Below the Belt

by Sidney Halston

  “I was married before I met you. A long time ago. I have a past. But so do you, Tony, and your past is a lot more disconcerting than mine. If I stopped and thought about all the women you slept with before me, I’d lose my mind.”

  “I wasn’t married to anyone. Your relationship with Rodrigo meant more than any other woman I ever slept with.”

  “I can’t change that. If you can’t let that go, we’ll never move forward, and I want to move forward with you.”

  “I told you I would try to rein in my jealousy. I will try, I promise. The crazy thing is…I don’t even dislike Rodrigo. He’s actually kind of a good guy.”

  “He is.” She scooted closer to him. “We had a good talk. I ran into him and we had coffee. We were young and naive when we got married. But a lot has happened since then, and you helped me realize that I can try to regain some of my old self and still be my new self.”

  “Frankie and Francesca? Shit, I don’t know if I can handle that.” He laughed, and she playfully shoved his shoulder.

  “I’ll never be that naive girl again. I will always want to have control. I’m not ever going to be a pushover. But I can be playful and try to have fun. I can loosen up and let you have your wicked way with me in the bedroom.”

  “Oh! I like that.”

  She stood up and let the towel fall on the floor. “Yeah. I think I like that too.”

  And she loosened up and offered herself to him for their pleasure.

  —

  The next month went by without a hitch. Tony would wake up early and join her for a jog, and then he’d go train with Cain at the gym. He ate only nutritious food and was focused on his training. The change was noticeable to all. Most evenings they made love, and the naked-before-nine rule expanded to naked-as-often-as-possible. She’d done some research and found an allergist who gave Tony shots for his cat allergies. Eventually, his allergies wouldn’t be as severe. She wanted to keep the kittens and Winston, but not at the cost of Tony being sick all the time.

  It was early in the morning when she walked into Tony’s gym. He hadn’t joined her on her jog earlier, so she wanted to see how he was doing.

  “He’s sick and moody,” Cain said as soon as he saw her.

  Tony stopped hitting the bag and looked at her. For about two seconds he seemed surprised to see her. “I don’t get sick,” he snarled. Then he went back to the bag.

  “Harder!” Cain yelled at him.

  Francesca leaned against the wall, watching.

  Tony grunted as he smashed his fist into the punching bag. He had long ago taken his shirt off and was just in gym shorts. The sweat trickled down his back and along his face. Even though he still seemed a little softer around the waist, Tony had gotten himself in tiptop shape in the last few months. But the way he was training today, she could tell that something was off.

  Tony grunted again as he threw a roundhouse kick to the bag—his signature move. She’d seen him land it with his eyes closed a dozen times. This time, though, the bag barely budged, yet he seemed winded. In fact, he wasn’t even giving Cain a hard time about ragging on him. “Come on. You couldn’t hurt a six-year-old girl with a shit kick like that,” Cain taunted.

  All Tony did in return was grunt and try to kick again, but instead he leaned down, his hands on his knees, fat drops of sweat dripping down his temples as he gasped for air.

  Something was definitely off. The gym wasn’t packed, but the few people who were there had already recognized him, and she didn’t want them to see him this way.

  Francesca pushed herself off the wall and strode toward the men. She leaned down and spoke to the top of Tony’s head. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” he said breathlessly.

  “I’m serious.” She swiped the sweaty hair from his face. “Jesus Christ, Tony, you’re burning up.”

  “That’s from sweating,” he answered.

  “No, it’s not,” Cain said.

  Francesca took Tony’s hand, which was still holding his knee, and helped him stand upright. “You’re sick.”

  “No. I never get sick.”

  “Hate to break it to you, tough guy, but you’re sick,” she sassed.

  “Uh…don’t mean to be a dick,” Cain said, stepping back with both hands out in front of him, “but you should go. I don’t wanna get sick.”

  “I’m not si—” Tony’s sentence was interrupted by a disgustingly phlegmy cough attack.

