Between The Lines (Hot in the City Book 4)

by T Gephart

  “Like anything you’d do with me would be mediocre,” I scoffed, the excitement bubbling in my gut more than I would have liked. “Please, Tibbs, I could take you to get a root canal and I’d still blow your mind. Keep Friday free, I’ll text you the details. Oh, and I hope you’re up for getting sweaty.”

  Sadly, not the kind he probably had in mind.

  There was a low hum of approval, his voice getting a little husky. “Oh, I’m up for anything you’ve got, Ricci. I’ll be counting down the days.”

  Ironically, so would I.

  “Good, I’ll see you then.” My smile widened, my pulse quickening from the thrill. “Bye, Tibbs.”

  “Later, Ricci.”

  The call ended.

  “That look,” Miller pointed to my face, his grin matching mine, “usually means trouble. What the hell are you going to make the guy do?”

  “Put him through his paces,” I sighed, watching as our waitress approached with two loaded plates we were going to demolish. “Let’s see what Justin Tibbs is made of.”

  And I was going to enjoy the hell out of that.

  Justin

  LIKE SHE PROMISED, Ricci had sent me the address of a gym in Queens. Why she wanted to go there was beyond me. But if it made her excited to see me workout, then who was I to deny her. And given the chance to see her in some lycra while she squatted and lunged, or needed a spot, yeah that was something I’d rather die than say no to.

  Didn’t even need to think about saying yes, accepting her eleven o’clock suggestion without hesitation, and wondering if she had plans for the rest of the day. I liked she wanted to get started early, giving us hours to fill with nothing but each other.

  I couldn’t even remember the last time I was excited to go on a date, let alone actually done something other than fucking. Not that I was a complete jerk, I’d taken women to dinner or breakfast, sometimes even lunch. But typically it was before or after—the fucking usually the main event.

  I hadn’t been interested in more. Not thinking “the one” even existed, and not at a point in my life where I wanted more. It was easier to play it cool, and made for a lot less hurt feelings. And for the most part—given my odd hours and the demands of the job etc.—it just worked. No one complained either, the girls who I’d been filling my time with lately, just as happy to forgo the pretense, which was why I hadn’t even bothered to try.

  But Ricci was different.

  For starters, she was nothing like those other girls, and was about thirty times more interesting. And while I absolutely wouldn’t turn down sex if that was on offer, I was good with whatever. I meant it when I said she could pick what we did—I didn’t care. And as long as I got to spend time with her—and got to know what was going on behind those dark brown eyes—then I couldn’t be any happier.

  She was infectious, compelling in a way, I didn’t fully understand. She was smart, called me on my bullshit, which pushed me to be better. I’d never had that, not with anyone who wasn’t my family at least. It was exciting, and so refreshing, I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. It wasn’t just about getting physical, but knowing her on every level. And while that compulsion might’ve been new, it wasn’t something I’d even think or want to change.

  The rest of the week seemed to take forever.

  Forever.

  And while I wanted to call her and see if we could move up our date, I resisted. Last thing I wanted to do was come on too strong, like Evans trying to land my spare room, and I didn’t need to give her an excuse to cancel.

  Okay, so maybe I texted a few times. But that didn’t count because I texted everyone, and it didn’t constitute conversation. They were fillers, impassive Post-It notes of communication that basically let everyone know you were still alive. So technically it was allowed. Hell, if I’d had Miller’s number, I’d have texted him too just to prove the point. And since every single one of those interactions with Tessa had been platonic, it wasn’t even close to crossing the line in what could be perceived as flirty.

  My thoughts, on the other hand, had.

  Repeatedly.

  But again, completely acceptable considering no one else was in my head and I was going to think whatever the hell I wanted.

  And dirty thoughts about Tessa Ricci was currently my favorite hobby.

  So when Friday finally came I was about ready to jump out of my skin. It was as if someone had added some extra days to the week, or at least a few rogue hours that weren’t necessary, positive time had slowed to a crawl. But good things came to those who waited, and I was being as good as I knew how.

