Below the Belt

by Skye Warren

  He collapsed on her as the last shudders racked him.

  “Abe,” she gasped beneath him.

  You’re crushing her, asshole. He rolled onto his back beside her. “Sorry,” he managed to get out.

  “People are coming,” she whispered urgently.

  Shit. He heard it, too, now that his brain had finally clicked back on. Voices, close by and coming closer.

  Abe scrambled to his feet, peeled off the condom and tucked himself inside his pants. He barely had time to yank Paris behind him before the doors crashed open. He blinked rapidly, momentarily stunned by the hallway light and raucous laughter.

  “Mierda! Abe is in here.”

  Oh fuck, no. He knew that voice. Rafael.

  His vision focused. Even worse, all the guys were there, with girls Abe had never seen before hanging on them. This was not good. Paris grabbed his arm and peeked around, but he pushed her back firmly behind him. He didn’t want her to be a part of this. It was too late.

  “Room’s taken, boys.” He tried to play it cool, as if he weren’t holding a soggy condom in his fist. Ignoring the squirming, his other hand held Paris behind him.

  Blake staggered into the room, clearly wasted. “Oh, come on. I think you’ve got room for a few more in here.”

  “I mean it, guys. Get out.” Abe used the same voice he used when he led training—stern, commanding.

  But the dumbass kept coming, trying to peer around Abe.

  “Or are you worried she won’t want you anymore if she sees us? I see how it is. Can’t have that. Abe Montgomery never loses a bet. Never loses anything.”

  Christ, the fucking bet. Maybe Paris hadn’t—

  “What bet?” Paris asked, stepping out from behind him.

  Shit, meet fan.

  What had he been thinking accepting that stupid bet? He hadn’t been thinking, of course, just posturing like the cocky bastard that he was. But to involve her in this was unforgivable. He never should have approached her with this. He never should have followed through. Not with her.

  “It’s nothing,” Abe said. “Please, baby…”

  “Don’t call me that.” Her voice had turned to ice, chilling him to the bone. “What was the bet?”

  “Hey, amigos,” Rafael said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No way. I want to see the great Bu Sa Bum Nim Abe bullshit his way out of this one,” Blake said, Abe’s title providing a neat counterpoint to his current predicament.

  Arguing swirled around them like leaves in the fall wind, but all Abe saw was Paris. She waited with too much patience, as if he could explain all this away. As if what he had to say actually mattered to her. And he wanted to matter to her, except he’d already screwed it up. Her face was stark, one eyebrow raised. He’d have admired her strength if he weren’t so busy trying to figure out some way to fix this.

  Abe had been a lot of things—arrogant, selfish, crude—but he didn’t think he was mean. He didn’t want to think he had stooped that low in his quest to be someone else, to be a champion. And if he didn’t want to hurt any girl this way, it was especially true for this girl, for Paris.

  “It was just a stupid bet. It didn’t mean anything. They just—they wanted to see if I’d pick up one of the girls out there. Not you. This wasn’t about you. I had to talk to you, to get to know you. I wasn’t even thinking about that stupid bet.”

  She went right for the throat. “Pick up? Like fuck them, you mean?”

  He flinched. “It wasn’t like that between us. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t know what this was,” she said, echoing his earlier words back to him.

  Then she turned and glided from the room, her back stiff and head held high.

  “Wait, Paris, please.” Abe rushed after her, only to be yanked back. He glanced down to find Rafael’s hand on his arm. “Let. Go.”

  “Escúchame, she doesn’t want to talk to you. Just leave her alone.”

  Abe wished he could. It would be easier for him to never have to see her again. Then he wouldn’t have to feel like a screw up. He hated feeling like a screw up. But he couldn’t do it. He had to find her and make her understand.

  “Let me go, or I’ll make you,” Abe said.

  Rafael looked at him for a moment then released his arm. Abe rushed out into the hallway, but Paris wasn’t there. Practically at a run, he pushed through all the people in the hallway who were milling around. He burst back into the ballroom, but it was mostly empty now. Servers had already begun clearing away the dirty plates.

  The chair that Paris had been in sat empty, still angled away from the table.

  Abe ran back out into the hallway and made his way out to the front of the hotel where cabs and limos idled. She wasn’t here, not anywhere.

  She was gone, and he didn’t know how to find her.

  Two

  “Where the hell is it?”

  Paris tried to contain her sigh and failed. She rolled over in the bed. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Paris, can you please get up and help me find it?”

  Well, at least her mother’s antics might distract her from the super-happy-fun-time of last night. Lifting her head, she saw her mother picking through the clothes in the luggage on the floor. “Mom. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not going to be in there. That’s my luggage.”

  “I know, but the jacket’s not in her bags, and I know we brought it.”

  “Okay. I’m up.” Throwing off the blankets, Paris scurried to the bathroom attached to her room. Despite being the late spring, Seattle was downright chilly in the mornings. And their suite in the fancy hotel, while nice, didn’t have a separate thermostat.

