ignore half your body.”

  They went again, and now Dominic was getting a better sense of how their fighting styles differed. It went deeper than form and function; there were psychological implications as well. For one thing, while Dominic had dabbled in various martial arts during his time with the Rangers, his training was solidly grounded in traditional boxing and wrestling. He didn’t kick, partly because he hadn’t been trained to.

  But Dominic was also accustomed to being the biggest, strongest guy in any confrontation. He had the luxury of not using his legs to defend himself because he could rely on the power of his upper body alone. Levi, who didn’t have the same advantage, frequently lashed out with kicks to keep him out of striking range, which helped level the playing field.

  There were other dissimilarities. Levi tended to follow up defensive maneuvers with a series of ferocious, blindingly fast counterattacks before disengaging altogether, whereas Dominic preferred to stand his ground and go toe-to-toe. Dominic’s blows had more force behind them when they made contact, but Levi threw strikes he wasn’t used to—like elbows and open hands—that he found difficult to counter effectively.

  On balance, they were evenly matched, at least in a training environment where a lot of things were off-limits. Ten minutes of energetic sparring later, they were flushed and panting, both having gotten in some good hits but neither having gained any real advantage.

  Strength alone wasn’t giving Dominic the edge he needed here. He’d have to use another strategy.

  As a discipline, Krav Maga involved little grappling or ground work, and because Levi hadn’t done much cross-training, he wasn’t a strong ground fighter. Dominic, on the other hand, had been a state-ranked wrestler throughout high school and had continued training in the years afterward.

  He waited until they were mid-exchange, feinted a jab, then ducked down and threw himself at Levi’s midsection—keeping his head tucked against Levi’s chest so Levi couldn’t guillotine him. Levi yelped in shock and slammed both forearms against his shoulder. Dominic felt the catch, the point of leverage that would have stopped a smaller man in his tracks. He muscled through it, overcoming Levi’s defense with sheer overpowering strength, and grabbed the backs of Levi’s thighs to flip him on his back and follow him to the mat.

  Levi made a valiant effort, writhing like an eel and working angles and pressure points while they tussled across the floor. In a real-life situation, he would have stood a better chance; he would have been able to go for Dominic’s groin or eyes, improvise weapons from the environment, even bite. Dominic could actually feel him resisting the instinct to do exactly that.

  In the end, the circumstances combined with Dominic’s greater experience on the ground spelled Dominic’s victory. He wound up clinching Levi from behind, one arm across his chest like a seatbelt and the other pressed against the hand Levi had brought up to protect his throat. His legs were wrapped around Levi’s hips, though he knew better than to hook his feet together in this position. That was a good way to end up with broken ankles.

  Levi went abruptly still.

  If there was one thing Dominic knew about Levi, it was that he would never surrender a fight. He didn’t ease up in the slightest, wary for whatever counterattack Levi was planning next.

  Levi’s body undulated within the confines of Dominic’s grip, his ass starting up a slow grind against Dominic’s cock. Dominic’s breath caught and stuttered in his throat. At first, he thought Levi was just squirming to get away, but his movements were far too sinuous and rhythmic to be anything but deliberate.

  “That’s—that’s cheating,” Dominic said. His cock perked up at the slide of firm round muscles.

  “There’s no such thing as cheating in Krav Maga.” Levi circled his hips lazily, giving Dominic a sort of sideways lap dance. “It’s not a competitive sport; it’s pure survival. I’ll use every weapon at my disposal.”

  Dominic’s eyes fluttered shut against his will. “That tight little ass of yours is a weapon, all right,” he growled into Levi’s ear.

  Levi laughed, a soft, low-pitched sound, and that was it. The second Dominic let down his guard, Levi turned into a whirlwind of sharp elbows and knees. Before Dominic even processed what was happening, he found himself flat on his back with Levi astride his hips, both his hands trapped against his own chest. Levi’s free hand flew toward his face, stopped at the last moment, and tapped him gently on the nose.

  Dominic gazed up at him, captivated by his pink cheeks and bright eyes, and felt nothing but absurdly pleased. “You win.”

  “I fought dirty. Literally.” Levi sat back, putting more weight on Dominic’s stiffening cock.

  “No such thing as fighting dirty in Krav Maga, right?” Dominic ripped off his boxing gloves, tossed them aside, and added, “Besides, I did the same thing. I know you’re not as skilled on the ground and I took advantage of that.”

