Chapter 6

Six

IZZY

“ W hat is this place?” I eye the tiny building dubiously.

It’s smack dab downtown, nestled between a diner and a clothing store, with wood siding and two opaque windows. The sign above the door reads Rage Room in huge block letters.

Ansel simply grins mischievously, an unfamiliar twinkle entering his eyes, and holds the door open for me to step inside. A bell jingles above, announcing our arrival.

At first glance, I can’t tell what business we just walked into. There’s a counter against the far wall, but there’s no menu that I can see, nor are there any products. A hallway leads to several smaller rooms farther away. The walls are a dark blue, which contrasts with the white-tiled flooring.

A door I didn’t notice before—located directly behind the counter—opens, and a huge man steps forward. His gray hair is pulled back in a loose pony, a few strands tumbling wildly around his wrinkled face. His beard is long and thick. He looks as if he’d be found in a biker bar.

Despite his intimidating look, he offers Ansel a sly smile. “Shouldn’t you be in school, kid?”

“Shouldn’t you have a wife, Uncle?” Ansel shoots back—obviously addressing an inside joke I’m not a part of.

Wait…uncle?

The man chuckles and leans on the counter, his muscles straining against his leather jacket.

I try to search for a resemblance between the two men—straight-laced, meticulous Ansel and this rugged biker—before remembering that Ansel’s adopted.

“You have a room available?” Ansel asks, pulling out his wallet and handing over his card.

The man waves Ansel away. “You know I don’t accept your money.”

He reaches beneath the counter and grabs a key ring. Twirling it between his fingers, he ventures down the hallway.

I glance at Ansel hesitantly, a stone of trepidation lodging in my throat, but he simply offers me a timid smile that instantly soothes my frayed nerves. I return it.

And when he offers me his hand? I take it.

Ansel’s uncle stares at the two of us for a long moment, his bushy eyebrows touching his hairline. A part of me wants to be embarrassed, though I don’t know why. It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.

“Ahh. I see now.” He flashes Ansel a knowing grin, and the tips of Ansel’s ears pinken.

“Umm…Uncle Ted, this is Izzy. Izzy, meet my uncle.”

“Nice to meet you, girl.” Ted’s withered face splits into a huge grin as he clasps my hand in both of his, giving it a decisive shake. “Is my nephew treating you well?”

“Do you have to speak?” Ansel gripes.

Ted ignores him and keeps his focus on me. “Because if he’s not, I’ll beat some sense into him.”

“It’s not like that!” Ansel sputters, appearing horrified.

Someone else may have been offended by how disgusted he seems by the prospect of us dating, but I know Ansel doesn’t mean it like that . The brightness of his cheeks is just another indication of how uncomfortable this conversation is making him.

I decide to put him out of his misery. After all, he played hero for me. It’s only fair I repay the favor.

“Ansel is being a perfect nineteenth-century gentleman,” I assure Ted, adopting a haughty, Victorian accent. “He took me out for tea and crumpets.” Lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, I add, “I even allowed him to look at my ankles.”

Ted throws his head back in raucous laughter. I can’t help but compare him to a huge grizzly bear. And that, in turn, makes me think of shifters and Christian and Ashton and?—

“So you two are…what’s the word…courting?” Ted asks once he’s gotten his laughter under control.

“We’ll see.” I wink at first Ted and then Ansel, who’s blushing profusely.

When he meets my eyes, he slowly shakes his head, even as a tiny smile unfurls on the corners of his mouth.

“Grab the items you want,” Ted instructs, opening up one of the doors at the end of the hall. “And get the protective gear on.”

Ansel drags me into a room dominated by metal shelves. There’s barely room to stand side by side. On one shelf, I see televisions, radios, computers, and iPads. On another are more miscellaneous items—a copier, a printer, and an overhead machine I used to see in school.

Ansel points out items at random to Ted as my confusion grows.

“What…?”

“Trust me?” His earnest eyes ensnare my own.

I don’t have any reason to trust him, yet…

I do.

Slowly, never taking my gaze off his, I nod.

The smile that erupts on his face is radiant. Heat and butterflies vie for dominance in my stomach.

“Come on.” Ansel leads me towards the far wall of the room while Ted remains behind, grabbing the items Ansel indicated.

Ansel first hands me a navy jumpsuit.

“Um…”

“Just put it on, Izzy.” Ansel rolls his eyes like my hesitation is ridiculous and annoying.

I step into the hideous jumpsuit and begin to pull it over my clothes. “Are you arresting me or something? Is that what this is? Because let me tell you…I won’t survive long in prison. I don’t have the face for it.”

“Yes. You caught me. I’m taking you to a secluded location to put you in a jumpsuit and then ship you off to the nearest women’s penitentiary,” he deadpans.

“Oh, he jokes.”

“Oh, she listens,” he retorts, moving to stand in front of me.

He helps me pull up the suit the rest of the way. His fingers graze my collarbone, exacerbating the goose bumps already present there. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold rushes through me.

I just pray Ansel doesn’t notice.

Once the jumpsuit is in place, he steps away and returns with green gloves and a glass shield mask.

“Okay, now this is getting weird,” I tell him as I take the objects and put them on. I feel ridiculous and clumpy. “Is this some kind of kink you’re secretly into?”

“What?” He blushes and quickly lowers his eyes from mine. “No! Of course not!”

I lift my hand to cover the laugh that threatens to bubble up. Ansel seems to understand sarcasm and jokes…unless a sexual innuendo is involved. Only then will he take my words literally and blush brighter than a nun in a porn shop.

“I’m joking,” I tell him, pushing up on my tiptoes to place my hands on his shoulders. I can practically feel his muscles relax. “But are you going to tell me what this is?”

“Have you never heard of break-room therapy before?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

“Why does that conjure up images of a bunch of stuffy businessmen and women sitting around a table, eating their lunches and discussing the weather?”

“Not that type of breakroom, pretty girl.” Ansel gently grabs my wrists and removes my hands from his shoulders.

Did he just call me pretty?

Warmth winds its way down my spine.

“Then what…?”

“Come on.” Ansel once again guides me forward. “Let's go watch you break the shit out of stuff.”