Chapter 9 Nico
NINE
NICO
Of course I called for a second date.
I would’ve called, regardless, but having to stay at the hotel and sleeping in the bed that I fucked Daisy in—the bed that smelled like her, that had her lipstick print on the pillow—made it impossible not to call as soon as I woke up.
The only sobering moment was discussing scheduling. Hearing “she’s booked the rest of the week” wasn’t just a slap in the face, it was a right cross to the jaw.
Which should not have been as disconcerting as it was.
When I first called the agency, I didn’t think too much about what a date would be like.
I figured the sex would be good, and maybe I hoped there would be some interesting conversation given the parameters of two people who don’t know each other, but I didn’t exactly have high expectations.
I just wanted to spend one night not in my head, not depressed by the quiet of my apartment. I thought it would just be sex.
I never expected to feel…excitement. I never thought I would still be thinking about Daisy days later.
My entire drive home was spent with mounting frustration. Because what do you mean I’m smitten with an escort.
It’s the classic pathetic male response, isn’t it? Man pays woman for a date, woman somehow convinces man that she’s not there for the money, man falls head over heels, woman leaves as soon as man stops paying. It’s a tale as old as the profession itself.
I should call the agency back and cancel. I should chalk this up to one crazy story and leave last night where it is.
But…I can’t. Because my gut is screaming at me that last night was different. And the only way I can think to find out the truth is to see her again.
I just need to keep my head on straight next time.
It’s the longest week of my life. I throw myself back into training, hoping to distract myself from thoughts of Daisy. I spar more than I ever have, because it’s virtually impossible to think about anything but the shin coming at your face when there’s a two-hundred-pound man in front of you.
After one particularly hard sparring session, I’m dead on the ground, trying to catch my breath, when my striking coach’s face appears above me.
“You’re looking good, Nico,” he says with a pleased tone. “I was a little worried when we accepted the fight that your camp would be too short, but you’ve been working hard. I’m impressed.”
I almost want to laugh. If only he knew that my motivation today has nothing to do with my upcoming fight.
Hey, Coach, remember when you told me no dating during fight camp? Well, you never said anything about escorts. And it turns out, that’s the one girl that will sufficiently distract me.
“Thanks,” I say instead, pulling myself to a seated position. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get as many rounds in as I can. And actually—” I swallow thickly, hoping nothing weird is visible on my face. “I was thinking about getting an extra session in at Renzo’s.”
He nods his agreement. “That could be good for you. If you don’t mind the commute.”
I don’t tell him that the commute is my reason for it. That even though it’s common for fighters all over the Northeast to drive hours to train at the world-renowned Renzo Gracie’s in New York City, it has nothing to do with my decision.
That’s determined solely by a certain beautiful blonde.
I take the train up on Thursday morning, just in time for an afternoon training session. I’ve been here plenty of times, so the coaches and athletes welcome me the same as they always do. They’re excited to hear I might be coming up here more often.
By 8 p.m., I’ve eaten, showered, and downed one of the drinks from the mini bar to settle my nerves. I don’t even feel this way before my fights. Why am I nervous? This is a transaction. I know exactly what I’m putting into it and getting out of it.
All thoughts about this being a business arrangement fly out of my head the moment I hear a knock.
And just like it did last time, my breath escapes me when I open the door to Daisy.
Christ, what’s her real name? I wish I knew.
I wish I could put a name to the goddess standing in front of me.
She looks gorgeous tonight. It’s not just her physical appearance—although it would be insane to say she’s not the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
She’s wearing a skintight dark green dress today, nothing too short or revealing, but the lace covering her neckline and arms is an enticing detail.
Her hair is curlier than last time, but her lips are the same shade of red.
I’m just as desperate to taste her as last time.
“Hi, Red,” I greet softly.
Do I imagine the way she lights up at the nickname? “Hi,” she breathes, wearing a soft smile of her own.
I step aside and gesture her into the room. As she moves past me, her aura is every bit as commanding as it was last time. And when she speaks, she sounds every bit the seductress I remember.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m glad you called me.”
