Feint and Misdirection

by Helena Maeve

  She nodded, dispelling the memory. “You forgot to mention we’ve become popular with the yuppie crowd.” There were too many new sneakers, too many brand new tracksuits down in the gym to miss that detail.

  “Surprise?” Russ said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Hear me out before you start fuming—”

  “I’m not,” Imogen shot back. She shifted her weight. “Maggie says registrations are up.” Math had never been her strongest suit, but even she could tell that was a marked improvement on the past year’s business.

  Russ nodded. “Seems like we’re not closing. And like I told you after the fight, I’m not going to hold you to the deal. We won’t even be needing the cash injection to refurbish.”

  He’s trying to be a gentleman, Imogen told herself, he’s not letting you off the hook because he doesn’t want you. All the same, a sliver of annoyance crept through the fog of domestic bliss. “It’s your money. Invest it, gamble it away…whatever. Otherwise it’s going to sit in my account collecting interest.”

  “You won’t spend it?”

  “I’ve been told I can be pig-headed about these things,” Imogen said. “Some guy who says he knows me seemed pretty sure I don’t easily change my mind.”

  Despite himself, Russ still cracked a smile. “Come here?”

  The glass walls of the office concealed very little, but Imogen found she didn’t care as she let her gym bag drop to the floor and circled the desk to sit on Russell’s lap. He hadn’t shaved this morning and the bristles of his stubble caught under her fingertips when she brushed a hand over his jaw. “So does this mean you’re going to be working even longer hours?”

  “Probably,” Russ sighed, locking his hands at the small of her back. He better than anyone knew where she was hurt. He didn’t overdo it.

  “You’re lucky I like the smell of plastic and sweat so much,” Imogen teased. “I could help out, if you let me.”

  Something in Russ’ expression told her she had struck a chord. “I just had a call from ESPN,” he murmured, his breath warm against the pads of her fingers. “They want to interview you, maybe do a bit of filming down in the gym…”

  Imogen blinked owlishly. “Come again?”

  “ESPN wants—”

  She had heard him the first time, but Russell always melted right into her kiss if it was unexpected. He did it now, as Imogen surged forward, planting her feet flat against the floor and pushing herself up so that for once she was the one on top. “I heard you the first time,” she said, grinning as she broke away for breath. “That’s fantastic. Isn’t it fantastic? You don’t look happy.”

  Russ shook his head. “I am. I’m very happy for you and what this could mean for the gym, but… Don’t you see where this is going?” He settled his hands at her hips, a more polite kind of grope than the tight squeeze he’d given her ass. “You’re going to need a manager. You’re moving to better and brighter things.”

  “And you think I’m leaving you behind?” Imogen snorted. “Oh, don’t let me get in the way of the tragic goodbyes you’ve got planned,” she urged, dipping her head to mouth lazily at his jaw. “I’ll just be here, basking in my unprofessional relationship with my unprofessional trainer…” She nuzzled the soft, sensitive skin of his neck, knowing by his growing flush that Russ wasn’t nearly as indifferent as he might have liked to pretend.

  “Imogen, that’s not—that’s not smart… Oh, fuck it.”

  It took less than thirty seconds to knock through the sturdy wall of his resolve and another ten to feel him stroke down the length of her spine.

  “Jaime would tell you to think twice,” he murmured, just when Imogen thought she had him wrapped around her little finger.

  She pulled back, scowling. “Jaime’s not here.” He hadn’t called since they’d parted ways at the hospital. Imogen didn’t expect that to change.

  “Yeah, but you wish he was,” Russ said. A soft, rueful smile played across his mouth like the worst kind of blow.

  Imogen felt frustration spark hotly in her chest. “What do you want me to say? Yeah, it hurts to be set aside, but at least it’s not a flesh wound?” She made to lever herself up and out of Russell’s arms, but couldn’t. Russ had her wrists in his hands and though he wasn’t in fighting form, he still had strength on his side.

