Fifteen Years Earlier…

Celia

There were whispers about Hunter's family. In the school halls, in the playground. In my own house. "He's Irish," my grandmother said when she saw him the first time. "Stay away from that one. The Saints are trouble, the lot of them. I heard they have pirate blood in them, no doubt about it."

My stepfather said the elder Saint brothers were dirty, corrupt, mixed up with organized crime, and their sons weren't far behind them, destined to be just as criminal as their fathers.

I didn't care. At nine, I was intrigued by the drama and had no idea what ‘organized crime’ meant. Besides, Hunter was what my nine-year-old self considered a total hunk.

He was everything an adolescent girl could desire: buff from years of training at his father's club, Saint Brothers Gym and Boxing Emporium, with longish dark hair that flopped in his eyes, pale skin, and blue, blue eyes.

Hunter had a sexy smile that turned my insides to mush. Back then, I didn't know why I liked him, but I did, sensing something in him that would one day send women into paroxysms of lust.

"Pretty Boy Saint," they called him in the fighting circuit, because he still had a perfect face, his nose straight and his features symmetrical despite fighting since he was ten. My stepfather called him "Bad Boy Saint" but to me, he was just Hunter.

The man of my dreams. The only one I wanted.

Hunter's older brother Sean had hoped to go pro, and had taken up mixed martial arts. He was fierce-looking with his busted nose and glistening muscles, pumped from working out, tats across his chest and back. But he'd been in one too many fights where he’d gotten knocked out, and was no longer able to fight. He'd suffered brain damage and was now reduced to being the caretaker at the gym.

Hunter's younger brother Conor was fast becoming a skilled boxer, but back then, it was Hunter everyone placed their bets on to go to the Olympics. He was quick on his feet and fast with his hands, or so Graham told me as we stood at the side of the ring and watched Hunter practice, kicking and punching his trainer's gloves.

When Hunter was done, he leaned over the ropes and looked at Graham and me where we sat on the sidelines. He was a sight to behold with his hair wet from exertion, his fair skin pink and his muscles pumped.

"Hey, Celia, you wanna try?" Hunter asked, giving me a crooked smile.

"Yes," I said, jumping up without hesitation. I'd do pretty much anything Hunter asked. I turned to Graham. "Can I?"

He shrugged. "Go ahead," he said with a grin. “Be gentle with him. Don’t want him to lose that pretty-boy smile.”

I climbed up and through the ropes to stand in front of Hunter, who was almost two feet taller than me. Even at fifteen, Hunter was built. He had on a pair of black boxing shorts and his chest was bare. His hands had been wrapped in cotton tape and his skin gleamed with sweat. He took some smaller boxing gloves from the side of the ring and tied them onto my hands. I couldn't help but stare at him while he fastened them, in awe and somewhat breathless at being so close to his beautiful and unmarred face.

He must have known how impressed I was, because he glanced down into my face, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Excited?" he asked, as he finished tying one glove.

I nodded, at a loss for words, as usual.

He showed me a few stances and how to guard my face, then I punched his practice glove a few times to get my bearings. When the instruction was over, he put the practice glove down and stuck out his chest, his hands on his hips.

"Okay, Celia. Take your best shot."

"You want me to…" I said, stammering. "To hit you?"

He nodded. "Go for it. Hit me as hard as you can. I can take it."

I held my gloves up and jabbed at his abdomen. To my utter shock and horror, he fell back, dropping to the floor in pain.

At first, I was appalled—I didn't think I'd hit him hard. Then I realized he was faking me out, and I frowned.

"Hun-ter!"

When he saw the look on my face, he doubled up with laughter. On the sidelines, Graham laughed out loud, enjoying Hunter's little game at my expense.

Hunter got up and came over, rubbing my head playfully. "It's okay, Nibs," he said, using my nickname. "You'll get better. Everyone has to start somewhere."

Nibs. I hated that nickname. My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment that Hunter knew it and, even worse, used it. I'd received it because of my flat chest and noticeable nipples, which seemed to always stick out at the worst times. My stepdad Spencer wouldn't let me get a real bra, saying I was too young, so I had to cover my chest instead. I spent a lot of time with my arms across my chest.

"Don't call me that," I said, fighting not to pout like a child, but it crushed me to have Hunter—of all people—know my nickname.

"It's okay," he said, his voice soft. He bent down and looked in my eyes. "One day you'll have real tits and no one will call you Nibs. I heard that the longer you go without getting them, the bigger they'll be. Then all the guys will be lining up to be your boyfriend."

"I hope so," I said, mortified that Hunter was talking about my non-existent breasts, but somewhat mollified at the thought that I had a nickname-free future where boys might line up to date me.

"Now, hit me for real." Hunter stuck his chest out again. "Put everything you got into it."

I tried again and this time, I landed a punch with a solid thwack!

"See?" Hunter said with a chuckle. "You can do it. You learn to fight and no guy will ever mess with you, boobs or no boobs."

I nodded, then he led me over to a punching bag.

"Hit this for a while. Graham and I have to go out back for a minute."

"Okay," I said, and proceeded to punch the bag instead of him. He hopped out of the ring and he and Graham went out back—to do what I had no idea—and I was alone with the punching bag. I hit it listlessly, no longer interested now that Hunter was gone.

While I was punching the bag, imagining Hunter returning to spar with me some more, my stepfather showed up, entering through the front doors of the gym. I stopped hitting the bag and watched as he scanned the gym floor looking for Graham.

When he saw me, his face changed from usually-grumpy-Spencer to really-angry-Spencer.

How I knew that face…

"What the hell are you doing here?" He stomped over to the ring. "What are you doing with boxing gloves on? Don't you know you could get your teeth knocked out? We spent thousands of dollars on those braces." He jerked his arm. "Get out of there."

I jumped down from the ring and stood silently while he unlaced my boxing gloves, his hands roughly pulling them off before they were properly untied, hurting me.

Even at nine, I knew that was his intention. Spencer liked to hurt me, spanking or slapping me at every opportunity.

"Where's your brother?"

I shrugged.

"Don't tell me he's left you here. How many times have I told him to be responsible? That boy…"

"He's out back with Hunter," I said finally, not wanting Spencer to punish Graham. Then I bit my lip, realizing I should have kept my mouth shut. As much as I hated him, I was also afraid of Spencer. He had a mean streak and you never knew when he might snap and haul off and whack you.

"You stay here," he said, and forced me down on the bench beside the ring. "I'll be right back."

In a few moments, Spencer entered the gym from the back, one hand circling Graham's bicep, pushing him ahead. Graham and Hunter had been out back, smoking in the back alley behind the gym—and not just tobacco cigarettes, either. Smoking a spliff, Graham called it. Marijuana. Not a good idea when your stepfather was the assistant DA.

"Let's go," Spencer said and pointed to me. "You're both in trouble."

That was the last time I went to Saint's Gym for almost ten years.