Full Contact (Redemption #3)(70)

Tag stiffens, instantly on alert. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure. There was a guy in a car. Ray thought he was following us. He beat him up and afterward, he said he was a threat. He wouldn’t talk about it, but I don’t think it had to do with his work as a PI.”

Tag glances up as two women join us, both wearing tight Lycra bike shorts and tank tops and looking as if they’ve taken the class multiple times and have mastered the Get Fit part of Get Fit or Die.

“Ladies.” He smiles the smile that got him voted king of the high school prom. “We’re meeting over by the exercise mats.”

After the women leave, he says, “Why don’t you just ask him?”

“He won’t tell me. He’s always very vague when he talks about his work.” I bite my lip. “Would you be able to check him out? I mean, find out what else he does for a living other than being a PI, and other…stuff like that? I’m beginning to wonder if that rumor about him being in the CIA is true.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” Tag leans against a lat machine and folds his arms. “I can’t believe he’s a f*cking spook. That just sounds crazy. His work as a PI is legit. Ask Amanda or Renegade. And what else do you want to know about him?”

“Anything.”

“You don’t trust him.”

I scrub my hand over my face. “I thought I did, but now I’m not sure anymore.”

Tag pats my shoulder. “Then you should think about moving on. You’ve got nothing without trust.”

I follow Tag back to the mats, where the rest of the class is waiting. Maybe nothing has changed over the years. Maybe I’m still exercising the same poor judgment I showed when I was eighteen. One thing I know for certain, Tag is motivated only by the desire to protect me.

Or not.

Fifteen minutes into Get Fit or Die, I change my view. Tag doesn’t give a damn about protecting me. He wants to hurt me. Badly. Does he seriously think I can run ten laps of the gym, then do fifty starfish jumps followed by twenty burpees without a break? Does he think I’m not going to tell Mom and Dad about his filthy language as he hurls abuse at us for being too slow? And what the hell does this have to do with fighting?

“Move that ass, O’Donnell,” he shouts. “You’re at the back of the class. You know what we call the people at the back of the class? We call them losers. That’s you. So get the lead out, so we can have another loser to laugh at before the class is done.”

I look at the clock. Forty-five minutes to go. I’m not going to survive. Wheezing, I stumble over the mats and mentally write my epitaph, Fuck you, Tag.

Tag’s phone buzzes. As if possessed by a hive mind, the class stops as one. Tag jogs over to Doctor Death and Shayla, a.k.a. Shilla the Killa, who are spotting each other in the free-weight area. A few minutes later, he jogs back and scowls. “Did I tell you to stop running? Laziest class I’ve ever had. I gotta go take a call. Shill and Doctor Death will take over until I’m back. Show them what you’ve got. Ten more laps around the gym followed by fifty crunches and twenty push-ups.”

He looks over at me and the other women. “And don’t give me any bullshit about women’s push-ups. Only things on the floor should be your hands and your toes.” He looks over at Shayla and barks. “Show them the drill.”

Shayla laughs and drops to the mat. She does twenty push-ups, clapping in between, without her knees ever touching the mat. Then she bounces up and grins. “Who’s next?”

Not me.

Tag disappears and we run our obligatory laps, but as we position ourselves for the crunches, Doctor Death holds up a hand.

“Most of you are here to learn some MMA fight skills, isn’t that right?”

Most of us nod. Doctor Death smiles. “I always think it’s a good idea to give people a little taste of what they think they want, so they can be sure that’s what they really want. So while you all catch your breaths, Shilla and I will split the class into two and teach you a few fight moves.”

In that moment, I love Doctor Death even more than potato chips. But the moment doesn’t last.

“Sia, I could use your help.” He gestures me forward, and I push up off the floor with a groan. Surprise. Surprise. I’m in Doctor Death’s section of the class. Good thing Ray isn’t here.

“First move I’m going to demonstrate,” he says as he lies on his back on the mat, “is a basic triangle submission.” He motions for me to mount him, which involves sitting astride his hips, knees to the mat. When I’m in position, he curls one leg over my neck and yanks my right arm across my body until my body weight drops and his thigh is pressed against my throat. I stiffen as the pressure restricts my airflow, but before I can panic, Doctor Death winks.

“Always wanted to get you in submission, Sia. I am a submission specialist, after all.”

Indignation replaces fear, and I huff as he releases me and explains the move to the class. While I recover, he pulls up another victim…er, volunteer and demonstrates a dominant position, which I boil down to “man on top.”

Next it’s time for us to practice our mounts. I try to get my mind out of the gutter when Doctor Death says he wants to mount some volunteers. I manage to avoid him by pairing up with one of the “Fit” girls for the full mount and half mount, but when it’s time for the rear mount, Doctor Death calls my name.