Jhene #3
My hand goes to my jean pocket automatically, searching for the familiar weight of the key Killian gave me. He’d lectured me about only coming and going alone when absolutely necessary; when he wasn’t around to chaperone me to and from work.
I only find lint and a crumpled bodega receipt when I tug my hand free from my pocket.
Crap!
Don’t tell me I’ve…
I check the other pocket and then the pouches of my backpack. The key is nowhere to be found, which means I really have lost it.
And only a few days into Killian entrusting me with it.
I can hear his moody lecture now. His grunt about how I’m in deep danger and can’t be wandering the streets with the Bratva after me.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, pedestrians flowing around me like water around a rock, and try to retrace my steps.
Did I leave it at the pub? Drop it somewhere on the floor? Did it fall out when I was digging for my phone this morning?
A dozen possibilities scroll through my mind, none of them helpful.
I could go back to the Banshee and search for it, but the thought of facing Bridget’s nosy ass again makes my head throb even harder than it already is.
My other option is waiting outside Killian’s building until he gets back, but who knows how long that would be—and he’d be pissed if he found out I was lingering on the street.
A deep sigh leaves me as I settle on the third option. The only option even if it feels like the worst one.
The gym is a few blocks away. I’ve been there before, early in the mornings when the place was empty and I could sneak in to use the showers without anyone noticing.
I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and start walking.
The gym is a squat brick building that has faded letters on the sign spelling MALONE’S BOXING.
The windows are cloudy and covered with posters advertising upcoming fights.
As I approach, I’m greeted by sounds like the rhythmic thud of fists hitting leather, the squeak of shoes on canvas, and the occasional grunt of exertion.
I hesitate at the door, my hand hovering over the handle.
This is a terrible idea. I know it’s a terrible idea.
But the alternative’s wandering the streets of Brooklyn until Killian decides to come home, and nothing about that sounds appealing when my head is aching and I have the Russian mob looking for me.
I push open the door and step inside.
The place stinks of sweat even outside of business hours, but during?
During it’s so pungent my nose involuntarily scrunches up only a few steps past the threshold. It’s almost strong enough to make me gag as I catch some seriously bad BO in the air too.
Looks like I’ll be breathing through my mouth while I’m here.
All I have to do is find Killian, get the keys, and then make it back to the studio. In and out as fast as possible.
But while the gym appears large before it’s open for the day, it feels twice as huge once standing inside and surrounded by the men who train here.
The space is cavernous and filled with punching bags and speed bags and a full-sized boxing ring in the center. The walls are lined with mirrors and motivational posters featuring muscled men with inspirational quotes underneath.
There’re weight sets and an area where a man furiously jump ropes, the rope itself a blur.
I blink, immediately disoriented and deeply aware of one thing.
The gym is full of men.
…only men.
My stomach clenches as my gaze scans the large open-spaced area, and I take in the two dozen plus guys in the middle of their workouts. Many of them shirtless and slicked with sweat.
Many bulging with muscles and thick necks. Others older in track suits with glowers on their faces as they bark motivation at the men they’re training.
Some of them spar against each other, fists wrapped in tape or shoved into gloves. They deliver fast blows and duck and dive as their opponent counters with punches of their own.
The air is heavy with testosterone. It’s filled with aggressive energy that surrounds me and makes it hard to draw a breath.
The last time I was surrounded by men, I was in Fedorov’s custody. I was nothing more than a possession that he—and his men—could use whenever the whim struck them.
As I hover where I am, suddenly lost, a wave of heat rushes me. It’s dizzying and disorienting and enough to make my pulse race.
I catch the gaze of a broad-shouldered bald man dripping sweat as he pauses in the middle of beating up on a punching bag. He openly stares, a curious glint flickering in his eyes.
He’s not the only one.
As I quickly look away, I find myself on the receiving end of more looks. More glances of interest as men stop mid-workout for a look at the woman who’s strolled into their sacred space.
I don’t belong here. What was I thinking?!
I stagger a step back, turning to go when one of them calls out to me.
“Yo cutie!” he catcalls. He’s whistled for my attention. “You lost?”
Laughter ripples through the gym, another overwhelming reminder of the past. So surreal it makes me question if I’m back in Fedorov’s clutches, once again forced to be mocked and ridiculed.
Once again forced to be treated like an object and nothing more.
The walls feel like they’re closing in, the mirrors reflecting my terrified face back at me from a dozen different angles.
The noise of the gym warps and distorts, fists hitting leather blurring into the sounds of boots on concrete and doors slamming and rough Russian voices in the dark.
Come here, little girl. Fedorov wants to see you.
Don’t fight it. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be—
Panic grows as my heart beats faster and I move to run off, then trip over my own two feet. The ground rushes up at me as I collide with it, and my backpack goes sailing out of reach.
“Damn… don’t take yourself out. Let me help you.”
Hands grab at my arm to pull me up, but I’m too far gone. I’m in the trenches of the past, tumbling down a rabbit hole of bad memories that still feel all too real.
“NO!” I scream hysterically, twisting to push back at the man. I claw at him, glasses crooked on my face and heart punching away inside my chest. “Get your hands off me!”
“Hey, easy. I’m just—”
“Let go of her!” comes the rumble of a familiar voice.
But familiar in a way that makes some of the panic recede. Familiar in a way that makes me feel like I can breathe again.
I go from desperately flailing and clawing against the boxer who’s stooped over to help me up to scrambling back, heaving air into my lungs.
Killian’s materialized and snatched the guy by the back of his neck. He’s hauled him off me and then shoves him against the wall, tossing a grown-ass man around like he’s weightless.
He traps him there with his arm barred across his throat as he glares into his face, one second away from tearing him to shreds.
“Did she give you permission to fucking touch her?” he barks. “Keep your hands off her if you want to keep those hands, you got that?”
The guy’s eyes bulge wide as he stammers, “I-I was… I was just—”
“I don’t want to hear it! Get outta my face!”
The guy clambers to escape the moment Killian lets go and steps back. He darts straight for the back of the gym, shoving past onlookers.
I’ve pushed myself up on my knees and fixed my glasses. I reach for my backpack, a hot prickle of embarrassment passing over me.
The once loud gym is silent. It’s quiet as a mouse as everyone stands still and watches in shock.
I’ve not only made a fool of myself, I almost got some guy beat up because he was trying to help me. Could this have been more of a disaster?
Killian turns to me, gleaming with more sweat than anyone, hair plastered on his brow. He’s obviously coming from the middle of his own workout, his adrenaline buzzing and veins twitching.
But as he steps forward and pulls me up to my feet and I chance a look at him, I realize he’s not mad.
The fury has drained from his face. His brow’s furrowed by what seems to be… concern?
“You got everything?” he asks.
He’s talking about the stuff I dropped. I nod dumbly, then let him escort me toward the gym doors.
We walk half a block in tense, uncertain silence until Killian stops us altogether and eases me to face him.
“You breathing or you about to pass out?”
My lungs shudder inside my ribcage as I desperately drag more air through them. I offer another nod as my answer, still too shaken to provide any words.
“You came by looking for me?”
Yet another nod.
“You lost your key?”
And another.
He drags his hand across his scruffy jaw and then mutters, “I figured. Seems I’m not the only forgetful one.”