I lock the door and follow behind her into the suite. “I told you I would.”
When she reaches the couch, she turns and sits with the most demure movement. “And now I know you’re an honest man, Nico.”
A shiver runs through me at hearing her say my name. Fuck. She’s turning it on early tonight.
I can feel the spell she’s weaving around me. With every word, every look, all I want to do is sink to the floor in front of her and bask in her presence.
“So, how’s your week been?” she asks. “Are we relieving any stress tonight?”
This is far more stressful than anything that happened this week.
I don’t tell her that. I just pour us two glasses of water and walk over to where she’s sitting. “My week was good. Busy. More training sessions than I can count.”
When I hand her the glass of water, she looks surprised. Hoping I’m misreading the expression, I say, “I can get you an unopened bottle of water if you’d prefer that.”
Her gaze shoots to mine. “Oh. No, that’s not—” The faintest bit of color touches her cheeks. She takes the glass from my hand and says softly, “Thank you. That was sweet of you.”
Getting a drink of water is sweet?
“How was your week?” I ask as I sit on the couch across from her.
Last time I saw her, I got the sense that she tries to stay away from personal questions.
I don’t blame her for not being an open book with a stranger, but I’m also intrigued enough to want to know more about her.
I’m just hoping if I stay away from personal details, that she’ll be willing to make this more of a conversation.
Sure enough, she studies me before answering the question. Her answer is slow and calculated when she says, “It was like every other week.”
She might believe that’s a non-answer, but it tells me more than she thinks. Her days are structured, maybe even monotonous.
“What does your average day look like?” I press. And then, because I suspect she’s constantly trying to remind me of what she does, I add, “Before…this.”
She’s trying to read me, trying to distance herself so she can make it all about me. “I work out, run errands, scroll social media. Same as most people’s, I suspect.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I spent the day punching men—and women—into the mats and then folding them into pretzels.”
That surprises a laugh out of her. “Okay, fine, maybe not everyone’s average day.” A twinkle of interest appears in her eyes. “Do you really train with both men and women?”
“Of course. Some of the best training partners I have are women.”
Leaning her elbow on the armrest of the couch, she props her head on her fist. It’s the most relaxed pose I’ve seen her in. “Do you have to go easier on them? Since I’m assuming they’re smaller than you?”
“Depends what I’m doing,” I answer, adopting a mirror image of her pose.
Even though we’re not talking about her, I like that we’re talking without innuendos or hidden agendas.
“If we’re sparring, I’m not throwing punches full force at a woman’s head, because that doesn’t help anyone.
” I frown. “Although to be fair, I rarely do that with men, either.”
Her lips pull into a small, natural smile. I want to freeze the moment and paint it.
“So then when do you go full force?” she asks curiously.
“When we’re doing jiu-jitsu. There’s no striking, so you don’t have to pull any power.
It mostly comes down to strategy. It’s like chess.
” I cock my head in contemplation. “To be honest, they probably have an advantage in that sense. A lot of men are used to throwing their muscles around in physical sports, but women get to rely on the thing they’ve spent their entire lives sharpening: their brain.
” I wave at nothing in particular as I finish the thought.
“Plus, they’re quicker, more flexible, and they don’t know what the word tired means. ”
When I turn my attention back to Daisy, I find her frozen, staring at me. But I can’t read a single thought in her eyes.
I smile awkwardly. “What? I can admit the truth.”
That somehow makes her eyes go wider.
My gaze narrows on hers as I ask, “What part of that just threw you?”
She shakes her head, as if to clear it. “I just… I’ve never met a feminist before.”
My bark of laughter startles her. “Sorry,” I say with a chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called a feminist.”
Her confusion grows. “Really? What else would you call that?”
“That I consider women in the gym my equals?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Being a decent human? And, to be fair, it’s much harder to argue the fact when I’m smacked in the face with it on the daily.”
Her forehead creases with a frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I get my ass regularly handed to me by women. So I can’t exactly say I’m better than them.”