Dirty Boxing

by Harper St. George

  “What’s with the apron?” she asked when he closed the grill. He’d slipped it on when he’d been walking outside so she hadn’t gotten a good look until now. Beneath a warning sign were the words: Hot Stuff Coming Through. “Doesn’t seem like your style.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Allison gave it to me. I should probably throw it out.”

  “Allison?” Admittedly they hadn’t talked much, but he’d never mentioned he was dating anyone.

  He waved her off, untied the apron, and draped it over a prep table. “It ended awhile back.”

  Jules didn’t know why it hurt, but a hollow ache throbbed just beneath her heart. Swallowing her questions, she asked, “Do you need me to toss a salad?”

  “Already did it. The bowl’s in the fridge, but I’ll get it. Just sit and enjoy the wine. It’s straight from Napa.” He walked through the open French doors to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and pulled out a large wooden bowl. “You remember Mike from O’Malley’s in Boston?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “O’Malley’s? Wasn’t that your old gym?”

  “Yeah, Mike was the guy who was this tall,” he held his hand up to his chest, “and about as wide as a Mack truck.” He retrieved some bowls from a cabinet and doled out salad into each one.

  Her mom had never allowed her to hang out at his gym, so she couldn’t understand why he thought she’d know one obscure guy. Why didn’t he remember that she was hardly ever there with him? It was just like the strawberry ice cream all over again. Instead of arguing, she put her glass down and met him at the open doors to take the bowls. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

  “How could you not remember? He was there all the time, had a buzz cut and no eyebrows.” His eyes widened in surprise and he raised the bowls to emphasize his question.

  She laughed at his description to cover the sinking feeling in her stomach, and shrugged as she set the salads down on the patio table. “I wasn’t there as much as you seem to think. I only remember going a couple of times.”

  He shook his head as if he’d forgotten and pulled their baked potatoes from the oven. “Well, he met some woman after one of my fights. She was older. A wine heiress.” He pulled the foil off each one, wincing as he tried not to burn his fingers, before putting each steaming potato on a small plate. “They got married and he lives in Napa now at her winery. That’s their Cabernet.”

  “That’s unbelievable.” She forced a smile. So he didn’t remember her not being around his gym much. It wasn’t a big deal. She wouldn’t let it ruin dinner.

  “I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. He’s sworn off Guinness and can tell you which vintage to pair with any cut of meat.” Her father smiled as he delivered the food to the table and then went to retrieve their steaks from the grill. He took his seat across from her, taking a healthy pull from his beer.

  “This looks great, Dad. I didn’t know you could cook.” Her childhood had been filled with takeout and cereal.

  “I don’t much, but I have a few specialties.” He cut into his rib eye and took a bite, chewing it before he said, “Don’t you remember the special mac and cheese with bacon I made every time you had a friend sleep over? You loved it.”

  “Yeah.” She took a deep breath to control the sudden surge of anger flaring inside her at the way he remembered things differently than she did. “But I only remember you making that one time.”

  He frowned, his brows drawing together. “No, I made it lots of times. You’d have that friend over, the one with the curly hair. What was her name? Sara . . . Suzy . . .”

  “Her name was Jamie. It was third grade and she only came over the one time because you and Mom spent the whole night arguing, and I was too embarrassed to invite her back. I never invited anyone else to sleep over.”

  “Shit.” He mumbled the word and took another drink of his beer. “That’s not true.”

  “It is true.” She picked up her knife and began sawing her steak into bite-sized pieces to give herself something else to focus on besides her growing frustration with him. “You can’t keep whitewashing my childhood and pretending that everything was normal, because it wasn’t. But I didn’t come over to talk about what happened back then. Let’s just talk about now. Work.”

  “We can do that at the office. I want to get to know you.”

  “Okay, fine, that’s fair. But let’s stick to the present.” She’d moved on to slathering butter on her baked potato to avoid looking at him. He was staring at her, and she didn’t want to see that confused look on his face. “Last year, I worked on an ad campaign for that new dating app, Plus 1. There’s a funny story about the models we hired. Apparently they’d dated before, and it didn’t go well.” Taking a bite of her potato, she looked up to see that he was still watching her with a bemused expression.

  “That’s work. I want to know about you. Are you dating anyone? Break any hearts?”

  Nick flashed through her mind. She still couldn’t believe she’d done that last night. There was just something about being near him that made her lose control.

  Aware that her dad was still watching her, a flush crept up her neck. What was wrong with her? What was she doing? He could have caught them last night, and he probably would’ve canceled Nick’s contract on the spot. He might’ve even fired her for getting close to a fighter. She couldn’t let him know about her mixed-up feelings for Nick, or their history. “Like I told Gary, I’m not dating anyone.”

  Her dad sighed, and she wasn’t sure if he thought she was avoiding the question, but she didn’t look up to find out. Instead she ate her steak, and they fell into an awkward silence.

  Finally, he said, “I know we weren’t the Cleavers, but it wasn’t all bad.”

  “Dad . . . just . . . let’s not talk about it. Let’s move forward, okay?”

