Against the Ropes (23 page)

“Will do.” Reagan followed her friend out of the temperature-controlled athletic training room and into the sweltering gym. “Nice fanny pack, by the way. Really brings out the color of your eyes.”

Marianne smirked as they walked toward the middle of the gym to where the water jug sat on a rolling cart. “Nice slippers.”

Reagan gasped, looked down, then shuffled back to change her shoes.

*   *   *

“YOU
got the okay to do this, right?” Greg held open the door for Reagan to walk through, then let it close behind them. He'd never been in the gym when it was so empty and lifeless before. Shadows tossed around the walls via the emergency lights and the echo of their own footsteps created an otherworldly atmosphere that had the hairs on his arms rising up.

“Marianne said it was fine. She mentioned she's opened the gym several times before for Marines to work out. Besides,” she added, holding up her own key ring, “it's my keys, and I work here, too. So I can't see why not. Now.” She opened Marianne's training room door, swinging it wide and flipping the lights on. “Let's get you into some ice.”

“You sound way too sadistic and happy when you say that.” But it was cute how concerned she was about him after
the hellacious day he'd had. Greg was fast—probably the fastest one on the team. But it was Brad who had the endurance to keep going for hours like he'd been forced to. Brad who could have made the whole workout without puking in the trash can.

But he'd have done it again, just to see the look on Tressler's face when he'd walked beside him on the way out of the gym that night. The kid had wisely kept his eyes down and his mouth shut. For the first time, showing a little sense. Maybe it'd stick this time. He'd have a shiner tomorrow as a reminder, in case he forgot at some point.

That shouldn't have pleased him. It was too animalistic, too rough. He'd smoothed down those edges years ago. Hadn't he?

Maybe not.

Reagan, still dressed in her work outfit, pointed to the tub in the corner. “You know what to do? Where everything is?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He gave her a smart salute, turned on the cold water, and immediately felt his balls shrink up in anticipation. Nobody ever enjoyed an ice bath. If they did, they were just as sadistic as his girlfriend. But he knew he'd pay for it tomorrow if he didn't. He'd rather pay tonight.

Bonus, maybe Reagan would baby him a bit afterward.

“Need help with the ice?”

He dumped in the first shovelful. “Nah. Do you have stuff to keep you busy while I'm in there?”

“You keep me busy.” When he glanced over his shoulder, she blushed. “I mean, talking to you. You know, keeping you entertained with . . . words,” she finished, color deepening. She turned away without a word when he laughed. The water was about right, so he added the last scoop of ice and shut off the valve. Then, stripping down to the board shorts he'd worn, he slid in and hissed through his teeth.

When he turned back, he found Reagan shuffling from the entrance. Shuffling, because instead of the heels she'd
worn in, she had fluffy blue slippers on her feet. He stared at them while she made her way over to sit in a chair beside the tub.

“Did you skin the Cookie Monster to make those?”

She pinched his shoulder. “They were a gift. Marianne hates when I wear heels in her training room, so I am abiding by her wishes.”

He glanced at the four corners of the ceiling. “You know she can't see you, right? The place isn't bugged.”

“I'm abiding by her wishes,” Reagan said firmly. Then she let her hand drift to his hair. Fingernails scratched lightly against his scalp, and he could almost—almost—forget he was submerged up to his nipples in ice-cold water. His head drifted back to the edge of the tub, he let his eyes close, and he sighed.

Still scratching, she used her other hand to pick up one of his. Her thumb ran over the abrasions on his knuckles. “These need some ice time, too.”

He let his fist drop into the water, though he'd already iced it once when he'd run back to the BOQ for his swim trunks.

“What happened?” she asked quietly. “I'm sorry, I know you probably don't want to talk about it but I had to at least try.”

He sighed. She'd held off longer than he thought she would. “He pissed me off.”

“I imagine a lot of people piss you off. You don't often use your fists to solve it.”

There had been a day when fists had been all he'd known. His, someone else's . . .

