M. J.’s little comment about someone having to protect him didn’t seem so innocent anymore.
“I bet I can guess where you live,” she said.
“I’ll save you the trouble . . . ” and him the slight annoyance of hearing her list every swanky neighborhood in town. “Shaker Heights.”
She chuckled. “Probably would’ve been my second or third guess.”
The streetlight overhead cut out suddenly, and the path plunged into a deeper darkness. He didn’t want to be a complete jerk and ask about the safety of this area again, but the hairs standing up on the back of his neck did not make him feel comfortable. And Tag hated being uncomfortable.
“Where are we going?” It was a better option for assessing the true danger he was in.
“End of the block. My friend’s family owns a gym.”
“A gym?”
“Yep. It’s my normal routine after a shift. I walk down here to Bruiser’s, work out a bit, and then Tanya and I walk home. In case you haven’t noticed there’s not much going on around here other than boozing, and it’s not a great idea for anyone to walk alone.”
As if on cue, they neared a dingy building with a neon beer sign in the front window. A massive, intimidating man scowled as they approached.
“Evening, Hank,” M. J. called out as she stepped into the faint glow of a streetlight that wasn’t burnt out or shattered.
The man actually smiled, taxing though it seemed to be for him.
“My friend, Doc,” she said, flicking a wrist toward Tag.
The big guy grunted a greeting.
“Have a nice night,” Tag said as they continued on their way.
She was looking at him again, studying him really. A slow smile lit up her face as they walked away from the giant bouncer man and ominous bar into a far more ominous darkness. Surprisingly, Tag had begun to care less and less about his surroundings, concentrating only on M. J., admiring her easy beauty. No makeup, no pretention, no shield. It was . . . refreshing.
“You don’t mind if I call you Doc, do you?”
“No. That’s fine.”
“Good, because every time I think to call you Tag I want to follow it up with ‘you’re it.’” She grinned.
“Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
“Is it short for something?”
Shit. He looked away, followed a line of missing siding on the building to his right. “Taggard.”
She made a considering sound deep in her throat. “Unusual.”
“Yep.” More lights and noises up ahead. He hoped it was their destination and therefore the end of this conversation. He’d come to M. J. tonight to avoid thoughts about his family. He didn’t want to dive head-first back into that mess. “Is that where we’re going?” he asked, hoping to hurry along the subject change.
“It is.” She nodded. “Is there a story behind a name like Taggard?”
He should’ve known she wouldn’t give up. He might not know her well, but her tenacity was clear.
Tag sucked in a mouthful of musty air. “Taggard was my mother’s maiden name.” His biological mother, but he wasn’t going there. No way.
“Cool,” she said.
It was his turn. “What’s the deal with Maya Jane?”
She glared at him, but then softened the stare with another smile. “Honestly, it’s too much of a mouthful for me, and it represents someone somebody else wants me to be. I’m no Maya Jane. I’m M. J.”
Tag would have to agree. The shorter version suited her no-nonsense attitude.
She nodded at a couple of guys sporting hooded sweatshirts and standing alongside a metal door decorated with graffiti and the name Buster’s Gym and Ring.
Sure enough, there was a boxing ring in the middle of the rundown establishment, and if Tag thought the air outside left something to be desired, the air inside was fouler than the locker room after a hockey game. Good thing he was used to the stench of athletic success.
“Chica, you’re wearing my favorite boots.” A short, fat man with a baseball cap too high on his head and a grin splitting his moon-pie face walked toward M. J.
She glanced down at the boots Tag was just now getting a good look at. Shiny black. Knee-high. Miles and miles of laces up the back. Damn. He rubbed at a hot spot beneath his breast.
“Yep.” M. J. bent down and kissed the man on the cheek.
“You know why I like them boots?”
“I do.”
“Because they’re for ass kicking,” they said in unison, laughing at the end.
Tag didn’t know what to make of the scene, or the older man. His lack of athletic physique paired with advanced age and a white towel over the shoulder seemed to indicate he was some sort of manager.
“This is my friend, Doc. Doc, this is Pop. He’s my best friend’s father, and this . . . ” she swept her arm to the side, “is his gym.”
“Nice to meet ya, Doc.” The man had a vice grip for a handshake. He eyed up Tag good and long. “You box?”
“No, sir.”
“We’re going to change that.”
Tag’s eyes widened enough to bring another laugh to M. J.’s lips.
“No, Pop. He’s not from around here. We just wanted to stop by and see T spar.”
“Oh, I know he’s not from around here dressed all spiffy like that.” The older man chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not welcome in my ring. Whaddya say?”
“Dad!” The shout came from across the room where a giant of a woman in electric blue headgear hung long arms over the top ring rope. Her hands were dressed in purple boxing gloves. When Pop turned, the woman must’ve caught sight of M. J., because she slammed her gloves together, fist to fist, and let out a whoop. “I was about to give up on you. Figured you went home to bed.”
“And miss this?” M. J. asked as she walked closer to the ring. “No way.”
“Hey, you look familiar.” One purple glove poked in Tag’s direction.
