by Amity Cross
“Mum, seriously?” I asked, just about ready to hurl my phone across the room. “Not everything is about you!”
“Don’t you dare—”
“I lost her, too!” I yelled, tears of frustration welling in my own eyes. “I lost her, too.”
Silence greeted me on the other end of the phone. A long maw of nothing that stretched on and on until I heard the call disconnect.
With a cry, I threw my phone. It hit the carpet and bounced once before falling facedown.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t take another day of this shit. How could I face my own grief and fear if everyone in my life was so hell-bent on wallowing in theirs? Dad just ignored everyone, and Mum was marinating in negativity.
But I had Caleb.
The thought popped into my mind, bright and clear, and I sighed. He was just my trainer. Even as I tried to remind myself of the fact, I could feel my heart attempting to betray my mind.
I was attracted to him. I liked him. He’d been nice to me and shown an interest in helping despite my embarrassing stutter…and the first day I met him I’d run away like a fool, and he still didn’t back down.
Could I start something with him? Provided he was interested in a scared little mouse like me.
Anyway, how did you tell the guy you like your sister was murdered, and your life was turned into a media circus, so you changed your name and your looks and moved to the other side of the country to escape? It wasn’t something you just explained over a friendly cup of coffee. Not even a beer at the pub.
I liked him, but I wasn’t sure pursuing it was a good idea. If he found out all the things I’d been keeping hidden, he wouldn’t want to know me at all. He wouldn’t even want to continue our training.
I valued our time together. It was comforting after everything that’d happened, and I wasn’t ready to give it up. Especially for a little romp between the sheets.
I knew what Mel would say if she were here. Don’t be so uptight and uncross your legs. Not everything has to be a romance. Let go for once in your life, and fuck his brains out.
Six years without her.
Shit, Mel, I thought, staring at my phone on the floor. Why didn’t you go out that night?
10
Caleb
I’d been so wrapped up with Juliette over the past few weeks, I’d forgotten about my father and his list of demands.
His assistant had scheduled appointments—yeah, that was right, he couldn’t call me himself—and all of them had fallen through. I was just waiting for him to appear in a puff of black smoke when I least expected it because I couldn’t count on him turning up when he said he would.
So when he turned up on Monday afternoon, his toned frame draped in what looked like his favorite style of Armani suit, I wasn’t surprised. With Juliette due in an hour or so, he couldn’t have picked a worse time to be a thorn in my side. It was like he had an inbuilt inconvenience detector.
“Seven cancellations,” I drawled as he strode into the studio. “We were starting to take bets.”
“You’re a thirty-year-old man,” Dad said, narrowing his eyes. “Act like one.”
I wanted to say, ‘You’re my father. Act like it,’ but he had his no bullshit face on, and I knew better than to rile him up when he was on a tear about something. Dad was the kind of guy who stuck me in a boxing ring when I was a moody teenager and forced me to fight him as punishment. Needless to say, I never won. As an adult? It was hard to say what the punishment would be.
“Your mother is quite upset with you,” he said. “You should have more respect.”
“You should have turned up to dinner.” It was pointless even attempting to defend myself because he completely ignored me.
“I can already see that none of my suggestions were implemented,” he went on, surveying the studio.
“And like I said, it isn’t my business. Or yours. If you’re that adamant about it, take it up with Andrew Miller.”
“Who are these fighters you are training?” He strode over to the ring where Gaz and Mitch were sparring, and Franklin was working a ball solo.
“Franklin Waters…” I began, attempting an introduction, but Franklin took the initiative.
“Vincent Carmichael,” he said, shaking Dad’s hand. “It’s really great to meet you.”
“You’re solidly built, good form. A little slow on your hand-eye coordination,” Dad said, looking Franklin over. “How long have you been training?”
“Longer than I can remember. Coming up two years at Beat. I’ve made a lot of headway since Caleb came on.”
Dad narrowed his eyes at me, then declared in all his arrogance, “I’ll make my own judgment about my son’s coaching abilities.” He gestured toward the ring. “Would you care for a few rounds?”
Franklin’s eyes lit up, practically pissing his pants at the chance to spar with a world champion boxer. Little did he know, he was merely a pawn in a long overdue Carmichael power play.
“Sure thing. Any pointers you could give me, I’ll gladly take.”
Dad snorted, shaking off his suit jacket.
“If you need something to change into, I have—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Spare me your courtesies, boy,” he snapped, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
I raised an eyebrow at Franklin, but he was so besotted, it was pointless. Same went for Gaz and Mitch, who ducked through the ropes, exiting the ring. If they knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t have the balls to call me boy the moment Dad left the premises.
Franklin held the ropes open for my father, who ducked through seamlessly, then followed, eager to hear his assessment. Mitch handed them both a pair of gloves, which they donned.
Dad looked ridiculous standing there bare chested in nothing but his suit pants, and I rolled my eyes. The guys were star struck, and Vincent Carmichael could do no wrong. They would pay to take a beating from the guy, and that was what Franklin was about to be served on a silver platter.
