Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2)

by Lavender Parker

  “I can't make any promises,” he said with a shrug.

  “Can't or won't?” she tossed back, humor flashing behind her sharp gaze.

  “What's the difference?” he replied.

  “I don't know. Chivalry?” she said with a light shrug to match his. He couldn't help it—he snorted out something close to a laugh. She was surprisingly quick, he would give her that. He hadn't expected it. She was probably smarter than a lot of people gave her credit for, himself included. He wondered if she'd read a lot in prison. Not much else to do, he wagered. He wondered what her favorite book was.

  “You came to the right place if you're looking for chivalry,” he said.

  “Really?” she asked, looking around at the remaining gym rats scattered around like she wasn't convinced.

  “A few months ago, women were hardly even allowed in that ring,” Erica said, surprising Tate. For a second, he'd forgotten she was there. “But Gennifer put a stop to that.”

  “But you think that's bullshit, right?” Shay asked, turning back to him, a knowing look on her face. “You think girls should fight.”

  “No one's going to save you but yourself,” Tate said, without thinking.

  “But you're a cop, right? You save people all the time,” she shot back.

  “I work homicide,” he said. “We tend to be too late to save people.” She stared up at him like she wanted to say something, but she didn't. He found himself wondering what was going on in her mind, but he didn't ask. He could feel Erica's eyes on him again, so he loosened his stance and nodded toward the ring again. “You want to stand around and talk all night or you want to learn to fight?”

  “I don't want to talk,” she said before turning and walking toward the ring, her hips swinging and calling out to him, no matter how much he didn't want to pay any attention to them. His heart was beating hard in his chest and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't in the mood to get in the ring and throw some punches. The urge got stronger as she glanced back at him over her shoulder and raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Teach me how to fight,” she said and something about the way she said it—no, demanded it—sent a surge of hot, prickly energy through his body.

  “Right answer,” he mumbled under his breath. Clicking his tongue and trying to deny the excitement that he was feeling, he strolled over to the ring. He purposefully avoiding looking at her as he hoisted himself up on the ropes, but then he turned around and held out a hand to help her up. He may be a guy who didn't put much stock in chivalry, but he wasn't that much of an asshole. She was a bit short and getting in and out of the ring was no easy feat, especially if someone wasn't used to it.

  A sly smile slid over her lips, but she didn't refuse him. She didn't put up any kind of fight, either. She simply slid her hand into his and let him help her up. She grabbed the ropes when she was on the side of the ring, leaning into him as she caught her balance. He tried to steel himself against the feeling of having her soft tit brush against his arm, but it didn't work. His whole body was on edge.

  She was so goddamn distracting.

  “I don't trust you, Tate Grayson,” she whispered in his ear, her husky voice filling up his brain like smoke. “And I don't like you.” Then she pulled away and ducked under the ropes to step into the ring.

  “Believe me. I don't like you, either,” he said, feeling the words deep in his soul. At that moment, he had never meant any words more.

  ***

  Shay didn't want to admit that she felt a little intimidated standing in front of Tate Grayson in the middle of a boxing ring. At that point in her life, she liked to think she could handle anything and deal with any situation that was thrown her way. But in the ring in the middle of House of Pain, facing a big man with arms the size of her thighs, she was wholly out of her element.

  “Hold out your hands,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he said, his brow furrowing in a strangely attractive way. How could someone's eyebrows be attractive? She had never even noticed other people's eyebrows and now his were all she could look at. Begrudgingly, she lifted her hands, palms up. He took her hands and she almost jumped at the sensation. His long fingers were warm as he flipped her hands over, so that her palms faced the mat. Then he closed his hands around her wrists. “Keep your wrists straight. Normally I'd tape them, but it's not that serious,” he said, his voice low, like he wasn't even talking to her. Then he let her wrists go and folded her fingers back into fists. She didn't resist him, she just watched as he bent her fingers to his will. “Keep your thumbs out,” he said. “If you tuck them in, you could break them.”