  It was just before eleven when I pulled around the back of High and Tight, the venue of our morning date. It was unremarkable in every way, lacking the flash and appeal of popular city gyms, and looked like it reeked of used jockstraps and Icy Hot.

  But, whatever. I wasn’t some stuck-up asshole who needed a chai latte chaser after a lifting session, so if Ricci thought that shit would scare me away, she was going to be waiting awhile.

  I grabbed my gym bag from the trunk of my Impala, checking my phone one last time to make sure she hadn’t canceled. It hadn’t even occurred to me that she might stand me up, my muscles twitching as I considered the possibility.

  She wouldn’t, I rationalized, believing she wouldn’t waste my time on some elaborate plan and then not turn up. And not wanting to waste a second more with the mental debate, I locked my car and headed inside.

  There was a reason High and Tight looked like a reject from the movie Rocky, the gym less tailored to “bro, do you even lift?” and more in line with “the next heavyweight champion of the world.” It was a boxing gym. Completely no thrills, with a full-sized ring in the middle, hosting a bunch of guys whose deltoids looked like the needed their own zip code. They didn’t even look up, each of those freaks of nature continuing with their workouts while I stood in the doorway.

  “Hey!” Ricci’s voice snagged my attention, swiveling my head to see her standing in front of me.

  Jesus.

  Fucking.

  Christ.

  My lungs burned with the need for air while the windbags seemed to have forgotten their purpose. And every single one of my muscles seized like one of those meatheads had punched me square in the gut.

  Dressed in a pair of tight black shorts that looked like they were painted on, the fabric curved around her thighs and ass in what could only be described as spectacular. I was given a front-row seat to the view when she turned, glancing back to the ring when someone called out. Equally impressive was the tight black sports bra she was wearing, the amount of toned skin on display making me feel like I was going to stroke out.

  “Hey,” I coughed, unable to keep my eyes from widening as I scanned the length of her body like there was going to be a test on it later.

  Fuck, she was hot. So toned and tight, and so fucking defined she looked like she belonged on an Olympic podium collecting a gold medal. I couldn’t even reconcile what I was seeing, her body so strong and powerful, yet so undeniably feminine it almost didn’t seem real.

  She’d been sexy as hell the other night in the club—that tight dress making me hard in all the right places—but the current version was more than just a nice body. It was conditioned to perfection, demanding respect more than adoration. And fuck me if I didn’t want to give her both.

  “So, you want to work out?” I lamely asked, leaving whatever game I thought I had in the parking lot. I seriously had to fight the urge to get on the floor and thank God for the gift that was Tessa Ricci.

  Hell, no wonder she kept that locked down most of the time. If word got out, there would be assholes boosting cars and mugging old ladies all over Midtown just hoping she’d be the one to slap on the cuffs. And this asshole would be the first in line.

  She didn’t miss a beat, completely unaffected by my mumbling bullshit as she grabbed the gym bag from my shoulder. “Let’s get your stuff stashed and then we can start.”

  Yeah, ok
ay, let’s do that. I nodded, words proving too much of a challenge as I let her lead me to a set of old-school metal lockers that were bolted to the wall. Fuck, she could have taken me to a walk-in freezer and racked me like a side of beef and I probably wouldn’t have complained. My eyes unable to move from the curve of her ass even though I knew I needed to look away.

  “Tibbs?” Her raised brow hinted that it probably wasn’t the first time she’d said my name. “You still with me?”

  “Um, yeah?” I answered, sounding just as indecisive as I felt because, honestly, I had no idea where I was.

  Did I die on the way over? Was I dreaming and this shit was a product of my overactive imagination? Because as real as it seemed to be, I was struggling keeping my spirit in my body and my tongue in my mouth.

  “Look,” I decided to come clean. It was either that or risk her thinking I had a brain injury. Which to be honest, I wasn’t sure those shorts hadn’t given me an aneurysm. “You’re going to need to give me a minute. Because as it stands, you are without a doubt the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. And yes, I’ve seen plenty of hot women, which I’m only mentioning so you know my data pool was large and varied, and my assessment is reliable.”

