Counterfeit Love

"I'm trying, Jake," I told him, stubbornly getting back onto my feet because my pride wouldn't let me lose time and time and time again. I had to at least get a good strike in before calling it a day.

"Not fucking hard enough, C," he told me, deflecting a jab effortlessly. "What's going to happen when you freeze up in an actual fight, huh?" he asked, slamming his hands into my shoulders, knocking me back a step as my stomach twisted.

I had my demons.

Clearly, Jake had his own.

And they did not play well together.

His said to attack attack attack, leave no prisoners.

Mine said to hide away, dig deep into a happy memory, escape the ugly reality.

"Stop being such a pussy and fight back," he demanded, slamming his hands into my shoulders again, knocking me against the ropes.

"Yeah, that's about enough of that." I barely registered that the voice belonged to Finch before I saw him duck under the ropes, make his way toward Jake, cock back, and knock Jake to the ground with one blow. All with a damn lollipop in his mouth. And an Alf t-shirt on his chest. "Sorry to butt into your training, doll, but fuck-face here was getting out of hand."

"Who the fuck are you?" Jake demanded, wiping blood from his nose as he hopped back up, eyes burning, hands curled into fists.

"Finch," Finch declared simply, shrugging, not seeming the least bit intimidated by a guy who had a good fifty pounds on him.

"Well, Finch, I am afraid I'm going to have to teach you to mind your own goddamn business."

"She's my business," Finch declared, popping the lollipop out of his mouth, holding it out toward me. "Hold this for me for one minute, darling. I need to show this asshole how we handle bullies where I come from."

How they handled bullies in Louisiana involved a lot of quick, confident footwork and tight, rapid-fire, close-contact jabs and hooks. In short, street fighting.

Jake was trained in a lot of types of fighting, street was absolutely not one of them. He was used to practiced, precise movements paired with the desire for the opponent to protect themselves.

Finch didn't give a damn about keeping up his guards, protecting his face. I suddenly understood how he'd managed to get such a nasty scar on his cheek.

That said, though, it didn't mean that Jake was winning. If anything, they seemed pretty well-matched. Jake had a slight advantage of sneaky, specific moves. Finch had more speed and ruthlessness.

My air felt constricted in my chest as I stood there, unable to get up and get out of the ring, not even when Jake's punch made Finch slam back into me, pushing me back against the ropes.

"Sorry, doll," he grunted at the impact. "I'll be done with this in just a minute, and we can get going."

Though how we could get going with the gashes splitting his lip and eyebrow was beyond me.

I took a deep, steadying breath, only to feel it rush out of me on a gasp as another strike sent Finch's body flying, landing flat on his back on the mat.

This was where Jake got cocky. And Finch took advantage of that, flying upward, jamming his head under Jake's chin with so much momentum that there was an audible cracking sound as Jake's teeth slammed together.

He hadn't worn a mouth guard.

He never did when training with me because he knew I rarely got the better of my male instructors. He would regret that move when he woke up.

Because he was out cold at the moment, body splayed like a starfish.

"Alright, princess," Finch said, sauntering over toward me like he wasn't actively bleeding down his chin and onto his white tee. "Thanks for holding onto that," he told me, taking the forgotten lollipop out of my hand, slipping it into his mouth, split lip and all. "Did I hurt you when I slammed into you?" he asked, eyes roaming over me, making me suddenly very aware of my tight black leggings, my white racerback tee that exposed much of my light pink sports bra.

"Wha.. oh, no. I'm fine. Finch, you're bleeding everywhere," I told him, watching my own hand as it rose, gently touching his chin, turning his head to the side so I could check out the cut near his eye, hoping it hadn't done too much damage.

"It'll stop. You ready to head out, or you want to change first?"

"Finch, you need to clean out these cuts."

"Nah, I'll be fine, sweetheart. I mean, unless you want to nursemaid me. Because, I'm not going to lie, I could really be into that," he told me, eyes warm.

"I mean...we have to at least get the bleeding to stop before we go."

"Why? Think I might look intimidating bleeding all over the place when we show up to coerce this bastard into giving us the press he promised us."