  She nodded, a shiver of electricity dancing down her spine. She wondered what he had in store for her. She was ready for whatever he wanted to do. He took a step to her side, dropping his hands to her hips and turning them to face the corner. She barely had time to register that he was touching her in such a way before he'd moved on to her shoulders, turning them in the same direction. “Keep that position,” he said. “Now put your fists up, like you're blocking your chest.” She did as she was told, not bothering to resist. Besides, her mind was elsewhere. She was too busy focused on his body warmth was seeping through her skin. He was so close and she was trying hard not to think about it, but it was impossible.

  She wasn't used to being so close to man, especially a man as frustrating as Tate Grayson.

  “Okay, extend your arm, like you're punching something.”

  “I'm going to pretend I'm punching someone,” she said and he shrugged, but she noticed a smile tugging at at the corner of his mouth. It was miniscule, only a twitch really, but she saw it. Then she made a loose fist like he'd shown her and punched forward, feeling altogether awkward. She hadn't been in a fight in a few years. Her last one had been in the kitchen at the prison. She'd thrown some punches in her day, but when women fought it generally came down to scratching and slapping and hair pulling. Shay could throw down if she had to, but she never really thought about technique. She usually just reacted, trying to get her licks in before the other girl could fight back.

  He stepped forward and ran his hand down her arm until he reached her elbow. She had to suppress a shiver at his touch. There was nothing sexual about what he was doing. In fact, it was like he was going out of his way to not be sexual. But there was something about him. The way he moved was sexual without him even trying. “Keep your arm straight,” he said. “When you jab, the trick is in the snap of your arm. Punch and then pull back as fast as you can. It makes more of an impact.” He took a step back and demonstrated, punching the air and snapping his arm back. She knew she should have been watching his technique, but she couldn't help but notice how all the muscles in his arm moved with the action. He plopped his hands on his hips and stared at her.

  “Easy enough,” he said, running his eyes down the front of her and then back up to her face.

  “Who taught you to do this?” she asked, taking her time to do the same thing to him.

  “Big Jimmy,” he said, working his jaw like he didn't really want to answer her question. “He owns this gym.”

  “Oh. The black guy,” Shay said pointing toward the office on the second floor landing above them. “The guy in the office.” He nodded. “How'd you meet him?” she asked, because she was nosy.

  “He's my father,” he said, then held up his hands, quickly changing the subject. “Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

  “Left,” she said. He caught her eyes for a second, like she was joking, and she could've sworn he was going to say something about left-handed kids being spawns of the devil. She'd heard that played-out adage her whole life. But he didn't. Instead, he just shook his head and wiggled the fingers on his right hand.

  “So aim for my right. The center.” She nodded in agreement and then took aim. Her first punch was sloppy and weak and she chuckled at herself. “Do it again. Faster this time,” he said, not reacting at all to her sad first attempt.

  “How is he your
father?” Shay asked, not willing to let the subject go. “You're white.”

  “I'm not white,” he said. Then he paused, like he was trying to decide whether to say more or not. “But Big J is my adopted father,” he said, his voice low, like he didn't like to talk about it. He didn't seem to like to talk about much, but she didn't care. Her curiosity was piqued and it's not like anyone could hear them. They were in the middle of a boxing ring and it was just them.

  “You look white to me, white boy,” she said, punching his open palm again, the force stronger than the last time.

  “Well I'm not.”

  “What are you then?”

  He looked at her and rolled his shoulders but didn't answer. She wondered if he was fucking with her. Then he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

  “I only met my biological father once,” he said, then motioned her to hit him again. She hesitated for a minute, long enough for him to give her an annoyed look, and then she punched again, missing the center of his palm and hitting his fingers instead. “I was twelve or thirteen. But he wasn't white.”

  “So what was he?”