  “Get the fuck out,” Cain muttered, backing away.

  Francesca shook her head. “All this testosterone for a bunch of pussies.” She took Tony’s hand and dragged him out. “I can’t believe Cain’s afraid of germs.”

  “I’m fi—” He bent over and started coughing again.

  “Yeah. Sure. Fine.” She rolled her eyes. When he was finished with the coughing fit, she asked for his doctor’s number.

  He looked at her as if she were crazy.

  “I need you healthy and in fighting shape,” she explained. “I’m one hundred percent sure you’re not going to take care of yourself properly, so I’m going to see to it that you do.” She looked up and smiled. “Even though you never get sick.” She pulled out her phone. “Okay, if you’re not going to put me in touch with your doctor here, I’m going to call Chrissy.”

  Francesca spoke into the phone as she yanked his car keys from his hands. “Hey, Chrissy. Tony’s sick.”

  “I’m not sick,” he protested weakly.

  “He is,” Francesca retorted.

  “I’m not s—” He sneezed.

  “Yes…no…sneezing…” She looked over and questioned him. “What hurts?”

  “Everything. My throat, my head,” he finally admitted, and she relayed the information to Chrissy. She listened intently before hanging up.

  “Chrissy said it’s probably the flu. All you can do is rest and wait until it goes away. Do you have medicine at your house?”

  “No,” he groaned. “Shit, the fight’s so soon. I can’t afford to get sick.”

  “You’ve been training very hard. Let’s get you better so you can finish up your training before the big fight. I’ll follow you home in my car and then I’ll drive out and buy some supplies.” She hollered at Cain, who was standing a few feet away. “I’m going to leave the cats in the guest house. They’ll make his symptoms worse.”

  “I hate cats,” Cain said.

  “No one hates cats. Feed them,” she said before she left.

  A few minutes later they were parked in front of his house. When they got inside, she followed behind him as he climbed up to his room. She glanced around and saw the kittens. Quickly she scooped them up.

  “They like you,” he observed.

  “I like them. Be right back,” she yelled over her shoulder as she ran down the stairs and out the back to the guesthouse where Cain was staying. She stowed the cats in the small living room, then trotted back inside and retrieved their beds and food. On the third trip she brought Winston. Back inside the guesthouse, she got the cats settled. Cain’s little apartment was pristine, but she was sure the cats would quickly change that. She snorted, thinking of Cain’s reaction when he came home. She was fairly certain the Viking was not going to coddle the princesses.

  Once back inside the main house, she quickly took off all her clothes, washed her hands very well, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt sans cat hair. She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d been dressing less formally since arriving in Miami and hadn’t worn a suit once. She’d been feeling pretty comfortable with her new laid-back wardrobe, and Tony didn’t seem to mind at all.

  —

  Tony couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this sick. His joints and muscles hurt. Hell, his skin hurt. He walked straight to the living room and face-planted right onto the couch. The leather felt cool against his skin.

  He felt the seat dip when Francesca sat down next to him. “You feel that bad, huh?” He didn’t respond, because his throat was on fire and talking took too much effort.
He wanted quiet. His head throbbed and her voice was making things worse. On a normal day, he’d welcome her chatter, but not today. Today he only wanted to pop a painkiller or thirty, then pass out until he felt better.

  Tony felt her small, delicate hand touch the back of his neck, and a weird shiver ran down his spine at the contact of her skin on his. “Okay, Mr. I-Never-Get-Sick, your fever’s spiking.” She stood. “Come on.” He didn’t move; instead, he moaned some more. “Come on, Tony. You need to take a cool bath and then get into bed. I have to run out and buy a few things for you.”

  “Go. I’ll be fine,” he mumbled into the cushions.

  “No. I’m not leaving until you’re in bed.”

  “I don’t want to get up,” he whined.

  “Tony, come on.” She tried to roll him over in order to help him up, but the man wouldn’t budge. He felt tugging and pulling, and he wanted to help, but his body wasn’t cooperating. He heard a grunt before he felt his body make contact with the floor.

