Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Saylor

"Are you saying there is a problem with a man being a gentleman?" my mother asked as she feinted right while I struck out, my glove-covered hand meeting air instead of her chest that I'd been aiming at.

"I'm not saying there's anything—fuck," I exhaled as her hit got me in the gut. I backed up a few steps, circling around her. "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it. It's just weird."

"I think, my dear, you only think it's wrong because you're used to dating dickheads," she said. She was too excited to get a reaction out of me to pay attention to my posture as I struck out, hitting her hard enough to send her back a step.

"I mean, that's… fair," I agreed. I'd never dated a man that anyone would ever accuse of having good manners. "Though, I've never really been one for dating in general," I added as she took a step back, leaning against the ropes of the ring, watching me with eyes so similar to mine that it was almost freaky.

I mean, if it wasn't for a few crows feet around her eyes and a little less fullness in her cheeks, we could practically pass for sisters.

She'd even managed to keep a figure almost identical to mine, despite being able to out-eat me at the table of any restaurant at any time of day.

Though I imagined it helped that she owned a gym. Complete with a boxing ring, since that was something she'd been passionate about my whole life. Mostly because she'd met my father at a boxing match when she was all of nineteen years old.

"Seems to be a family trait," I added, watching as she pulled off her gloves to reach up and tighten her ponytail.

"What is?"

"Not dating," I said.

"I met the love of my life when I was practically a kid still," she said. "Why would I need to ever date again once he was gone?"

My father had died when I'd just been three of an unfortunate boxing-related injury. He'd gone back into the ring too soon after getting a concussion, getting a second one on top of it, sustaining something called Sudden Impact Syndrome that had been fatal.

I didn't have a single memory of him.

The only reason I knew what he even looked like was thanks to his picture on my mother's mantle at home… and on the wall of this gym she'd taken over for him after his passing.

When I'd asked why the hell she would want to run something that revolved around the sport that had, essentially, killed my father, she'd shaken her head and told me that there were three things my father loved. His kids, his wife, and boxing. And that she needed to honor his memory by taking care of those things for him.

I didn't get it, not really, at the time.

But I'd also never been in love.

If not for the way my mom loved my father, I wouldn't even believe it existed.

I did understand it years later. But with a completely different kind of love.

"So, you tried to sidestep the original question," she said, slipping her gloves back on.

"Which question was that?"

"What this Anthony guy looked like."

"I dunno. A mafia guy, I guess," I told her, then charged, looking for a way to avoid actually telling her that the man was stupidly handsome.

We fought for a few more minutes, both of us dripping in sweat, our ponytails starting to hang low, before she moved back, a big smile pulling at her lips.

"That hot, huh?" she asked.

This was my mother.

She knew me better than anyone. There was no getting away with lying to her. Or even trying to evade answering a question.

This was a woman who instinctively always knew when I was trying to sneak out or back in, who told me to bring a condom when I said I was going out with friends, but she knew I was seeing a boy, who could always tell that my anger was often hiding something else a lot softer and more fragile underneath.

"Yeah, that hot," I agreed. There was no use lying about it. "You're going to see for yourself in about ten minutes," I reminded her.

"Ugh," she said, swiping her forearm across her forehead, coming away sweaty. "This is no way to meet an unreasonably attractive man. I'll be back," she said, rushing off.

She didn't bother to tell me that I was in no state to interact with said ‘unreasonably attractive' man. She knew better. In fact, I bet she knew that I was actually trying to make myself as ugly as possible for this meeting to turn him off of me, so I didn't have the green light to jump him when my body felt like it.

Which, I'll admit to myself, at least, happened no fewer than five times between jumping in his car in Washington Heights, and when he dropped me back off a few blocks from my actual apartment in Hell's Kitchen after walking my dog in Spanish Harlem.

And, damn it, yes, one of those times was when he'd been able to pull a gun on me without me noticing.

Was it healthy that my body saw that as some sort of foreplay? Probably not. But I was how I was. There was no changing me at this point in life.

"Hey, killer," one of the regulars said as he ducked under the ropes. "Wanna try to knock me out again?" he asked, knocking his gloves together as he started to circle me.

"It's always a joy to beat the shit out of you, Denny," I said, smirking as he faked a couple of punches, trying to look all big and bad. But it distracted him, letting me move in on his slow left side and land a nice punch to his ribs that had him exhaling forcefully.

"Oh, it's on," he said, anger flicking in his eyes.

Denny was one of those guys. You know, the kind who thought that being masculine meant he should be stronger and more intimidating than a woman. Up to the point where he would genuinely try to hurt me because I'd bruised his ego in front of the two other guys in the gym.

So I danced around him, jumping back when he swung, knowing those punches were the kind that would leave me walking around with bruises for a week.

It just so happened that he landed one good punch to my stomach when Anthony Costa decided to show up.

"What the fuck?" Anthony snarled, making Denny glance over.

I wasn't above using an opponent's distraction against him. I charged forward, getting inside the cage of his arms and landing a hard shot to his ribs, then another, and another, making him stumble back as he gasped for breath.

The rule of the gym was no headshots without a padded helmet and a mouthguard, so I pulled the punch that would have likely won me a real fight, holding my glove up under his chin as his eyes burned fire at me.

"Hey hey, you know the rules," my mom called, coming out of the back where I bet she took the time to actually shower before getting changed back into her leggings and gym logo tee. "Fight's over. Take the loss, Denny. Work it off on the treadmill."

Denny might have been a bit of a dick, but he respected my mother and her rules, so he took a step back.

"You got lucky," he said. "I'll get you next time."

"The fuck, Saylor?" Anthony asked after Denny slid under the ropes to mope away.