  She brushed her teeth quickly as her feet froze on the tile. Arizona would be scorching right about now. And dry—blessedly so. Not a drizzling raincloud in sight. The sooner she could get back on copper ground, the better. Actually, anywhere south would do. Anywhere warm.

  By the time she came back into her bedroom, her mother had already moved on to pillage other bags. Paris followed the sounds of frustrated cursing to her sister’s room. Addison was curled up in bed with the blankets thrown over her head.

  “Which jacket is it?” Paris asked.

  Mom didn’t look up from the pile of clothes. “Black satin with gold embroidery.”

  Paris paused. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure we left that one at home.”

  Mom’s head popped up and her gaze sharpened. “Paris.” A warning.

  Paris put her hands out in supplication. “I’m sorry, Mom. We couldn’t bring everything, and I think I remember that one ending up in the ‘no’ pile.”

  Mom blew out her breath and ran her hands through her hair. “Fine. We’ll just use the plain black.” She aimed an accusatory glance at Paris before going off in search of her new target.

  Paris wanted to say that she wasn’t the one who had decided what to take and what to leave. She wanted to say that it didn’t matter what color jacket Addie wore over her uniform for the press conference. She also wanted to say that she didn’t ask to be here, or particularly want to be here, but she was.

  But she didn’t say any of those things. Instead, she took a deep breath. She only had to do this one last thing. She’d see Addie through the tournament, and then she’d leave, far away from the world of martial arts that had sucker punched the freedom from her life a long time ago.

  Maybe she’d travel, or maybe not, but whatever she did, it would have nothing to do with Taekwondo or running a gym. Addie was the only person who knew about her plans. It wasn’t that Paris was a coward. The last thing her mother needed right now was more stress.

  Addie peeked out from under the covers. “Is she gone?”

  Paris rolled her eyes. “You’re safe. For now. Come on, get up.”

  “I don’t want to. It’s so cold.”

  “Well, if you aren’t getting up, scoot over.” Addie lifted the covers and Paris climbed into bed, huddling under the bla
nkets with her little sister. They rested companionably, their bodies touching side by side, passing the warmth back and forth.

  “We should get up before she gets back,” Paris said.

  “I know.”

  Neither of them moved. Just a few minutes of warm, cozy peace was something to hold onto when their whirlwind of a mother was around.

  “Who was that guy you left with last night?” Addie asked.

  “What guy?” As if she could forget.

  “The one you left the dining room with. When Mom and me were schmoozing with the sponsors.”

  “Just some guy. No one special.” That’s what he had said about himself. Paris had to agree, with a vengeance.

  Mom came back in, brandishing a red jacket with gold trim. “You said we didn’t bring it, but here it is.”

  “That’s red, Mom. The one you were looking for was black.”

  “It was?” She examined at the jacket clutched in her hand. “Well, that’s strange. The red one will work better in the press conference. We want her to stand out, don’t we?”

  Neither sister acknowledged the rhetorical question.

  “Well, don’t just lie there like lumps on a log. We’ve got to get ready.” Ready meant so much more to her mother than it did to Paris. Ready meant hours of primping, with coordinating outfits, make-up and hairstyles. Pretty soon all three of them were running around their suite, scrounging through bags and tripping over clothes.

  Paris pulled on navy sweatpants and a blue University of Arizona tee.

  “Paris, can’t you find something matching? Maybe something red. You know, like team Addie.”

  “Mom, I hate red.”

  “What? You don’t hate red.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve always hated red.”

  “You had a red backpack all through elementary school.”

  “I know. I hated it.”

  Her mother shook her head in frustration. “I just think you could try to fit in.” She gestured down to her own red shirt with some sports slogan splayed across it.

  Breathe, Paris. “I do fit in. I’m on team Addie, okay?”

  “Ouch!” Addie winced as Mom pulled her hair tight.

  “Sorry, hon,” Mom said, cinching the ponytail in a rubber band.

  Paris smirked at Addie where her mother couldn’t see. Addie narrowed her eyes, but cried out again when Mom jammed hair clips into her head.

  “Okay, Mom. I think she’s good.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom bit her lip. “I don’t want it falling out and getting in her face during practice. Or worse, during the press conference.”

  “I think a nuclear explosion could hit, and still her ponytail would be intact. It’s good. She practices with a regular ponytail all the time.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m sorry I’m a bit tense, girls. It’s just so important that everything is perfect.” A quick peck on the cheek to both Addie and Paris punctuated the rare apology.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Addie said. “We understand.”

  Well, maybe Addie could explain it to Paris then, because she sure didn’t. But she finished getting ready and packed the toiletries, workout gear, and protein snacks they would bring with them in her backpack. They headed downstairs to the breakfast buffet.

  From the buffet line, Addie chose a glass of orange juice and a large bowl of thick, plain oatmeal. Nutritious and…well, that was about all you could say for it. Her mother got smaller portions of Addie’s meal in a show of solidarity. Paris poured herself a cup of coffee, resolutely ignoring her mother’s sighs while she added cream and sugar.

  At the table, her mother frowned more fiercely when Paris picked up the butter for her toast. In response, Paris slathered it onto her toast—too much. She looked her mother in the eye the entire time, defiantly, and got only a little butter on her fingers for not watching what she was doing.

