In Your Corner
Page 76
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After staring at my computer screen for an hour and billing no time, I grab my gym bag and head to Redemption. Although I had planned to work through my new fight class, I’m getting nothing done. Might as well make sure I’m in top physical condition for the work marathon ahead. And as an added incentive, Jake texts that he has a meeting tonight. I won’t have to face him after successfully avoiding him all week. Coward that I am.
When I present myself at the training ring for Fight or Flight, Shayla introduces me to a new instructor, Razzor, a tall, Nordic blond with iceberg eyes. Razzor informs me his name is spelled with two Zs because there is already a Razor with one Z on the cards. He says we are to say his name with an extra hiss so everyone knows we are talking about Razzor with two Zs and not one. He does not smile when he says this, so we know he is serious.
Blade Saw stops by and invites us to the Redemption prefight barbecue at his place two weeks from Saturday. He says the Redemption fighters always have a big party before they move into a serious regimen of dieting and training before a big event, and this time it’s his turn to host. Shayla accepts for both of us. After Blade Saw leaves, she tells me she needs a wingman at the party, and I’m it. Refusal is not an option.
Razzor informs me Shayla will be my sparring partner. I whimper. He tells me to breathe deep, swallow my fear, and focus on the fight. Shayla gives me an evil smile and cracks her knuckles, then her neck, then my ribs. Still, I learn some new punching techniques, a few fight moves, and how a head to the solar plexus can drive all the air from your lungs.
“Sorry.” Shayla massages my ribs as I wheeze and gasp on the mat. “Been having a rough week and needed to blow off some steam.”
“Me too.” My words come out as a low whistle. Those are the last words I say for the next twenty minutes. When the class finally ends, I lie on the mat and vow never to step into a ring with Shayla again.
Curiously, the painful hour in the gym restores my energy, and I return to my office to put in a few more hours of work. On impulse, I stop along the way and buy a bottle of wine. One glass to cheer me up. It is a Friday night, after all, and I should be celebrating the sale of my house.
Back in the office, I check my phone messages. Lots from clients. None from Jake. Three days and no contact, and Shayla said between punches that he’d never missed a practice until tonight.
My heart sinks. All this time I thought I’ve been avoiding Jake, but maybe he’s avoiding me. I never said anything after he told me he loved me. Not at Redemption. Not over the weekend during our sexathon. And not in any of our very brief conversations at the beginning of the week. How would I feel if he did that to me? Maybe the same way I felt when no one showed up at my piano recitals, soccer games, or Christmas concerts, or when my birthdays passed by unnoticed.
Nausea roils in my gut at the thought I might have hurt him. What the hell have I been doing? Maybe Penny is right. The torrent of tender emotions I feel when I’m with Jake. The thrill that sets my heart pounding when he walks into a room. The freedom to let go, trusting he won’t let me fall. This deep tugging on my heart. Maybe this is what I’ve been looking for. Not lust or infatuation. Not friendship. But love. The kind of love that means commitment.
I need to speak to him. Now.
A rattle at the front door startles me before I can pick up my phone and I freeze. My heart seizes in my chest. Jake? It has to be. Who else would come here so late at night? Hope blossoms in my chest and I race out into the reception room just in time to hear the shatter of glass and the crunch of shoes in the hallway.
My mouth opens to call out Jake’s name when a warning tingle makes me think again. Jake wouldn’t break the window. He has a key. As do Penny and Ray.
A chill of fear runs through my veins. The only light on in the building is in my office, not visible from the street. Does the intruder know I’m here? If I take a step, will he hear me?
Back into my office. Turn off the lights. Quietly close and lock the door. Phone. Need phone. Move feet move. But my feet won’t listen, or maybe they can’t hear over the frantic pounding of my heart.
Footsteps circle the reception room, once then twice, ringing out loudly against the hardwood floor. Doors open and close. Penny’s chair rolls. Then I hear the hum of her computer. Sweat trickles down my back. What does he want? Not drugs or money. The computer? Files?
Finally, I force myself into action, tiptoeing cautiously across the floor. But the boards creak with every step and by the time I reach my desk, I am sure he has heard me. Hands shaking, I call 911, whispering the information into the phone. Then I text Fuzzy in case they don’t come. Or in case they come too late.
Over to the window. Tug and pull. Pull and tug. Damn window won’t budge. Sweat trickles between my br**sts and my fingers claw uselessly at the catch. I’ll have to break it.
The roll of chair castors. The thud of footsteps. Then the doorknob rattles. “Someone in there?” I don’t recognize the thin, reedy voice.
Violent shudders wrack my body, almost as bad as when I first stepped into the ring. So I follow Razzor’s advice. I breathe deep. I swallow the fear. I focus on the fight. And right now, my fight is with a goddamn window that won’t open.
The doorknob rattles again. Adrenaline surges through my body and my heart pounds so hard I fear I will break a rib. I curse the Redemption fighters for not fixing the window, and Jake for owning a house with windows that don’t open, and carpenters who install windows that get stuck, and old houses for warping and twisting frames, and me for not having the foresight to have something in my office that I can use to break the window. Pens, books, and paper won’t cut it. No statues or paperweights in my office. I need something big and heavy. My eyes fall on the microwave.
