He stopped laughing and scratched his nose. “The cleaning crew comes today, but the groceries don’t come until tomorrow, and I’m low on a few things.”
So I took care of it. This was what we did, Andrew and me. I helped him out with the stuff he couldn’t do, or couldn’t do easily. He hated it, and sometimes he argued with me, but in the end he always gave in, because he knew I’d do it anyway. He knew I wouldn’t quit.
Aside from taking care of Andrew, I wasn’t good for much. I’d dropped out of my first year of college after Andrew’s accident. I didn’t work, because I needed to help him, and who the hell wanted to work anyway? I sure as fuck hadn’t settled down. The first years after the accident had been so hard, and such a blur, that I’d kind of lost track of things. Now I was twenty-six, and instead of looking around and wondering what the hell I was
going to do, I avoided the topic by doing what I’d been doing pretty much nonstop for five years: partying.
It wasn’t that I had a lot of friends. Friends are people who know you, who really give a shit about you. No, I didn’t have friends—but I had acquaintances. I was rich, I was good-looking, and I was always looking for a good time, so the good times tended to find me. I’d started by blowing off steam a few times after the accident and the end of my college career, and somehow I’d never stopped. It was a rare night that I didn’t get at least one invite. And I usually agreed.
It wasn’t the alcohol that drew me—I could take it or leave it. It wasn’t the women either, though I usually had one hanging around. No, it was the distraction that I was addicted to. Disappearing into a crowd, letting it take over, becoming someone else—or no one at all—for a few hours, until I fell into my bed with exhaustion—that was what I wanted.
By the time I finished getting Andrew’s groceries, I had two different party invites in my texts. I accepted both of them.
I wasn’t going to think about Gina, or redheads in overalls. At least for a little while.
I went home to grab some sleep before the long night began.
Six
Evie
I waited two days before I showed up at the boxing gym.
I liked to think I was playing it cool, but I admit it—I had to work up my nerve. The place was in one of the crappier parts of town, tucked in the corner next to a strip mall, and I knew it would be full of sweaty, threatening men. I’d never boxed before; I’d never hit anything, ever. So not only would I look like fresh meat, I’d also look like the rank beginner I was.
But I went. I had to work all day at the bank with Josh, and the experience made me feel restless and mad. Nick was right; I wanted to hit something. It might be therapeutic. So I brought my gym clothes with me to the bank. Then, feeling weirdly like a criminal, I changed into workout clothes after work and snuck out to go to the boxing gym before anyone could see.
The place was as run-down as I imagined, bigger than it looked from outside, with a sparring ring in one corner, a few workout and weight areas, and some open, matted spaces with punching bags hanging from the ceiling. There were a dozen guys there, of all sizes and colors, working out their sweaty, bulging muscles. They barely glanced my way when I walked in the door, and no one bothered catcalling me in my yoga pants and sweatshirt. I was relieved and a little miffed at the same time.
I noticed Nick immediately. It was five o’clock, and he was here, just like he said he’d be. He was on the mats, punching one of the bags, wearing black gym shorts and a gray T-shirt that was soaked through in a V on his chest and back. The edge of a tattoo showed past the sleeve of his T-shirt, dark on his bicep. I hadn’t noticed that when I’d first met him, the night he’d punched Josh with his jacket thrown to the floor.
As if he had a sixth sense, he stopped what he was doing and turned to me. A look of surprise crossed his expression, and he waved me over.
I walked to him, trying to look cool and nonchalant. Because, holy fuck. Nick wasn’t bulging with muscles like some of the guys here, but his body was lean and mean, his chest and stomach taut with muscle that I could see through the clinging t-shirt. Even his legs were sexy, his calves roped with muscle and fine hair. There was a sheen of sweat where his neck disappeared into his shirt, his brown hair was damp, and he still had that shadow of stubble on his jaw. His gray eyes were focused on mine like lasers as I approached.
“So you decided to get mad, huh?” he said as he pulled off the gloves he’d been wearing.
I tried not to watch in fascination as the tendons and muscles moved in his arms. “Sure,” I said. “Here I am.”
“I knew you’d show.”
“Because you’re so irresistible?” I dropped my bag at the edge of the mat.
He was looking me over, the same look he’d given me in the diner that had stripped me naked, but there was a thoughtful edge to his expression. “No. I’m not. You know that, redhead. I knew you’d show because Bank Boy pissed you off, and you want to hit him.”
“You keep calling him Bank Boy,” I said. “I work at the bank, too.”
He shook his head. “You won’t last.”
“Excuse me?” Jesus, did everyone think I was hopeless at having a career?
“You don’t belong there,” Nick said, his look going up and down me again. That look should make me mad, but instead it made me weirdly breathless. “That body, in a suit? You’ll quit. I’m calling it.”
What about my body? Was he saying something good or bad? I couldn’t tell. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“We’ll see who’s right,” he said. “In the meantime, you came here.”
“You said I have an anger management problem.”