  Mom sighed, but said nothing. Paris took a bite. Yuck. Way too much butter. She chewed, swallowed, and gave her mother a tight smile. Paris couldn’t win a tournament, she couldn’t win her mother’s favor, but she could damn well win a stare down.

  After their unsatisfying breakfast, all three of them made their way in silence past the ballroom to the smaller conference rooms where the press conference would be held. Faces blurred in the press of people and flash of lights. Paris trailed behind Addie, who followed their mother to reach the tables where the athletes would field questions.

  Addie sat at the end of the conference table in the front of the room. She’d placed well in the local tournaments, but she was new and her odds of medaling weren’t good. Paris knew that Addie was honored just to have made it to the finals. Try telling that to her mother, though.

  Paris stood with her mother against the wall, neither in front with the athletes, nor in the seats with the press. The Q&A session began, with most questions directed toward the competitors sitting at the center. Only the questions that were dutifully asked of everyone came to Addie. Most of the time, she sat looking at the crowd with a pretty, frozen smile as the cameras flashed.

  Addie caught Paris’ eye. How boring. I’d rather be training.

  I know. Get me out of here.

  “Stop that,” her mother practically hissed. “You’re distracting her.”

  “From what? She’s not doing anything up there.”

  “They could ask her a question. Don’t you need to take a bathroom break?” Mom asked pointedly.

  Paris grabbed at the opportunity for escape. Shooting an apologetic glance at Addie, she crept quietly to the back of the room and out the open doors. Already, she relaxed.

  Paris looked down the hallways in either direction, seeing another set of open doors with voices echoing out of them. She wandered over and peered inside. It was another press conference. She scanned their faces, starting from the end.

  When she reached the middle, she sucked in a breath.

  Well. There he sat, right in the middle, scrubbed and polished like the star of Taekwondo that he was. He spoke, and the press and even his competitors turned to look at him, respect and awe plain on their faces.

  She didn’t like him, though. Of course not. Abe Montgomery was an ass. A world class ass, actually. Like if assholery were a competitive event, he’d win gold. And the fact that he was sitting there, talking earnestly to the reporter and looking so delicious, was completely irrelevant.

  His black spiked hair and goatee that had been devilishly seductive last night looked almost wholesome in the light of the cameras. She was physically attracted to him—that was all. Who wouldn’t be? If she wasn’t already sold on his handsome face, she knew for a fact that his ass was as hard as…nope, best not to go there.

  She should turn and walk away. Instead, she stepped farther into the room, ducking behind the chairs to stand in the back.

  A reporter raised his hand. “Did you go all out during the qualifiers, or were you holding something back until now?”

  “I give it my all every single match. If your heart’s not in it, there’s no point in fighting. Even during practice, you have to make it real. Otherwise, you might as well go home.” Abe spoke clearly and calmly. He didn’t look at all intimidated by the crowd of press clamoring for his attention. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe facing them down was nothing compared to facing a world-class athlete in combat.

  Paris scoffed at his ability to put up a front, the same facade that had fooled her last night. At the same time, she could only marvel at that level of confidence. What would it take for her to learn that?

  “How are you going to approach your upcoming fights from a tactical perspective?”

  “I think when I’m training, it’s good to discuss tactics and play them out. But when I walk onto the mat, I have to clear my mind of all thoughts. They’re only distractions. What was that quote? ‘No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.’ I just have to rely on my training and my instincts to get me through.”

  Of course. He was hot, he was an insanely talented ath
lete, and he had a brain. It was just her luck that this was the guy who had seduced her on a bet last night. Not that he’d had to work very hard at it, she conceded.

  The press directed a few questions to the competitors around him, but clearly Abe was the star of this show. The moderator called out that this would be the last question, and directed the press to reconvene in another room to take pictures of the athletes. Paris considered slipping out right then. Addie’s session might be ending soon, too. But something held her back.

  A pink-nailed, bottle blonde stood. “I’m going to be straight with you, Abe. We all know you’re the favorite for gold. Some have even said you’ve got a lock. What’s it going to take for someone to beat you?”

  The murmurs and shifting in their seats of the press reflected Paris’ own distaste for the woman.

  Abe smiled at the reporter, though Paris was mollified that it seemed to be his standard interview smile, not one indicating special familiarity or flirting. Not the one he’d used on her last night.

  “Just one point, really. Just one more point than me and I’m beat. This is the final round of the World Martial Arts Tournament—everyone here is a worthy competitor. There’s no such a thing as a lock here.”

  The reporter started to interrupt the applause, but the moderator shut her down. Good. Paris allowed herself a small smirk as she pushed off the wall to leave. Abe was standing up, presumably to head toward the photography room, when he suddenly looked straight at her and froze. Paris froze, too, just for a moment before she rushed out into the hallway.

  How embarrassing to be caught mooning over him. She should hate him. She did hate him, if maybe a little less now than before.

  She sped down the hall to the women’s press conference, but saw that it was still in full swing. Not wanting to interrupt, or have to deal with her mother, she continued down the hall.