Chapter 22
“Keep your hands up!” Decker yells.
He’s pacing the edge of a boxing ring, observing the two teenagers throwing gloved punches at each other.
“You’re wasting energy. Pick your shots. And keep those feet light.”
The fighters circle each other, and the bigger of the two launches forward. A swing and a miss. He stumbles, and then he’s on the ropes, taking punch after punch to the sides of his padded helmet.
“Tighten your guard, Eli. Elbows up!” Decker calls out.
I spectate from the other side of the Ringhouse, arms crossed and leaning against the brick wall of the old gym.
The man who threw my brother in handcuffs less than twelve hours ago gave me a questioning look when I walked in here, but he hasn’t sought me out again since.
“Get on the offence, Eli. Let’s go—yes, exactly like that. Break his rhythm. Davis,” he barks. “Quit running your mouth and focus on your footwork. He got out of that too easy.”
While the boys continue, Decker remains focused on them.
Linc has this way about him, this intensity. Like he doesn’t know how to fully relax. It’s in the way his muscles lock up, in those big breaths he takes, in the way his eyes constantly scan a room, as if searching for a threat.
Here, he’s in his element. All that tension he carries with him melted away.
“All right, all right. That’s good. You’re done,” he says as he hoists himself up onto the raised platform and dips under the ropes.
The kids separate, their chests heaving, faces flushed and sweat-covered.
They grin at him, and he smacks one on the shoulder, muttering words I can’t hear from here.
Both boys laugh in response. It’s weird seeing him like this.
So unguarded. That easy smile he lets slip sometimes is in full force tonight.
Once the boys have made for the changerooms, Decker gives me his back and disembarks from the ring, heading towards the matted area deeper inside the empty gym.
The Ringhouse Fight Club is a mishmash of old and new.
The green linoleum floors are outdated, the yellow and green paint peeling.
Championship banners, plaques, and promotional fight posters from decades ago adorn the cracked brick walls.
And the bulletin board is covered in yellowed newspaper clippings from before I was even born.
The workout equipment, though, looks to be from the current century.
Shiny free weights, a row of sleek treadmills, polished cable machines.
Half a dozen heavy bags hang from the ceiling, and well-kept mirrors line the bottom half of the weathered walls.
Decker is rummaging through his gym bag when I approach. “Evening, Gracie,” he says casually.
“Decker.” My tone is less friendly.
He smiles in response, finally sparing me a glance a second before he rips off his T-shirt.
Without my permission, my focus pulls to his torso, and my neck heats instantly.
Bulging biceps, the ripple of his abdomen, the broad plane of his scarred chest. His skin is damp with sweat, his joggers sitting low on his hips.
Really low. So low I can almost see just how far those pretty lines slicing down into his waistband go.
He runs an eye over me, quirking a brow as he sips from his water bottle. “You good?”
I purse my lips. “Put on a fucking shirt, Decker. I’m here to yell at you, and I can’t focus when you look like… like that.”
His smile splits into an all-out grin. “Like what?”
Like a fucking god. A god who’s had his mouth between my legs. Who fucks like an animal and eats pussy like it might be his last damn meal.
I scowl. “Shut up.”
“Hey, D! That your girlfriend?” Decker’s teenage fighters emerge from the changerooms, gym bags slung over their shoulders.
“Mind your business, Davis,” he yells back.
“She know I got the drop on you last week?” the kid says.
Decker rolls his eyes. “Keep chirping and I’ll double your suicides tomorrow night.”
The boys mutter to each other, then explode into laughter, and Decker reels around. “What’s that?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Davis shoots me a wink, then the two wander towards the exit.
“I don’t take shit from someone whose momma still packs his lunch,” Decker says. “And keep your eyes off my girl, kid. Or I’ll have you eating the mat next time we square off.”
Davis waves him off, and then they’re gone, pushing through the door leading into the parking lot.
“Fucking kid,” Decker mutters as he yanks a clean shirt from his bag. “Mouthy as all hell.” He drags the fabric over his head. “And he did not get the drop on me. I practically had my back to him when the little shit took me down.”
I bite down on my smile.
“What?” he asks.
“Your girl?”
He blinks, holds my stare for a beat, and then shrugs. “Relax, Grace. I’m not asking you to go steady with me or anything. I just don’t want a bunch of hormone-fueled teenagers eye-fucking you when they should be focused on their fight.”
I huff a laugh. “All right, then.”
