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Part of me is relieved he left it at that, but another part of me—the reckless, stupid part—wants him to come back out here so I can punch him in his fucking face. I know it’s dangerous to taunt any of the men who have become my keepers until my dad works off his debt, especially the boss man’s son. But it’s never been in my nature to sit down quietly and put up with assholes.
And Sloan is most definitely an asshole.
The sun is going down, the sky turning from orange to purplish-blue, and I grab the tools and the rag and toss them back in the garage. Sloan is nowhere to be seen as I head upstairs, but my body is still buzzing with adrenaline from our encounter.
Since I can’t take out my frustration on his face, I decide to work off some of the stress by going down to their home gym.
I throw on a sports bra and some sweatpants and toss my hair up into a messy bun before heading back downstairs again, luckily not running into anyone on the way.
In the gym, I wrap my hands and do a couple of stretches, shaking the tension from my body before going over to one of the heavy bags and sizing it up.
It’s bigger than the one I’m used to, but that’s not a problem, and I give it a firm punch to start, warming myself up. It’s been a little while since I’ve trained, so I start slow, feeling the burn start in my arms as I hit the bag over and over again.
It feels fucking good, especially after so long spent doing nothing, and once I feel like I’ve got a good rhythm going, I go full tilt, waling on the bag with hard punches, working my aggression and boredom out with each hit I land.
My breathing is hard, and I can feel sweat beading on my brow, but that feels good too. I’ve always been a physical person, more likely to work out my feelings with my body than with words. Some people like to talk about their problems, but I’ve never had to deal with anything I couldn’t work out by going hard in the gym for a few hours and then taking a hot shower to ease the ache away.
I’ll probably be a little sore tomorrow morning as my body adjusts to being put through a hard workout again, but it’ll be worth it if it helps me clear my head.
I’m blind and deaf to anything but my hands, the bag, the sound of my harsh breathing, and the thud-thud-thud of my fists impacting the bag again and again, so when a voice breaks into my trance-like state, it takes me completely by surprise.
“You’ve got good form. A little stiff around the shoulders though.”
I curse as I nearly have a heart attack, whirling around to see Rory standing near the door with his arms folded.
I’m panting like I ran a marathon, and I can feel sweat running down my back as I stare at him. He just stares right back, a little smile playing at his lips.
He’s dressed in just a wife beater and gym shorts, so he clearly came down to work out himself, and I have to suck in a breath at the way he looks. Once again, his tatted arms are on display, the full sleeves winding up over his shoulders and down to his wrists. With his arms folded, his biceps bulge, and I remember that Scarlett told me he fights sometimes.
It’s clear in his build that he’s good at it, and fuck, that’s hot.
My mouth feels dry, and my heart is still racing, but I try to chalk that up to the exercise, not his appearance.
Realizing I’ve probably been staring at him for longer than can be blamed on surprise, I scowl a little. After the encounter I just had with Sloan, I probably shouldn’t be talking to any of these guys, but Rory started it this time.
“I don’t need your tips,” I say. “I’m doing fine without them.”
Rory shrugs and then walks over to the wall where the equipment is kept. He grabs a pair of pads and slips them onto his hands before coming over to the open center of the room and taking a defensive posture.
“Show me what you’ve got then, princess.”
His tone is teasing, but I can tell he’s serious. Something about his blasé attitude and the nickname riles me up, and my competitive nature takes over, which is kind of a relief since it works as a distraction from taking in how goddamned hot he is.
I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.
“Fine.” I purse my lips, accepting his challenge and striding over to square off with him.
He’s bigger than me by a lot, but I’ve been training with my dad for years, which means I’ve fought a lot of guys. I take down bigger opponents all the time. I roll my neck and shift into a better stance and then lash out, hitting the pads with the same force and rhythm that I was using on the bag.
Rory takes each hit, eyes intent as he braces himself, letting me go for a bit before he smirks and then swipes out with one arm, making me duck under the blow.
“Keep your weight balanced better so you can avoid a punch after throwing your own,” he tells me.
I make a face, but I have to admit it’s actually a useful note. But I’ll be damned if I ever say those words out loud, so I just nod, letting out a breath and moving back into position.
My focus narrows again, and Rory keeps up with me easily, blocking each hit and forcing me to stay on my toes. He trades off between giving me blows to dodge and making me move around, getting my footwork into it as well.
I’m breathing hard, sweat dripping down my temples, and he seems cool as a fucking cucumber, calling out teasing quips as we continue.