  She looked down at her body, clearly not seeing it the way I did. “You’d see more skin on the dance floor of your sister’s club, Tibbs. But if this is too much for you, maybe we should put a pin in it, and you can head home.”

  “No!” I yelled so loud some of the meatheads actually turned around. How they’d been able to work out while Ricci looked like a female gladiator ready to lead the resistance was beyond me. Still, not something I was going to point out. “If you think I’m walking out that door right now, you are insane.” I tried to keep the crazy out of my voice even though I was feeling slightly unhinged. “I’m good. Solid. Ready to do whatever it is you want to do. I am not going anywhere.”

  It was a promise.

  A vow.

  A sworn fucking oath, because even though I had no idea what her plans were for me, I knew I wanted them.

  “O-kay, but if this gets too much,” she waved her hand in front of herself like she was a set of shiny new steak knives, “you can bail at any time.”

  I’d rather die, I didn’t say, nodding my head, not trusting my mouth not to get me into trouble.

  Like a zombie I followed her to the center of the gym, watching as she hoisted herself up onto the ring in a set of perfect fluid movements that were almost poetic. It was definitely not her first time. She sat casually on the middle rope, waving for me to join her as I tried to do the same.

  I wasn’t a little guy.

  Six-two and having spent a decent amount of time in the weight room, I was far from average. And it was a good thing too, because when you attended a fire you needed to be strong and fucking agile, and have the stamina to cut it on the lines for hours if that was what it took.

  So even though I was physically bigger—in every conceivable way—than Ricci, I was struggling not being dwarfed by her fucking aura.

  She owned it, a confidence that couldn’t be taught, radiating out of her as I squeezed through the center ropes and planted my feet on the main part of the ring. And that right there—that unshakeable self-assurance—was even sexier than her amazing body.

  “You going to fight me, Ricci?” I laughed, my eyes following her as she moved into the corner of the ring.

  “Yep,” she answered with no hesitation, reaching down and grabbing a roll of gauze. “And you’re going to fight me too. But we need to wrap first. I don’t want to hear it from Mack if you hurt your hands and then can’t hold the hose. I like the guy, but he’s scary when he’s mad.”

  Wait.

  What?

  Yes, Mack was absolutely a scary motherfucker when he got pissed, so it came as no surprise that even Ricci didn’t want to take the big guy on.

  What I was having a problem with—or more to the point couldn’t get my head around—was the other part.

  I had been joking. Assuming that if she wanted to glove up and smack me around a little, I was up for the punishment. I could take a hit, and chances were my mouth had probably helped her with the motivation. All good.

  But me hitting her?

  Not fucking happening.

  “I’m not fighting you, Ricci. You want to punch me, then go for it. I’ll even block if you want me to participate. But I have never hit a woman, and I sure as hell am not starting with you.”

  It had to be a test, some fucking pop quiz to see if I really would do whatever it was she wanted. And while I was game for almost anything—seriously, I could count on one hand the number of my hard passes—I was NOT taking anything remotely close to a swing.

  “You’re not hitting a woman, Tibbs. It’s sparring. You know boxing is a sport, right?” She rolled her eyes, taking the gauze and wrapping it around her hands.

  She’d clearly done it a million times before, the fluid, quick flicks working efficiently as they covered her knuckles.

  What the hell was happening?

  Was she moonlighting as an MMA fighter? Sure would explain the body and the confidence, not that any of that would change my stance.

  “Ricci—” I was just about to launch into all the reasons why it was an incredibly bad idea when I was cut off.

  “Baby doll! I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow.” The commanding voice boomed as footsteps made their way to the ring. The guy had to be in his fifties but was still plenty in shape, his eyes flicking to me before switching back to Tessa.

  Baby doll huh? The guy either had an allergy to breathing or knew Ricci fairly well.

  “Dad,” well I guess that answered that, Tessa smiled at the guy in question. “I was going to come say hi later. Tibbs and I were just going to get some time on the mat.”