  “Almost as dark as you,” he said with a light shrug. “He said when I was born I was too white and he didn't think I was his.” He motioned for her to punch again and she obeyed, stepping into the punch to and feeling the power of the hit vibrate up her arm. She had nowhere near as much muscles as most of the people in that place, and she knew she was going to be sore the next day. But it felt good to punch something, she couldn't deny that.

  “Then what happened?” she asked, swiping her hand across her sweaty forehead.

  “Nothing. We talked. Then he left and I never saw him again.”

  “But how do you know he was really your father?” she asked, cocking her head.

  “Because looking at him was like looking in a mirror,” Tate said. Then he clicked his tongue and dropped his hands. He stepped close to her, to close for comfort really, but she didn't back away. She stood her ground, even as he came so close that her nose was almost pressed into the center of his chest. “That's enough.”

  “Enough what?” she asked innocently. “I thought you were supposed to teach me how to fight.”

  “I taught you how to jab,” he said. “Congratulations. Now you know the most basic move in boxing.”

  “What if I want to learn more?”

  “Learn it somewhere else.” He flexed his hands at his side and Shay's attention snapped to the vein that jumped in his neck when he did. “I don't want to see you in here again,” he said and she felt herself practically getting whiplash from the quick change in conversation.

  “Then don't look,” she said, craning her neck to stare up at him.

  “I don't know what you want and I don't care,” he said. “But I don't have time to fuck around with little girls who like to play games.”

  “What?” She felt her mouth drop open at his words. “Who do you think you're talking to?”

  “I'm talking to you,” he said matter-of-factly and she shook her head.

  “I don't think you are.” She pushed herself up taller, trying to make the playing field more level. “I'll do what I want, when I want. If I want to come here everyday, then that's what I'll do,” she said, bringing her hand up to jab her nail in the center of his chest to punctuate her point. “You can't stop me.”

  “Can't I?” he asked, then clicked his tongue in that annoying way he did. The insinuation of his words hung between them and Shay couldn't deny that she felt a shiver of dread run down her spine. She was fucking with a cop, she reminded herself. Cops could in no way be trusted. But at that point, she couldn't let him know he was getting to her. She would rather rot in a prison cell than back down to Tate Grayson.

  “Is that a threat?” she asked, jabbing him again in the chest. He was so hard under his shirt, she realized. She wondered if he was all muscle under there, because it sure felt like it. His long fingers circled her wrist before she knew what his was doing, his touch light but firm.

  “Yes,” he said so softly she might not have heard him if he'd been further away. As it was, she was so close to him she could practically hear his heartbeat. And she could definitely smell his the light tangy scent of his aftershave. She swallowed hard, wondering if it was normal to feel so much conflicting feelings at one time. On the one hand she wanted to smack his face for everything she'd gone through. But at the same time, she had the oddest urge to suck his lower lip between her teeth and bite down.

  Hard.

  “We're done,” Tate said, dropping her hand suddenly and strolling to the ropes like he had all the time in the world. Shay, standing alone in the center of the ring, watched him hop gracefully down and out of the ring. He didn't look back at her at all as he stooped down and grabbed his towel from the chair at the edge of the mat. He dragged it across his face and Shay couldn't help but notice how his wet T-shirt clung to all of the muscles in his back and arms. He was an infuriating man, but she would have to be blind to not see how distractingly handsome he was. He was also a man of few words, but his body was extremely expressive. He kept his face blank, but he couldn't stop his nervous ticks. She was starting to notice how he would roll his shoulders when he was uncomfortable, or click his tongue when he was excited or pissed off. She could tell how angry he was just from the way his shoulders were hunched.

  It was weird, but it was true.

