Shadowboxer

by Cari Quinn

  My Clyde happened to have a vagina, which suited me just fine.

  “I’m still not sure how you think us looking hot will get this Costas guy to fight you.”

  I wasn’t either. If I’d had any other options, I would’ve employed them. Since I couldn’t even manage to get Costas to return my phone calls, a sneak attack with thrusting breasts seemed like my best shot. I’d flirt and tease him into agreeing.

  Or Carly would, since my idea of flirting and teasing consisted of trying to break a guy’s jaw. That probably wouldn’t work here.

  “We have to disarm him. Right now he thinks I’m a joke. If we can get his dick in play, he’ll stop thinking with his big head and resort to the little. Trust me, I’m around these clowns on a daily basis.” I took a deep breath and glanced over my shoulder at Carly as I reached for the door handle to the machine room. “But remember. They’re only for looking. No touching.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She glanced down and tugged on her nipples again.

  I didn’t do the same. If mine had gone soft, too damn bad.

  “No riding the ponies, just a little stroking. Gotcha.”

  “We’re only here to stroke one of them, Carly Ann.” I made my voice stern. “And leave most of that to me. You promised.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be a good little minion for my big sister.”

  “I’m serious. I never would’ve brought you along if I didn’t think I could trust you to let me handle this situation.”

  “Stop wigging out and hang on a sec.” She dragged out her phone.

  I sighed. “Carly—” A flash popped in my face and I snarled. “What was that for?”

  She grinned and motioned for me to proceed. “Evidence for Fox that you totally can look like a hot chick. Not that you don’t every day,” she added hastily.

  “Uh-huh.” But I was smiling as I tugged open the door.

  Machines clanged, rap music blared, and laughter rang out, mixed with grunts and expletives. All seemed to halt when Carly and I stepped across the threshold, though that was probably just my extreme self-awareness talking. But I didn’t imagine the distinct, “Holy shit,” that sounded from a few feet away. Followed by an equally distinct, “Damn, look at those tits.”

  I was reasonably sure they weren’t talking about mine. A tighter bra could only do so much.

  “Stay behind me,” I muttered over my shoulder into thin air. No Carly. She had already pushed in front of me—hips working, pigtails bouncing, eyes scanning the rows of eager, drooling men draped over machines that had, for the most part, gone still.

  “Do you see him?” she asked in an unnaturally loud whisper.

  A guy lifting weights leered. “You can see me, baby.”

  “Gross.” She turned her back on him to look at me. I sincerely hoped she wasn’t paying attention to the obvious enjoyment the men were receiving from the view of her ass in her short skirt. “Is he here?”

  With effort, I relaxed my fists—old habits don’t die at all, especially when it came to protecting my baby sister—and glanced around the gym. Kizzy had tapped her contacts and gotten me intel that said he’d be at The Cage all afternoon, but I didn’t see him on any of the treadmills or weight benches or rowing machines.

  Disappointment nearly as sharp as the tang of sweat in the air moved through me. “No. Dammit, he’s not.”

  “Looking for someone, ladies?”

  The deep baritone made me spin around, fists already extended. My gaze landed on Giovanni’s disgustingly handsome face. His gaze, however, was firmly glued to my sister. Specifically her breasts. From the way his tongue was about to fall out, I had to assume he appreciated her additional nipple tweaking.

  Though from the starstruck look on her face, that extra activity wasn’t what was making them so perky right then.

  “Carly Ann,” I snapped.

  “Carly Ann, hmm?”

  He spoke like he was rolling caramel through his mouth. It didn’t do a damn thing for me, but I could tell others who shared my DNA were not similarly unaffected.

  “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Is Carly short for anything?”

  “Yes. It’s short for ‘try it and I’ll make sure you taste your nuts every time you swallow for the rest of your life.’” This I delivered with a smile that could’ve melted his caramel right off the stick.

  His easy smile disappeared, and Carly broke out of her trance long enough to whack my arm. Then she resumed staring at Giovanni’s bare back as he twisted away to grab a towel. He wore just a pair of black track pants, and I fully expected my sister drop into the fetal position and whimper at any minute.