He throws me a look. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not… looking at you like anything. You’re just different here, is all.” A good different. Relaxed. Untroubled. Happy, even. I clear my throat. “When Miller told me where to find you, I didn’t expect you to be hanging out with kids.”
“Yeah, well, those kids are here rather than causing trouble like the rest of the degenerates in this town. Least I can do is show up for them. And I owe the old man who owns this place a few favours. Donating my time is how I’m paying him back.”
“It’s a nice thing to do. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I can be nice when I feel like it.” He steps closer to me, a playful little smile curving up the side of his face. “You said something about yelling?”
“You arrested my brother.”
“So?”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Jack walked up to me and slapped me. That’s assault,” he says, tone turning serious. “There’s no other way that could have ended, especially with all those people around. You know that. So why is this even a conversation?”
My shoulders sag. Fine. Fair point. One minute Jack was being nauseatingly sweet to Triss, all smiles, murmuring in her ear, the next, he was sauntering up to a fully uniformed Officer Decker and throwing hands.
I don’t know what the hell my brother was thinking.
But Jack’s in jail. I can’t exactly go yell at him . So…
I sigh. “Because?—”
“Either you’re looking for a reason to be pissed off,” he says, taking another step forward, “or you needed an excuse to hunt me down so I could do that thing with my tongue you love so much. If we’re gonna fight, I’d much prefer we do it while you’re naked.”
I fold my arms across my chest and lift my chin. “Not gonna happen.”
“Fine. Then let’s actually fight. You look like you need to get out some aggression. And I need to finish my workout. No knives,” he says, eyes raking over me as if he’s checking for weapons.
“I’m not gonna fight you. Are you crazy? You’re twice my size.”
“You’re the one who’s always threatening to kick my ass. Lose the heels.” He tips his chin to my feet. “And I’m serious about the knives, woman. Drop your blades on the bench.” His bare feet slap against the matted floor as he wanders to a big, black punching bag. “Let’s see that punch, Gracie.”
With a grunt, I pull a switchblade from the slip pocket of my black leggings. I drop it on the wooden bench next to his gym bag, then I shrug off my leather jacket and kick off my boots.
Decker is already holding the bag when I join him on the mat.
“Keep your wrists straight,” he says. “And make sure you’re not tucking your thumb. Otherwise you might break?—”
I slam my fist into the leather, right next to his face. He doesn’t flinch, and the bag barely moves, but the impact of my swing carves up my arm and into my shoulder. “I know how to hit.”
He tightens his grip on the bag. “Power comes from the ground up. Find your balance and use your legs to push into your punch. It’ll hurt less. And keep that core tight.”
I drop my fists and groan. “Why are we doing this, Linc?”
“Because you’re mad. This will help you sort your head out. Come on. Again.”
Gritting my teeth, I root my feet to the ground, steadying my stance and pulling in the muscles of my stomach as Decker directed. I ball my fist and then swing.
“Again,” he says.
Another hit. And then another.
“Is Jack… is he hurt?” I ask.
“He’ll live. Couple bruises. Cracked rib maybe.”
“Courtesy of the sergeant?”
“No,” he says, holding my stare. “That was all me.” This time when I swing, the bag jostles back, and his eyebrows jump up. “Jack did what he did. I’m not the enemy here. Not this time.”
“Kind of feels like you are.”
“Maybe instead of being pissed at me, you should consider why he forced my hand.”
I narrow my eyes. I’ve tried. But there was no real reason. No obvious slight from the cop sitting a few tables over. Jack simply kissed Triss and then walked up to his brother and laid him out.
“He wanted you to arrest him,” I say.
With a tight smile, he nods at the bag. “Again.”
I launch into a flurry of punches, knuckles to leather. The bag sways with every hit. My breath becomes uneven, my pulse picking up, but the anger heating my blood, gripping at my chest, only builds.
“Why the hell would he do that? Why…”
Club business. That’s why.
All the shit I don’t get to know about, because I’m not one of them. I’m not family.
“Axe did this,” I say tightly.
His only response is a shrug. “The club’s under a lot of pressure. OPP’s been making Axe’s life difficult. I give the sergeant an arrest, a big one, and maybe he trusts me enough to lay out his plans before executing them. And then?—”
“And then you warn Axe.”
“Exactly.”
“But… Jack’s his VP. That’s a big arrest. Why would he do that?”
“Got some theories, but I doubt anyone will be spelling it out for me. I may work for your brother, but I’m no Sinner. You know how it is. I’m just doing as I’m directed.”