When I present myself at the training ring for Fight or Flight, Shayla introduces me to a new instructor, Razzor, a tall, Nordic blond with iceberg eyes. Razzor informs me his name is spelled with two Zs because there is already a Razor with one Z on the cards. He says we are to say his name with an extra hiss so everyone knows we are talking about Razzor with two Zs and not one. He does not smile when he says this, so we know he is serious.
Blade Saw stops by and invites us to the Redemption prefight barbecue at his place two weeks from Saturday. He says the Redemption fighters always have a big party before they move into a serious regimen of dieting and training before a big event, and this time it’s his turn to host. Shayla accepts for both of us. After Blade Saw leaves, she tells me she needs a wingman at the party, and I’m it. Refusal is not an option.
Razzor informs me Shayla will be my sparring partner. I whimper. He tells me to breathe deep, swallow my fear, and focus on the fight. Shayla gives me an evil smile and cracks her knuckles, then her neck, then my ribs. Still, I learn some new punching techniques, a few fight moves, and how a head to the solar plexus can drive all the air from your lungs.
“Sorry.” Shayla massages my ribs as I wheeze and gasp on the mat. “Been having a rough week and needed to blow off some steam.”
“Me too.” My words come out as a low whistle. Those are the last words I say for the next twenty minutes. When the class finally ends, I lie on the mat and vow never to step into a ring with Shayla again.
Curiously, the painful hour in the gym restores my energy, and I return to my office to put in a few more hours of work. On impulse, I stop along the way and buy a bottle of wine. One glass to cheer me up. It is a Friday night, after all, and I should be celebrating the sale of my house.
Back in the office, I check my phone messages. Lots from clients. None from Jake. Three days and no contact, and Shayla said between punches that he’d never missed a practice until tonight.
My heart sinks. All this time I thought I’ve been avoiding Jake, but maybe he’s avoiding me. I never said anything after he told me he loved me. Not at Redemption. Not over the weekend during our sexathon. And not in any of our very brief conversations at the beginning of the week. How would I feel if he did that to me? Maybe the same way I felt when no one showed up at my piano recitals, soccer games, or Christmas concerts, or when my birthdays passed by unnoticed.
Nausea roils in my gut at the thought I might have hurt him. What the hell have I been doing? Maybe Penny is right. The torrent of tender emotions I feel when I’m with Jake. The thrill that sets my heart pounding when he walks into a room. The freedom to let go, trusting he won’t let me fall. This deep tugging on my heart. Maybe this is what I’ve been looking for. Not lust or infatuation. Not friendship. But love. The kind of love that means commitment.
I need to speak to him. Now.
A rattle at the front door startles me before I can pick up my phone and I freeze. My heart seizes in my chest. Jake? It has to be. Who else would come here so late at night? Hope blossoms in my chest and I race out into the reception room just in time to hear the shatter of glass and the crunch of shoes in the hallway.
My mouth opens to call out Jake’s name when a warning tingle makes me think again. Jake wouldn’t break the window. He has a key. As do Penny and Ray.
A chill of fear runs through my veins. The only light on in the building is in my office, not visible from the street. Does the intruder know I’m here? If I take a step, will he hear me?
Back into my office. Turn off the lights. Quietly close and lock the door. Phone. Need phone. Move feet move. But my feet won’t listen, or maybe they can’t hear over the frantic pounding of my heart.
Footsteps circle the reception room, once then twice, ringing out loudly against the hardwood floor. Doors open and close. Penny’s chair rolls. Then I hear the hum of her computer. Sweat trickles down my back. What does he want? Not drugs or money. The computer? Files?
Finally, I force myself into action, tiptoeing cautiously across the floor. But the boards creak with every step and by the time I reach my desk, I am sure he has heard me. Hands shaking, I call 911, whispering the information into the phone. Then I text Fuzzy in case they don’t come. Or in case they come too late.
Over to the window. Tug and pull. Pull and tug. Damn window won’t budge. Sweat trickles between my br**sts and my fingers claw uselessly at the catch. I’ll have to break it.
The roll of chair castors. The thud of footsteps. Then the doorknob rattles. “Someone in there?” I don’t recognize the thin, reedy voice.
Violent shudders wrack my body, almost as bad as when I first stepped into the ring. So I follow Razzor’s advice. I breathe deep. I swallow the fear. I focus on the fight. And right now, my fight is with a goddamn window that won’t open.
The doorknob rattles again. Adrenaline surges through my body and my heart pounds so hard I fear I will break a rib. I curse the Redemption fighters for not fixing the window, and Jake for owning a house with windows that don’t open, and carpenters who install windows that get stuck, and old houses for warping and twisting frames, and me for not having the foresight to have something in my office that I can use to break the window. Pens, books, and paper won’t cut it. No statues or paperweights in my office. I need something big and heavy. My eyes fall on the microwave.