  Ink covered his back from neck to waist. The intricate black designs contained dabs of violent color that offset the heavy bands and swirls. I couldn’t decipher any logical pattern to the tats, though I wasn’t about to look long enough to find out. But I didn’t miss the way he flexed and bunched his muscles before he faced us again.

  Showoff.

  Another thing I didn’t miss? The tattoo on his right bicep that said no mercy above a single word: June.

  Just…June.

  “You must be Mia.”

  His dismissive look would’ve offended me, had I given two shits what he thought. Since I didn’t, I only smiled wider. “Yes, I believe we met the other night.”

  “When you were pulling my hair out like a girl?” He rubbed his towel over the dark hair in question. It hung thickly to his corded shoulders. Both the near-black strands and his shoulders were damp.

  “You’re right.” I crossed my arms over my chest and shifted in front of Carly. “I shouldn’t have done that. You should let me make it up to you.”

  Now his gaze dropped to my chest. “Drop your arms and we’ll discuss it.”

  Oh, this guy was a fuckwit. I’d enjoy putting the drop on him. Maybe I’d choke him for a while before I got him to submit. Just for fun. “I’m not negotiating with my breasts.”

  Okay, I sort of had been, but they’d only been the weapons I’d used to get me in the door. Now that I had his attention, I’d revert to my standard MO. No bullshit, no games. Lots of pain.

  It had worked for me so far.

  Giovanni angled his head and let his gaze wander down my body. “Your legs aren’t bad. Actually, I’d rate them higher than your breasts. Long and sexy.”

  Nah, I wouldn’t choke him. That would allow him to pass out too easily. I’d kick and punch until his stomach was the same ugly blue as the 5150 tattoo just above his waistband. “I’d say the same about your penis, but I don’t want to contribute to your delusions.”

  His eyes—not black, as I’d first guessed, but a dark blue one shade away—flickered back up to mine. “What do you want from me, Anderson?”

  So he knew my last name. I’d make sure he remembered it.

  “I want to fight you. I already have a bout scheduled two weeks from Friday against Fox. Now he’s out and you got him that way, so you owe me a match. I already checked around and you’re free that weekend.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “A little girl like you in the ring with me?” He muttered something in Italian and cocked his head. “He’s out, is he? And still will be almost three weeks from now?”

  The light of pride that came into his eyes made me step forward until we were toe-to-toe. “Remember those delusions I mentioned? You thinking you got anything but lucky Friday night is one of them. It won’t happen twice. And it won’t happen against me, because I’ll go straight for your balls. Assuming you have some, which I haven’t seen proof of yet.”

  His eyebrow arched. “Am I supposed to be frightened?” He gave a mock shudder. “Honey, your boyfriend is the one who calculated and lost. I can’t be bought.”

  Before I could dredge up a coherent response—what the hell was he talking about?—he started walking away.

  “Wait,” Carly called out.

  He stilled, but he didn’t turn back. “What, tesoro?”

  Tesoro?
I didn’t know what that meant, but it was probably an insult.

  From Carly’s smile, he might as well have presented her with a bouquet of roses. “A real man doesn’t walk away from a lady until she’s done speaking.”

  I rolled my eyes. Yeah, that would have a lot of effect with Mr. Machismo. I kept right on rolling them until he returned to us.

  To Carly, I should say. He came to a halt in front of her and spoke quietly, without any of the conceit he’d employed with me. “What would you like to say?”

  She blinked so fast I feared a seizure was imminent. Then she gestured to me. “Not me, my sister. She needs to talk to you.”

  “Your sister.” He reached up to touch her hair and thought better of it when I cleared my throat. He let his hand drop. “How can this be?”

  “She’s the sweet. I’m the spice,” I said. “Now quit trying to score and focus, loverboy.”

  Giovanni didn’t shift his attention from my equally eye-smitten sister. “Why should I? What’s in it for me if I fight you?”

  “A date with me,” Carly blurted.

  “Sold.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. The bastard.

