“No worries.” I shrug. “Wasn’t planning to tap him on the shoulder while he sparred.”
Far from it.
I left home early in an attempt to avoid an awkward afternoon encounter, but hoped it was still late enough that he’d left the gym already. Now I’ve got to parade past the cage to get to the group activity rooms upstairs.
Drew chuckles. “Probably not a good idea right now.”
“Thanks.” I decide to go beat the crap out of the human workout dummy and set up for the taekwondo and kickboxing classes. At least it’s a lame-ass excuse to avoid him.
“Take it easy.” Drew calls as I head across the main gym toward the stairs.
When I woke up this evening, my bath towel was in a crumpled heap on the floor next to my bed. My scrubs were still on, along with my shoes and socks. None of it made sense at all. Then I remembered…
The whiskey. The bed. The touch. The towel. The kiss.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I really get drunk and reach inside his towel?
I’ve been around ultra-fit athletic types my whole life, but I’d learned in my late teens that most are best admired from afar. Slick sculpted muscle alone stopped doing it for me a long time ago.
But what if Usalv is more than that?
It’s doubtful. On Tuesday, I found a four pack of diet pink raspberry-pomegranate martinis in his fridge. Diet fruity martinis? Total chick drink. It screamed girlfriend and darkened my mood for the night.
What if Usalv has a girlfriend?
I haven’t encountered glassware with lipstick that’s not mine or any mysterious female clothes, but then I’ve lived there less than a week. Of course, the real evidence would be in his bedroom and bathroom, where I dare not venture.
It never occurred to me what it might be like to meet one of Usalv’s dates at the coffee pot in the morning, or discover forgotten jewelry on an end table. What about walking in on the loud hoo-ha of hot monkey sex after work?
A shiver races down my spine, followed by a wave of nausea.
“Easy.” Rodgers’ baritone voice echoes across the gym. “Take it easy!”
I stop at the bottom of the stairs and look over in his direction. Rodgers strides with folded arms as he watches two powerfully built men spar inside the cage.
Usalv could never be mistaken for anyone else. Those wide shoulders and powerful back roam the apartment in a hasty quest for clothes each morning. He’s shirtless and wearing gray fight shorts with black compression pants that peek out the bottom hems as he moves around like a cautious cat approaching his prey.
The other guy reminds me of Mike Tyson. Fast, well-coordinated, and from the whoosh of his strikes, a hard hitter. He seems small at first, but when I gauge the height of his shoulders against the poles inside the cage, he’s at least six feet tall with a compact, densely muscled frame. He’s also a skilled Muay Thai boxer.
Guttural grunts, fast steps, and Rodgers’ curt two and three word commands occur in a regular tempo. Hard muscular bodies glisten with sweat while gloved hands bob up and down like serpents ready to strike.
“Watch that contact.” Rodgers voice contains a note of uneasy warning.
Around the gym, others take note. Some steal quick glances from where they are, while others stop what they’re doing to watch. Curiosity gets the better of me and I come around the stairs to check out the action.
It doesn’t take long to realize this isn’t a typical sparring session. Both men wear mouth guards as their only face protection. Each man moves around the other, feinting, testing, striking, counterstriking, devoid of repetitive moves or sets of moves.
This is live free sparring, as close to the real deal as it gets.
Shit.
Usalv’s face is a granite mask of concentration as he avoids several strikes with an incredible display of speed for a man his size. Retaining his composure and biding his time, he springs forward and takes his opponent to the mat with a loud painful thud.
“Goddamn it!” the opponent yells as he snaps to his feet.
That voice sounds familiar, but I can’t put a face to it. He’s corralled into a corner with his back to me. Curious, I come around and get closer to the cage.
That’s when I hear the profanity-laden trash talking contest.
Usalv’s heated curses scorch like a blow torch, while the opponent gives as good he gets. I’m impressed. Some of their words are new to me, and being a big city nurse leaves me well-acquainted with vulgarity, to put it politely.
