He looks around the gym and then turns back to me, giving me a smile. “I think I can find you a partner.”
I walk over to the sparring ring as he heads over to one of his guys who's training a client. They speak briefly and then the client looks over to me briefly and laughs before turning back to the Adrian and his own trainer. He shrugs and then the three of them walk over to the sparring ring.
I'm warming myself up, throwing a few combinations as I jog in place. The client – a Hispanic guy who stands about five-ten, has a shaved head, dark colored goatee, dark eyes, and a little bit of a gut – steps in and looks me up and down suggestively. He licks his lips and gives me what I can only imagine he believes is his best, most charming smile.
“Damn,” he says. “You sure you want to do this, sweetheart? You sure you wouldn't rather just go get a drink or somethin'?”
Oh, this is going to be fun. If there's anything I hate more than snooty, entitled bitches, it's obnoxious assholes – and calling me sweetheart, baby, or any other stupid pet name makes you an obnoxious asshole.
I strap on my headgear and cinch it down nice and snug. I don't like wearing the bulky things, but it's gym rules.
“How about we just stick to me kicking your ass?” I say and then slip my mouthpiece in.
He shrugs. “I'm into a little foreplay, baby,” he says. “It's all good.”
The adrenaline and anger are already surging through me when Adrian rings the bell, signaling the start of our first round. We both bounce lightly on our feet as we dance around each other, circling each other, looking for an opening.
“C'mon, ladies,” Erik, the other trainer shouts. “Are we fighting or dancing?”
My opponent, apparently spurred on by his trainer's words, rushes toward me. He telegraphs it so badly, I can already see his move coming before he even throws it. He thinks he can distract me with a left jab, his real attack being a right cross.
Before he can throw it though, I spin to the side and avoid him altogether. Though light on his feet when he's just bouncing around, he's actually a bit slow and plodding. In the time it takes him to turn around, I'm already squared up. And when he's finally facing me, he's slow to bring his gloves up, allowing me the time to throw a quick three-punch combination to his face.
His head snaps back and he grunts, stunned by the attack. Lowering his head, he looks at me with real anger in his eyes.
“You're gonna pay for that, sweet tits,” he says. “Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this.”
He rushes at me again and this time, I spin to the other side, turning quickly and kicking him in the back of the knee. He drops to his knees and growls in pain. I'm on him before he can get back to his feet though, throwing a furious combination of punches and knees to his head and midsection.
He tries to cover his head and is screaming something I can't understand. The anger inside of me, dark and abiding, has bubbled to the surface and all I can do is keep punching, keep kicking. I want to hurt him – and hurt him bad. My vision blurs and I suddenly don't feel like I'm in control of myself.
I just keep punching, keep kicking, unable – or maybe just unwilling – to stop. I just keep seeing that woman's face from the coffee house. Hearing her voice. Keep hearing the guy I'm sparring with calling me baby and sweetheart. It's like this perfect storm of anger has been forming inside of me and finally broke.
“Amanda, stop,” I hear Adrian's voice, but can't comprehend what he's saying.
Large hands, stronger than iron, clamp down on my arms. I feel myself being lifted up and then carried to the far side of the ring. When my vision clears and I come back to myself, I find myself staring into Adrian's face. He looks simultaneously irritated and concerned.
“Amanda, are you okay?” he asks.
I blink and shake my head to clear away the dark fog that clouds my vision. “Yeah, I'm fine.”
He takes my headgear off and tosses it to the side. “What happened out there?”
I shake my head. “I don't know,” I say. “I just – I just kind of snapped, I guess.”
I look past him and see Erik huddled down by the guy I'd just sparred with. He's flat on his back with his hands over his head.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
Adrian shrugs. “He'll be fine,” he said. “I think you damaged his pride more than anything.”
Erik helps the man get to his feet and sends him off to the locker room before coming over to join us. He and Adrian share a look and then a laugh between themselves.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.
Erik nods. “He's fine,” he says. “I wanted to thank you.”
I cocked my head and looked at him. “For what?”
“I've been looking for a way to take Armando down a peg or two for a while now. Thinks he's ready to take on Tito Ortiz,” he says.
“And you took him down about twelve pegs,” Adrian laughs. “It's stupid, but he's taking getting his ass kicked by a girl really personally.”
Erik claps me on the shoulder. “Great technique by the way,” he said. “You've come a long way.”
“Thanks,” I say and offer him a small smile. “I've had a great teacher.”
Erik nods and then walks away, leaving me alone with Adrian. Though somewhat amused, he still looks concerned.
“Looks like today was a really bad day for you,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
“I think I do now,” he says. “I think Armando does too. And I have a feeling he's never going to be calling you sweetheart or baby again.”
I laugh softly and Adrian gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“I honestly don't know what happened,” I say. “I just kind of lost it out there.”
He shrugs. “It happens,” he says. “Just one of those things you're going to have to learn to rein in.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that a lot today,” I say and give him a rueful grin.
He leans down and looks me in the eye, holding my gaze. “It's not bad advice,” he says. “And you know my door is always open if you ever want to talk.”
I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “I don't deserve you, you know.”
Adrian flashes me a cocky little smirk. “No, you really don't.”
I laugh and punch him playfully in the stomach, feeling better than I had all day.
Chapter Five
Brady
“Good morning,” she says when I step into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Miss Delia,” I reply.
“Coffee's fresh,” she says. “I'm making waffles for Nicholas; would you like me to make you some?”
I shake my head. “Sounds delicious, but I can't,” I reply. “I have a couple of meetings today. I'll just grab something out.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee and pour in a little creamer, giving it a stir. Taking a sip, I lean back against the counter and savor the rich, dark brew. Miss Delia is looking at me out of the corner of her eye. I can tell she wants to say something. I let her stew on it for a moment while I enjoy my coffee.
Setting my mug down on the counter, I sigh. “What's on your mind, Miss Delia?”
She shrugs and I know her silence is very pointed. Miss Delia has been with my family for a long while – and it's always been Miss Delia, not Delia, not D, nothing but Miss Delia. She started working for us when I was ten or so – and she helped raise me. My parents were busy people, always out attending this fundraiser or charity event, opening that business, going to this or that gallery opening – they weren't around a whole lot.
And because of that, I think of her as something of a mother figure. She keeps me in line – most of the time. I appreciate her bluntness and directness. It seems rare that I can get that kind of honesty from people.
“Do you remember when your father used to take you to all those football games when you were young?” she finally asks.
I chuckle. “I was just thinking about that the other day,” I reply. “When I was the game, actually.”
She nods. “I remember you used to get so excited about going to the games and spending time with your father. Your face would just light up like the sun on Sunday mornings.”