Page 32 of Liquids

He groans and looks down, taking a deep breath, and I study him for a few seconds. He’s trying to help me here. I push on his chest. “Come on, move back. I’m getting up.”

Rig made me put my workout gear on the bottom of the bed last night, so he gets off me and stands by the side of the bed, and I begrudgingly notice he’s already dressed. I sit up, grab my clothes, and pull on my sports bra and top. I didn’t even realize I still had a sports bra, and I almost laughed when I found it at the back of my drawer: It’s been so long since it’s seen any action. When he shifts on his feet, I peer up at him to find him staring at the wall above my head.

“Are we allowed a coffee on the way to fight club?” I grump, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and shaking out my leggings.

“Yeah, already brewing.” He adjusts himself, and I smirk up at him, which gets me narrowed eyes. He leans down and grabs my chin, running his thumb over my lips. “You’re paying for that when we get back.”

I grin at him as he straightens. “You know I’d be only too happy to.” And I catch his smile as he shakes his head and turns and heads toward the kitchen.

In ten minutes, we’re in my beaten-up old Nissan, Rig driving, because he growled at me when I said I should drive. But fuck it’s good to be up with the dawn and not dragging myself out of bed, hungover, with fifteen minutes to get to work. I can’t believe how much has changed since we first sat next to each other in the front of his truck.

I look at him out of the corner of my eyes. “So you can come out to the gym without running into anyone who’s pissed at you?”

“The only people who’ll be there are friends, people on the fighting circuit. They know the score. They’ll keep it quiet.”

We pull into a parking lot behind a dilapidated industrial building, weeds growing up through the asphalt, but the sign on it says Bud’s Gym alongside a picture of a … what the fuck is that?

“A cockroach?”

He laughs. “Bud drew it himself. He’s got a sick sense of humor. It’s his life’s philosophy: We’re all cockroaches.”

Figures that someone who lives in this town would have a philosophy like that. I shake my head as we head off across the lot.

“Maybe it’s because when you stamp on a cockroach they just get up again,” I say.

Rig shakes his head as he strides ahead of me. “That would imply some brains and thought behind it, babe, and trust me, it’s not that deep.”

When Rig pushes through the doors, a girl is standing at the front desk scrolling on her phone. She greets Rig like a long-lost friend, pulling him into a warm hug. I take in the muscles in her arms and her bright smile and carefully made-up face as something burns in my gut. Has he slept with her, too? I would never have pegged myself as the jealous sort, though I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a relationship where another woman would go after the guy I was with.

This is not a relationship, Carl.

The last one went really fucking badly.

Well, it goddamn feels like one, so shut the fuck up.

“Babe, this is Brit. She’s gonna take you through the weights, check your lifts and your form. I’m going to go and spar, and then Brit can do some fight training with you. That sound okay?”

I stare up at him. “How much training do you do?”

“Coupla hours a day.”

I turn to Brit. “How about you?”

“Same.” She shrugs, then laughs. “Taking guys down is just that satisfying.”

“You fight men?”

She purses her lips. “Sometimes.”

Rig gives me a kiss, which makes my toes curl, and then heads off to two guys who are standing by a ring at the far side of the gym. There’s a lot of hand slapping, and then he disappears through a door at the back. When I swing back to Brit, I catch raised eyebrows before she tucks her expression away.

“After we’ve done your trial session, we can watch the guys practice if you like. It’s my favorite part of the day.” She grins. “I love watching Rig fight.” And she winks at me.

I’ll bet she does. And she must see something in my face because she waves a hand at me, laughing, and that’s when I spot the glittery ring on her left hand. “I’m not after your man, honey.” She points to a huge handsome Black guy standing at the corner of the ring shouting instructions at a couple of younger guys who are sparring.

“He’s mine. I like watching Rig’s technique. He’s a perfectionist on the moves, but he’s also wild, too. He’s an amazing fighter.”

“He’s not my man,” I mumble, my face heating. Shit, if she can read me that easily, how much does Rig see? He’s far too fucking perceptive.