Fighting the Fall

by Jennifer Snow

  Now. in the silence of the empty gym, the air around them was once again strained.

  She stood, her legs feeling stiff. “Well, do you mind if I stick around for a bit and use the speed bag? My coordination is still way off and there’s a scene that requires me to do it,” she said, hoping he’d offer to teach her whatever technique he used on the bag. She’d been mesmerized more than once watching the lightning-speed unbreakable rhythm he achieved.

  “I actually need to do my own training now and I prefer the gym quiet and empty.”

  He’d been working with her all day. She would let him train in peace. Clearly, he didn’t want her sticking around.

  “Okay.” She picked up her discarded training gloves and started toward the cage door.

  She heard him sigh behind her. “Parker, it’s fine. The speed bag is all yours.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, her annoyance rose as the stupid, odd-shaped bag continued to fly in all directions, except where she needed it. She’d hit it, it would come back toward her, but when she hit it again, it went to either side or bounced back a third time far too quickly for her to get it again.

  Why was this so hard? The other guys had no problem with it. There had to be a trick to it. She refused to believe she was that incompetent. She took a deep breath and started again. Two hits, three hits . . . okay . . . she was getting it . . . then gone—bouncing everywhere again.

  “Damn,” she muttered. She had to figure this out. It was the opening, iconic scene in the movie. If she couldn’t get this part right, she was screwed.

  “Square off.” Tyson’s voice behind her made her jump. She hadn’t heard him come closer.

  “What?” She looked at her feet in fighting stance—the right slightly ahead of the left.

  “Your fighting stance won’t work with the speed bag. Fix your feet,” he said.

  She did.

  “Open your hands while you’re learning and use your fingers to hit the bag instead of your fists.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re hitting too hard and too fast before you get the rhythm figured out. Start slowly.”

  Her pulse raced in her wrists at the words—too hard, too fast, start slowly. Oh my fucking God.

  He moved toward the bag and demonstrated. “The rhythm is easy to figure out if you pay attention. The bag will rebound three times for every hit. When you hit it, it will go forward, back, forward again and that’s when you hit again when it comes back to you.”

  She watched as he hit the bag . . . counted the rebounds, then hit the bag again.

  So there was a trick. She offered him a grateful smile as he moved away from the bag. “Thank you. That helps.”

  “Sorry you weren’t taught this before. Dane’s a great coach and awesome fighter, but he’s been doing this shit so long, he forgets that new fighters need to be shown the basics—things he takes for granted because he can do them in his sleep.”

  She nodded.

  “Go ahead and try,” he said, standing back and folding his arms.

  He was going to watch? “You can go back to your training. I’ll keep working on what you taught me.”

  “Go ahead.”

  His simple, quiet authority made her knees weak. “Okay.” She did as he instructed, squared off with the bag, opened her hands, hit, counted, hit again, and repeated the motion several times . . . it worked. She knew it didn’t look graceful and effortless like when he did it, but she’d work on that. At least she knew what she was doing now. She stopped and beamed at him. “It works.”

  He laughed and the sound caught her off guard—so rich and deep and smooth. “Of course it works. I’d never lead you astray.”

  Their eyes met and held for too long. The silence of the empty gym was deafening as she struggled to figure out what was going on behind his.

  He looked away and she released a breath. “I think I’ll head out now. I can work on this again tomorrow . . . thank you again.” She picked up her training gloves and water bottle and turned to leave.

  But his hand caught her wrist and a second later he was swinging her around to face him, closing the gap between them. He released her wrist and grabbed her hips with both hands, pulling her roughly toward him. “Why is it that you’re the last thing I need right now, but the only fucking thing I want?” he growled.

  Oh God.

  His grip tightened and his thumbs bit into her flesh at her waist. Her breath caught under his intense stare and she swallowed hard. Suddenly, being this close to him, alone with him, wanting him, seemed like a terrible idea. He was right. She was the last thing he needed right now, and another broken heart was the last thing she wanted. “Tyson, I . . .”

  Her words were lost as he lowered his head to the base of her neck, placing unexpectedly soft kisses along her collarbone. The gentleness of his lips were a stark contrast to the rough hold in which he pinned her against his body.

  Oh shit. This was not good . . . not good at all.

  But who was she kidding? This felt more than good. It was amazing. But this idea wasn’t good . . . noooo, this idea was terrible. Yet, she’d been the one to start it the night before in the club. She should tell him to stop before this went any further.

  She didn’t.

  His tongue slid the length of her neck, until he captured the tip of her ear between his teeth, biting gently. He swore under his breath and the warmness caused goose bumps to dance up and down her spine.

  She gripped his forearms and closed her eyes, desperate to think clearly.

  His mouth grazed her skin as it traveled across her cheek. His gaze locked with hers as his lips hovered just inches away from her mouth. “Parker, I’m not a good guy. I’m not the right man for you or anyone else. You need to know exactly what you’re getting into right now.”

  What was he trying to say? That he wanted to fuck her and that was it? Her legs were trembling beneath her and her heart pounded so loud she could hear it echo off the gym walls. Did she care? Was she really concerned with being another hourglass-shaped notch in Tyson Reed’s bedpost?