There were other people milling around the dusty warehouse-sized space, and after that, all of them were looking at him. Tag flashed a smile despite the complete uneasiness stuffing up his stomach. This was unlike any place he’d ever been. Raw, gritty, and full of people who looked highly skeptical of his motives, considering he was dressed in a suit.
“That’s Doc. He was on the sideline for Saturday’s game.” M. J. snatched him around the elbow and pulled him closer. “Everyone,” she yelled, “this is Doc. Doc, this is everyone.”
More grunts, and then a young man with a flash of angry red below his left eye stepped into view. “Doc as in, ya know, doctor?”
“Yep.” Tag squinted to get a better look at the abrasion on the kid’s face.
“You, uh, wanna take a look at somethin’ for me?” He was maybe sixteen, skinny, with the biggest tattoo covering his pencil neck.
Tag’s instincts said no freaking way did he want to take a look at anything this kid was dealing with. He had “trouble” and “mess” written all over him.
“Dante, he’s not here to work,” M. J. chimed in.
And that was true, but a jagged part of Tag forced a smile at the kid. “Is it your eye?”
The kid nodded.
“How’d that happen?” Tag asked, stepping closer, letting his curiosity get the best of him.
He shrugged. “It, uh, rubs on the headgear. I mean it did, and it was little at first, and then it got worse.”
“Did you see anybody for it?”
“Nah. Shit. I got no insurance, and that clinic’s never open anymore. You know I cleaned it out real good a couple times, but that’s it.”
Turning toward M. J. first, but spying Pop hoisting himself between the ropes, Tag took a few steps toward the ring. “Excuse me, do you have a training room?” The minute he asked, Tag knew it was a stupid question. This place was lucky to have a water fountain.
“The whole place is for training,” Pop said.
M. J. stepped closer to the ring. “He’s ta
lking about a place where people can go get fixed up and wrapped.”
“Ain’t got one of those.”
“How about a sink and some antibacterial soap?” Tag asked.
“I got a sink in the bathroom.” Pop pointed to the far wall. “Don’t know about soap, though.”
Tag wouldn’t touch the kid until he was reasonably sterile, and he had a feeling the bathroom wasn’t going to cut it as far as cleanliness was concerned, but then he remembered the sideline bag he carried in the trunk of his car. He had everything he needed in there.
“I’m going to run to my car for a minute. I have some supplies in the trunk. I’ll be right back.” A man distracted by a medical mission, Tag turned and jogged away.
“Hey,” M. J. called. “You sure you don’t need me to go with you?”
When he faced her, she was smiling, and that smile only added to the resurgence of Tag’s confidence. “I’ll be fine.”
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, he felt like he would be.
• • •
M. J. sat on a box in the corner of Pop’s office, having weaseled her way into the exam simply to make sure Tag and Dante didn’t kill each other. She had a feeling Tag wasn’t used to patients like this. Dante had a reputation for being rude and unresponsive with authority, but Pop was trying to change that, like he did with so many kids.
The walls of his cluttered, dusty office were lined with outdated snapshots of Pop with some of boxing’s greats. Those photos interspersed with school pictures—some as impressive as collegiate-level sports—of the kids who’d trained here. Tanya’s dad was a local legend and a hero to these boys. As the one man in M. J.’s life who encouraged her to be exactly who she was, he was a hero to M. J., too. Pop’s only caveat was for her to be a better M. J. today than she was yesterday. Words to live by.
In the stillness, she watched as Tag’s gloved hands examined Dante’s face. Tag had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. As he worked, the muscles in his back rolled against the smooth, shiny fabric of his dress shirt. She had the ridiculous desire to run her palms over his back.
“I can’t know for sure until I swab it and send the culture for testing, but I don’t have the capability of doing something like that here. Can you come to my office?”
Dante shook his head. “I already told ya, man. I got no insurance.” The lack of respect in his address wasn’t half as offensive as his sneer.
M. J. readied to intervene in case Dante’s attitude prompted arrogance from Tag that would only fuel a confrontation.
“I can work around that,” Tag said with nary a hint of annoyance at the boy. “In fact, I might be able to help you out with that going forward, too. I know people.” He smiled, packing 75,000 watts of electricity into the easy expression.
M. J. pawed at the collar of her shirt. Hot flash. She refused to believe the heat crawling up her face had anything to do with Tag’s kindness toward a kid he could just as easily suspect was capable of spray-painting the hood of his pretty little luxury car.
“Your office on the bus line?” Dante asked.
“It is, but if you have trouble getting there, you let me know. I’ll figure something out there, too. We just need to get this taken care of as soon as possible.”
“Pop can take me,” Dante said with a lift of his chin.
And Pop would. M. J. smiled.
“Okay. Then, how about you come by my office after school tomorrow? I’ll talk to Pop and make sure he’s on board.”
“I don’t do school, but yeah, tomorrow sounds good.”
Tag dragged the gloves off with a snapping sound, and M. J. held her breath, waiting for the “stay in school” lecture a professional-degree-holding guy like Tag had to be cooking up in his head. A kid like Dante wouldn’t tolerate it.
“Then how ’bout you come by earlier if it works for Pop? That way we can get the results faster, because I have to tell you, no more boxing until we know what this is.”