  But he didn’t listen. “Don’t you remember the time we went to that beach in New Hampshire? We had fun, just the two of us, swimming while your mom laid out on the sand.”

  “Yeah, it was a fun day.” She clenched her fingers around her fork and took a deep breath. Typical. He’d only remember the fun part and not everything that happened afterward.

  “We spent the weekend, I thought.”

  “We did. You didn’t.” She dropped her fork and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “We spent the afternoon on the beach, and then you and Mom argued that night about some woman who’d hit on you in the restaurant at dinner. You left, and Mom spent the next day in bed. I watched cartoons by myself and ate stale sandwiches.”

  He sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face. “Your mom and I were going through a rough patch. We probably should’ve ended things long before we did.”

  “I know you were, but you keep pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t. It sucked, Dad. I never knew where you were or when you were coming home. My memories of family dinners are of you and Mom screaming at each other.” She pushed away her half-eaten steak and looked down at the glass table to rein in her anger.

  “What do you want from me? I can’t go back and change anything.”

  “You’re right. You can’t and I’m not asking you to. But acting like everything was okay back then isn’t helping us now. Just stop pretending that we had all of these great family moments, because we didn’t.”

  “I’m not pretending anything.” His jaw clenched. “You were just a kid. Maybe you’re only remembering the bad things.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “You’re not remembering things the way they happened.”

  “That’s not fair.” He drained his beer and pushed back from the table. “I was around, Julian. You can’t tell me I wasn’t—I was there for birthdays and Christmases. Give me a little credit. You’re making me sound like a fucking ogre. Jesus Christ.”

  She ignored the ogre comment and plowed ahead. “Yeah, you were aroun
d . . . until you weren’t. Until you couldn’t be around Mom without arguing, until you started booking more fights and stopped coming home.” The conversation was quickly starting to get out of control, and she was losing her temper. Another family dinner ruined by an argument. “Look, Dad, I didn’t come over to get into this with you. I think I should go and . . .” And what? Act like everything was fine, just like they’d been doing before she’d moved here? She rose to her feet and said, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

  He called after her, but she didn’t stop. Grabbing her purse, she rushed out to her car fighting tears. This had gone almost as badly as she’d feared. They’d be screaming at each other by now if she hadn’t left. Typical Darcy dinner. And she’d been as much a part of the argument as her dad. She’d become just like her parents. Perfect.

  Slamming her car door shut, she covered her face with her hands, trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d made a huge mistake moving to Vegas. First Nick and whatever the hell was still going on between them, and now her dad. If she’d stayed in Boston, she wouldn’t be dealing with this. There’d be the occasional visits from her mom to complain about a boyfriend or something, but everything would be fine. Her life wouldn’t be this fucked-up soap opera.

  Oh God, Nick. He was going to get the wrong idea from last night and think there was something going on between them, because why wouldn’t he? And fuck if she knew what was going on with them. Even thinking about having her hand around his cock was turning her on all over again. She’d felt so good with him, so alive, so free—both last night and during their time together in Chicago. But she also couldn’t forget who she was, or why she’d run in the first place.

  What a mess.

  10

  Jesus Christ, did every woman in Las Vegas want him?

  Jules couldn’t tear her eyes from the sight of Krista, the makeup artist, casually touching Nick’s bare shoulder as she pressed a buffing pad along the ridge of his brow. He must’ve made a joke, because the woman threw her head back and laughed, tossing her glossy dark hair over her shoulder. Nausea churned in Jules’ stomach. Krista was curvy and sexy, and she’d been very sweet and helpful the entire photo shoot. She was exactly the type of woman Nick would be interested in. Jules had no reason to be upset. She knew that, but sometimes it was hard to remember.

  It had been a little over a week since the nightclub incident—that’s what she’d started calling it. She’d managed to avoid him for the most part while she tried to find the words to explain to him her reasons for pushing him away while also giving him a semipublic hand job. But her heart still tripped over itself every time she caught a glimpse of him. So far, he’d behaved as if it hadn’t even happened. He’d walked into the photo shoot as if nothing had changed between them.

  “What do you think?” Enrique, the photographer she’d hired for the campaign, walked up to the table, taking a drink from his bottle of water.

  Jules jerked her attention back to the laptop in front of her, staring at the thumbnails of video clips and stills he’d taken during the first half of the shoot. She’d been reviewing the segments before getting distracted by Nick and Krista, and Krista’s hands on Nick. She swallowed and forced herself to focus. “These are great. I love the close-up shots of his hands as he’s putting on the hand wraps. I’m so glad you were available on such short notice.”

  Enrique nodded and came up beside her to point one out. “We could change this one to black and white. We’d have shadowing here, and could even slow it down. It’s very versatile.”

  “It is. I’m imagining it as the start of the spot. We open with music and then a slower version of him putting on the wraps as we build up to the other guys and broader shots with faster and faster cuts between images.”

  “That’d be a powerful way to set the mood,” Enrique agreed. “We could take stills from this too.” He pointed at a video of Nick standing, turning toward the camera and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’d look great in print.”