  She released a breath, moving in closer to him, eyes locked, impulsive decision made. “I don’t . . .”

  “Whoa, sorry, didn’t know you were still with someone,” a voice at the back of the gym made them both jump.

  Tyson’s hands immediately fell away from her body and she stumbled backward, flattening herself against the wall to steady her unbalanced legs. Her pulse raced even faster at the untimely interruption.

  “What the hell are you doing down here?” Tyson asked, looking just as frazzled—and relieved?—as she was.

  “I was heading out to grab something to eat, thought I’d see if you wanted something.” He glanced toward her and added, “Hey. I’m Tyson’s brother. Connor.”

  Tyson shot him a murderous look.

  “Hi,” she croaked, still struggling to catch her breath.

  “I’m fine and so are you. There’s food upstairs,” Tyson said tightly.

  “Protein shakes, chicken, and eggs is not food, man,” Connor said.

  “Well, order something,” Tyson said.

  “It’s faster to run out,” the guy argued.

  Parker watched the exchange feeling as though she were witnessing something she shouldn’t be. Quickly, she made her way across the gym. “I’m going to head out. Nice to meet you,” she told Connor as she passed him.

  “You too. Sorry to interrupt your training,” he called after her with a knowing grin.

  Tyson threw a training pad at him, catching him on the side of the head.

  “Ow, Jesus, man,” the guy said, holding his head.

  Parker didn’t bother going into the locker room to change. She needed to get as far away from the gym and Tyson as possible. Grabbing her bag, she tossed her stuff inside and headed toward the door.

  Tyson called her name as she pushed it open.


  She paused and slowly turned toward him.

  “Good job today,” he said, his eyes burrowing into hers.

  She swallowed hard as she nodded. “Thanks, Coach.”

  * * *

  When her alarm sounded at two a.m., Parker groaned. This couldn’t be necessary. Waking up every night to drink a five-hundred-calorie protein drink?

  Still, she tossed the bed sheets aside and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She retrieved the egg whites, the frozen fruit, the flax oil, and the coconut milk and added everything to her blender. Yawning, she mixed the ingredients, and tried to force her eyes to stay open as she poured it all into the Punisher Athletics training cup Tyson had given her earlier that day. It had a metal ball at the bottom to help keep the shake from going lumpy, he’d said.

  Gross.

  She sloshed the thick purple shake around and then took a gulp. Tyson better be right. This better work. If she got a fat ass from all of his nutritional guidance, she’d kick his.

  The liquid held a faint fishy taste and smell from the Omega 3 oil and she shuddered, suffering through another gulp. This was disgusting. There had to be an easier way.

  Finishing it quickly, she turned off the light in the kitchen and made her way back to bed, thinking about their trip to the grocery store that day. It had surprised her that he would take time from his day to help her, especially after he’d made it clear he had no interest or intentions of even training her.

  But like he said, this was his life. The gym, training, and preparing for fights was all he did. Oh, and give mind-blowing sex, apparently.

  Climbing back into bed, she lay staring at her ceiling—suddenly wide awake remembering the feel of his hard, sweaty body pressed against hers and his soft, unexpectedly gentle lips against her flesh. He wasn’t the right guy for her, he’d said, and he was probably right. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if her coach was as good in bed as he was in the cage.

  Chapter 6

  Where the hell was Parker? This was the third day in a row she hadn’t been at the gym. If Tyson thought her being there was a distraction, her not being there was far worse.

  “Can you stop staring at the door and focus?” Walker said, blocking his view of the entryway.

  “What?” He blinked.

  “She’s not coming back. Whatever you did—or didn’t do—you obviously succeeded in pissing her off.” Walker grinned.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Shut up and try that take down again,” Tyson said, getting into position to defend the attack.

  Walker knocked him on his ass with ease.

  Damn it! The woman was totally messing with his concentration and nothing had even happened between them. Thanks to Connor. Maybe that was the problem. Usually, he’d set his sights on a woman, bang her, then move on. She wouldn’t even cross his mind again. Noble? No. But that’s how he rolled.

  This foreign feeling of wanting something—someone—for longer than an hour was driving him insane. And knowing he shouldn’t act on it, that his actions earlier that week had pushed the boundaries further than he’d intended, was torture.

  “Why don’t you call her?” Walker said as he stood.

  “No. Why would I do that?” He hadn’t even wanted her in his gym in the first place. He should take her absence as a gift and enjoy the lack of visual distraction while he tried to train. His fight was in less than six weeks—that’s what he needed to concern himself with, not whether or not Parker was so mad at him she might not return to training.

  Yet, two hours later, he parked his motorcycle outside of her home on Spanish Heights Drive and sat staring at the magnificent three-story house. Driving through the high-end residential area, he’d marveled over the size of the homes. He didn’t think there was a house in the area worth less than $10 million. And hers was no exception. With a dark stone exterior and black-tiled roof, large ceiling-to-floor windows, and several balconies extending from the upstairs suites, it had to be at least eight thousand square feet. The circular driveway was bordered by palm trees, with a water fountain in the center of the roundabout.

