THE CAB DROPS ME AT the curb and I make my way inside, stopping at the front desk to let them know I’m just there to pick up some papers from Rush. The guy nods and escorts me back to what appears to be a private training room on the opposite side of the main area.
“I think Rush might have hit the showers. I’ll go holler at him if you’d like to have a seat over there.”
I nod and make my way to the small seating area equipped with an armchair and loveseat, occupied by one woman. I give her a smile and take a seat looking through the glass out into the training room. I lean forward in my seat slightly and squint my eyes. Is that Stone? Fighting a kid?
I stand and walk to the window to get a closer look. I watch as they circle around each other and when I see that it’s him I shake my head, words falling from my mouth uncontrolled.
“God, they start them out early around here.” I take my seat again and give the woman, who’s now looking up from her magazine, an apologetic smile.
“Mr. Keeling’s done wonders for my kid. He helping yours, too?” The second she says “helping” my eyes narrow.
“What’s he done so far for yours?”
I avoid her question and go straight for the information.
“Oh God, Charlie was ready to give up on life itself when my brother, works the front desk sometimes, told me about Stone. He’d been getting bullied for years, but last year when he started junior high, things got physical. He’s only been working with him for a few months, but he’s a completely different kid already.”
I stare at her, going over what she’s said in my head.
“Is your kid getting bullied, too?”
I blink, swallowing to speak. “Uh…no. But I’m glad you told me about the classes, you know, in case…” Rush walks past the glass on the other side and I stand. “Thank you,” I say to the woman. “Hi,” I say as Rush rounds the corner.
“Hi. Here’s those pap—”
“You’re blocking the doorway.” A voice cuts in—his voice. Rush turns to the side and Stone stands behind him, the boy beside Stone. Our eyes meet and I know we’re both thinking of yesterday. The feeling in my gut is unmistakable. I feel shitty for saying what I did, and I know I owe him an apology, but at the same time, I feel like those feelings are contingent upon his involvement in the underground syndicate. I internally smack myself because I’m being a child. I’m sorry for what I said to him, not how I feel about what he does.
Rush and I move to the side and Stone and the boy goes around us and out to the sitting area with his mom. When Stone ruffles his hair and the boy smiles, I feel remorseful, curious…proud. I shake it off, looking back to Rush.
“Thank you for getting these.” I take the papers. “It will prove helpful.”
“I doubt you’ll need it, but you’re welcome.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks over my shoulder, then back to me. “I’m sure Stone will handle it like he always does.”
The way he says it gives me an uneasy feeling, but it holds a level of appreciation and loyalty. Before I can question Rush further, I feel his presence behind me.
“What brings you down to our level, Lydia?” He’s right at my ear, voice both disdainful and caressing against the skin of my neck. My eyes close briefly and I remind myself that I’m the one who owes him an apology.
“Thanks again for getting these, Rush.”
“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.” Rush gives his brother a look before turning on his heel and leaving. I turn my head and look up at Stone, who still stands at my back. When he steps around, coming to stand in front of me, the silence around us thickens and I realize we’re alone.
“Do you do that for a lot of kids?” I speak, my voice sounding small to my ears.
“What’s that?” He points to the papers in my hand.
“His mother said you’ve helped him a lot.”
His eyes narrow fractionally, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs a bottle of water from a nearby bench, downing the contents.
“I owe you an apology,” I say.
He hesitates as he pulls a shirt from his gym bag, taking his time, causing my eyes to watch each flex of his body intently, but not chancing a glance at me. I’m sure he’s pissed, offended at the misplaced anger in my words yesterday. But I should remind myself that he doesn’t understand where I’m coming from, and honestly, I don’t understand his position either.
“Why? Because you come here and see me working with some kid?” he says flatly. He walks up to me, bag thrown over his shoulder.
“I owed you an apology before I walked through the door tonight, but I won’t lie and say it doesn’t make it easier, knowing you’re doing something helpful instead of harmful with your skills.”
“What did you get from Rush?” he asks again, unflinching at my comment or his avoidance of it.
“Academic records. In case we need to lay a foundation for a defense. Do you think we’ll need them?” I don’t want to out Rush, even though what he said seemed insignificant, to Stone it may seem disloyal.
“Hope not.” His eyes are serious, tone absolute.
“You gonna lock up, boss?”
We both whip our head to the doorway, the guy from the front desk poking his head in. Boss? I look back to Stone. He looks away and back to the guy.
“Yeah, Evan. I got it. Goodnight.”
Evan waves and walks out of sight.
“Did you drive?” Stone asks and I return my gaze to him, swallowing.