"What?" I asked, leaning my arms on the rope.

"He was twice your size."

"Don't you worry about my girl, sweetie, she's got fighter running through her veins," my mother said. "Also, holy shit," she said, gaze moving over him, then sliding to me, eyes huge, before going back to his face. "You are phenomenally good-looking," she told him.

"Holy shit back at you," Anthony said, shaking his head at my mother. "How are you old enough to have a grown daughter?"

"I know, right?" my mom asked, beaming at him for the compliment, even if she heard it half a dozen times every single time we were out in public together.

"Anthony, this is my mom, Sam," I introduced them. "Mom, Anthony Costa."

"Nice to meet you. Can I take your jacket?" she asked, waving at his expensive-looking suit coat.

"Ah, why?" Anthony asked, brows pinching.

"Because if I know my daughter, and I do, she wants you in that ring."

"She's not wrong," I agreed, smiling at how uncomfortable he looked at that information.

"I'm not going to hit a woman," he said.

"Well then," my mother said, taking his jacket and folding it over her arm. "You're going to get your ass handed to you," she said, smiling sweetly. "Shoes off in the ring, too," she added, looking down at his feet, then moving over toward the desk to carefully hang his jacket on a coat hook.

"She's not serious," Anthony said, looking up at me.

"Afraid so. There's gloves right there," I said, nodding toward where several pairs were sitting.

Sensing this was a losing fight, Anthony sighed and walked over to them, sitting to remove his shoes, then slipping the gloves on before bending under the ropes and coming into the ring.

"You might as well swing too," I told him. "I am going to be hitting you."

"I don't doubt it," he agreed, circling me as I circled him, looking for an opening. "Still not gonna hit you."

"That's kind of ridiculous, given the venue," I said, waving one arm at the ring.

"Not gonna be like that dickhead before me."

"The difference is that he enjoys hitting me. You would just be putting up a fair fight. It's no fun if you just let me win."

"So let's just call it now. You win."

"Afraid not," I said, striking out, and landing a small punch to his chest. But the man was solid. I didn't even knock him back a step.

"We're supposed to be talking about the… case," he said, glancing around to check if anyone was eavesdropping.

"So talk," I said, swinging, but he lifted his glove to block. Once, twice. "So, it's not that you're uncoordinated," I said, looking at him with my head tilted.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head.

But, yeah, the man was a little… accident-prone. And I'd only known him for a few hours. The bike, the coffee cup, a rat running across his path, making him nearly fall off the damn sidewalk as we walked my dog.

Then there was the story about his forehead and the car door and the hot coffee spilled on him at the shop.

I guess I figured his reflexes would just be slow. But that wasn't the case when he kept deflecting my punches as I got more and more determined to get past his defenses and land at least one good hit.

"Have you boxed before?" I asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"No."

"How are you so good at this then?"

"I have a big family," he said, shrugging. "Things got… scrappy as I was growing up."

I guess that made sense.

Even if it got more and more frustrating with each passing moment as the sweat started to pour again.

"At least swing," I grumbled, circling him again. "You can pull the punch," I said, shrugging.

"I don't trust my luck there," he said, looking a little sheepish. "Did you find out anything?" he asked since, yeah, we did meet to talk, not fight.

"I actually have an appointment with a hacker after this," I admitted. "He had… a mission."

"What kind of mission?" Anthony asked, knocking my uppercut away.

"A… video game mission," I said, letting out a little laugh. "He's… a pain in my ass. But he was adamant about not being able to meet me until then. No matter how much money I offered."

"Can I tag along?" he asked.

"Depends. Do you like pizza rolls?"

"Pizza rolls," he repeated as I tried three quick jabs in succession, all of which he met with his gloves or forearms. "I guess they're fine."

"Because he's going to talk to you about them," I warned him.

"Got it," he said, giving me a little grin that had no right to be as sexy as it was.

And just like I'd used Denny's distraction against him, Anthony used my preoccupation with how stupidly hot he was when he grinned against me.

His fist rushed forward, but he pulled it at the last second, the tip of his glove kissing my chin.

Something crackled in the air between us as we stood there gazes locked, breathing a little labored, bodies close.

Desire surged, building like waves through my body until I felt it tingle across my skin, felt it twist in my core, and clench between my legs.

"Impressive," my mother's voice called, making Anthony take several hasty steps backward from me, glancing almost guiltily over at her. "Saylor has been in the ring since she was a little girl," she explained, holding the ropes open for Anthony to slip between, then reaching out to help remove the velcro from his gloves, so he could slide them off easily. "Saylor, why don't you go get cleaned up while I talk to your friend."

I had every intention of going to the meeting as gross as I was, sweat-soaked through my clothes and my hair, but I honestly needed a few minutes alone to reason with my libido.

An ice cold shower seemed like the perfect way to accomplish that.

Even if it did mean leaving my mother unattended with Anthony.

I went to the women's locker room that was almost always empty, other than a small handful of women who liked to lift heavy or fight. And didn't mind the guys like Denny around offering to spot them when they didn't need it, or, worse yet, lifting their weights up without even asking.

I stepped under the cold spray for as long as I could tolerate it, then went to my locker where I always kept a few changes of clothes—both workout and street—and slipped into a pair of black jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt.

I brushed out my hair, then twisted it up into a claw clip until it wouldn't drip all over my shoulders, then grabbed my phone with its wallet case and my keys, then went to save Anthony from my mother.

It just so happened that the moment I stepped into the gym, Anthony threw back his head and laughed at something—undoubtedly embarrassing—my mother said to him.

And that desire I thought I'd killed with the cold water? Yeah, it came rushing back.

Great.

Just great.