  “It would. These are all amazing. I think we’re ready to move on to the more dynamic action shots,” Jules said as she stepped back from the table.

  Enrique nodded, and then went off to supervise his two assistants as they changed the lighting around. They’d converted a corner of the gym so they’d have access to punching bags and other training accessories they might need, which meant they were shooting at night when everyone was gone. Which was fine, except she wished there were more people around to keep her attention off Nick. But then she thought of what had happened at the club and realized a room full of people couldn’t save her from wanting him.

  The music that had been playing while they were shooting changed from a dance beat to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” With a sigh of frustration at herself for still being hung up on him, she plastered on a smile and walked to where Nick stood, determined to face her demon head-on. He adjusted one of the giant wind machines an assistant had set up at the beginning of the shoot, fiddling with the dial on top. Krista had gone back to her table of supplies.

  “You’re doing great. Enrique is very happy with what we’re getting. Thanks again for doing this,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, trying not to think of where her hands had been a week ago.

  His trademark cocky smile appeared, the one where one side of his mouth tipped up higher than the other, but he didn’t look at her. She swallowed hard when her tummy fluttered in response. “Did you doubt me?” he asked, and turned the fan on.

  “No . . .” She automatically started to reassure him, but stopped when he tossed his hair dramatically, the thick dark strands catching the wind and blowing out behind him. She caught a faint whiff of the citrus scent of his shampoo. It was the same scent she’d worn on her skin after spending the night with him back in Chicago. Arousal tugged low and deep in her belly at the memory.

  He moved his shoulders and hips in time with the music as he tossed his head again. She couldn’t help teasing him, laughing a little. “Are you pretending to be Beyoncé?”

  Looking over his shoulder at her, he winked. “Everyone secretly wants to be Beyoncé.”

  She laughed harder, not even bothering to restrain it. As she watched him toss his hair like Beyoncé, bare chested with his hands still in fight wraps, she realized just how much she’d missed him. Missed this playfulness. Missed the way he could make her laugh when she was stressed. After that disastrous dinner with her dad last week, things had been very tense between them. He only spoke to her when he had to, and avoided her the rest of the time. Laughing with Nick was nice and made her forget that for a few minutes.

  “I wouldn’t mind being Beyoncé,” she agreed when she finally stopped laughing. “But you should stop playing with the wind machine. It looks expensive.”

  “Nuh-uh.” He grabbed her hand when she reached for the dial and pulled her in front of him, facing the wind. “Just try it.”

  “What? No.” But she’d started laughing again.

  “Just try. Here.” He gently nudged her feet apart. “Power stance,” he explained. “Now close your eyes and toss your head.” His hands went to her shoulders to pull them back before sliding down her arms to take her hands, leaving her skin tingling. She couldn’t stop her fingers from curling around his, craving more of his touch.

  Spreading her arms out, he made her dance while singing, “All the single ladies,” softly in her ear. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and his breath sent prickles of heat down her neck. Shivers raced down her spine, and her nipples tightened at the sensation of the coarse wraps against her skin. The hard muscles of his chest were solid and warm against her back.

  At one time she would’ve turned and kissed him, but that part of their relationship had to stay in the past. With his chest pressing into her back, though, it was hard to remember exactly why. Before Jules realized it, she was playing his game, swaying and shaking her hips to
the music. She had to resist the urge to press herself against him every time her butt brushed his hips, reminding herself for the hundredth time that they were just coworkers. She’d just started singing the chorus with him when someone cleared her throat.

  Krista stood there giving them a knowing smile. “Enrique says it’s time for the sweat.” She held a spray bottle in one hand and a white cloth in the other.

  Jules pulled her hands away from Nick’s and turned off the machine, already missing his warm body at her back. “Sorry, we were just playing around.” When she looked back at Nick, he was staring at her, an intense heat in his eyes, and she felt so damn good, so damn happy, that she couldn’t find it in her to regret letting her guard down.

  Krista just smiled in response and held the cloth out to Jules. “Wanna help?”

  “Oh, sure.” Taking the cloth, Jules realized the bottom side was soaked in a familiar smelling oil. “Is this olive oil?” she asked, making a face.

  Krista nodded. “It’s heavy enough to sit on his skin for the whole shoot without getting absorbed.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “The idea is to make it look like he’s been training, so layer a small amount of the oil on his forehead, nose, cheekbones, pecs, and stomach.” Krista demonstrated by pointing to each body part as she spoke. “All the places that normally get shiny when you sweat. I’ll spray water on the oil, and it’ll bead up to look like sweat. Shit, forgot the towel. Go ahead and start. I’ll be right back.” Setting the spray bottle on a nearby stool, she hurried away to dig through a large duffel bag.

  Nick picked up the spray bottle and sat on the stool to give Jules better access. She couldn’t take her eyes from his broad, muscled chest. When she didn’t move toward him, he raised a brow, smirk firmly in place, that heat still in his eyes. “Grease me up, woman,” he said in a Scottish accent, imitating Groundskeeper Willie from The Simpsons.