“Never let your opponent through your guard,” Dad said, holding up his fists. “If he thinks he can hit you, he will.”
They bounced around, and the difference in their stances clear. Franklin was too loose, and Dad, well he was fluid, but his weight was planted evenly on his heels. Then he struck, breaking right through Frank’s defenses and clipping his cheek with a right hook, the glove hitting him with a dull smack.
“See?” Dad snarled. “You’re afraid of getting hit, so your defense is weak. I can break straight through. You block, you get punched. There is no such thing as a boxer without scars. Learn how to take the hit, and you’ll be able to give it back just as hard.”
They went at it for another few swings, each punch getting past Frank’s guard and smacking him in the head.
“Grow some balls,” Dad growled. “There are no boys in boxing. Only men.”
I didn’t like his approach at all. Going at Franklin so hard without any sight of reward was old school, and it wasn’t the way I liked to handle these guys. My training had been ten times worse than this. Failure was not an option. The notion had been literally beaten into me. There was another way, the way Andrew Miller had taught me when he’d taken me on at Beat, and I was determined to follow the direction of another champion boxer.
Vincent Carmichael’s word was not law—especially not at Beat—and there was much more to boxing than money, sex, and power. Things like control, calm, balance, poise, precision, stamina…
“If you train soft fighters, your career is over,” Dad snapped, turning his attention to me. “That one needs hardening up.”
Everyone was staring at me, waiting for my reaction. I kept my mouth shut, knowing Dad was attempting to humiliate me in front of the men who were supposed to look up to me. It was another ploy to get me out of Beat and back into training and another frustration in a long line of manipulative bullshit. It was nothing new, which was why it was so fucking disappointing.
Lucky for me, I’d wa
rned the guys the second I knew his arrival at Beat was inevitable.
My gaze flickered to Franklin’s, and he shrugged, looking as uncomfortable as I felt. Then he nodded toward the roller door. While Dad was ducking through the ropes, I turned and saw Juliette had arrived. The last thing I wanted was for her to witness round two in the Carmichael shit show on the Humiliation Network.
“Dad, I have to go. You know where the door is,” I said thinly, backing away.
He narrowed his eyes and glanced over at Juliette, who was none the wiser.
“Who is that?” he asked, pulling off his gloves.
“A client,” I replied shortly. “And I’m already late for our appointment.”
Turning my back on him, I strode over the mats and ushered Juliette away from the ring—aka, ground zero—knowing I’d have to spend some time talking down Franklin in the morning. There was a reason Gaz and Mitch called him Fragile Frank. The guy took everything to heart.
Juliette peered at my father, an unasked question in her eyes, and she allowed me to guide her into the weight room. Closing the door behind us, the noise from the outer studio was cut, and it was just us…and my father’s beady eyes watching through the windows.
“Who’s that?” she asked, unable to keep a lid on her curiosity.
“No one,” I replied, not wanting to subject her to Vincent Carmichael and his reign of assholery. Turning my back to the studio, I went on, “Listen, I wanted to explain about the other night.”
She frowned, her forehead creasing. “What do you mean?”
“I was a dick,” I began, but Juliette shook her head.
“I hardly noticed.”
“I snapped at you and…” I trailed off with a shrug. “I’m used to people knowing… Why I’m here and not out there in the ring.”
Juliette just stared at me, frozen to the spot. I was calling attention to myself again in that arrogant dick way I’d inherited from daddy dearest. I’d done the same thing with Ren when I first met her, and she’d called me out on it. Juliette wouldn’t. She was far too polite. Seriously, I didn’t want my injury to be dwelled on, but I was the worst offender.
“Ah, I’m overthinking shit again,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Don’t look at me,” she said with a groan. “I do the same thing.”
“What a pair we are,” I murmured, caught in her blue eyes.
She was mesmerizing when she let down her guard. Her smile, her vulnerability, her…everything. I felt an overwhelming urge to tell her, but I was afraid she’d run off at the slightest provocation and never come back. I wondered if that was what held me back. Not professionalism, which was what I should’ve been concerned about, but the fact she was so afraid of something it had her constantly spooked.
She peered out into the studio. “That man is gone.”
I smiled, relieved we were no longer being spied on, and the seriousness of our conversation had lifted.
“Who was he? It seemed like you knew him.”
“That was just my complicated father,” I replied. “It’s not worth mentioning.”
“I would listen…” she began awkwardly. “I know I haven’t… I… I know I’m closed…”
“Juliette,” I said, grasping her shoulders. Touching her like this seemed to be the only way to get her attention when she began retreating into herself.
She stared up at me. “What?”
“This, what you and I are doing here, it’s easy. It’s uncomplicated…” I sighed, wanting nothing more than to lean down and kiss her, but it would change everything. “I look forward to our sessions… More than I realized I would.”
She blinked as if she was breaking free from a web of confusion and smiled. “I do, too.”
Before things became muddier, I let her go and gestured to the weights. “Shall we start in here tonight?”