“He said some rude stuff, and I overreacted. I was in a bad mood, I made a bad choice . . .”
Yadda yadda yadda
“
. . .
and that's it. It's over. I served penance, I won't be making the mistake again. I was stupid, but I'm not an idiot.”

Her fingers paused then, but resumed their delicious path through his hair. “That's an interesting way of putting it.”

“You can always be stupid in the moment. But an idiot . . . that's a permanent address. I'll have stupid moments all the time. But I'm not an idiot.”

“Never said you were. Far from.” She sat back, her fingers trailing down his neck, his shoulder, his arm until they fell away completely. He missed the touch. “I'll let you soak now.”

It was caught in his throat, to tell her what Tressler had said. It wouldn't have changed anything between them. He knew she wouldn't be offended. She might have even laughed. But for some reason, he couldn't make the words come out.

23

G
reg waited until Reagan unlocked her apartment door before giving her the truth. “I'm gonna leave it here tonight.”

She turned, raising a brow at him in the weak light of the single exposed bulb that served as a security feature in this piece of shit building.

“I'm tired, you know. Rough day.” When she said nothing, he felt an unexplained urge to fill the silence. “Because of all the running. Not my thing, the distance part.” When she just stared, he felt his irritation rise. “Say something.”

“You done?” she asked quietly.

“Done what?”

“Making shitty excuses.”

He blinked at that. “They weren't excuses, they were—”

“Excuses. If you don't want to come in, then just say you don't want to come in.” She walked through the door, but left it open. Talk about irresponsible. In an apartment complex like this, an unopened door was an invitation for serious trouble. He quickly followed her in.

“You can't leave your door open in this place. It's like asking Satan in for tea.” He closed it firmly behind him, locking all three deadbolts.

“Got you in here, didn't it?” She walked in from the kitchen, holding two bottles of water. She handed him one with a smile, uncapped hers and drank. “Sucker. I also do card tricks and make balloon animals.” She took one last sip and put the bottle back in the fridge before walking into the bedroom.

“You do?” He uncapped his water, downed half of it in one swallow, then put it in the fridge next to hers and followed her into the bedroom. She'd already removed her suit jacket and was kicking her heels off. He knew she'd put them away properly in a moment so they would stay nice. He loved watching her get undressed. It was about as economical as anything he'd seen before. So methodical, how she folded this, hung that, straightened everything perfectly on the hangers so she saved on dry cleaner bills. All her shoes lined up perfectly in little rows like good soldiers in the closet and along one wall because, well, she'd run out of room in the closet for them.

And he loved that she didn't give him crap about leaving his own clothing in a pile on the floor. Oh, he wasn't an asshole. If it was dripping with sweat, he draped it over the shower rod to dry. But for the most part, he was a strip-and-dump kind of guy, and she never hassled him for it.

He loved this part of the day, just decompressing with her. The little nuances of her personality and his meshing in their own private cocoon.

And that was beyond mushy and there was no way he would ever admit to thinking it. God.

When he'd changed into dry boxers, board shorts hung to dry, he found her already in bed, rubbing lotion on her hands. He slid in beside her, waited for her to turn the light off, and let her curl up beside him.

“Your skin is still cold,” she said, running her hand from
his shoulder down to his wrist, then back up and over his chest. Her fingers inadvertently—or maybe purposefully—flicked over his nipple, and it tightened in response.

“Ever taken an ice bath before?”

She shook her head, lips brushing against his arm.

“Here's a secret . . . it's fucking cold. I might still be cold next week.”

She chuckled quietly, pressing a kiss to his side. “Poor baby.” Her hand skimmed lower, until it dipped into the waistband of his boxers. “We should probably warm you up a bit.”

He squirmed, giving her time to feel and explore his cock with her hands. Her fingers brushed over his balls—which were still indignant about their dunking earlier—and they twitched. She cupped them, rubbing her thumb over them, and the heat of her hand spoke a language they knew well. They grew heavy under her fondling.

“Poor Greg,” she said in a whisper, kissing over his chest. “I bet your lower half wasn't all that happy about the temperature of your bath tonight, was it?”

“Hell no.” She worked her way down, pushing the covers to the side as she did. Her lips were warm, so warm, but they left a path of goosebumps in their wake.