Sweet Jesus, these guys are pissed at each other.
Now I need to know who the hell was stupid enough to get on Usalv’s bad side and into the ring with him.
“Oof.” Usalv grunts as his opponent’s kick takes aim at his liver. It’s normally a match ending blow, but Usalv’s monster reach ensures that his elbows guard his lower abdomen, and the opponent’s foot connects with Usalv’s muscular arm rather than his abdomen.
The opponent, frustrated that the liver shot failed, decides to give it another try. He telegraphs his intention—it’s obvious even to me. But this time, Usalv is well prepared and the opponent gets planted on the mat. Again.
“Not when he’s ready!” Rodgers barks.
When the other guy looks over after Rodgers’ outburst, I gasp in surprise.
Michael? Mike Daughtry? What the hell is going on?
I come even closer and stand about ten feet behind Rodgers, careful not to crowd him.
Mike squares off against Usalv, his expression furious, while Usalv returns a menacing glare of his own.
“Coozehound,” Mike spits out. Over Usalv’s shoulder, he glances at Rodgers and does a double take at me.
What happens next is nothing short of a slow-motion train wreck.
Mike’s glare of fury morphs into one of stunned surprise, just before he drops his guard and Usalv’s nasty right cross does the rest.
I wince. Fuck.
“Fuck!” Mike bellows.
“Fuck!” Rodgers curses, slapping his hand against the fence of the cage.
Usalv raises his hands in the air as Mike writhes on the floor. When Mike sits up, Usalv places a gentle hand between Mike’s shoulders just under his neck, as he waits for Rodgers to enter the cage. When Rodgers kneels beside Mike, Usalv moves away and crouches to watch.
Mike cups his eye as Rodgers peels his fingers away to study it.
“What a goddamned mess,” he growls, removing the towel from his waist to press it against Mike’s face. “Madman, what the hell were you doing?”
That’s all I need to hear as the nurse in me takes over.
“Me?” Usalv explodes as I enter the cage. “He just fucking checked out in the middle of it. How the hell am I supposed to work with that?”
Usalv gives me a heated glare as I approach them. Get out of here. Now, he telegraphs to me. I disregard his unspoken command. Sorry, can’t do that, I telegraph back.
“It’s my bad, Coach,” Mike interjects.
“Well that’s fucking fantastic,” Rodgers spits out.
“Mike?” I interrupt. “Why don’t you let me have a look?”
An uncomfortable silence ensues. Rodgers and Usalv exchange heated glances before looking at Mike’s face.
“Louise? Yeah. Please. It’s fucked up.”
“I’ve got this, Louise,” Rodgers tells us.
“No.” Mike is firm. “Let her look. Sweet Lou’s got a magic touch.”
“I’m a trauma nurse.” I pull my hoodie off and spin the brim of my hat around to keep my hair out of the way as I kneel beside Mike.
“Really?” Rodgers looks up from the towel pressed against Mike’s face. “Is that the physically demanding day job you wanted to keep?”
“Yeah.” My hands brush Rodgers fingers as I touch the towel against Mike’s face.
Rodgers nods. “A set of skills like that could come in handy around here.”
“So would some head gear.” I share a pointed look with all three of the
m before my focus shifts back the towel. “Why aren’t you wearing any?”
An uncomfortable silence ensues. Glances are exchanged, feet shift, arms are crossed. It’s clear that whatever’s going on will not be discussed in front of me.
“Get the kit,” Rodgers tells Usalv, who disappears through the cage door.
I roll the towel pressed against Mike’s face into layers and increase the pressure. When Usalv returns, he places a royal blue first aid kit on the floor next to me.
“Gloves please.”
Usalv unwraps a pair of blue poly vinyl gloves and hands them to me, avoiding eye contact. Rodgers applies pressure to Mike’s face in silence while I don the gloves.
“The light really sucks in here.” I look up at the ceiling and glance around. “Lie over there, Mike.”