  “Don’t write him off yet.”

  That was advice best taken with a fistful of salt. “Are you going to let me go or do I have to kick your ass?” Imogen asked, only half kidding.

  Russ might’ve been stronger, but he released her dutifully, holding his hands up in surrender. Imogen slipped out of his lap and put a little distance between them.

  “Tell ESPN I’ll do it,” she said.

  “What about finding you a real manager?”

  Russ had been in the industry longer, he knew how these things worked. He had all the right contacts, he knew how to manage Imogen’s temper and the PR expectations. But Russ couldn’t do all that, manage a booming business and be Imogen’s partner all at the same time.

  “You have a name in mind?” Imogen asked without turning to face him.

  “I do.”

  “Good. Tell him to come in tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

  “It’s a her, actually,” Russ replied, reclining in his creaking desk chair.

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Thought you might like that.”

  “If the next words out of your mouth are girl and power, I’m dragging you down into the ring and making you eat them,” Imogen warned, but she couldn’t conceal a smile. Russ knew her well enough to have discovered that she worked better with women. Her problems with authority were numerous, but odds were she’d listen to a female voice sooner than she would a man’s.

  Russ smiled. “I’m not scared of you, buttercup.”

  “Oh, is that why you were out of bed like Flash Gordon this morning?” Imogen leaned against the wooden railing that hemmed Russ’ office.

  “I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Russ promised, but his voice was strained. He coughed before he went on. “I, uh, might’ve gone shopping before I came in.”

  “Sexy lingerie?”

  “Close, but no cigar.” He tilted forward and drew open the lowest drawer in his desk. Within was a black bag and within that—

  “Oh, you boy scout, you,” Imogen giggled as she peered inside. “What makes you think I’ll let you use those on me?” It was one way of asking since when are you into props that didn’t involve reminding either of them that they’d slept together before. The mistakes they’d made didn’t need to be rehashed once again. It was just that Russ had never struck her as the kinky type.

  He leaned back in his seat with a nonchalant shrug. “If you don’t want them—”

  “No, see, this is where you say I’ll persuade you,” Imogen corrected, grinning. “And I pretend I’m not going to spend the rest of the day thinking about it.”

  “You might want to think about practicing a few crosses too. You were looking a little rusty the other night.” It was said with a smile and a wink, so Imogen didn’t take it to heart.

  “Is this what our relationship is going to be like from now on? I make a sexy pass at you and you put me to work?”

  “I am your trainer,” Russ defended.

  Imogen made a face and picked up her gym bag.

  “Oh, Genie?”

  “Hmm?” She stopped short, as though pulled back by a leash firmly clutched in Russell’s massive fist.

  “You’re going to wear those,” he said. “I’ll persuade you.”

  That better be a promise. Imogen sauntered out of the office. She needed to practice her crosses.

  * * * *

  She had barely made it halfway down the stairs before Maggie called out to her from the front office. Her voice rang out over the huffing and puffing, the smacking sound of fists striking leather.

  “There’s someone here says he knows you?”

  Probably a fan. Imogen tried to be blasé about
it. It didn’t stop her stomach doing backflips. Passing out in the arena had spared her the immediate thrill of being known, but as she retraced her steps toward the entrance, Imogen felt acutely conscious of the many pairs of eyes following her progress. It was a strange sensation, to go from being ridiculed as a wannabe to attracting admiration.

  The thought dissolved as she came face to face with none other than the man who had so clumsily asked her out, what felt like an eternity ago.

  “Jaime?” Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Maggie’s eyes widen.

  “This is Jaime? You’re Jaime?”

  “Yes…we’ve met,” he said, bemused.

  Maggie grinned. “Didn’t recognize you without the suit and tie.”

  Truth be told, Imogen was in the same predicament—she had recognized him the minute their eyes met, but Jaime was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a navy-dark hoodie. His hair was soft, barely combed. He might’ve rolled out of bed and landed in Russell’s gym.