She pushed down his boxers, and then—before he could ask, because he was damn near close to begging—she wrapped her lips around him and pulled hard.

One hand cupped his balls, the other wrapped tightly at the base of his shaft. And there was no longer an inch of his skin that felt the chill anymore. He was burning up, burning for her. She did a little sucky-swirl thing with her tongue, and his hips pumped up on instinct.

He was on the brink, so close, when she pulled away completely.

“Wait, no . . .” He bit back a moan. “Reagan, honey . . .”

“Stop your whining.” She grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer, rolled it down him herself, then lifted up
her simple cotton nightgown. It was like the curtains going up on a stage, and he had the most gorgeous, sexy seat in the house.

“No jokes about riding this time,” she whispered. “Just make love to me.”

He rolled her under him in one quick flash. “Not a problem, baby.”

*   *   *

GREG
lay spent, Reagan's body draped over his like a cloak. Her breathing had returned to normal, and his was nearing the same pace. Her breath was hot on his neck.

“Tell me something.”

He waited for her to finish the question. When she didn't he thought she'd fallen asleep midsentence. “Hmm?” he prompted quietly.

“Tell me something,” she repeated. “Anything about you. Just . . .” She fisted one hand over his heart, then spread it flat. He felt his heartbeat quicken again, as if it wanted to pound harder just for her. So she could feel the physical way she affected him. So she would know what she made him feel just by touch.

“I need something, Greg. Please.”

He debated throwing out something pithy, just to answer the question. But he had a feeling “I secretly like lima beans” wasn't what she wanted. He ran fingertips up her bare back, tracing her spine until he reached the soft, baby-fine hairs of the nape of her neck.

“I'm jealous of your family.”

He felt her eyelashes blink several times against his shoulder. He'd surprised her. “You've never met them. And I . . . they're . . . I don't know.”

He knew. Despite the fact that she felt like they held her back, wanted less for her, he understood. They didn't know any more than what they knew. And they wanted the best for her of what they knew. He could see her side, and didn't
blame her for her feelings of guilt and embarrassment. She was entitled to them. But at the end of the day, even if they were horrendous at showing it, they loved her. She had brothers who would show her how to use a power tool, a mom who called to check in on her and make sure she had a place to land if she stumbled.

It wasn't conventional, and it wasn't what Reagan had hoped for, but it was a family Greg would have killed for as a child.

She was quiet so long, and her breathing evened out enough he knew she'd thought herself to sleep. He'd have to answer more questions later, there was no avoiding it. He'd opened a can of worms, and they weren't going to be stuffed back in again.

He just prayed when she finally got a good look at what she'd been after, she still wanted him.

*   *   *

“HEY.”

Reagan batted at the thing—whatever it was—that was attempting to shake her awake. “No,” she mumbled.

“Reagan,” the intolerable thing whispered again.

“Go away,” she whimpered and rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into her pillow.

“I just wanted to let you know I was taking off.”

That had her raising her head. It was still pitch black in the bedroom, and she had to blink several times before the bleariness cleared enough to see her bedside clock. “It's not even three in the morning yet.”

“I know, but I didn't bring anything over, and I've got a hella early workout with Coach Cartwright this morning.”

She rolled onto her back, draping one arm over her eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I didn't want you to wake up and wonder why I'd split in the middle of the night.” Greg kissed her lips, and she let him because biting him in retaliation would have
taken too much effort. “Now go back to sleep, and I'll see your sexy ass in the gym.”

She grumbled, but he just chuckled and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

She woke several hours later, not feeling nearly as refreshed as usual, and cool. Though the temperature wasn't all that chilly in her apartment, she knew it was because she'd grown used to a furnace lying beside her in bed. When her feet grew cold, she'd been able to slide them under his legs, relish his momentary gasp of breath, and warm right up.

“Men,” she said, sitting up. “And now I'm talking to myself. I should get a cat so this is less weird.”

She thought about that a moment.

“Nope, it would still be weird.”