  “Mmm.” Levi smoothed his gloved hands across Dominic’s chest, biting his lower lip as he raked his eyes over Dominic’s body. “I could be persuaded to a rematch. Under slig
htly different conditions.”

  “Like what?” Dominic ran his own hands up Levi’s thighs.

  Leaning down, Levi murmured, “Friday night. If you manage to pin me again, I won’t try to escape.”

  Dominic groaned and yanked him into a kiss, threading his fingers through Levi’s sweat-damp curls. Levi responded enthusiastically, wriggling against him, rubbing their bodies together—

  A delicate cough sounded to their side. Levi jerked upright, and Dominic turned his head to see a small crowd had gathered at the edge of the mats, including Rolando himself. Their expressions ranged from wide-eyed astonishment to amused smirks.

  Flushing a darker red, Levi leapt to his feet. Dominic stood more slowly, knowing his semi was obvious in his basketball shorts but not really giving a fuck.

  “Sorry, man,” he said to Rolando. “Got carried away.”

  “It’s cool, guys.” Rolando winked. “Just try to keep it PG out here from now on, huh?”

  The gawkers dispersed, leaving Dominic and Levi in relative privacy. Dominic studied Levi, relieved that his embarrassment didn’t seem to have ruined his mood.

  “I can’t believe that just happened.” Levi ducked his head and looked up at Dominic through his eyelashes. On anyone else, the gesture would have been intentional flirtation; for Levi, it was completely unselfconscious. “You make me forget where I am sometimes.”

  Dominic grinned, light and happy, his earlier stressors fading away. He caught Levi’s hand and reeled him in.

  “Got time for a shower?” he asked.

  Between the Hensley murder and the other homicides in their caseloads, Levi and Martine ended up working late. They shared dinner afterward at La Comida, a funky Mexican restaurant downtown with rustic décor and more tequilas behind the bar than there were seats out on the floor.

  “I’ll have all of Hensley’s texts and emails ready to review tomorrow morning,” Levi said, once they’d settled in with drinks. “And I made plans to speak with Dr. Kapoor in-between panels at the conference—”

  “Please, no more work talk tonight,” said Martine. She sipped her passionfruit margarita and let out a blissful sigh.

  He eyed her warily. “All right . . .” Martine loved to talk about work—it was one of the many things they had in common. If she didn’t want to discuss the case, that meant she had another topic in mind, one he probably wasn’t going to like.

  “You and Dominic seem to be getting pretty serious,” she said.

  Bingo.

  Tequila didn’t agree with Levi, so he’d opted for a glass of white wine. He picked it up now but didn’t drink. “Come on. We’ve only been dating a few months. We’re not even technically in a relationship, at least not an exclusive one.”

  “You slept at his place last night without having sex. That’s a pretty big deal.”

  One of these days he was going to stop being surprised that she could read him so well. “That wasn’t . . .” he said, and then paused. Martine didn’t know Dominic was a compulsive gambler; he couldn’t explain that last night had been a matter of necessity and not the cozy romantic cuddlefest she’d assumed. “It wasn’t what you think.”

  “No?” She squeezed her lime wheel into her margarita, set it aside, and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Out of curiosity, how long did it take for you and Stanton to get to the no-sex sleepover stage?”

  He put down his wine without having taken a sip and reached for his water instead. “About six months, I guess.”

  The truth was that he didn’t remember exactly, though it must have been at least that long. He had loved Stanton—truly loved him—but Stanton had needed to coax him along every step of the way. Their relationship had unfolded slowly as they’d learned to know and trust and love each other by degrees, and Levi had worked hard to bring his walls down enough to let Stanton inside.

  Being with Dominic was nothing like that. It was more like jumping headlong off the top of a waterfall and enjoying every single moment of the freefall.

  Across the table, Martine tilted her head. “You don’t still feel guilty about the way things ended with Stanton, do you?”

  “I . . . yeah, a little. I was falling out of love with Stanton long before this thing with Dominic started, and we would have broken up either way, but . . .” He trailed off as the server arrived with their food, thanked her, and waited until she left before he finished his thought. “I just wish there had been less overlap.”

  Martine hummed in understanding. She’d supported him throughout the breakup, which had been an absolute nightmare. After living together for two years, his and Stanton’s lives had been enmeshed in ways that proved difficult to untangle, and Stanton had resisted the entire thing, pleading repeatedly for Levi to reconsider. Add in the fact that Stanton was a public figure—the Barclay family controlled a multi-billion-dollar hotel fortune—and the whole process had been agonizing from start to finish.

