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“I have a one-on-one boxing session. I have to go. Your locker is still as you left it. No changes to classrooms.”
Mike nods as he stands with me. “One-on-one boxing session? Since when do you offer personal training anymore?”
“Since Thelma Rampwood wanted sessions.”
Mike whistles, long and low, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I can see why you didn’t turn that down. A third Rampwood on your membership list? You must be bouncing off the walls.”
I grin back, trailing him out of the room, and moving toward the elevator. I wouldn’t say bouncing off the walls. Going out of my mind with frustration, maybe.
Opening the studio door, my teeth clench. That fucker Quinn is here again. I thought it was a one-off thing. He nods to me, his dark eyes flashing with amusement. Asshole. I turn to where Thelma is stretching near the mirror.
My eyes meet her whiskey-colored ones in the mirror, a pink blush tingeing her cheeks. No doubt thinking of the last time we saw each other when we angry fucked, and I’m the idiot who didn’t use a condom. I have one now, burning a hole in my pocket, but Quinn’s presence puts the hex on that idea.
Extending my hand, I hold Thelma’s gaze as she slaps her hand in mine, allowing me to help her rise. I squeeze her hand quickly before dropping it. If I can’t fuck her, I’ll have to implement my touching regime from our last session again.
Quinn stretches his neck from side to side, moving to the boxing bag as he fastens his gloves. I take my time helping Thelma into hers, my fingers skating over the soft skin on her forearms until her lips are parted, her on-display chest heaving the tiniest amount.
Swallowing a smug smile, I turn to Quinn and the bag, calling out a combo for the man. He nails it – of course – but I don’t care about his boxing prowess. I make sure I stand close behind Thelma, my arms crossed over my chest so my forearm brushes her back.
I’m rewarded with the tiniest sway toward me before she catches herself, sucking in a breath and throwing me a glare. I grin, counting it as a win when the corners of her mouth quirk. I’ll take what I can get.
When it is Thelma’s turn at the bag, I again help her get her stance and posture right, my hands trailing over her body. As I step back, I catch Quinn smirking at me again. He’s such a weird fucker. If they are dating, shouldn’t he give more of a shit that I’m touching her? I’m ready to slaughter the prick, and I don’t know if theyaretogether.
The session is over far too quickly. Fuck. When will Quinn piss off so Thelma and I can return to our normal session routine?
I stand in the doorway, watching them walk down the hall. Neither looked back when they left last time, so I’m not expecting Quinn to glance over his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking as he slides his hand up Thelma’s back. She doesn’t react. Motherfucker. She doesn’t even look at him – like she’s so used to him touching her like that, it doesn’t even register.
Kicking the studio door shut, I storm up to my office, dropping into the desk chair and staring unseeing at the logo on the wall across from me.
Who the fuck is this Quinn? Pulling my computer keyboard toward me, I type his name into the search engine, but less than no results of use come up. Nothing. Intrigued, I search Thelma. Hundreds of results. About her cases, charity work, gossip site shit about her being a Rampwood.
I type my name in, scrolling through the results. Less than Thelma, but there are results there. Stuff about the gym, my staff page on our website, stuff about me opening it. Shit like that. Quinn didn’t even have a professional page anywhere. Thelma’s not going to be hanging out with just anyone. He has to be somewhere, but I can’t find a trace of him online.
Fuck it. I can’t sit here stewing. Changing into jeans and a sweater, I jog downstairs, flagging a taxi and giving Thelma’s downtown address.
Her doorman waves me in, turning his attention to the computer at the entrance desk. I jab theUpbutton, waiting impatiently for the elevator, formulating what I will ask her. I have to have more specific questions that she can’t lawyer her way out of.
A ding alerts me to the elevator’s arrival, and I step in, hitting the button for the seventh floor. It’s a quick trip, and I stride down the empty hallway to her door, lifting my hand and hammering on it.
The door swings open, my fingers flexing. Once again, looking sharp in a suit, Quinn stares at me impassively. There is no Thelma calling out this time, but Quinn steps back, letting me inside and closing the door behind me. He trails me into the living area, coming to a halt as I turn, glaring at him.
“What’s going on between you and Thelma?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, eyeing me coolly. “That’s her business to disclose.”
Jesus. Maybe he’s a lawyer like her. He’s as evasive. “Like fuck, just tell me.”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
That’s it. I’m sick of non-answers, and I’m sick of his fucking half-smirk. My hand curls into a fist, slamming into his jaw as he immediately reacts, his arms encircling me as he takes me to the ground. Shit. The fucker isn’t only a good boxer. He’s got wrestling experience. That’s fine. So do I.
THELMA
Shutting off my hairdryer, I frown, my head snapping around to look at the door. I’m not going crazy – that definitely sounded like a vase smashing. Did Grady accidentally knock one over? That doesn’t seem like him. He’s not exactly the clumsy type.
Dropping my hairdryer on the vanity, I grab my towel, wrapping it around myself as I creep through my bedroom. Peeking my head out the door, I look along the hallway. I can hear grunts and what sounds like… I don’t know, punching? A foot appears on the floor at the end of the hallway in the living area. It’s not one of Grady’s leather ones, but a tennis shoe.
Swallowing, I hug the towel closer to my chest, tiptoeing along the hallway with wide eyes. Did the person threatening me get in here? Is Grady fighting them? My feet stumble to a halt as I hear what they’re yelling.