  What was he doing here? She’d made his life easier by not showing up. He hadn’t wanted her to train at his gym, and he was getting his wish. So why was he sitting in the driveway of a home that reminded him just how out of his league the woman inside was? The home of some actress who wouldn’t have even known he existed or given him a second glance if it hadn’t been for some role in a movie.

  Yet his gut told him they’d moved beyond that. She wasn’t just some actress needing his help anymore and he wasn’t a fighter needing the fast cash she’d offered.

  But damn, he wished it were that simple.

  He climbed off the motorcycle and walked up the stonework pathway to the front door. Other than the main security gate at the edge of the community that had been open and unmanned, there was no other security or fence around the home. For a big Hollywood star, she seemed to live a fairly normal existence. If normal was a $10 million home with more bathrooms than people in it.

  Ringing the doorbell, he waited.

  Her Audi R8 was parked in her driveway and he could hear music coming from inside. He waited almost a full minute then rang the bell again.

  “Tyson?” Her voice above him and to his right made him look up and shield his eyes from the blaring midday sun.

  She was leaning over the railing of one of the upstairs balconies. Behind her, he could see a lounge chair and a small table.

  He wondered if she’d seen him sitting there for ten minutes, growing the set of balls necessary to ring the bell. “Hi,” he said, feeling like a moron.

  “Hi.” Her voice was void of any emotion and it was impossible to know whether or not she was happy to see him there.

  Probably not, seeing as how she’d been avoiding him for the last three days.

  He walked to stand under the balcony, unzipping his leather jacket in the mild October breeze. “I uh . . . wanted to see if you were okay. Hadn’t seen you at the gym in a few days . . .” Since he’d basically attacked her. Man, he was an idiot.

  “I’m fine,” she said casually, tossing her hair over one shoulder, giving him ample view of the neck he’d been fascinated with days before. “I just texted Dane and told him to let me know when he was back.”

  That was a kick to the nuts. She didn’t want to train with him. No shit, why would she—after he’d refused her come-on, then made a play for her, all the while warning her she’d just be another one-night stand.

  He was in the running for major asshole award.

  “Listen, I want to apologize for being such a jerk the other night . . . since the day we met, actually.”

  She looked away and shook her head. “Don’t sweat it. I just think it might be better for everyone if I just wait for Dane.”

  He nodded. “Okay.” If it was okay, why did he want to convince her otherwise? He turned to leave, then stopped. “Look, if I promise to keep my hands and other things to myself, will you consider letting me train you?” He knew he could help her get ready for this role better than Dane could. He also didn’t want to leave her in the hands of anyone else.

  She hesitated for a long moment, staring off into the distance.

  “I’ll come back to the gym and let you train me on one condition,” she said finally.

  “And what would that condition be?” He wasn’t about to agree to something blindly, but admittedly there was little she could ask that he wouldn’t do. Which terrified him—a lot.

  “Read lines with me.”

  * * *

  “When you said ‘read lines,’ you meant . . .”

  Parker handed him a copy of the script she’d already practically memorized in her three-day training hiatus. “Read lines.” His squirmy, uncomfortable look as he removed his leather jacket and picked up the script made her hide a grin.

  He’d come to her house. He’d apologized for being a class A jerk-face. And now she’d somehow convinced
him to read lines with her. He must really feel guilty about his actions the other night. But the truth was, she’d stayed away because she’d known there wouldn’t be a repeat of them. Training with him when he would be so close, his hands on her body, his breath on her skin, when she couldn’t have him was a torment she wasn’t willing to put herself through.

  Of course, in hindsight, inviting him into her home when he looked so freaking gorgeous in his jeans and tight-fitting black T-shirt might have been a mistake as well.

  Too late now.

  “Let’s go outside on the deck. Want a drink?”

  “Water would be great,” he said, looking around her open-concept home. “Your house is . . .”

  “Too big for one person,” she said. “But I love it. It’s the reason I refuse to move to LA permanently,” she said, opening the fridge. It was true. She’d fallen in love with the ultra-contemporary design the moment her real estate agent had unlocked the front door. The floating glass entryway had been the first thing to capture her attention and then one thing after another—from the spiral staircase with a custom chandelier and the marble fireplace to the backyard oasis had sealed the deal. She grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and led the way outside through the double French doors.

  “Nice pool,” Tyson said, sitting in a lounge chair under the covered portion of the deck.

  “Thanks. Swimming used to be my only form of exercise. If you can count floating while reading a book exercise,” she said with a laugh, desperate to ease some of the electrifying tension between them. Being alone in the gym was one thing, but being alone in her house—with a bed so close by—was just asking for trouble.

  He shifted in his seat, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle. “Listen, I meant what I said. I’ve been a jerk to you, and I’m sorry.”

  Apologies obviously weren’t something he did often, but still she felt as though he was apologizing for the wrong thing. He obviously thought his come-on had made her uncomfortable enough to stay away. That wasn’t the case. Instead of sitting in the chair next to him, she held her breath as she boldly walked toward him and sat on his lap.