  They fell quiet while they savored the first few bites of their food. Martine had gone for a smoked pork shoulder, while Levi had chosen sea bass a la plancha. It was delicious, as the food here always was.

  “I get what you mean,” Martine said, picking up where they’d left off, “but you can’t plan for these things. Life happens. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I kissed Dominic before Stanton and I had broken up,” he reminded her.

  “Okay, so you could have handled that one better. But honestly, Levi, everything worked out for the best. You know I love Stanton, but you and Dominic just click. You have so much more in common.”

  “I agree. It still bothers me, though. And,” he said as she opened her mouth, “you don’t get to say anything about that, because you’ve never experienced a breakup in your entire life.”

  Martine’s love story was the stuff of fairytales; she and her husband Antoine had been childhood sweethearts, growing up one block apart in Flatbush. They’d started dating in middle school and married while they were in college. Their relationship had its rocky moments, of course, but they’d never separated even temporarily.

  “I know,” she said, after she swallowed her mouthful. “We’re #relationshipgoals.”

  Levi snorted into his glass so hard that some of the wine went up his nose. He coughed it out and grabbed his napkin to scrub his mouth. “Did you hear that from Mikayla?”

  “Simone.” Her smile dimmed. “Mikayla’s not really speaking to me or her father at the moment.”

  “Things are still difficult?”

  “They’re . . .” Martine poked her food with her fork and said, “Shitty. No point in downplaying it. The thing is, I’m not even angry. I remember what it’s like to be a teenager—your self-identity is constantly changing, your brain’s going haywire, and everything feels like life or death. I just have to keep reminding myself that she’ll come out on the other side a rational, empathetic human being again.”

  “You should let me take her and Simone to Krav,” Levi said, an old point of contention between them. “There’s nothing better for purging teenage angst than beating the hell out of a heavy bag. Plus, it would keep them safer.”

  Recalling the promise he’d made to Adriana, he made a mental note to check her status with Natasha the next day.

  “I’d love that, but they just don’t have time. They’re overscheduled as it is, between all their homework and sports and clubs. It’s insane what it takes for kids to get into a good college these days. When I was their age, you were set as long as you had decent grades, did well on the SATs, and had a couple of extracurriculars. Now they expect everyone to be a goddamn child prodigy . . .”

  She went on in that vein, venting her frustrations, and Levi was happy to listen. He much preferred talking about Martine’s life to talking about his own.

  They went their separate ways after dinner, tired but sated. Levi was a couple of minutes into his short drive home when his cell rang. It paired automatically with his car’s Bluetooth, so he just pressed a button on the dashbo
ard and said, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Levi, it’s your mother.”

  He rolled his eyes fondly. “What’s up?”

  “You’re not still at work, are you?” Nancy asked.

  “No. I just left dinner with Martine, and I’m on my way home.”

  “Oh, Martine is such a sweetheart. Remind me to email her this recipe for slow-cooker chicken chili I found online. But you.” Nancy’s voice, a usually gentle North Jersey twang, hardened in a way that made Levi cringe instinctively. “Explain to me why Lori Schneider says you haven’t RSVPed for Matthew’s bar mitzvah yet?”

  Shit. “Um . . .” Levi cast about for an excuse, but he’d never been any good at lying to his mother. “I forgot?”

  “You forgot,” she said icily. “The due date was three days ago. Is this the way your father and I raised you?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll call Mrs. Schneider first thing tomorrow morning. I can’t go, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have to work, Mom,” he said. “I’m not taking time off and flying across the country to watch some kid I barely know flounder through his haftarah portion.”

  “You—”

  There was a small scuffle, and then his father said, “Hi Levi, it’s Dad.”

  “Hi—”

  “I told your mother you wouldn’t be able to come. You’ve got an important job to do; you can’t just take off every time someone has a party.”

  “Lori Schneider is one of my closest friends!” Nancy said in outrage, her voice every bit as audible as if she’d been speaking into the phone herself.

  “Since when?” said Saul. “Besides, that boy of hers is growing up into a snotty little prick.”

  “Oh, you—”

  Levi drove into his building’s parking garage to the background noise of their friendly bickering. It was comforting, in its own way—like a well-worn sweatshirt.