“And looking at tits together.”
“Always your weak spot,” he said sagely. “They shouldn’t be. I like yours just fine.”
I refused to let the warm glow suffuse my face. The day I started feeling a sense of accomplishment at having nice breasts was the day I gave up my fighter card for good.
And that hadn’t happened yet, despite what I’d told my therapist and the people I loved. In my head, I was still a fighter.
Perhaps I’d get to show off my skills tonight after all if I arrived at this club and found a bevy of painted princesses swarming my man and Gio.
Frigging Gio. He was the cause of all of this, I was sure. I shouldn’t have dropped my guard even a little in his direction.
I’d learned my lesson well.
“Where is this fine establishment located?” I asked, enunciating each word carefully. It helped my blood pressure return to a more manageable level.
“Aww, you’re really coming to get me? Wanna see some tits too?”
He’s drunk. Out of his normal mind. Wait until he’s sober to kick his ass. “If I did, I’d look down my shirt. Now where are you?”
“Near Central Park. Hell’s Kitchen. There’s a neon curvy girl sign out front and the bouncer is a real dick.”
Fabulous. “I’m taking the train.” I dug out my Metro card and moved to the platform. “I’ll get there when I get there. So stay put.”
“Yes, ma’am. I love you.”
I sighed. I totally couldn’t help it. The man had me wrapped. “Yeah, yeah, ditto. You already got it out of me once tonight. Your allotment is used up for a while.”
He laughed. “See ya soon.”
After hanging up, I pocketed my phone and looked up the address for The Pyramid Club. I so loved traveling into the city this late.
“Stupid tits,” I muttered, moving to the platform to glare at an oncoming train.
Tray owed me. Big time. Yet what was I going to do while I waited for my train?
Search online for hotels for us to have a night of—dear God—romance. Together. Voluntarily, without anyone holding a gun to my head.
I looked around at the assorted people crowding the platform with me. Kids in hoodies and women in minidresses mingled with guys dressed in workout gear and even a few suits. And not one of them was staring menacingly at me, thereby distracting me from my arduous task with a pending robbery.
Didn’t it just figure.
8
Tray
“Fox, it’s a shame you stopped fighting. You were my favorite.”
My head felt like someone had stuffed it with a box of cotton, but I did my best to give the men across from me a bleary smile. I was used to women saying those words to me, not men a few years older than me who were wearing suits more expensive than a month’s rent on my old place.
One of them—Mateo, Marco, Marzo? No clue—had shed the jacket but still sat in his pinstriped vest and dress shirt, drinking from a short glass of Maker’s Mark. His giant gold wristwatch kept clinking against the glass. The other guy, Lorenzo, kept smiling at me in this smarmy, semi-disturbing way.
Apparently they were friends of Gio’s. And at least one of them was packing heat, right out in the open.
“I’ve never seen you guys at a fight,” I said, grabbing my latest bottle of Harp. I’d had a few different things tonight. Beer, shots. Lots of shots. Even a mixed drink or two bought by kind ladies. I hadn’t taken their numbers, but I’d enjoyed their free alcohol.
I was drunk enough not to see a problem with that.
“Oh, we come and go.” Lorenzo smiled wide, showing a mouthful of flawless teeth before he snapped his fingers at a passing waitress. Instead of taking his drink order, she perched on his knee and he slipped his hand into her top, nudging her nipple out right there at the table.