He looked skeptical.
“No, really.” She glanced around, then remembered she wasn’t in her regular training room. “I’ve normally got my pamphlets. There’s a great one I did on how many hours of sleep a night each individual needs. It’s got some scientific research about—”
“Forget it,” he muttered and sat back. The movement was so jarring, the table scooted three inches and she had to roll forward on her stool once more.
“That sounded pretty disrespectful, Marine,” came a lazy voice from behind her.
As if he’d been hit by lightning, Bailey sat up straight, nearly kicking Marianne in the nose on reflex. “I apologize, ma’am. I’ll do my best. I can grab some of those pamphlets on my way out.”
“Cook,” she reminded him, for the third time since he’d huffed into her makeshift training room. “Just Cook. And you’re fine. Being injured is never fun, but you—”
“I’m not injured, ma—Cook. I’m not injured,” he added again to Brad, who’d walked in and hopped up easily on the second table. He let his duffel fall to the floor and lay down, lacing his fingers over his stomach as if he had nothing else to do and all the time in the world to kill.
She knew better. He wanted ice for his knee, and didn’t want anyone else to know.
“Whatever you say, Marine.” His voice stating he was purely unconcerned, Brad closed his eyes and tuned them out.
Or, if he hadn’t tuned them out, then did an impressive job faking it.
She finished the wrap and gave Bailey’s calf a light slap. “You’re done. See me again before evening practice and we’ll check the wrap and go from there. And Bailey,” she added when he slid his shoe back on. When he glanced at her, it was panic she saw in his eyes. “Don’t hide it. I’ll find out eventually if you’re hurting, and how bad. But it’s only going to get worse if you keep the truth from me.”
He nodded, gave her what she assumed he considered a courteous nod and left the room. With a sigh, she began cleaning the remnants of the tape she’d used and wiping down the bench with cleanser.
“What’s wrong with him?” Brad asked in a low voice. He didn’t move a muscle or open his eyes. If one didn’t know better, they might assume he was at full rest. But Marianne knew, better than most, that looks were deceiving. He was fully capable of being on alert in under a second.
“I don’t fix and tell. So,” she said, changing the subject, “how was practice?”
He grunted, then raised his arms until his hands were cushioning the back of his head. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and it stuck to each plane and dip of his chest and abdomen.
Talk about a work view. God, the man was gorgeous, with his clothes both on and off. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit watching the way his body moved in nothing but shorts while he worked the mat with a sparring partner earlier. When she should have been inventorying rolls of gauze to see how many supplies they’d lost to vandalism, she hadn’t been able to stop staring. His back had been a slick, tanned work of art. Knowing the way the muscles moved and stretched under that skin, how hard they’d be to the touch, had almost been as sexy as actually touching him.
“I think that spot’s clean.”
Brad’s dry words snapped her back to reality. She glanced down and realized she’d been wiping the same spot on the empty table for the past . . . oh my God. Three minutes. She’d lost three minutes staring at Brad’s stomach. Flushing, she turned and tossed the rag in a bin, putting the spray bottle away and organizing her already well-ordered, meager supplies.
“Did you need ice?”
He chuckled from behind her, as if knowing exactly why she couldn’t turn around and look fully at him.
“We have gallon bags for ice right now, since whatever asshole tore apart my training room decided to use a roll of the regular ice bags as saran wrap for light fixtures.”
When he made an inarticulate sound, she turned to look at him. He sat up now, legs still extended on the table, watching her.
“Do you know what happened?”
She lifted her hands, then let them drop. “Best the MPs could come up with was kids. Most likely choice is teenagers who live on base and were bored last night. The doorjamb was broken, so that’s how the MPs assume they got in. From there, they just created havoc. Nothing of value was stolen; it was just a big-ass mess. Typical teenage rebellion stuff.”
Brad’s brows drew down, as if not satisfied with the answer. Frankly, neither was she. But what the hell was she supposed to do about it? Run around playing Inspector Gadget? She didn’t have time for that junk. Her supervisor had come to survey the damage, promised the janitorial staff would be over quickly—which they had been, and they were currently working to put right the training room—and that the obscenities would be painted over after everyone left so the walls would be dry by morning. Tomorrow, she’d begin the painstaking process of starting fresh in her room and praying that new supplies arrived ASAP.
“Obviously, you’ve got a lot going on, so I’ll grab my ice and go.” He eased down—again, not nearly as nimbly as he’d hopped up—and moved with cautious steps to the small ice machine.
She could have done it for him, but it was a test, in her mind. She wanted to see if he’d let his guard down around her, let her know what was bothering him physically.
He clearly wasn’t ready to talk yet.
“I’ve got to make some calls tonight. I’ve been put in charge of a few Marines.” He sounded so disgusted by it, she had to smile. “Something about keeping track of them, or keeping them on task, or something. If they need a babysitter, they shouldn’t be here.” He let the lid of the ice machine slam down harder than necessary, but she didn’t scold him. Zipping the bag closed, he stared at it. “I’m not here to mother people. I just want to box, and do my best.”
