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I was actually almost a little excited over the prospect as I rounded the corner to my apartment. But as I did so, I found my neighbors from across the hall, a gay couple that I counted as my acquaintances, along with my super standing in front of my open apartment door. You could say my excitement promptly plummeted.
"Hey Maisy," Kurt, the giant African American ballet dancer with the kindest eyes I'd ever seen, greeted me, his tone soothing.
"What's going on?" I asked, but I knew. Of course I knew. Hell, Detective-Mc-Hottie had said that within minutes that the Kozlov brothers would know of my treachery. Shit.
Shitshitshit.
"Everything is alright," Andy, Kurt's boyfriend, a blond, blue-eyed model said, holding up his hands. "Kurt and I heard a commotion," he explained as I moved to stand beside them, looking into my apartment. "Kurt came out while I called the super and found a man in your apartment. He scared him off," he said, rubbing Kurt's belly as he looked up with him with a mix of awe and arousal. "He chased him clear down the street," he went on with a smile.
But I wasn't paying too much attention.
Because all I could see was everything in my apartment in shambles. Pictures were ripped from the walls, couch cushions sliced open, foam everywhere. The contents of my kitchen cupboards were all over the counters. My loose floorboard was even torn up.
"Hey, hey, Maisy," Kurt said, sounding worried. "It's okay. We're going to get this all settled. I got a good look at the guy to give to the police."
"Let me guess," I said, my tone hollow. "Six-three, broad shoulders, broad everything. Dark hair, dark eyes. A distinctly Russian accent..."
"You know who..."
"I have to go. I... thanks, but I have to go," I stammered, turning and running.
As I jogged down the stairs, I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and spoke into it. "K.C.E Boxing Emporium address," I said clearly, hearing the bleep as the search worked its magic. The address came up and I tucked the phone away, grabbing the lone cab I found outside and barked out the address with a hammering heart.
The taxi was all over the road on the slushy aftermath the plows left behind, but that had nothing to do with my flip-flopping belly.
When the cab pulled over in a shoddy area in front of a renovated, expansive building of deep gray stucco with K.C.E Boxing Emporium in perfect, bold letters above the door, I started to question Detective-Mc-Hottie's judgment. But with no other option, I paid the driver and climbed out, scaling over a huge pile of snow to get to the sidewalk. I fell forward, slamming hard into the glass door and letting out a grunt. By the time I was back on my feet, brushing snow off my legs, the door swung open, drawing my attention.
And then there was a man there in the doorway.
He was tall and broad, but in a compact way that only boxers were. He had dark skin and keen eyes and, even during a snowstorm that had obviously kept his business closed, he was in an immaculate suit. An expensive-looking gold watch was around his wrist that led to heavily scarred hands. My eyes drifted back up.
"Are you K?" I asked, my teeth chattering from the cold and the adrenaline and fear.
"Yes."
"I'm in trouble."
"Yeah you are," he agreed immediately, as if he somehow sensed my desperation. Hell, maybe it was seeping out of my pores. "Come on in," he said, stepping inside and holding the door open so I could move through.
The inside of K.C.E Boxing Emporium was sleek and modern, but in a very masculine way with exposed stucco walls and cement floors. There was an office area to the left when you walked into the door and to the right there was a seating area in the front by the picture window with a long black leather couch in front of a low black coffee table. There was a small beverage station with a single-cup coffee machine. Forward and toward the back was, well, a boxing emporium. There was a black ring complete with ropes. On the left side of the ring was a line of punching and speed bags. On the right side were jump ropes hanging on the wall and a huge collection of weapons, only a third of which I recognized.
"Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?" he offered, moving over toward the beverage station. "Pick one. You need to warm up."
The last thing I needed was caffeine; I was wired enough. "Hot chocolate."
"Alright. Now what kind of trouble are you in? I don't see any bruises so I doubt your boyfriend is beating you."
"I don't have a boyfriend."
"Okay," he said, slipping a hot chocolate pod into the machine and hitting the button. "Look, if you want help, you need to fill me in. If not, there's the door," he said, gesturing toward it. "I don't have the time for evasions or half-truths. If you want my help, you need to be honest with me.
