Gambler’s Ruin (Calamity City Mafia #3)

1. Seven

ONE

SEVEN

I flinch when Havoc’s fist comes at me. I ready myself for the pain, but the only thing I get is a small flick against my forehead.

“What did I teach you about deflecting punches?” Havoc asks, stepping back. His tank top is damp from sweat, while his athletic pants hide it better. His dark hair is disheveled thanks to all the training we’ve been doing so far.

It’s not fair that Havoc is so hot even while working out. His determined expression warps the scar on his temple, and I want to lick it, not punch it.

I’m in a much worse state: my entire body is gross, and a bunch of hair has escaped my ponytail and is now clinging to my skin. My skinny arms don’t have anywhere near as much definition as Havoc.

Maybe I have one bicep? I flex my arm, but I don’t think I see a difference.

I should’ve been going to the gym with Vortex. Sitting around all day hasn’t done me any favors, and even running around backstage each morning is nothing compared to this physical exertion with Havoc.

“I keep forgetting,” I tell him, frustration welling up inside of me.

More like, I keep thinking I’m not allowed to dodge blows, let alone deflect them.

At least the gym is empty, so I don’t have to worry about making a fool of myself in front of other people.

“I’ll go slow again,” Havoc says, sounding as frustrated as I feel. He gets into position and waits for me to do the same.

My shoulders slump, and instead of trying to mirror his stance, I look down. “I don’t think I can do this,” I tell him. He doesn’t understand that my entire life, I’ve been taught not to fight back.

Ever.

I’ve tried to tell him, and he insists he gets it, but he doesn’t.

Havoc sighs and rubs his brow. “You can. But… ugh, sorry. Maybe Vortex should be teaching you after all. He’s probably better at it.”

Havoc isn’t wrong that Vortex might be better in some ways. He probably would be more patient. But he might be too patient, and without someone to push me, I’m not sure I’ll ever learn how to do this.

“He would coddle me,” I mumble.

I sort of want to be coddled, but that wouldn’t help me learn how to defend myself.

Or attack , a tiny, insidious voice points out in the back of my mind.

I shiver.

I’d gotten lucky with Caleb’s grandfather. I doubt I’d have that element of surprise again.

“He would,” Havoc agrees with a grin. “Okay. Let’s go back to the punching bag instead. We’ll improve your form and try sparring next time.”

He walks back to the punching bag we use for warm ups. I stare at it in resignation. I was hoping I would be better already, but I remind myself that it’s only been two weeks. Even with near daily lessons, it’s going to take time. I know that.

So why is it so hard to believe it?

My arms feel like rubber sometimes, and I’m grateful that Caleb has that large tub with the massage jets.

I stare at the punching bag, trying not to picture a person standing there. Maybe I should, so I can get used to the idea of throwing a punch at someone else and it’ll be easier to try to hit Havoc.

But the idea of it alone makes me shudder, and I hang back.

“You can do it, Seven,” Havoc says, and he sounds more encouraging this time.

I don’t know if it’s an act, and honestly, I’m not sure I care if it is. It bolsters me, and I step into the stance he’d taught me as I stare down the punching bag.

It’s okay. It’s just a tool. There’s nothing wrong with hitting it.

I lash out with my fist, mimicking what Havoc had taught me. I have to fold my thumb inside my palm to protect it, and my arm is straight as I lash out. The impact barely moves the punching bag, but I can feel it in my knuckles.

“Good,” Havoc says. “You’ve gotten a lot better already, Seven. Good stance, and good follow through.”

The praise warms something inside of me, and the confidence boost makes it possible to do it again. Then again, and again, and again, as I run through what he’s been drilling into me.

I can do this.

By the time I throw another five punches, exhaustion has seeped into me, and I take a step back.

“I think that’s all I can do today,” I say reluctantly, torn between hoping Havoc will insist I continue so I can feel the pain of it for the rest of the day and wanting him to agree that I’ve done enough.

Havoc looks at me skeptically. “We’ve got the gym to ourselves for another fifteen minutes. Are you sure you want to stop now?”

Fifteen minutes seems like eternity.

I hesitate. I don’t want to disappoint him. But I’m breathing hard, sweat is rolling down my face, and I’m abruptly aware that I must look ugly .

What if he stops wanting me after he’s seen me like this too many times? What if these workouts make me look different, and Caleb and Vortex don’t want me either?

They already make me feel different, but I’m twisted up inside about exactly how.