“Ah, shit. Seriously?”
“Seriously. I don’t want to be the bad guy here, but if it’s something contagious, then everyone is going to be at risk for it from sharing equipment. Worse, it could cause an infection in your blood, and we don’t want that, because that would keep you out of the gym for a long, long time. Got me?”
Dante hung his head, but he offered up a “gotcha.”
“Okay, then let’s find Pop and hash this out.”
Dante flashed a hard look at Tag’s outstretched hand, but he took it and added, “Yeah, thanks, man.”
Again M. J. yanked the collar of her shirt away from her neck. This time, she absentmindedly fanned at her face.
Dante rolled out of the room as Tag returned his supplies to his bag. He glanced at her in between rearranging boxes and zipping compartments. “You could’ve stayed to watch your friend box.”
“I know.” But then she would’ve missed this oddly sexy scene: a gorgeous, polished guy with a soft-hearted mission and smarts the likes of which she’d never seen. “I wanted to help if you needed me to.”
He straightened with a devastating grin. “Like my bodyguard?”
Mm. Mm. Mm. The sultry images that word conjured were not good considering M. J. had already decided she wasn’t interested in getting messed up with a man during this critical football season.
“I could definitely be a bodyguard. I got the ass-kicking boots, you know?” She raised a leg and pointed her toe, hoping the touch of humor would diffuse anything unseemly developing between them.
She knew she’d taken the wrong approach the minute she saw his eyes widen and linger on her leg as his grin faded.
“Believe me. I know.” His voice was one breathy notch above a whisper.
“Hey, man, I brought Pop.”
M. J.’s booted foot crashed to the floor the minute Dante walked into the room.
Pop ambled along behind the boy. “I can get him to you.”
Tag faced the men, but not before M. J. noticed the exaggerated rise and fall of his shoulders. A calming, cooling breath, maybe? God knew after whatever just happened between them she needed a couple dozen of those, too. She tried her damnedest to fit in as many as she could while the guys discussed Dante’s appointment.
Later, as they watched Tanya spar, M. J. tried to settle into her evening routine despite Tag by her side.
“Are you gloving up?” Tanya hung on the ropes when the match had ended.
M. J. glanced at Tag and shook her head. “Not tonight.”
Tanya smiled. “How ‘bout you, Doc?”
He laughed. “No, thanks.”
“Fine. Maurice,” Tanya yelled, “get your ass in this ring. And you,” she jabbed toward M. J., “get out of here. Who brings a date to a boxing ring?”
“It’s not a date.”
Tanya looked skeptical as she backed away.
“It’s not,” Tag said. “She turned me down.”
“And you see what good that did me.” M. J. couldn’t hold back her smile.
A minute later, it faltered when Tag said, “I’m going to go. I’m messing up your evening.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re not. I’m the one who brought you here. And I’m glad I did. I bet Dante’s glad I did, too.”
Tag nodded. “I’m glad I came, but I’m still going to go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
M. J. followed him out onto the dark, quiet street. She figured she’d say goodnight and return to the gym, but she said, “I’ll walk with you” instead.
“I can walk back on my own.” He glanced at her as they headed toward his car. “Besides, if anyone’s supposed to be walking anyone anywhere, it’s the guy walking the girl to her car.”
“Only in misogynistic fairytales. In reality, the weaker person—male or female—gets the escort. Trust me, you’re weaker, especially around here.”
He winced and looked away.
Shit. She’d practically called him a misogynist, and then said he was wea
k on top of that. Where was her filter? No wonder he’d flinched like she’d just keyed his precious Beemer. Then again, she didn’t know him well enough to be reading him. Maybe underneath all the sexy grins and gazes he was really just another asshole who couldn’t handle it when a woman had the balls to point out she was stronger than him.
He hadn’t seemed like an asshole with Dante back at the gym.
“I was kidding,” she finally managed.
“I know.” He nodded as he looked ahead.
Sometimes her bravado put her at odds with other people. She didn’t want that to happen after the evening they’d had and the kindness he’d shown for one of Pop’s kids.
“You’re not weaker than me. I mean, look, you’re a good three inches taller and what, fifty pounds heavier?” She lowered her shoulder into his arm. “See? I know how to hit, and you didn’t even move.” As she straightened, his arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her against him, letting her feel exactly how strong he was.
“I just moved,” he said, but he didn’t let her go. He didn’t so much as loosen up on the pressure.
Heat swirled around her waist, where his arm and hand pressed against her. When he faced her, holding her against the length of him, the sensation grew to cover every inch of her skin.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, watching shadows play across his handsome face. Her hands flattened against his chest, and her chin tilted upward.
“Trying to determine who’s weaker.” His gaze roved her face, always returning to her lips.
“Am I supposed to break your grip or something?” Each word was breathier than the last.
“Or something.” He dropped his mouth an inch closer to hers. “See, right now I’m telling myself it would be a very bad idea to kiss you, considering you don’t date during the football season. But it’s really hard to stick with rational thoughts, because, honestly . . . those boots.”
Hearts Are Wild Page 46