  For a second, no one spoke. I didn’t even breathe. Then I snatched Carly’s arm and dragged her against my side. “No way. She’s a minor.”

  She shook me off. “For two more weeks. Jesus. Loosen the apron strings.”

  “Two and a half weeks.”

  “So we will have our date after the fight.” He gave me an innocent look that fooled no one—except maybe my gullible baby sister. “I will be a perfect gentleman.” Then he sneered for my benefit. “Outside of the ring, that is. Inside? You want a fight? I’ll give you one.”

  “I’m truly honored.” Asshole.

  “A fight like that should attract plenty of attention,” he mused.

  “Duh. Why do you think I’m doing it?”

  “No damn clue.” He cracked his knuckles, still eyeing me up and down. “But if you choose to pretend you are a man, then I’m happy to oblige you.”

  “Oh, you’ll oblige me, will you? I’ll be sure to—”

  I broke off when Carly stepped forward and poked a finger in his chest. She was about a foot shorter than he was, but she didn’t shy away from his warning look.

  “You, too, tesoro?” he asked, sounding tired.

  “Don’t talk to my sister that way. She’s not pretending to be a man. Women fight. Is a man pretending to be a woman if he designs or cooks or creates?”

  A hint of his cocky smile reappeared. “Well…”

  “She could kick your ass. I hope she does.”

  “You haven’t seen me in the ring.” He flicked his finger down her bare arm. “Or elsewhere. As I have not yet seen you.”

  Another sound rumbled from my chest, and this one bordered on a growl. “Enough. You’re fighting me, not fucking her, so cool it. I’ll buy you an extra bottle of lotion for your consolation prize after you lose.” I hit him hard in the stomach as I passed, grabbing my sister’s hand as I went. His surprised “oof” made me shoot my sister a triumphant grin. Pretending to be a man, my ass. “Let’s go, Carly. We’re done with him.”

  “We made a deal,” he reminded me, idly rubbing his stomach.

  The damn thing had felt like a brick. My knuckles already hurt.

  “And I intend to collect on that date no matter what, Anderson,” he called.

  We walked out, Carly swaying her hips so hard I swore I heard her pelvis pop out of joint. She practically vibrated with excitement. Or lust.

  Yeah, lust seemed to be the most likely contender.

  “Are you cold? Do you need a sweater?” I whispered furiously, tugging her down the hall toward the locker room. “If you shake any more, I’m putting you in a strait jacket.”

  “You got what you want,” she whispered back, her eyes aglow.

  I hadn’t had much experience with the emotion I glimpsed in her eyes until two weeks ago, and I so didn’t like seeing it reflected back at me. Especially not due to Overcocked Costas.

  “So, what? Now I’m supposed to let you get what you want?” I asked, hoping she would toss back a reassurance.

  “Yeah, Ame, maybe you should. You don’t want to have a sex life? Good for you. But I do. And you’re not going to make me ashamed of it.” She slammed the locker room door shut in my face.

  I leaned against the wall. Great. I was supposed to be basking in the thrill of my accomplishment in getting Costas to fight me. Instead I’d have to borrow Carly’s laptop so I could do a search for chastity belts.

  The idea of her having sex didn’t bother me. Much. We’d already covered that topic. I wanted her to have fun and enjoy her youth. But did she really have to go after a fighter? One that had busted Fox’s eye socket no less? That number on Giovanni’s stomach probably had to do with his number of sex partners or something. And he was older than she was. Not by much, but a few years was a lot with guys like Giovanni.

  Plus, he spoke Italian and probably thought a date consisted of eating tiramisu off a woman’s thighs.

  I didn’t know how I would renege on the agreement, but I would. I hadn’t made it anyway. It wasn’t binding, and besides, he hadn’t even named it as a condition of winning. He just had to show up for the fight and he got to take a big juicy bite out of my sister.

  Why had I gotten myself into this mess again?

  Tray’s smile flashed through my mind, and I rubbed my bleary eyes. Yeah. That was why.