“I can go longer,” I tell him even though my entire body protests at the thought.

I step back into position, staring down the punching bag, but now all I can hear is her voice in my mind. She would be beyond furious if she knew what I was doing.

That should give me the strength to keep going, but it has me shying away instead.

I’ve never been very good at defiance.

“Why don’t you try a few of the kicks I showed you?

” Havoc suggests. He gets closer to the punching bag and slowly kicks it.

He somehow manages to balance on one leg while his other leg extends out, and he taps it with the top of his extended foot.

When he steps back, he gives me an encouraging look.

I try to take it to heart that he thinks I can do it, but my thoughts have already begun to spiral. My kick is half-hearted at best, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say, desperately afraid to let him down but just as terrified of doing this.

“It’s fine. Just try again,” Havoc says. He smiles at me. “We’re mostly trying to build muscle memory right now.”

I nod. I don’t know if I want my muscle memory to have me lashing out at someone. I’d already done enough damage the last time I’d instinctively hurt someone, and…

I still don’t feel sorry, exactly. He was going to send me back to her , and I don’t regret taking his life before he could destroy mine.

But hurting other people isn’t something I think I’ll ever be good at.

I kick at the bag again. I’ve gotten better at not losing my balance, but it’s still awkward to hold myself up while putting force behind my other leg. Then I do it again, and again, until I really can’t do it anymore.

I step back, shaking my head as I try to catch my breath. “Okay,” I wheeze. “That’s really enough.”

“You did great,” Havoc says. He puts his arm around my shoulders, apparently not caring that I’m sweaty and disgusting. “Tomorrow we’ll focus on cardio and weight training. Form won’t help you if you don’t have the muscle to back it up.”

He squeezes my bicep, making me giggle. “I would look ridiculous with a bunch of muscle,” I tell him.

Ridiculous, and unattractive, and the amusement rolls back into disgust. He won’t want me if I put on too much muscle.

“Havoc…” I begin, unsure of how to ask him.

I shake my head instead of continuing. “I’m ready to shower. I’m beyond gross.”

“You’d look hot,” Havoc says, and instead of letting go, he pulls me closer and presses his nose against my neck. “You smell so good, Seven.”

I make a face. “I really, really don’t,” I tell him. “I smell like sweat, my face is all red, and I’m all around gross.”

“Yeah. It’s great.” Havoc pushes my shirt up to expose my belly—which does not have abs the way Havoc’s does. “All natural.”

I look down, not agreeing with him but not wanting to make an issue of it, either. “If you say so.” I like it when he is hot and sweaty. I’m a different story. I can’t see myself as possibly being anything other than ugly like this.

It’s different when it’s after sex.

Isn’t it?

“Hey, imagine,” Havoc says, biting down on my shoulder and surprising me into a yelp, “When you’re more confident with your punches, we can spar for foreplay. Just us grappling each other, getting our sweaty bodies all up against each other…”

I squirm at the idea of being pinned down like that, of feeling Havoc rubbing up against me while he’s all worked up from sparring.

Yeah, I can get behind that idea.

“Would you be extra rough with me?” I ask, pressing up against him.

I feel his smile against my skin. “Oh yeah. I wouldn’t go easy on you. I’d grab you and force you into submission, and all you could do was mewl while I pounded into you.”

I have to bite back a moan at the idea. “Yeah? Maybe you should give me a sneak peek,” I tell him.

“You’d have to fight back,” Havoc says as he reaches up to pinch my nipple. “I wouldn’t want it to be an unfair fight.”

I laugh, breathless for an entirely different reason than exertion now, even though there’s that nagging sense of uncertainty that reminds me that I’m not supposed to fight.

But sometimes, I am. Sometimes, they like it when I struggle.

My smile drops.

Havoc isn’t like that.

“You’ll be so good at fighting me off, I’ll have to go for all the really vulnerable spots,” Havoc continues, oblivious to my dark thoughts. His other hand grips my cock through my sweats. “I don’t like clean fights anyway. I take every advantage I can get.”

I grind my cock against his hand. “I like it when you don’t play fair,” I say.

No one ever does.

No.

No, no, no.

I’m not thinking this way. I’m not letting this moment be destroyed by my past.

I crane my neck to kiss him, needing the distraction. The angle is awkward, our lips missing each other. Havoc growls and turns me around so we’re face to face, then pulls me into a rough kiss. His cock presses insistently against my pelvis.