  It took Imogen a moment to find her breath. When she spoke, it wasn’t to address him, but Maggie. “Can we have a moment?”

  “Oh, sure…” Maggie grabbed a stack of papers off the desk. “I have to get the boss to sign these, anyway.” She departed quickly enough, if not without another glance over her shoulder at Jaime.

  Imogen opened her mouth, didn’t know what to say, and closed it again.

  “Hi,” Jaime said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking no more like he knew what he was doing there than Imogen herself could puzzle out. “I went by your place, but your roommate said I’d find you at Russell’s, so…”

  “I was,” Imogen replied, too soft to be much help. Desiree had told Jaime the truth, but Imogen could only imagine how pleased she’d been, knowing that Imogen was trying to have her cake and eat it too. For all her loose ways, Des had high standards. And now she thinks I’m a slut. Great.

  It didn’t matter. Jaime had wandered the city all morning—why? There were countless gyms, many of them better appointed and more modern than Russell’s.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked instead, suddenly dreading the straight answers she normally prized.

  Jaime smiled like he could read her mind, like he knew exactly how awkward this was. “Took the morning off. I wanted to see you.”

  “Okay.” Being broken up with by text or phone call would’ve bruised her ego, sure, but the thought of Jaime coming all this way to do it in person didn’t register as any particular comfort. Instead, Imogen braced herself for the inevitable. She made her voice hard. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  The false cheer on Jaime’s face quickly vanished. He cleared his throat. “I know I reacted badly the other day. I shouldn’t have left like that. It was rude and—”

  “Just get to the point,” Imogen interjected. She could do without the big speech. This was going to hurt whichever way he said it.

  Jaime seemed taken aback. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t be—”

  “If you say enough, I’m going to scream,” Imogen snapped.

  “—on the ball,” Jaime finished, frowning at her like she’d grown a second head. “I’m an idiot. A first class moron. I thought I needed time to process what you were saying, but then I got home and it dawned on me that I’d the biggest mistake of my life.”

  Imogen faltered. “What?”

  “I didn’t need time to think, I needed a kick up the ass. I was—I am so in love with you, Imogen. I want to be with you. I don’t care how or—who else is involved, I just.” He flushed, cutting himself off. “Can you give me a second chance?” He finished on a solemn note, drawing his chin a little higher, as though preparing to be hit.

  All Imogen could do was stand there, grasping at straws. Surely she hadn’t heard him right. Surely she was—hearing things, having an episode. Losing her mind.

  Russell’s voice behind her brought her crashing back to earth. “Imogen? What’s going on?”

  “I think…Jaime is joining the gym,” she said, frowning. That bit made sense. The rest was going to take a little more time to percolate. “And I think we’re having a threesome tonight.” No, it wasn’t going to take time. She watched Jaime’s gaze flicker to Russ, felt her trainer stiffen where he stood silent and deadly at her back. “Any objections?”

  Jaime said nothing.

  “Is that what you want?” Russell asked. Somehow, Imogen knew that the question wasn’t meant for her.

  “Depends,” said Jaime. “Are you going to rearrange my face if I say yes?”

  The silent staring contest went on for a beat longer, but before Imogen could say anything to break the tension—or, given her track record, more than likely make it even worse—Russ brushed past her as he made his way behind the front desk. “It’s ten bucks for a locker, forty-five a month for entrance. You settle by cash on the first day of the month or you don’t get in. Oh, and you’ll have to sign a waiver absolving us of any responsibility if you break a nail in there,” he said, gruff and boorish, slapping down paper and pen for Jaime’s use.

  Not helping. Jaime had grown up in homes that must’ve resembled the glossy pages of a Pottery Barn catalog. He had studied in Europe. He could afford East Bank or David Barton. He didn’t need to come here—and truth be told, Russell didn’t need his business to stay afloat anymore.

