Below the Belt(42)

Spend some time making a difference in something you volunteered for, huh?

God, would the woman leave him alone, even in his own subconscious?

“You gonna go see her tonight?”

“Nope.” No point even pretending he was clueless about who Higgs meant. “Don’t need the distraction.”

Her ass pressed against his cock, her thighs digging into the desk, her breath panting out in time with his heartbeat . . .

“Cold” was Higgs’ final statement as he stood and walked to the door. “I’m pretty sure she could thaw that shoulder of yours.”

“Lame” was Brad’s comment as Higgs walked out the door. But it didn’t stop him from picking up his cell phone and debating long and hard before putting it back down.

Two minutes later, when he reached back out, he was grabbing his keys.


*

OF all the places she’d been asked to meet a man, an empty gym late at night had to top the list of WTF moments.

Marianne pulled into a spot two away from the lone SUV idling in the gym parking lot. Her headlights passed over Brad, leaning against the side of the building by the doors to the gym. His arms were crossed over his chest, one foot overlapping the other in a relaxed pose.

But if he was there, then who was in the SUV?

She climbed out and headed toward him, swinging her keys as she walked. “This is weird. You know that, right?”

“What, you don’t always meet guys in dark parking lots at ten o’clock at night? What’s wrong with you?” He grinned as she reached him, but he didn’t wrap his arms around her like she thought he would. “You’ve got keys to the gym, right?”

“I do, but first I’d like to know why.”

“We could do without it, but it’s just easier with access to the equipment.” When she hesitated, he waved a hand over her shoulder. The doors to the SUV popped open, and she watched as Tressler climbed out of the driver side, with the rest of Brad’s assigned Marines piling out of the backseat. It looked sort of like a roll of biscuits pouring out of a popped can. They just . . . tumbled out in a heap.

“Have you named your group yet?” she asked mildly as Tressler yelled at them for sweating on his interior and Chalfant complained that Tibbs was crushing his ribs.

“No.”

“The Bad News Bears come to mind.” Patting his chest, she went to unlock the door. Whatever this group was up to, it was harmless.

Brad led them upstairs to the catwalk, where most of the cardio equipment had been moved that week, and immediately got to work. He used tape to mark off a hundred yards, then explained the sprinting drills he wanted Tibbs to run, with Chalfant as his timer. In another corner, he worked with Armstrong on the block, having Tressler throw combinations in random order.

After a few minutes, Marianne set her large tote bag on the ground and walked over to where Brad was observing the guys, hands on his hips. “And I’m here . . . why, again?”

“Well, first off, I needed the keys.”

She laughed at that. “You could have done this in the parking lot, and you know it. You didn’t need me and my keys.”

“True. Which leads me to my second point.” He smiled down at her. “I wanted the company.”

That made up for having to put on real pants—as opposed to her Family Guy pajama pants—and leave her comfortable apartment late at night. “Since they don’t have practice tomorrow, I assume that’s why you’re here so late?”

“Yup. They’ve got all day to recuperate. And so do I.” He watched her for a moment, then turned his head sharply and bit out a command to Armstrong.

“What changed your mind?”

“Mmm?” His eyes stayed on his teammates. “What?”

“Never mind. You do your thing. I’ll be over here if you want more ‘company’ or someone gets hurt.” She strolled back to her stuff, slid down the wall, picked her phone out of her bag and started surfing Facebook.

An hour later, something wet dropped on her phone.

“Sorry, Cook.”

She glanced up to see Tibbs, his chest heaving, his shirt as soaked as if he’d showered in it, his dark face a cascade of sweat, standing over her.

“No prob.” She wiped the screen on the knee of her jeans. “What’s up? You doing okay? Hydrating?”

“I’m good.” He sucked in a breath. “Just catching my . . . my breath.” His face was starting to pale a little, and she popped up.

“Walk with me.” He gave her an odd look at the request, but she gestured for him to follow her around the catwalk, away from the others. “I need some company, and Br—Costa’s too busy.”

“Not for you, he’s not.” Though he was still puffing, he managed a grin in his wide face. “I didn’t say that.”

“Say what?” She forced her own breathing to be a little louder, and noticed he unconsciously matched hers in rhythm. She focused for a few minutes on walking at a decent three-and-a-half-mile-an-hour pace and breathing with him. “So how are things with boxing?”

“I’m getting faster, and that’s good. The coaches are damn good—sorry, darn.”

“Damn right,” she said with a smile.

His eyes crinkled in return. “And now we’re paired with Costa, I’m feeling extra strong. He’s smart, ya now? Knows a lot about the sport.”