  But she didn't care that he was pissed. She was pissed as well. He was so damn rude and blunt. She didn't like it. She also didn't like how he was making her feel. She didn't like how he always seemed to downplay the shit she'd been through, like it didn't mean anything. Maybe it didn't mean anything to him, but it meant a lot to her. In fact, it meant everything. Every time she tried to move on, there would always be something to remind her. Cops in her neighborhood, rare cars showing up out of the blue, twenty-thousand dollars in cash hidden away in her panty drawer—all of them were signposts, whispers in her brain, telling her that she would never be normal. She was an ex-con, a former prison inmate. That would never go away.

  She watched Tate make his way across the gym and shove open the door to the men's locker room. He disappeared inside, the pockmarked door swinging closed behind him. She glanced over her shoulder, quickly surveying the gym. There were a few dudes she didn't know working out near the front, but they weren't paying attention to her. Gennifer and Erica were talking as Gennifer spotted her husband on the benchpress. No one was paying attention to her. Seeing her chance, she climbed out of the ring and followed Tate's footsteps into the locker room.

  The men's locker room was a hell of a lot smellier than the women's, she immediately noticed. It smelled like sweat and mildew and a dozen different types of cologne. She opened the door slowly, waiting to hear the creak of the hinges or any sound that would give her away. But the door opened silently and she sucked in her stomach and quietly slid inside the smallest opening possible. There were two rows of tall lockers in the middle of the floor and two hanging lights above. Only one of the lights had a bulb, casting shadows all over the concrete floor. She could hear two men's voices echoing in the dark, dank locker room. Crinkling her nose, she tiptoed around the second row of red-painted lockers, careful not to make a sound as she moved toward the voices. A locker door slammed and she jumped, peering carefully around the corner at the maker of the noise. She could see the preppy blond man she recognized from the day before, pulling a T-shirt over his head.

  “Give me a suggestion,” she heard Tate say, even though she couldn't see him.

  “Did she say where she wanted to go?” the blond man said, tugging his hem down over his impressive six-pack.

  “No,” Tate replied and Shay heard him moving around although she still didn't have an eye on him. She heard another locker door open.

  “Well where do you like to go? Take her somewhere you like.”

  “I don't go out, Austin,” Tate said matter-of-factly. “I work and I go home. I don't have time for tha
t shit.” The blond guy sighed dramatically and shook his head, a friendly smile stretching over his face.

  “It's a good thing she likes you, otherwise I might really feel sorry for you,” Austin said. He took a swig of water from a plastic bottle and then continued. “Alright, look. Leah's not high-maintenance, but she's not cheap either. She'd like something classy and quiet, but not completely boring.”

  “Like where?” Tate asked, moving around again. Austin raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought. In the few moments of silence that followed, Shay realized that they were talking about Tate's girlfriend. Or at the very least, a woman he liked. She bit down hard on her lip, a pang of anger hitting her in the chest. She didn't know that he had a girlfriend. Not that there was any way she would have known. He didn't have a sign hanging around his neck that said 'taken', after all.

  “You know this is cheating, right?” Austin said, breaking the short silence.

  “Cheating how?”

  “Me giving you the name of a restaurant that I know she'll like,” Austin said with a laugh. “It's a lot more fun if you have to guess.”

  “Fun for who?” Tate grumbled.

  “I guess it's only fun for me,” Austin replied. “Which is why I'll have mercy on you.”

  “I appreciate it,” Tate said, sarcasm dripping from his simple words.

  “Zaire. On the Upper West Side,” Austin said with a nod. “It's Ethiopian fusion. She'll love that shit.”

  “Is it crowded?”

  “No, not too bad. It's a small place. Intimate. Low light. You could finger her under the table and no one would be the wiser,” Austin continued, his grin getting wider and slyer with each word. Tate didn't answer and Shay wondered what kind of look he was giving his player of a friend. But she was also thinking about Tate's big hand slipping under the skirt of a faceless woman in a candlelit restaurant. She wondered what kind of dirty words he would whisper in his girl's ear as he did dirty things to her. Or maybe he wouldn't whisper anything at all. Maybe he would let his fingers do all the talking.