  “Hello, sir.” I held out my hand, wondering if he’d somehow be able to know I’d had impure thoughts about his daughter. Mind reading wasn’t really a thing, right? Because if it was, and he could, I was in some serious shit. “I’m Tibbs, pleased to meet you, Mr. Ricci.”

  “Tibbs? You on the force too?” He grunted, taking my hand and giving it a bone-crushing squeeze. Yeah, he might not be able to read my mind but something told me he could probably guess what I’d been thinking.

  “FD,” I responded, thankful he let go of his grip without dislocating my fucking fingers.

  “Fireman,” he nodded in what I hoped was approval. “You looking to train?”

  My “no” drowned out Ricci’s “yes” as his brow knitted in confusion. “Well which is it? Because we’re not running a daycare.”

  Wow, we needed to get Tessa’s old man and Mack together, they’d be a barrel of fucking laughs.

  “Tibbs is worried about hitting a girl.” Ricci grinned, saying it like it was a personal flaw.

  Tessa’s old man—who hadn’t yet introduced himself and I was beginning to think that was intentional—laughed, sizing me up before meeting my eyes. “Is that true?”

  Why the hell was me doing the right thing suddenly bad? And what kind of asshole would want a guy to hit his daughter?

  “I don’t hit women, sir.” I didn’t flinch, making no apologies for my stance.

  He laughed again, louder this time, as his head tipped to Tessa. “You think you’re going to hurt her? Buddy, I don’t know what spaceship you crawled out of, but I’d be more worried about what she’d do to you.”

  Old man Ricci was at least an inch shorter than me, but he acted like he was a hundred feet tall. I was positive he didn’t know how to back down, a trait he’d passed down to his kid probably around the same time he taught her to fight.

  I got it. Not all families were the same, and while some—mine—went camping in summertime, others—hers—trained for caged death matches.

  “So let me get this straight,” I glanced over at Ricci who had finished with the gauze and slid on a pair of bright red boxing gloves. “You want me to hit her.” Because that made sens
e.

  He curled his lip, tilting his head to the side. “You want to date my daughter?”

  Well, so much for easing myself into the situation. And I wasn’t sure what would be easier. To shut my mouth and fight—fuck, I could barely even think it—Ricci, or admit to her hard-ass old man that I wanted to date his daughter.

  Please, God, do not let this be a trick question.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” I answered, because . . . fuck, I really did want to.

  “Then wrap your goddamn hands and stop being a pussy.”

  “Okay.” I held up my palms, my limit for being polite reached at being called a pussy.

  “Dad,” Ricci snarled. To her credit, she looked genuinely annoyed. But I didn’t need her or anyone else fighting my battles, especially when it came to proving I wasn’t a coward.

  “It’s fine, Ricci. I’ve got this.” I turned to face her dad. “You don’t know me, which is probably why you’re making assumptions. But let me set you straight on a few. I’m not some jerk-off who is going to turn and run because you don’t like me. And regardless of what you think, I’m not going to do something I don’t want to do. Also, I am not—and never will be—a pussy.” I left off the fuck you because I knew it wouldn’t be helpful.

  “Ya done?” he asked, looking bored. Completely saw where she got that from.

  “Yep, pretty much.” I nodded, not willing to back down.

  “Tessa is probably one of the most talented fighters I’ve ever had the honor to train. And if I thought you had the potential to hurt her in any way, I’d take you out myself. But you want to date her, then you better have a pair of beachball-sized testicles because a woman like that is not a walk in the park.”

  “Dad!” Tess interrupted.

  “Don’t Dad me, Baby doll. He needs to hear this.” He waved her off before giving his attention to me. “I want you to see what she’s capable of, see how strong she is, how meticulous she can be when focused. So you can’t pretend you didn’t know what you were getting yourself in for. I’ve seen her make men double her size pee their skivvies, because boxing is about what’s up here,” he rammed a finger against his temple. “Not what’s here.” He held up his fists. “You want to know her, then know all of her. Not just the pretty parts. Or go find yourself a Fifth Avenue Barbie and save yourselves both the trouble.”