“I don’t think anyone wants you to be their mother,” she said softly. “I think they see a leader in you. Above and beyond the obvious rank situation. You’ve got something in you that guys look up to.”
He raised a brow at that. “What, being old?”
“There is that,” she conceded, and grinned when he laughed. “No, there’s more. I watch you . . . all of you,” she added quickly when he flashed her a grin. “The younger guys watch you. And sometimes, they want to show off for you. When one of them whizzes past, you just keep going at the pace you’ve set, and it doesn’t bother you.”
“Oh, it bothers me,” he said darkly. Settling down in a chair, he rested the ice bag on top of his knee. She ached to sit in front of him, to use her hands to massage at the different points, to prod and find the problem so she could fix it. It was her calling, and it was painful to sit back and not be allowed to do her job.
“Just think about it.” She waved at his knee. “Want to talk?”
“About this? No. About other things?” He sucked in a breath, then shook his head. “Not really, but it needs to be done.”
Oh, great. Here came the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Honor and duty and whatever. “There’s not much to talk about, is there?”
He watched her a moment, shifted the bag a little to the outside of his knee then looked down. “Probably not.”
“I should apologize, actually.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but she held up a hand. Manners had him holding back, though he looked like he would rather not. “I do need to apologize and just get this out of the way.” With a deep breath, she put on her most remorseful face. “I know it’s hard to resist this.” She indicated her entire body. “It’s rough, being so hot. The number of men I’ve had to swing at with bats to get them to back up . . .” With a dramatic sigh, she rolled her eyes. “But you know, eventually everyone has to take the hint. You’ll just have to do your best not to lust after my luscious curves.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “It’s a tall order.”
“Being a Marine? Kid stuff.” She pffted that. “Keeping your hands off Marianne Cook? G
ood luck.” She laughed when he did. “It’s fine, Brad. Seriously.”
He looked relieved. And she hoped, with the humor she’d practiced with Kara, the situation wouldn’t be awkward for either of them now.
“Which Marines?”
When he blinked, shifted the ice bag to the inside of his knee and shook his head, she knew he hadn’t followed.
“The ones you’re in charge of. Your babysitting job,” she added with a silly face.
He reached into his bag and, from one of the outer pockets, pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She took it and sat in a chair next to him.
“Chalfant is a good guy, and he’s one that idolizes you.”
“He’s known me three days,” Brad growled. “He doesn’t know me enough to idolize me.”
“He senses something in you to aspire to.” She let the paper fall to her lap and faced him. “Why is that such a big deal? Why are you fighting being a role model? You lead people all the time when you’re at your regular job. So why not here?”
“I’m here to box.”
“You’re here to be a part of a team.”
“Boxing isn’t a team sport.”
“The Marines are not a solo act.”
He narrowed his eyes at that, but said nothing. She considered that a point in her favor.
“These two I don’t know very well,” she went on, running her finger over the middle names. And this last one . . .” She started to laugh, then her belly cramped and she doubled over with laughter. He grabbed for the paper, but she rolled her chair out of the way. “No . . . oh,” she gasped out. “You’re babysitting Tressler. Oh, this is great.”
“That little half-wit has nothing but trouble written all over him.” Brad lunged to get the paper, but she danced out of the way. The ice bag fell to the floor with a plop as he caged her between a table and the wall of the storage room she’d commandeered for her temporary training room. “List back, please.”
She pursed her lips together and held it behind her back. With a shake of her head, she made a “nope” sound.
He snaked one arm around her back and gripped her wrist, but didn’t pull her arm out. Instead, he flexed, bringing her body flush against his. Through the thin mesh of his athletic shorts, she could feel his erection growing. Her own nipples tightened in response to being pressed against his wet shirt and hard chest.
Oh, sweet mercy. She was going to do it again. She was actually going to kiss him again; this time in her training room.
There were at least seventeen things wrong with the last part of that statement.
She couldn’t remember a single one of them.
His eyes changed; his pupils dilated slightly, darkening them. And he made a sound in his throat she interpreted as frustration and lust, a fifty-fifty combo.
A cough at the door sent them both into panic mode. He stepped back quickly, catching himself on the table when his right leg wobbled. She breathed, then crossed her arms over her chest as if she were cold to cover the fact that her nipples were so hard they hurt.
She saw Gregory Higgs standing at the door, a cocky smile on his face, one shoulder propped against the doorjamb.
Oh my God. How long had he been there?
“You ready to go, roomie?” he asked with a drawl she hadn’t heard before. When Brad flipped him off, his smile only grew. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt a training session. I can come back if you’ve—”
“Bite me,” Brad muttered, then picked up his bag and hefted it over his shoulder before pushing past Higgs on his way out the door. No good-bye, no “Sorry about that” or “See ya later, Marianne” or “Sorry we got interrupted, I’ll come back and finish this later.”
Bad Marianne.
With her face feeling like it was on fire, she surveyed Higgs. “Did you need something, Marine?”
He watched her for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Nah. It’s cool.” He waited until she was looking straight at him before he said again, “It’s cool.”
Hoping that was his way of saying he would mind his own business, she nodded in gratitude. “Thank you.”
