tingled all the way to my car.
3
GRAY
I fucked up. That’s all I could think about as I pushed hard through a five-mile run and began my usual thirty-minute stint with a jump rope. Click. Click. Click. The sound of the plastic striking the gym mat was almost lulling, and I fell into my groove, my muscles warm from the run.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Click. Click. Click.
There were a few early-morning guys getting their workout in, but it was Saturday, so most of us were here to get in and get out and not interested in talking. This suited me fine. My first client was at ten, but right now, I just went through the paces. Besides, the guys knew I was always there for them—it was my gym after all—but a guy’s workout time was sacrosanct, and everyone knew not to fuck with me during mine.
The cleaning crew had come through overnight, and the strong scent of pine cleaner and bleach lingered. The speakers pumped out a techno beat. I hated lyrics blasting while I worked out, the voices distracting me, so I kept a playlist where the steady rhythm helped keep the mood amped. As owner, I ran the gym my way. Since my name in the industry preceded me, no one was going to question me or how I did things. And if they did, well, they could go somewhere else.
The gym had been open a few years, and I had my regulars, plus my solid core of employees, which suited me just fine. I liked things calm. Consistent. The only fights I wanted to be involved in these days were in the ring, and usually it wasn’t me doing the fighting. Not anymore. I was done with that life now. I was just the trainer behind the ropes. Yeah, right. There was no fucking way I could ever be just a trainer behind the ropes. No one would let me. My agent, the sponsors, all of them wanted a piece of The Outlaw. And me? I just wanted… quiet. Just as Emory had said.
With my usual early-morning opener at the front desk handling the day-to-day running of the place, I didn’t have any distractions. I gave a little chin nod to a guy heading to the locker room, not breaking my rhythm with the rope, then gave myself over to my thoughts, my mind veering directly to how much of an idiot I'd been the night before. My dinner meeting with my fighter, Reed, and the PR guys had gone long, so when I finally pulled myself free, I floored it across town to the engagement party. The way Paul looked at his fiancée, Christy, had been worth the hustle, but watching a woman charm the bartender had made my night.
I’d been standing with two guys questioning me about the next big fight when I saw her. It was as if I’d been round-kicked to the head, and I couldn’t look away. She had brown hair, wavy and long, pulled back from her face in some magical way women tamed it. But hers didn’t look all that tame. Controlled, perhaps. Barely. As if a strong wind or a man’s hands running over the silky strands would set it all free. Her eyes had been dark but sparkling with mischief. Her full lips had been coated with something clear and shiny. Very kissable. The bartender had laughed at something she'd said. It hadn't been flirting. She hadn't touched him, hadn't leaned in to work her feminine wiles. Hadn't even batted her eyelashes. She just had a way about her I wanted focused squarely on me—not the damn guy behind the bar. When he handed her a glass of water he'd disguised as a gin and tonic, I was intrigued. And that was saying something because I was intrigued with jack shit these days.
Her dress had been yellow with no sleeves, so her tanned, toned arms were exposed. But that was all she'd exposed because the neckline was high, like a T-shirt. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage, although the trim style showed off her obvious curves and narrow waist. And fuck, she had just the right amount of curves in all the right places. I was a man, what the hell did I know about dresses, but it reminded me of something a movie star would have worn in one of those old black and white movies. The dress had looked vintage, with a full skirt that hid her