Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (9 page)

“He's right, you know,” Erica was saying. “There's nothing like getting in the ring yourself.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Erica glance between the two of them, her smile drooping a bit as she sensed the mood had shifted. “But if you want to wait for Gennifer, I'm sure she'll be here soon,” Erica continued, unsure.

“No,” Shay said, her big smile returning just as suddenly as it had disappeared. “I'd be stupid to turn down such a generous offer,” she said with a low, slightly husky laugh that sent a shiver down his spine. He knew it was fake, all for show, but damn if it didn't sound a little dirty. He was imagining things again, he told himself. He was thinking with his dick again, like a horny idiot. Shaking it off, he nodded.

“Damn right,” he said. Erica let out a sigh of relief as the tension around them ebbed and disappeared. Shay dropped her eyes again and flipped her colorful ponytail over her shoulder. The modest engagement ring on her finger flashed under the bight fluorescent lights above. He stared at the ring for a second longer than he should have, wondering what man had put it there. And where the hell was he now?

“What did you say your name was again?” Shay said, breaking his concentration. She was playing with him again, but she was looking up at him from under her thick black eyelashes and for a second she almost seemed innocent. But he wasn't fooled.

“Tate,” he said simply.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand. Her nails were still long and colorful. And they were still distracting as hell. He took her hand and was taken a bit off guard when she squeezed it hard and shook it. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. Then she held up her hand and wagged her fingers, like she knew just how much her nails bothered him. “I'm not going to break a nail, am I?” she said, and coming from someone else, it might have sounded like she was a damsel in distress type, pretending to be weak to catch a little sympathy. But coming from her, it sounded like a challenge. He felt a sharp pang, like a pinprick of warning, between his shoulder-blades. Being around Shay Spears had that effect on him, he was beginning to realize.

“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 some
one,
” 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.”