I point to a section of mat underneath a fluorescent light, then reach for the keychain in my pocket. When it’s clicked, the carabiner releases a tiny Maglite, which I put between my teeth before leaning over Mike to remove his towel.
A nasty gash runs along the orbital rim of his frontal bone. The eyelid itself starts to swell. There’s also a small tear in the eyelid corner. It looks like a clean wound, but I can’t be sure.
“No doubt about it, Mike. You need to be seen.”
“Goddamn,” he grumbles. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. You’ll want to rule out hyphena.”
“Hi-what?” he asks.
“Internal bleeding of the eye. They’ll probably check for fractures of the orbital bone too.” I roll the towel back over his eye. “I’ll close this gash up with some steri-strips, but you need to get moving.” I look up at Rodgers. “Can you get him a cold pack? Keep on it there until he gets to the hospital. It’ll help with the swelling.”
Rodgers reaches inside the medical kit and pulls out the steri-strips. He shuffles through the plastic kit and a few seconds later pulls out an ice blue colored pack.
“Take those,” I tell Usalv, pointing to the steri-strips. “Peel them open at one end and hold them out. Thanks.”
At this point, I’m on auto pilot. Three well placed strips later, I ask for gauze then place the ice pack on top of Mike’s orbital bone.
“It’s done,” I announce. “Get moving.”
“Put some clothes on,” Rodgers tells Mike. “I’ll go with you.”
Mike nods. “Thanks, Louise.”
“You’re welcome. Now go take care of yourself, okay?”
Mike heads toward the locker room. One hand holds the ice pack on his face while Rodgers follows behind. When they’re out of sight, I turn to look for Usalv, but he’s left the cage.
I emerge to check on Usalv and find him pacing back and forth between the cage and the far wall. When he turns back toward me, I wave to him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He responds with an icy stare before putting his shirt back on and walking toward the far wall again.
I jerk back as if he’d given me a right cross. What the hell did I do?
Oh yeah. Right.
I’d almost forgotten my clumsy drunk-ass attempt to feel him up. He probably thinks I’m a high maintenance pain in the ass and regrets his decision to help me out.
Waves of embarrassment and insecurity hit me in an oscillating tempo. No doubt he’s counting the minutes until construction on the one bedroom unit is done.
If we’re going to keep things platonic, then I need to behave and apologize.
But not now, I’ll wait until we’ve both calmed down a bit. As Usalv turns in my direction again, I give him a dismissive wave, then beeline for the ladies locker room.
But it isn’t long before the sound of heavy footsteps catch up with me.
“Louise,” Usalv rasps from behind me. “I need to speak with you. Right now.”
13
“Usalv…now’s not a really good time.” Louise slows down but doesn’t stop. “I’ve got to get ready for my classes.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got over an hour.” I lower my voice as we pass others. “Please?”
“Okay.” She stops and folds her arms. “What is it?”
“Not here.” I steer her past the women’s locker room. “This way.” A rush of heat ignites my fingertips as they nudge the small of her back. Sweet Lou makes no move to escape my touch, but right now I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
We turn down a narrow corridor that runs along the caged equipment room next to the maintenance closet. We stop when we reach the dusty gray circuit box that hangs on the wall where the corridor dead ends.
“That’s far enough.” She twists away from my hand and turns to face me. “Tell me what this is about.”
My hand feels…bereft without the flesh of her lower back pressed against it, so I grasp the fence wall of the equipment room.
“Louise.” I reach back and pull on the tiny clipped hairs growing on the nape of my neck. “We need to stay away from each other in the gym. And when I spar, you need to leave.”
“Are you serious?” Her head shoots up and smashes against the circuit box. “Oww!”
“Shit.” I cradle the back of her head. “Are you okay?”
“Yes…no!” She covers my hand where it clutches a curly mass of hair. “How can you say that?”
No matter how this comes out, it’s going to suck. “MMA fighters train with members of their own club.” I sigh. “At this rate, there won’t be anyone left to train with.”
“Are you blaming that mess”—she points to the main gym—“on me? How did I manage to draw that winning lottery ticket?”
