Page 51 of Fight from the Heart

“Like a fight-fight?”

“Yes,” he drones, irritation filling his voice.

“Why?” I question, crossing my arms.

“It’s to blow off steam,” he admits. He seems frustrated for some reason. Is this about sex? Is this because he couldn’t sleep in bed with me?

“Are you hungover?” I question, hating that I’ve asked but wondering why he’s so grumpy.

“I didn’t drink last night,” he snaps, and I wonder if that’s what has him on edge.

“Fine. I’d like to go with you.”

His lips twist as he considers me a second. “All right, but you’re working out as well. There’s a private trainer there who can show you a thing or two.” His voice is still edgy, and suddenly, I’m ready to fight. Energy churns through my body that I need to burn off myself.

“Private trainer isn’t a euphemism like personal tour guide, is it?” I question, teasing him, but he steps up to me, crowding my space.

“I’d never let my trainer near you,” he hisses. “You’ll be working with a female trainer.”

Yikes. Simmer down.

“Okay,” I drone.

“Get dressed,” he snaps.

Someone’s woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

A half hour later, we enter a gym, and it’s just as he mentioned. Boxing ring. Smell of sweat. This isn’t some polished, posh club but an honest-to-goodness fight club.

“Ashling, this is Pam Carter,” Jacob introduces me in that voice that’s been aloof all morning.

A burnt-red brunette with a feminine athletic build sizes me up and smiles. “You did good here, Professor.”

“Professor?” I tease, turning to Jacob.

“They know I write books, but they don’t understand I’m not a teacher.” He glares at the woman. “Pam needs some basic training while I hit the ring.”

He’s actually going to fight in the four-sided, roped-off arena where he’ll punch someone on purpose and get hit in return. I’m not certain how I feel about this situation, but it has to be better than randomly picking fights or giving in to the temptation to start them outside a controlled environment. If Jacob needs this, it’s better than some alternatives.

“Sure, darlin’.” Her voice is filled with an Irish brogue. She circles the desk and leads me to a room where I’m out of sight of the main gym.

For the next forty minutes, I learn hooks, uppercuts, and kicks. Strangely, it feels good to punch the bag.

“Pretend it’s his face,” she teased, encouraging me to muster anger. I’m not certain if she means envision Jacob or call to mind Brendan, but punching something just feels right. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been in New York. Despite the wonderful day yesterday, I still have energy to expel.

“Or better yet, pretend it’s her,” she joked. The bag almost hit me as I stopped short and turned to Ashling. “She’s a tool.”

I don’t need to ask to know who she is talking about, which meant Mandi has been here. Suddenly, I have the strength of an elephant and the anger of a hungry lion. Tension vibrates up my arms as I slam into the bag over and over again.

When our session ends, Ashling leads me back to Jacob, who is still in the ring. She leaves me near the side, excusing herself for her next client, and dismissing my offer of a tip, stating Jacob covered everything. Feeling good but still wired, I watch Jacob work with a man slightly larger than him.

“You’re losing your touch.” His partner’s face is covered, but his Irish brogue is just as distinct as the personal trainer. Jacob doesn’t respond to the taunt but continues to punch left and right into large mitts on each hand of his opponent.

“Must be really mad at her this time, eh?” The man continues to poke at Jacob.

“Fuck you,” Jacob mutters around his mouth guard, but the words are almost crystal clear.

“What’d she do this time? Max out your credit card?”