Chapter 5 - Bruiser
The storage room is too small.
I realize this the second the door closes behind us and suddenly we're in eight-by-ten feet of space that's mostly taken up by shelves of cleaning supplies, boxes of trash bags, and a metal folding chair that's seen better days.
And Joanna.
My cock's already half-hard just from following her in here, and now we're enclosed in this tiny space and I can smell her: strawberries, sweet and clean, cutting through the warehouse stench of blood and sweat that clings to me, and it's taking every ounce of control I have not to back her against that wall and. ..
I need to fucking stop. I’m being a fucking animal.
I shift my weight, trying to adjust myself without being obvious about it. The adrenaline from the fight's still pumping through my veins, mixing with something else entirely now. Something I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
Pure, simple, completely inappropriate desire.
Joanna's digging through a cardboard box on the bottom shelf, her back to me, that oversized hoodie riding up just enough that I can see a sliver of pale skin above her jeans. The curve of her waist. The way her body moves.
Jesus Christ.
I'm throbbing now. Painfully hard. Thank God she's not looking at me because there's no hiding this. Not in the thin fabric of my fight shorts. Not when she's bent over like that, completely oblivious to what she's doing to me.
"Found it," she says, straightening up with a white plastic first aid kit that's probably as old as she is. She sets it on the only clear surface, a narrow counter bolted to the wall and flips it open.
I stand there like an idiot, taking up too much space, not knowing what to do with my hands. With the rest of me that's screaming to get closer to her.
She glances at me, then at the folding chair. "You should sit."
"I'm fine standing."
"Danny." She gives me a look that's part exasperation, part amusement. "You're about a foot taller than me and I can't reach your face while you're standing. Sit. Please."
Right.
I unfold the chair and lower myself onto it, grateful for any excuse to take the pressure off. The metal creaks under my weight but holds. Joanna moves closer, positioning herself between my knees, and my brain completely short-circuits.
She's right there.
Standing between my thighs. Close enough that if I spread my legs even slightly wider, she'd be pressed right against me.
Close enough that the smell of strawberries is everywhere, surrounding me, making me light-headed.
Close enough that if I leaned forward even slightly, I could rest my forehead against her stomach.
I grip the edges of the chair.
Keep perfectly still. Don't move. Don't breathe too deep. Don't do anything that'll make her realize how badly I want her.
"This might sting," she whispers, pulling out antiseptic wipes.
"I've had worse."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
She unwraps a wipe and reaches for my face. Her hand hovers for a second, uncertain, like she's asking permission. I nod slightly. Her fingers touch my jaw. Gentle, so gentle, tilting my head to get a better angle at the cut above my eye.
The touch sends blood rushing straight down my spine. Straight to my cock, which was already hard and is now straining against my shorts so obviously that I have to resist the urge to adjust myself again.
Not now. Not while she's touching me.
The antiseptic burns when she presses the wipe to it. I don't flinch. Can't flinch. All my focus is on staying absolutely still while every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me to pull her closer.
"You're really good at that," she murmurs.
"At what?"
"Not reacting to pain."
She has no idea how much I'm reacting right now.
"Lot of practice," I manage.
Her eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to the cut.
She's concentrating, biting that lower lip again, completely unaware that she's killing me.
That every time she leans in closer, every time her warm breath ghosts across my face, every time her body shifts between my legs, I'm dying a little more.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asks quietly. "The way you moved tonight… It's not just natural talent. Someone taught you. Or you learned somewhere."
The question cuts through the haze of want. Brings me back to reality. To who I am and what I've done.
This is the moment. The moment I tell her the truth and watch her walk away. Because she will walk away. Everyone does once they know.
But I need her to know. Need her to understand exactly what she's dealing with.
"Prison," I say.
Her hand stills. "What?"
"I learned to fight in prison. Spent ten years there." I meet her eyes directly. No point sugarcoating it now. "Got out two years ago."
She's staring at me. Processing. Her hand's still on my face, fingers still touching my jaw, but she's frozen. I wait for her to ask what I did. Why I was locked up. What kind of monster goes away for ten years.
But she doesn't ask.
She just says, "That must have been hard."
Of all the responses I expected, that wasn't one of them.
"Hard?" I repeat.
"Ten years. That's a long time to lose." She goes back to cleaning the cut, her touch still gentle. "I can't imagine what that was like."
"You're not going to ask what I did?"
She pauses, considers. "Do you want to tell me?"
Do I? Part of me wants her to know everything.
Wants to lay it all out so there's no surprises later, no moment where she finds out and feels betrayed.
But another part, the part that's currently drowning in the smell of strawberries and the feel of her hands on my skin, wants to keep this moment exactly as it is.