With a wave, he pushed off and disappeared.
Marianne sank onto a chair and fanned at her face, then picked up the discarded ice bag Brad had dropped and rested it against her throat for a moment.
That had resolved exactly nothing.
But it had been a whole lot of fun.
Bad Marianne.
CHAPTER
8
Brad pulled the door shut on Higgs’ car and waited for the blow.
But his roommate put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot without a word.
After two minutes of silence, they pulled up to a red light. Lunch traffic around Mainside was always ugly, and he knew they’d wait through at least two red lights before they were moving again.
Higgs seemed content to fiddle with the radio.
Brad cracked first. “Nothing was going on.”
Higgs looked at him, then back at the light. “Okay.” He inched forward as the light turned green and cars attempted to move. They made it halfway to the intersection before it went red again.
“I mean it. Nothing happened.”
“Okay.”
“Damn it,” he said with a groan. His head hit the back of the seat and he fisted his hands. “This, on top of all the other shit we have going on.”
“This what? Nothing happened,” Higgs said easily, then chuckled when Brad shot him an evil glare. “Come on, man. So you’ve got a boner for the cute trainer. She seems okay. If nothing actually happened, then just stop going in there when she’s alone and you’ll be fine. She’s usually got those two college kids around anyway. And if you hadn’t noticed, people are starting to break down and go in there to get taped up. She’s not going to have a lot of downtime to play sexy games like Chase Around the Table with you, anyway.”
Brad groaned again and wiped a hand down his face.
“Besides, you’ve got someone else, so stick with her.” When he glanced at Brad, he raised a brow. “The other one, the woman you went on a date with. Take her out again. Get your mind off Cook.” Brad made a strangled sound and Higgs snorted. “What, did the other chick dump you already?”
“No,” he said, trying hard not to clench his jaw.
“So then . . . oh.” Higgs whistled through his teeth. “Oooooh.”
No, the man wasn’t slow.
“Just shut up about it. Nothing happened.” Nothing much. “I don’t want her to get fired for some bullshit excuse.”
“Nobody’s getting fired. Unwad the boxer briefs, Costa.” Taking a turn easily, Higgs sighed. “I’m not saying anything, except to be careful. You’re a big boy, and I’m your roommate, not your mommy.”
“Damn right.”
“But she’s nice. Don’t be a dick about it.”
Famous last words, Brad thought as they rolled into the BOQ parking lot. He’d already invited her out to dinner once under false pretenses. She thought he’d asked to be a decent person and make nice. He’d asked to keep her from bugging him about his knee.
He still worried she might say something, might insist on checking him out and then might insist on telling the coach. He couldn’t let that happen.
But what the hell did he do with Marianne Cook?
* * *
“GO back to the part where he pushed you against the wall and ravished you in a storage locker.” Kara Smith waved the hand not holding her wineglass in circles. “And then rewind and tell me again. Rewind and tell me again. Rewind and—”
“I get the point, but there’s nothing to rewind.” Laughing, Marianne topped off her own glass and eased back into the comfortable sofa. Unlike her own sparsely furnished apartment, Kara’s modest three-bedroom house was homey and comfortable. It felt lived in, without the stuffy feeling some places got when they’d been overdecorated with a bunch of impersonal stuff the owner bought because it looked good. Kara only brought things into her
home if they meant something to her or were functional. The furniture was easy to sit on and the tables were full of knickknacks and clutter, as well as adorable finds from local stores.
The house was much like the woman herself. Kara was beautiful, but comfortable with it. Her auburn hair, which Marianne happened to know could fall in rich waves nearly down to her butt, was pulled up in a messy bun. She usually wore her clothes with meticulous attention to detail, but was now wearing sweats with dried paint on the cuffs. And her face was free of makeup.
“Something happened,” Kara argued, then picked up a cookie. “These are sinful, by the way. Only let me have three. Three and a half. Which, rounded up, is four.”
“You can have as many as you want. And no, nothing happened. We were interrupted before . . .” She sighed when Kara shot her a knowing look. “Okay, yes, we were interrupted before something actually could have happened. Probably would have,” she conceded, to her friend’s smug delight. “Oh my God.” Sinking farther into the cushions, she covered her eyes with the non–wineglass holding hand. “What the hell is wrong with me? I was going to make out with someone in my de facto training room. I’m a sadist. I’m a sex fiend. I’m—”
“A healthy red-blooded woman who shouldn’t ignore her own body’s cravings. You know our cravings tell a story.”
Sensing a lecture about her chakras or her chi or something, Marianne steered the conversation another way. “You still doing yoga privates outside studio time?”
“When I can get them.” For the first time that night, the strain of what Marianne knew was a heavy financial burden etched lines into her friend’s brow. “I’m lucky the studio owner doesn’t mind me giving privates on the side. I guess he could technically call it competing business, but he’s good about it. Knows I need the money.” Brightening a little, she sat up straighter and set her wineglass aside. “Why, are you interested in some privates? You don’t have to pay me, you know. We can work it into our hangout times.”
Below the Belt Page 8