  “Cono! You’re trying to kill me. Fuck.” He slowly got up into a sitting position. If his head was throbbing before, it was now pounding, and the room was spinning.

  Breathless, Francesca crouched in front of him. “Shit, sorry. I was trying to help you up, not roll you to the floor.” She stood and extended her arms down to him. He reached up, took her hands, and painfully stood. The contact sent another bout of shivers through him. Damn fever. He’d never tell her, but her attempt to pull him up was actually cute. He let her think she was helping but there was no way she could lift him; he outweighed her by at least seventy-five pounds.

  “ ’S’okay. I felt like shit before. Now I feel like death.”

  “Oh, stop whining.” She led him to the bathroom, where she proceeded to fill the tub with water. “You act like you’re the only one who’s ever been sick.”

  Was she really going to bust his balls now?

  “Anyway, I thought you never got sick.”

  Yep, she sure was going to bust his balls. “Go, take a bath. I’m going to go grab a few things for you from the market.”

  “You really don’t have to.” He was sitting on the edge of the tub, his head bent.

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind. You going to be okay here?”

  “I hope so.” He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. “I may pass out and drown, though. You really should stay and give me a sponge bath.” He coughed.

  “Are you flirting with me? Because let me just say, that’s the most disgusting proposition I’ve ever had.”

  He looked up at her. “You’re right,” he said in a raspy voice. “I think I’ll try again later, when I don’t want to rip my throat out of my neck.”

  She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Anything specific you want me to bring you from the store other than what Chrissy suggested? Orange juice? Soup? Your balls, maybe?”

  If he hadn’t felt like total shit, he’d have laughed. She was quick as a whip, witty, and could go toe-to-toe with the best of ’em. But right at the moment he wanted to kick her out of the house so he could pass out into oblivion. Ignoring her sass, he stood up, looked her straight in the eyes, hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his gym shorts, and slid them down together with his boxers.

  —

  Francesca loved his body. She was sure that he had muscles on top of muscles. He was completely naked three feet in front of her, and her eyes had wandered down for half a second before she turned around and gracefully slammed her hip against the sink. Smooth move, Francesca. She let out a series of curse words before exiting the bathroom.

  “Nice language,” he said before she slammed the bathroom door shut.

  “Bite me,” she tossed back.

  Less than half an hour later, Francesca was back at the house putting away her purchases, which included medicine and a thermometer. She had taken a peek inside his room and found him sprawled out on his bed.

  As soon as she placed her cool palm on his forehead, he moaned. He was still hot, but he felt slightly cooler. She coerced his lips open in order to get the thermometer into his mouth. He opened one eye, grunted, and threw an arm over his face. Francesca smiled, then placed the thermometer in his mouth and waited for the beep. One hundred and two. She left and came back with a handful of meds and a glass of water.

  “Tony, sit up.”

  He groaned.

  “Tony, come on. You gotta sit up so you can take these pills.”

  “Just go away.” He turned over. “Sleep. Want sleep.”

  “I know. But you’re not going to feel better if you don’t take these.”

  He grunted a response.

  “Come on. Stop being a baby. Sit up, take these, and I’ll stop nagging.”

  “Fine,” he murmured. Slowly he sat up and slightly opened his eyes. She could tell he genuinely felt bad. Granted, he was being a huge 230-pound baby, but still, the guy seemed really sick. He reached for the glass and opened his palm. She dropped a few pills into it, and he quickly threw them in his mouth, took a gulp of water, and handed the glass back to Francesca. Then he lay back in bed and pulled the covers over his head.

  “What else do you need? Can I get you anything?” Francesca asked.

  “Quiet.” He rolled over again, dragging half the sheets with him. A thick thigh sprawled over the comforter, an arm extended to the side, and another one rested over his eyes. “Go away.”

  “Ingrate,” she hissed before leaving the room.