“Cab. Let me get out of your way so you can lock up.”
“I’ve just got to check the changing rooms and showers, then I’ll give you a ride.”
My eyes widen and I guess he mistakes my shock at his kindness, for fear.
“Give me a break, Lydia. You spent nearly an entire weekend with me, I’ve been inside your apartment—I’ve been inside you. Give it a rest already.”
I hold up my hands in surrender.
“Hey, I didn’t say anything.”
His outburst spurs a little bit of my reserved anger.
“And for your information, just because you’ve been inside my apartment and me, doesn’t mean shit. People aren’t always as they seem.” I don’t even wait for him, I head toward the sign that says ‘Showers’.
“Where are you going?”
“You check the men’s, I’ll check the women’s.”
I seethe quietly as I walk from shower to shower, checking for occupants and caught up in my thoughts. I’m not sure if it’s the chip on his shoulder or the fact that my views may be a little outdated that pisses me off. Do I really think Stone is capable of doing what Damon did to Madison? No. I don’t think I’ve really thought that since I found out he was a fighter. But what I do think is that I can’t take the chance.
It’s not just about my safety or my schedule or my wants anymore.
I flip off the shower lights, walking to the back of the room to the changing area where rows of lockers create a sort of maze throughout the room. When I round the corner headed back to the door, I run right into a hard wall of muscled chest. A small squeal leaves my chest.
“Holy shit, Stone. What the hell?”
The sudden shock of fear leaves me immobile for seconds, but God, it feels like minutes. He smells good, like soap and sweat. I remember that smell as I lowered to my knees in the hotel and put my mouth on…oh hell no you don’t.
I pull away quickly, heading around him. He grabs my wrist, pulling me back.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He presses me against the block wall behind us. “I wanna do a lot of things to you, but scaring you isn’t one of them.” Oh God.
My heart still beats a mile a minute, but I don’t think it’s from him scaring me anymore. I’ve never denied what he does to me. He tilts my chin up so I must look at him.
“Are you scared of me, Lydia?”
I swallow, nostrils flaring and only managing to pull more of his smell into my space, intoxicating me and weakening my resolve.
“Are you going to take me home or do I need to call a cab?” Avoid, avoid, avoid. All I hear around us is the drip of water from the dark shower room. If he wanted to hurt me he could, and if I wanted to lie, I’d say I didn’t want him to. His kind of pain makes me feel good.
As if reading my mind, his hand falls from the wall to my hip. His thumb pressing my hipbone and his fingers digging through the thin material of my slacks and deliciously into the meat of my ass.
“Answer the fucking question,” he says low, voice still without the disturbance of emotion. I want him to squeeze harder, so I refrain from answering again, but he doesn’t give me what I want. He lets go and backs away. “Let’s go.” He heads toward the door, not caring to wait for me in the dark room and leaving me breathless at his abrupt absence. What the hell is wrong with me? I can only imagine what I look like; back arched, breasts out, chest heaving like a panting dog on a July day.
I have to quick-step just to catch up to him as we walk across the training room and to the front door. He opens the door and holds it open without looking at me. I’m suddenly pissed. At how both of us are acting.
I grab my coat from the rack and slip it on as I step out onto the sidewalk. He clicks the key fob in his hand and his truck lights blink rapidly as he locks the front door to the gym.
“Get in,” he instructs.
Screw him and the way my body wants to give in to his hands, when my brain—my educated, informed brain, screams at me every time I’m near him. Trying my best to keep from looking like a five-year-old stomping out of the room, I grit my teeth and walk to the passenger side of Stone’s truck and climb inside.
When he climbs in, I expect him to make some smartass comment or slam the door, make me feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t. He stays silent the entire twelve blocks to my apartment. Just when I think I know what to expect, he changes direction and makes my head foggy. We slow to a stop and I brace myself for the departure, feeling unsatisfied and disappointed. But even more, I think about everything that’s about to change in my life and how this may be the last time he and I are alone.
“Thanks for bringing me home.”
When he looks over at me, I see the mixed emotions swimming there. This thing between us was supposed to be purely sexual, and now words have been thrown around and feelings have gotten involved.
True to form, I’m over-thinking and he’s probably just sitting here waiting on me to get the hell out of his truck. I wish I could just get out without a word, not care whether I see him again in this way or not, but I know that I owe him at least my words.
I open the door and begin to ease out. Unable to look at him, hating myself for the way I feel, I answer his question. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of what you’re capable of—what you’re capable of doing to me. But mostly I’m scared of how much my body likes your pain, and that you knew I needed it before I did.”