Uppercut Princess (The Heights Crew #1)(30)

Okay, I’m in pretty good shape. Really decent shape, actually. But Brawler’s a beast. I lost count at the number of jumping jacks we were doing after I started sucking in air at five hundred. I’m pretty sure he felt pity for me and stopped soon after.

Next, we run through some more calisthenics. Tuck jumps. Lunges. Surprisingly, there’s not much give in the floors of this building. At the time it was built, it was built to last, and it’s held up. I doubt even the neighbors under me know what we’re doing up here. I’d be more apt to think the neighbors I share a wall with can hear all the heavy breathing going on.

Again, without a word, Brawler starts punching the air, running through different punching combinations. In the soft light, a glow emanates around him from the window at his back. My apartment never looked so sexy. I run to my room, open the closet, and bring out some focus mitts.

When I walk back out with them, his eyes round, and he immediately grabs for them. “Where did you get these?”

His surprise and excitement makes me backtrack. “Gift from my guardians.”

His gaze shuts down. The marvel at my training equipment retreats, replaced by annoyance. “You’re still going with that?”

Technically, it’s not a lie. All the money I have is from my aunt and uncle, so despite the fact that I bought these myself, they’re still a gift from my aunt and uncle. I’m just lying about the aunt and uncle part. “I do have guardians,” I tell him. “Used to, anyway.”

Brawler sighs and shoves his hands into the pads. “You know no one here is going to tell on you for shit like that. For living alone?” He looks up to meet my gaze. “No one gives a shit about us. No one will be paying you any attention to notice you don’t have guardians living with you.”

“You did,” I counter.

“I’m different.”

He can say that again.

He holds up the pads, claps them together, then widens his stance, telling me he’s ready for me to start hitting them. We fall into an easy rhythm. This is one thing among many that we both have in common. We know how training works.

Brawler and I spend the next hour working out without communicating. We pass the focus mitts back and forth, and even though I tell him he can hit me harder, he’s giving me fifty percent strength when he hits while I’m wearing them.

I wish I could take Brawler to an actual gym. He would love it there. He would fall in easy with the type of guys that go there.

In another life… I almost sigh.

By the time we’re done, sweat is dripping off us. My tank top clings to my skin. “You can hit the shower first,” I say while taking the pads from him. I try to move around him to place the pads on the counter, but my foot catches on his sneaker, and I sprawl forward.

Strong arms move around me. He pulls me back into his embrace, arm moving around my middle to steady me. His fingers scorch my bare skin from where my tank top has pulled up, and I still. His breathing halts at the same time, but then a long exhale hits my shoulder and collarbone, hot breath teasing me. His palm presses into my stomach, moving me back. I’m hit with the hard surface of his abs, and a growing surface as his hips press into my thigh.

I bite my lip to keep from sighing or moaning.

“Fuck!” Brawler suddenly bursts. He steps away, then strides angrily to the bathroom.

The door slams behind him as my body flushes with heat and then cold. I shiver, standing in the middle of the living room while my arms fall lifelessly to my sides.

Shit. That was bad. I mean, fuck. It could’ve been so good, but I can’t trust anyone. Not Brawler. Definitely not his libido. This is a dangerous line we’re treading. Whether Brawler wants to admit it or not, he must be closer to the Heights Crew than he realizes. Otherwise, why would he run their fights? Why would he spend the night with me at Rocket’s orders if he didn’t have to?

I throw the pads up onto the counter and get a large glass of water before guzzling it down. Then, I get another. By the time I drink the second one, my heartbeat has returned to normal, and I don’t feel like I’m going to come out of my skin at any moment.

In the bathroom, the shower shuts off. My mind races to think about what Brawler’s going to be dressed in when he gets out of there. Does he have any clothes? Do I want him to? I mean, I’m pretty sure I don’t want him to, but there’s a difference between fantasy and reality. Reality is: nothing can happen between Brawler and me. Period.

After a few more minutes, the door opens and much to my disappointment, Brawler walks out wearing the usual kind of clothes he wears to school. I narrow my gaze at him. “Where’d you get those?”

“I ran home this morning to get a few things.”

“So, you’re moving in now?”

The look he turns on me lets me know the question I just asked is trouble. Instead of answering, he says, “Your turn.”

“I should hope so, it’s my shower.”

I walk into the steamy room, shutting the door behind me, and tearing my soaked clothes off. Everything is just as neat as I always leave it. It’s obvious he’s used my shampoo, conditioner, and even body wash, but he hasn’t left the bathroom a haphazard mess. Maybe all the shit people say about boys being messy is wrong. I haven’t had any experience with that. When I moved in with my aunt and uncle, I had my own bathroom. Hell, I practically had my own wing of the house. I could throw parties there and they would never know. This is my first real experience with a roommate, and it’s going good so far.