“Because you’re a damned distraction. Here and at home. One I can handle. The other I can’t.”
“A damned distraction? Excuse me? I am nothing but low key and professional around here.” She steps away from the circuit box and brings her hip inches from mine.
“You’re a drop dead gorgeous woman in a gym full of rutting rams.” Her irritation and proximity only stoke my anger. “Are you that clueless about what goes on around you?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She looks down at her faded black running shorts and dingy gray T-shirt. “I’m not exactly into porn star couture.”
“Jesus Christ, Lou. No one around here is tight and twisted over your clothes.” I try and check myself but fail. “If I’d known that a head shot would land me in your lap with that rack thrust in my face for five full minutes, I’d have punched myself.”
Her face shoots up and flashes me a shocked expression before it connects with the circuit box again. She hisses in response, and I reach out to cradle her head. This time she catches my hand and pulls it down away from her, without letting go.
“You need to get over it, Usalv,” she says with finality. “All of you. I need this job. I won’t quit, or slack-off and end up curbside.”
“And what about Mike?” My voice fills with contempt.
“Mike?” She sounds confused. “Mike Daughtry?”
“Yeah. That Mike.” My breathing stops while I wait for her answer.
“I know him through Macy’s husband.” She shakes her head. “We’re polite to each other. That’s it. What does this have to do with him?”
“He’s nursing a thing for you.” I blow out a breath. “And it’s a bad one.”
She blinks at me, stunned. “Are you saying what happened in there had something to do with me?”
“Sweetheart, it was all about you.”
My words are followed by stunned silence. I watch as Louise’s perfect mouth forms an oval.
“No way.” She crosses her arms and shakes back and forth.
“Let me ask you this. Have you ever dated Mike?”
“Um, no.”
“Ever agreed to go out with him but never got around to it?”
“No. I’ve made it very clear that I’m not interested in him.”
“Mmm. Ever get drunk and have sex with him?”
“Did he tell you that?” She takes an indrawn breath and pushes
my arm away.
“No. But like you, he wouldn’t say either way.”
“Then I’ll answer for both us. Never. Now you can go get bent.” Her voice is filled with disgust.
This whole thing is killing me. I need to put my cards on the table.
“Wait.” My hand flies to her hip, holding her in place. “Remember the day I ran into the two of you outside, and he walked you to the EL? The day after that, he told me to back off and leave you alone.”
“What?” she explodes. “He had no right to do that.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Really? And what was your response to his request?” She gives me an expectant glare.
“He saw you first.” Embarrassment makes me squirm. “What could I say?”
“So the two of you got together and decided who had dibs on me?” She squeezes my forearms, then pushes me away. “Damn it, I’m not the last six-pack at the mini-mart.” She shakes her head. “What a bunch of numb-nuts.”
“Louise.” She tries to push past me and I release her hip and grasp the metal cage wall beside us. “Mike tried to kick my ass today because he found out you moved into my place last weekend. I sure as hell didn’t tell him. If you didn’t, then who did?” I raise my hand in a questioning gesture before I let her pass.
She doesn’t move. “Oh my God.” She gasps. “Macy.”
“Your roommate?” I never thought about it.
She nods and stares off into space. “Macy’s always pushed the idea of me and Mike as a couple. And every time I think we’ve moved past it, she starts back up with a wave of subtle hints.”
“Well, she hasn’t given up.” I’m relieved but feel bad for Louise.
“Clearly not.” She sounds disappointed. “I’m sorry Mike did that to you in there. He had no right. Are you hurt?” She rubs my elbow and lower arm where Mike’s kick made contact.
“Nah.” She saw the whole thing. I smile. “We were pissed off, not out of control. Neither of us hit at full throttle.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Still though, I shouldn’t have hit him that hard.” Regret washes over me. “Goddamn that guy. He’s got the attention span of a gnat.”
“But you don’t, do you? You tend to be like, laser focused, right?”
Fighting Hearts Page 9