Below the Belt(24)

“Forget it,” he muttered and sat back. The movement was so jarring, the table scooted three inches and she had to roll forward on her stool once more.

“That sounded pretty disrespectful, Marine,” came a lazy voice from behind her.

As if he’d been hit by lightning, Bailey sat up straight, nearly kicking Marianne in the nose on reflex. “I apologize, ma’am. I’ll do my best. I can grab some of those pamphlets on my way out.”

“Cook,” she reminded him, for the third time since he’d huffed into her makeshift training room. “Just Cook. And you’re fine. Being injured is never fun, but you—”

“I’m not injured, ma—Cook. I’m not injured,” he added again to Brad, who’d walked in and hopped up easily on the second table. He let his duffel fall to the floor and lay down, lacing his fingers over his stomach as if he had nothing else to do and all the time in the world to kill.

She knew better. He wanted ice for his knee, and didn’t want anyone else to know.

“Whatever you say, Marine.” His voice stating he was purely unconcerned, Brad closed his eyes and tuned them out.

Or, if he hadn’t tuned them out, then did an impressive job faking it.

She finished the wrap and gave Bailey’s calf a light slap. “You’re done. See me again before evening practice and we’ll check the wrap and go from there. And Bailey,” she added when he slid his shoe back on. When he glanced at her, it was panic she saw in his eyes. “Don’t hide it. I’ll find out eventually if you’re hurting, and how bad. But it’s only going to get worse if you keep the truth from me.”

He nodded, gave her what she assumed he considered a courteous nod and left the room. With a sigh, she began cleaning the remnants of the tape she’d used and wiping down the bench with cleanser.

“What’s wrong with him?” Brad asked in a low voice. He didn’t move a muscle or open his eyes. If one didn’t know better, they might assume he was at full rest. But Marianne knew, better than most, that looks were deceiving. He was fully capable of being on alert in under a second.

“I don’t fix and tell. So,” she said, changing the subject, “how was practice?”

He grunted, then raised his arms until his hands were cushioning the back of his head. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and it stuck to each plane and dip of his chest and abdomen.

Talk about a work view. God, the man was gorgeous, with his clothes both on and off. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit watching the way his body moved in nothing but shorts while he worked the mat with a sparring partner earlier. When she should have been inventorying rolls of gauze to see how many supplies they’d lost to vandalism, she hadn’t been able to stop staring. His back had been a slick, tanned work of art. Knowing the way the muscles moved and stretched under that skin, how hard they’d be to the touch, had almost been as sexy as actually touching him.

“I think that spot’s clean.”

Brad’s dry words snapped her back to reality. She glanced down and realized she’d been wiping the same spot on the empty table for the past . . . oh my God. Three minutes. She’d lost three minutes staring at Brad’s stomach. Flushing, she turned and tossed the rag in a bin, putting the spray bottle away and organizing her already well-ordered, meager supplies.

“Did you need ice?”

He chuckled from behind her, as if knowing exactly why she couldn’t turn around and look fully at him.

“We have gallon bags for ice right now, since whatever * tore apart my training room decided to use a roll of the regular ice bags as saran wrap for light fixtures.”

When he made an inarticulate sound, she turned to look at him. He sat up now, legs still extended on the table, watching her.

“Do you know what happened?”

She lifted her hands, then let them drop. “Best the MPs could come up with was kids. Most likely choice is teenagers who live on base and were bored last night. The doorjamb was broken, so that’s how the MPs assume they got in. From there, they just created havoc. Nothing of value was stolen; it was just a big-ass mess. Typical teenage rebellion stuff.”

Brad’s brows drew down, as if not satisfied with the answer. Frankly, neither was she. But what the hell was she supposed to do about it? Run around playing Inspector Gadget? She didn’t have time for that junk. Her supervisor had come to survey the damage, promised the janitorial staff would be over quickly—which they had been, and they were currently working to put right the training room—and that the obscenities would be painted over after everyone left so the walls would be dry by morning. Tomorrow, she’d begin the painstaking process of starting fresh in her room and praying that new supplies arrived ASAP.

“Obviously, you’ve got a lot going on, so I’ll grab my ice and go.” He eased down—again, not nearly as nimbly as he’d hopped up—and moved with cautious steps to the small ice machine.

She could have done it for him, but it was a test, in her mind. She wanted to see if he’d let his guard down around her, let her know what was bothering him physically.

He clearly wasn’t ready to talk yet.

“I’ve got to make some calls tonight. I’ve been put in charge of a few Marines.” He sounded so disgusted by it, she had to smile. “Something about keeping track of them, or keeping them on task, or something. If they need a babysitter, they shouldn’t be here.” He let the lid of the ice machine slam down harder than necessary, but she didn’t scold him. Zipping the bag closed, he stared at it. “I’m not here to mother people. I just want to box, and do my best.”