Nodding, she perched on the bench and arranged the weights she wanted to use. Small to begin with, then a heavier set for when her muscles limbered up.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting the first dumbbell. “For caring. I didn’t know how much I needed it until I started coming here.”
I smiled with sadness that had everything to do with my stupid fucking heart, and the line marked ‘professional distance’ flared between us brighter than ever.
“You’re welcome.”
11
Juliette
He was right.
Caleb was the one constant in my life that wasn’t complicated or came with added extras.
As I lifted the dumbbells, I was overly conscious of his gaze following my movements as he stood behind me. He had to watch my body so he could correct any mistakes I might inadvertently make. The whole point was to build muscle in the right places. Muscle in my upper body meant I could punch a would-be attacker harder, and maybe, just maybe, it would mean I could protect my heart better than I’d been doing.
I did feel stronger. Not just in the physical sense—the regular exercise had invigorated a long-lost energy—but mentally as well.
“You’re feeling better today?” I asked, dancing a fine line. No matter what I did, I still wanted to hear him talk.
Caleb grunted then stepped around the bench so I could see him.
“Much,” he said. “It was just a flare-up. I know how to manage it.”
I nodded, not needing the explanation.
“I Googled you,” I blurted, and he stiffened, his smile fading. “I mean, I didn’t end up reading anything. I just wanted to know if you were who you said you were… Back when you first asked… Fuck it.” I was such an awkward fool. Why the hell did I tell him that?
“So you didn’t spend hours memorizing my Wikipedia page?” he asked with a smirk.
“No, I…” I shook my head, my cheeks heating. “I didn’t.”
“I’m disappointed,” he said with a chuckle.
“No, you’re not.”
Caleb smiled, some of the tension my admission had created easing from his shoulders. Whatever had happened with his injury—his back from what I could tell—it didn’t sit well with him. From the things he’d mentioned in passing, I suspected it’d ended his career or, at least, put a long hiatus on it.
After a moment and a few more repetitions from me, Caleb sat beside me. “What did you want to know?”
“Just…” I sighed, cursing my stupid curiosity. “Forget about it.” He didn’t have to say a single thing about it to me. It didn’t matter what had happened in the past, only what came next.
“Injury ended my career prematurely,” he said, confirming my suspicions. “I won a belt a few years ago, then I was injured in my second title fight and couldn’t continue. That’s how I ended up here.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “It happens.”
I could tell there was more to the story than he was letting on, but I didn’t press. If I pressed, I’d have to reciprocate, and I was not ready for that. It was completely selfish, but he’d said he liked the fact that our relationship was uncomplicated. We were on the same wavelength in that regard.
Caleb had never asked about what had originally brought me to Beat, though I could see the question in his eyes every time I had a phase out. Still, he’d never brought it up. Ever.
Caleb rose to his feet and pried the dumbbells out of my hands, the abrupt movement causing me to flinch slightly.
“Let’s get you on a bag,” he declared, setting the weights aside.
“What for?” I stared at him, the feeling of his fingers brushing against mine seared into the deepest parts of my muscle memory.
“Strength assessment,” was his reply.
Following him out of the weight room, I saw the studio had emptied out while we were in the weight room.
“Those guys who were here,” I began, nodding at the ring. “Do you train them?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Three guys, Gaz, Franklin and Mitch. They’re looking to go pro, so they employ Beat and me to trai
n them while they build up their skills.”
“It’s a lot of work?”
“A solid eight hours six days a week.”
“Seriously?” My mouth fell open. “How do they live? I mean, pay the bills and…”
“Sponsorships, grants, part-time work.” Caleb gestured to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling. “Are you ready for a crash course in boxing?”
I swallowed hard, staring at the bag with wide eyes. “Boxing? Me?”
His eyes sparkled at my reaction, and I seethed silently at his apparent amusement at my panic. “It’s easy. Just wait and see.”
“Where have you been the past month?” I asked with a moan.
“Right here,” he murmured. Blinking, he gestured to the bag. “Let me show you.”
Picking up a set of fingerless gloves, he flexed his fingers through the openings and secured the Velcro strap around his wrists. Then he held up his fists, the muscles in his arms rippling. Angling his right fist, he allowed me to watch how he hit the bag in slow motion, then he brought in his left, then back with his right. The first two were short, sharp jabs, and the last hit with his right was a little wider and to the side rather than straight on.
“It’s a good set to test the strength of your blows,” he explained. “And repetitions will work your muscles and build up even more power.”
“You’re not subliminally training me to become a boxer, are you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. The giant punching bag intimidated me, not as much as Caleb, but it hung there taunting my fragility like a bright red bully made out of leather and stuffing.
“No,” he replied, his lips quirking. “Subliminally attempting to get you over your hesitation at hitting something, but boxing? No way. You’re too delicate for that.”
I flushed and glanced at my feet.
“Here,” he said, taking off the gloves. He took my hands and pulled them on, one by one, before securing the Velcro, dressing me like I was something breakable. “The gloves are a little big, but they’ll do. Give the bag hell. Just like I showed you.”