  I’d spent the last three days pacing and fretting every moment I wasn’t at work or at the gym. Last night I’d deliberately watched Pretty Woman so I had an excuse to bawl like a baby. Then I’d researched eye socket fractures and looked at videos until I wanted to cry for a different reason. He had surgery to look forward to, all because of me.

  Sleep had been impossible. I missed him, and worse than that, I was still so fucking worried. Everything I’d read online had only increased my fears. What if he ended up blind from his injury or something equally awful? His beautiful eyes…God.

  That wasn’t a likely consequence from the kind of damage he’d sustained. It still didn’t stop the crazy scenarios from spinning through my head at three a.m.

  Fighting the guy who’d put him in that hospital bed was a crappy sort of penance, but it was all I had. I’d worry about the money I needed after that. And I wouldn’t think about the fact that I was having trouble remembering that money had been my reason for setting up that fight with Fox in the first place.

  Two weeks had changed so much. I had changed. That scared me most of all.

  Aggravated and completely out of sorts—and not at all eager to talk to my sister—I typed a quick text to Kizzy.

  You took Italian. What the f does tesoro mean?

  A moment later, her answer appeared.

  Treasure. Y?

  Inside the locker room, I could hear Carly banging around like a crazy person. A crazy pissed person. I sighed and dropped my head against the wall as I formulated my response.

  B/c I think my life just got a lot more complicated.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tray

  I got sprung from the hospital on Monday. Halle-freaking-lujah. From there, I picked up my hefty prescription of anti-inflammatories and antibiotics and went home to Long Island with my parents and my dog. That lasted until approximately seven-eighteen a.m. on Friday, when my mother asked me for the fourth time when I would be contacting the admissions counselor at Yale. Then she proceeded to cut the crusts off my wheat toast.

  One of those two things was the final straw.

  By mid-morning, Vey and I were back home. Home home, in Brooklyn. I might’ve kissed the floor in my joy at being back in my own place if the dust wasn’t a concern. Sneezing with eye socket fractures—not so good, I’d discovered. Blowing my nose? Even worse. The pocket beneath my right eye tended to swell up like a balloon. And it hurt, a fucking lot.

  So I sniffed pretty much constantly and spen
t plenty of time with my head back. I’d also taken to popping cold medicine about every eleven minutes.

  Good times.

  I lay down on my couch with my dog at my feet and relished the faint smells of home through my plugged up nose. The dirty socks under the coffee table. The scent of dog. The lemon furniture polish.

  Huh?

  Propping myself on one elbow, I dragged a fingertip over the top of the coffee table. No dust. And my socks were gone.

  What the fuck? Had my mom come here and cleaned when I’d been laid up? That didn’t seem like her. She had an army of maids, butlers, and assorted house staff for a reason.

  Ten reasons actually, and they were the claws she lovingly called fingernails. She wouldn’t risk them for such a menial task as polishing a table.

  I dug my phone out of my jeans and called Slater.

  He answered right away. “Yo. You home already?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Just called the Domicile of Doom and they said you were no longer ‘bedding’ there. I’m assuming you’re bedding at your place again? Or did you find somewhere else to go?”

  I didn’t miss his implication. Nor did I respond to it. “I’m at my place in Brooklyn. Hey, did you clean my apartment?”

  His guffaw answered my question. “Hell no. I barely clean mine, dude, and that’s only because clean sheets get me laid.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. You have live-in pussy now. Rub it in.” The hard-on I’d woken up with every morning in the hospital hadn’t helped my bitterness issues. Somehow it didn’t seem fair that even when I could barely string words together, my dick remembered Mia and everything we hadn’t finished in this very living room a week ago.

  Weeks had become lifetimes in my world.

  Slater didn’t say anything for a minute or two. “Yep. All roses and rainbows up in here.” Before I could ask what was going on, he continued. “So, ah, I have news about your girl. You’re not going to like it.”

  With just those few words, my eye started pounding. Stress wasn’t good for my injury, and I had to wait two more weeks to have my surgery. Supposedly I’d benefit from waiting for my cold to get better and for the eye swelling to subside as completely as possible, but I had my doubts.