  To her surprise, Jaime smirked. “What if I lose an eyelash?”

  “Those we’ll take the blame for,” said Russ, completely deadpan. There was a challenge in his gaze as Jaime drew closer to the desk. It had nothing to do with the waiver of liability.

  Jaime still signed on the dotted line.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Props,” Imogen said, shutting the door behind her with a heavy clang.

  Russ knelt down, pulled the grate shut and secured the padlocks with two bank vault-sized keys. “What for?”

  “Going through a whole day without slugging him. I really didn’t think you had it in you.” She patted his shoulder with a companionable hand. “And you didn’t declare your undying love for him, either. Props for that, too…”

  Predictably, Russ scowled as he rose. He towered over Imogen and looking down his big nose at her should’ve been at least a little bit menacing. It wasn’t. Imogen looped her arm through his and shamelessly pressed her body against his flank. She was too flat-chested and the hoodie provided too much padding for there to be anything remotely sexual in the gesture. Or so Imogen told herself.

  Russ was dangling his black plastic bag in his free hand, its contents as precious as contraband.

  “Worried about tonight?” Imogen asked as she slipped into the driver’s seat of Russ’ battered Buick.

  He sighed but handed her the keys. “What do I have to worry about? You said he knows how to—you know.”

  “Fuck?” Imogen suggested helpfully and didn’t so much as flinch when Russ shut the passenger side door with feeling. The car shook around them.

  “You said you’ve done stuff like this with him before.”

  What Imogen had actually said was that Jaime was a demon between the sheets and a gentleman the rest of the time—and she might’ve been drunk when she’d said it, or else raging and Russ should have known better than to pay her any mind. She keyed the engine. “He’s got some experience.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.” Russ glanced pointedly out of the window. “I’ll just watch.”

  Oh. “Is that what you want?” She didn’t ask is that what you’re afraid of because Russell was the kind of guy who didn’t take kindly to being accused of cowardice. When Jaime had implied it, he had only narrowly avoided being beaten to a pulp.

  “Sure,” Russell said noncommittally. “Are you going to drive or just sit there, polluting the neighborhood?”

  Imogen rolled her eyes, but her heart wasn’t in it. Russ could pretend all he wanted—whatever courage had animated him that morning when he’d taken the initiative to visit a sex shop just so h
e would have something to surprise her with was gone.

  She pulled away from the curb with butterflies in her stomach, partly out of tenderness for him and partly because dread was contagious. She wondered if it wouldn’t have been wiser to ease slowly into something like this. Plunging headfirst into the deep end was her MO, unfortunately, and there wasn’t enough gridlock clogging the streets at this hour to give Imogen the time she needed to rethink the strategy.

  They reached the Fordham with time to spare. Imogen killed the engine and opened her mouth to offer—she didn’t know, maybe a last minute escape route if he really wasn’t comfortable with this arrangement. But Russ was already stepping out into the underground parking lot, polyester tracksuit crinkling like paper as he moved.

  Imogen had no choice but to follow.

  They left their effects in the car, though Russell took the black bag with him, clutching the open end in a white-knuckled fist as they boarded the elevator. Better the bag than Jaime’s neck. If she’d been clever, she would’ve found a way to avoid this situation. She didn’t know how, precisely, but this wasn’t the way she’d been hoping to make her first foray into polyamory.

  She felt her insides squirm and couldn’t say if it was with apprehension or because of the sudden change in velocity. The elevator eased to a stop, shiny doors sliding open to reveal Jaime’s white marble foyer.

  The man himself emerged from the kitchen with spoon in hand, a Kiss the Chef apron tied around his waist. “Oh, you’re early! Dinner’s going to be a while…unless you want to give me a hand?” He arched his eyebrows, hopeful but clearly reluctant to show it.

  “You’re cooking?” Imogen asked, trying to make up for Russ’ silence.

  “Yeah, you said you wanted pizza, so…” Jaime smiled sheepishly.