  She tidied up a bit, then sat in the living room and turned on the television. After an hour of watching a brain-numbing show, she turned it off and went back to his room. She felt his head again and noticed that he felt cooler.

  Francesca was no good at taking care of people. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and Francesca had been raised by her dad at WtF Academy. She hadn’t had any women around when she was growing up, and she just didn’t have any maternal instincts. When she got sick, her dad and some of the guys would go buy her soup, and that was pretty much it. Once she was older and learned how to cook, sort of, she would make her father chicken soup every time he was sick, and he’d always loved it and usually got better right away. She had purchased the ingredients when she had gone to the market and decided now was as good a time as ever. She wasn’t certain what had possessed her to want to cook for Tony, but she needed him to feel better. Well, if she was being truthful, she wanted him to feel better. Not for the sake of his upcoming fight, but because she realized she was falling in love with him.

  —

  Tony groaned. He heard the clanking of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. It sounded like someone was purposely trying to wake him. All he wanted was quiet, damn it. Peace and fucking quiet! Francesca wanted him better so he could fight, but she wouldn’t stop waking him up.

  Then he smelled it.

  Hesitantly and painfully, he opened first one eye, then the other. Where the hell was that smell coming from? His neck was stiff and he was trying not to move it, but he had to find the source of the odor. Strangely enough, the smell seemed to be getting closer and closer. Then the bedroom door creaked open. Francesca stood at the door, looking gorgeous. The woman simply took his breath away. There was worry in her hazel eyes as she tried to make sure that whatever was inside the cup wouldn’t spill. He assessed the situation quickly and realized the stench was coming from whatever was in that cup.

  Maybe it was some sort of ancient Portuguese potion to end the flu. Something exotic and magical. He furrowed his brow, and she smiled, seeming pleased with herself. She was perhaps the single most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Except damn, that was a godawful smell.

  “Chicken soup,” she said proudly, looking down at the cup.

  He sat up, reaching for the cup she handed him. “We practically live together, and other than an occasional sandwich, I don’t think you’ve ever cooked.” He looked down at the liquid. It didn’t look bad; maybe it tasted better than it smelled.

  “True
. You always seem to do the cooking. I don’t really like cooking, but I remembered I use to make Pai soup when he was sick and he’d get better real fast. Plus, I was reading online that you need to stay hydrated and nourished.” She nudged the cup up toward his lips. “You feeling any better after that long nap?”

  He nodded and took a sip, because what could he possibly do? The woman had made him soup. Other than his mother and sisters, no one had ever taken care of him; it had always been him taking care of people, and it was always in the form of money.

  The concoction was scorching hot, and once he got some sensation back on his burned tongue, he realized it tasted just as bad as it smelled. He looked up and was about to make some snide remark, but she looked so beautiful and pleased. So his eyebrows went up, his lips curled, and he nodded in approval.

  “Oh good. Glad you like it.” She looked at her watch. “It’s time for some medicine again. I read it’s best to take it every four hours so that your temp doesn’t spike.” She reached for his forehead. “Even though it seems you don’t have much of a fever right now.”

  She got up off the bed and headed to the kitchen. He quickly spat the soup back into the cup. Even though he was feeling better, he wasn’t really feeling well enough to get out of bed. But drinking more of her soup would kill him faster than the flu, so he hopped up, ran to the bathroom, and threw it in the toilet. He flushed it down and ran back to bed. By the time she returned with the pills, he was back under the covers and slightly winded.

  “Hmmm, you’re flushed.” She reached over and with the back of her hand felt his forehead and cheek. “How’d you get so hot in the minute I was gone? You definitely need these.” She took the cup from his hand and replaced it with a glass of water and two pills. She looked into the empty cup. “Oh! You really liked the soup! There’s more if you want.”

  “I’m good, thanks.” He popped the pills, placed the cup on his nightstand, and patted the space next to him on the bed. Without hesitation, she sat down. “Thank you, Francesca. There are so many sides of you, mi amor. I don’t think I’ve ever met sweet Francesca before.”