Corrupt

I held his hazel eyes, the golden amber in them taunting and playing with me like a cat with a mouse. He had a point, and he knew it. It was okay for men to want their own space. No harm. No foul.

But it aggravated me that they offered something I enjoyed and I was shut out.

I shrugged. “I just wanted to fence, and this town is limited as far as facilities go, so...”

“So I’m sorry more women don’t take an interest for you to have your own club,” he replied flatly, sounding not the least bit sorry. “Now it’s raining outside. Do you need a ride back to Delcour?”

I dropped my gaze, noticing the small, dark splotches on his shoulders. The rain must’ve started right after I’d stepped inside.

I shook my head, seeing very clearly that he was trying to get rid of me.

“Fine.” He veered around me to the wooden double doors, and I took a step, ready to leave. But then I spotted a tweed ivy cap sitting on a stack of antique books on top of a curio cabinet.

I smiled, biting my bottom lip, because I couldn’t stop myself. Without hesitating, I dropped my bag on the floor, ran over and snatched up the cap, and then darted up the stairs, taking two at a time as I stuck the hat on my head. I stuffed my ponytail inside, hiding my hair underneath the hat.

“Erika!” Michael’s voice boomed behind me.

But I didn’t stop. My heart raced, and I squeezed my fists, the adrenaline making them tingle. Reaching the second floor, I darted around the corner, quickly stuffing any stray hairs up underneath the cap and hurrying down the hall.

I heard the stairs creek behind me, and I glanced back, not seeing Michael but hearing his footfalls as he powered after me.

Shit. I almost laughed, remember all those years ago when he’d found me at the catacombs. He liked my curiosity then, I think, and even had fun indulging me. And then immediately after that night he pulled back as if nothing had happened.

Maybe he’d remember.

I speed-walked down the hall, hearing banter and laughter around me as I passed several open doors. But I didn’t stop to look.

Two men in suits, one of them holding a cigar, came in my direction down the hall, laughing with each other. I dipped my head, knowing that my figure did nothing to disguise that I was a woman.

Passing them by, I saw one do a double take out of the corner of my eye, but he didn’t stop me.

Reaching the end of the hall, I opened the door and entered, quickly closing it behind me. I let out a breath, not knowing if Michael saw where I went, but I didn’t mind him finding me, anyway. That was the point, after all.

Turning around, I noticed a boxing ring sitting in the center of the room. It was surrounded by a variety of equipment and punching bags, as well as fifteen or so men, working out, sparring, and chatting. I quickly stepped behind one of the many columns spread throughout the room, looking around the corner to make sure no one had seen me.

The door behind me opened, and I jerked my head, seeing Michael step through, hell written all over his face.

He closed the door, straightened, and pinned me with his look that said my ass was grass.

Crooking his finger, he mouthed “come here” as he slowly approached me, probably trying to keep my antics quiet so I wouldn’t embarrass him.

I tried to hold back my smile, but I knew he saw it.

Instead, I played. Spinning around, I walked around the perimeter of the room, careful to stay behind the columns. Then I slipped through another door, seeing him come after me, his lips tight, before I closed it on him.

But as soon as I looked down, saw the slate tile and heard the running water, I knew I’d fucked up.

“Shit,” I growled in a whisper.

I hesitated, thinking about going back, but I knew Michael was coming that way.

Putting my head down, I followed the short tunnel, passing a steam room, a sauna, and two large Jacuzzis, feeling eyes on me, and not so much as breathing as I passed a few guys lounging about on couches around the spa. Dashing into the adjoining locker room, I looked up and saw a young, blond-haired man coming my way, so I veered to the left, down an empty aisle and heard more voices. I stopped and hid myself at the end of a row of lockers.

Doors slammed on my left, two men chatted on my right, and Michael would be on my back any second.

I leaned against the cold steel, looking around and trying to figure out where the exit was. If there even was another one.

But then I jerked, a locker door slamming and its vibrations hitting my back.

“Mr. Torrance,” a man called. “There’s no smoking in here.”

“Fuck off.”

And chills immediately spread down my arms, making my heart skip a beat. I stilled, afraid to move.

I knew that voice. Mr. Torrance.

Slowly turning my head, I twisted my body around completely and inched toward the edge of the lockers. I peered around the side just enough, hoping not to see what I knew I would.

A lump stretched my throat. “Oh, shit,” I whispered.

Damon Torrance.

He sat in a cushioned chair, leaning his head back with his eyes closed, droplets of water glistening down his neck, arms, and torso—bare since he only wore a towel around his waist.

He pinched a cigarette between his fingers and brought it to his lips, the ashen end burning orange as he inhaled. Then, just as I remember, he blew it out slowly, letting it drift up instead of out, looking more like fog than smoke as it dissipated in the air above him.

My stomach churned at the stench, bringing back memories of that night. I’d had to take two showers to get that smell off me.

I may have felt a little bad over the years about what happened to his friends, but to him…not so much.