"No," I say finally. "Not yet."
"Okay." She applies a butterfly bandage to the cut. "Then I won't ask."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." She steps back slightly to examine her work. "People have pasts, Danny. I'm not going to judge you for yours when I don't know anything about it."
"Most people would run."
"I'm not most people."
No. She's really not.
She reaches for my hands. "Let me see."
I hold them out. They look worse than they feel. Knuckles split and swollen, blood dried between my fingers, bruises already forming. Standard post-fight condition.
She sucks in a breath. "Danny..."
"It's fine."
"You keep saying that, but this doesn't look fine." She takes my right hand in both of hers, and I have to bite back a groan.
Her hands are small. Soft. Completely unblemished compared to mine. The contrast is stark, beauty holding brutality. She should be repulsed, touching something this damaged, this violent.
But she's docile. Like my hands are something worth taking care of.
She starts cleaning each knuckle, working around the splits, wiping away dried blood. I watch her face instead of what she's doing. Watch the way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating. The way her eyebrows draw together. The way that strand of hair's falling across her cheek again.
"Why do you do this?" she asks suddenly.
"Do what?"
"Fight. Is it just for the money, or...?"
I consider the question. Consider lying, making it simple. But something about the way she's holding my hand, the way she didn't run when I told her about prison, makes me want to be honest.
"It's the only thing that makes sense," I say. "The only place where what I am, the violence, the rage, all of it, is useful instead of destructive. In here, people cheer for it. Out there..." I shrug. "Out there it just gets you locked up."
"You're more than violence," she says quietly.
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" She looks up at me. "The other night, when that guy grabbed me, you could have really hurt him. Could have done a lot worse than you did. But you didn't. You just made him leave."
"He wasn't worth the effort."
"Or you have more control than you think you do."
I don't know what to say to that. I don’t know how to explain that control is something I've had to build brick by brick, and some days the foundation still feels shaky.
She finishes cleaning my right hand and reaches for my left. Her fingers brush across my palm and I feel it everywhere.
"You smell like strawberries," I say.
She glances up, surprised. A faint blush colors her cheeks. "My shampoo."
"It's..." I stop. What am I supposed to say? That it's driving me insane? That I want to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in until I forget everything else? "Nice."
"Thanks." Her blush deepens. She's still holding my hand, still cleaning it, but there's a new awareness in the air now.
She knows.
Maybe not the extent of it. Maybe she doesn't realize I'm hard and aching and barely holding myself together, but she knows I'm affected by her. That this isn't just first aid.
"There," she says softly, finishing with my left hand. "All clean."
But she doesn't let go.
We're both still. Her hands wrapped around mine. Me sitting on this chair with her between my legs. The storage room feeling smaller by the second.
"Joanna," I say. My voice comes out low. Strained.
"Yeah?"
"You should probably go. Get back to work before someone notices you're gone."
"You're right." But she still doesn't move. "I should go."
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
Her eyes drop to my chest, then lower, then snap back up to my face. She saw. She definitely saw. The flush on her cheeks spreads down her neck.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I can't help it. You're just—" I stop, shake my head. "You should go."
"Because you're—" She doesn't finish the sentence.
"Yeah. Because I'm barely holding on here."
She swallows hard. Takes a small step back. It's the smart thing to do. The right thing.
I immediately miss her warmth.
"Thank you," she says. "For letting me help."
"Thank you for helping."
She backs toward the door, putting distance between us.
"I'll see you around?" she asks.
"I'm here most fight nights."
"Right. Of course." She fumbles for the door handle behind her. "Take care of those hands, Danny."
"I will."
She opens the door, and the noise from the warehouse floods in. Reality crashing back. She slips out quickly, and I'm alone in the storage room that still smells like strawberries.
I sit there for another minute. Maybe two. Letting my body calm down. Letting my heart rate return to something approaching normal.
Then I look at my hands. At the way she cleaned and bandaged them. At the evidence that someone in this world thinks I'm worth taking care of.
And I realize I'm in serious trouble.
Because Joanna with her tired blue eyes and her gentle hands and her strawberry-scented hair has gotten under my skin in a way I don't know how to handle.
In a way that makes me want things I have no right wanting.
I stand, run my hand over my head, and try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now.
The answer doesn't come.
I head for the door, back to the warehouse, back to reality. But as I step out, I catch a glimpse of her across the room. She's got her mop and bucket, working on cleaning the Pit, head down.
She glances up. Our eyes meet across the distance.
She smiles. Small. Quick. Just for me.
Then she goes back to work.
And I stand there like an idiot, watching her, knowing I should walk away.
Knowing I won't.