There were still benefits to waking without a man, she realized as she trudged to the bathroom to heed nature's morning call. She wouldn't be sharing the bathroom with anyone who had to have the world's closest shave. Wouldn't find his stuff lying around everywhere and trip over his ginormous shoes. Wouldn't be making a breakfast for two—one of which was a nasty protein shake that smelled like dirt and tasted worse. And she could take her time this morning, since she wasn't in a rush to get to the gym with him. There was time to really read the newspaper, not just skim, with a cup of coffee. Maybe even do some Internet surfing before getting ready for work.

Throwing on her bath robe, she started the coffee, pulled a bagel out of the fridge to toast, and went to her front door to grab the paper. She really should just pay for the subscription online, but she wasn't prepared to give up the actual physical words just yet.

She flipped through the first section—crime, death and taxes, as usual—and set it aside to get to the sports section. Now there was a shocker. A year ago, she would have bet a quarter of her shoe collection she would never hustle to get to the sports pages first. Now, it was all she could think of. If
they didn't mention her team or any other base teams, she still read, because she wanted to see what the media was focusing on these days.

Same with blogs. Her blog roll used to be nothing but fashion blogs that featured the Look For Less and other ways to spiff up her wardrobe on the cheap. Now she had more sports newscasts than anything.

She was on her second cup of coffee when her phone rang. She sighed, seeing Marianne's number. She answered the call, crossing one leg over the other. “If you're calling to wake me up, you're late. If you're calling to demand I bring you breakfast, you're early.”

“I'm calling to demand you get here now.”

Reagan froze on her stool. “What happened?”

“Stuff's missing. Remember the video equipment the coaches had last week?”

“Sure,” she said slowly, getting up and moving to the bedroom. Her leisurely morning before work had been cut short.

“Missing. All of it. It had been locked in the storage cage, but it's gone now. Along with some other training equipment, but only the more expensive stuff. They left the grimy, daily use junk alone.”

Coach Ace had told her about some missing gear, but the video equipment was news to her. “Have they called the MPs yet?”

“No. They asked me to call you. I think the coaches are fed up with the lack of progress.” She lowered her voice, to the point Reagan could barely hear her. “Something else is going on. I can feel it. But nobody will say anything. Get here fast.”

“Sure, right.” She hesitated as she picked out a cami top from her dresser. “Why are you there so early? Practice doesn't start for another hour.”

“Brad wanted to get in a quick workout with the bags. I wanted to get some paperwork done. We came in early, and found the coaches setting up, except for Cartwright, who's
running Greg ragged. They realized the equipment was gone when they went to watch some practice tape and asked me to call you.” She sighed. “Sorry for the crappy morning.”

“It is what it is. Let me call my supervisor and then I'll be over. Tell them not to mention anything to the team. Just keep going with the day. Kara's running yoga this morning, so focus on that.”

“You got it, dude.”

“Uh-huh,” Reagan said, and hung up. Two minutes later, she had her supervisor on the phone.

“Robilard, you need to come in.”

“Yes, sir, but first I'd like to run by the gym and—”

“This is about that . . . sort of.” Her supervisor made a gruff sound that she couldn't decipher over the phone. “Just come in to the offices first.”

“Sure thing.” She hung up the phone, dread creeping through her veins, along with the feeling that everything was about to change, and not for the better.

*   *   *

SITTING
in her supervisor's office, waiting for him to come in, Reagan thought back to her final interview. She'd been down to her last fifteen dollars, and ready to promise the world to land the job. It hadn't come to that . . . just close enough.

“Robilard.” Andrew Calvant, her supervisor, a trim man in his late forties, came in and tossed a file folder on his desk. The papers beneath fluttered, then lay still, as if they didn't dare fly off for fear of his wrath. “We've got a problem.”

“We've
had
a problem for several weeks now, sir.” She saw his eyebrow wing up in silent question.
That's right. I have the job now. I'm going to act like I'm here to stay, even if you're seconds away from firing my ass. Fake it.
“I'm not sure what changed today that you needed me in here. I understand this is an expensive hit to take, but—”

“It's more than that. We might have a suspect.”