Below the Belt(11)

Higgs. They’d give Higgs a second chance if he injured something. He was faster than the wind out there, and everyone knew it. He’d run a circle around his opponent and deliver the knockout punch before they even blinked. What he lacked in professional, technical training, Brad could see he had in raw talent. His roommate defined the word natural.

So avoid Marianne Cook, keep his nose to the grindstone and don’t act as old as Father Time while in practice.

His knee grinded like a rusty gear as he lowered his leg to the floor and stood.

Yeah, sure. He could do that.


*

HIGGS pulled up to the parking lot of the training center, but didn’t turn off the car.

“Problem?” Brad hefted his gym bag from the floor of the car onto his lap, ready to make a break for it. His knee was already feeling better, and he needed to get it moving so it wouldn’t lock up on him.

Higgs stared at the door for a few moments, then shook his head. “Nah. I’m good. Let’s go in and kick some ass, old man.”

Brad rolled his eyes, but bit back a grin. He wasn’t here to make friends, but it was nice to at least like the guy he was sleeping next door to. “You can’t be that much younger than me.”

“Probably not. I’m twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-nine.” Brad hefted his bag over one shoulder—his right, so the strap crossed his chest and the bag hung by his left knee—and started for the door with him.

“And that’s all that counts, Grandpa.” Higgs grinned and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Grandpa,” he uttered in disgust. “If anyone else starts calling me that . . .” he warned. He punched at the door so it flew open and into the humid air of the sealed-up gym. A few guys were already stretching out, early birds who were after more than just the worm.

“Hey,” Higgs called out as he tossed his bag off to the side by the bleachers, out of the way.

Be nice; don’t be a dick. “Hey,” Brad said, throwing his bag beside Higgs’ gear.

A small chuckle sounded behind him, but he ignored it while he changed shoes. When he bounced off the bottom bleacher to stretch on the mat—swallowing a wince on the landing—a few of the Marines smiled up at him.

Okay, clearly the joke was on him. With an indulgent sigh, he plopped down—careful of his knee without being obvious—and asked, “What?”

Two of the younger Marines smiled at each other before one said, “Nothing, Grandpa.”

That little crack had them bursting into laughter like a second-grade class pulling a fast one on the substitute teacher. He glared at Higgs, who smiled angelically and held out his hands in a gesture that said, I’m innocent, bro.

Innocent, his ass. “Yeah, yeah,” he grunted and stretched out his hamstrings. “You children can laugh all you want. Slow and steady Grandpa’s here to win.”

They laughed more at that, but he wasn’t offended. Bullshit and jokes were a way of relaxing in the tense atmosphere their jobs created. If they were saddling him with a nickname, they thought he’d be here long enough to care what to call him.

He’d ignore the sting behind the name and call it a sign others were watching and thought he had what it took to stick for the long haul. He was ready to consider it a good thing. A positive sign.

Of course, he still punched Higgs in the arm on his way to jog a few laps around the outside of the gym for a warm-up and to test his knee.

Fair was fair, after all.





CHAPTER


4


Marianne watched with interest as Brad pummeled a bag. Most of the Marines she’d watched go through the circuit with the bag had started off focused, then slacked off as the coaches had moved on to study other students. Just going through the motions so they could move on to another, more exciting exercise.

But not Brad. He attacked the bag as if he expected it to feint left and throw him a sucker punch at any second. His dark eyes were laser-sharp and intense, taking in every small shift of the heavy bag as it swung on chains from the impact.

That sort of intensity was intriguing to her, as well as impressive. That he didn’t slack off just because nobody was watching or because he could get bored spoke volumes about his training ethic, and his desire to be there.

And okay, yes, if she was being completely shallow—she was her mother’s daughter; it was inevitable one shallow moment would slip in—watching him move and shift around the bag, his arms taut and precise, even while delivering powerful blows, was pretty much the sexiest thing she’d seen in too long to remember.

His biceps flexed with every jab, his calves tensed as he stayed light on the balls of his feet and the cords of his neck stood out in relief. In short . . . he was an amazingly delicious package.

He paused for a moment to bend down and grab his water bottle, and she admired the way his mesh shorts stretched over his butt. Yup. He had a body meant for ogling.

And then . . . yup again. He took the lust factor up to a ten by stripping off the soaking wet T-shirt and tossing it to the side with a loud, smacking plop.

His arms sported faint tan lines from short sleeves, but as far as imperfections go, it was all she could find. His skin was slicked with sweat, beads of it making the sparse hair on his chest glisten a little. Naturally, her eyes followed the line of hair down past his belly button and . . .