Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

“Yeah. I think you should hit something.”

“You?” I asked.

He laughed low, probably at the hopeful tone in my voice. And now I was turned on again. It was so strange, what he did to me. “You’re dressed good enough,” he said. “Take your sweatshirt and shoes off and get on the mat.”

I pulled off my sweatshirt, toed off my sneakers, and fished a hair elastic out of my bag, swiping my hair back into a ponytail. “I’ve never hit anything before,” I told him as I got on the mat, my blood pumping.

Nick took a stance square across from me, just out of reach. “Okay, throw a punch,” he said. “Let me see your form.”

I made a fist and punched the air.

He watched me carefully, even though my punch was laughable and my arm looked like spaghetti next to his. “You’re punching up,” he said. “You hit on an angle, you lose power and you put stress on your shoulder. You want to punch at shoulder level, never above it. Not right or left, but straight to keep the power focused. Try it again.”

I did. “Can I punch you now? Or at least the bag?”

“Not yet, because you’ll crack something. Turn your fist, rotate it.” He demonstrated in slow motion. “Use your wrist. See? And your stance is all wrong. Put your power leg back.”

I moved my feet, but he shook his head. “Here.” He stood next to me and slapped the front of my right thigh impersonally. “Leg back. Heel up. This is a power stance.” He took my hips in his hands and turned them, his big, warm grip making me jump, though he didn’t seem to notice. “Turn your torso.” He used the same warm grip on my shoulders, moving them just so. “Right arm back. Now you twist and hit in one motion, and the power flows from your feet up through your body and your arm. You feel that?”

I did. I felt everything, the power of my legs, the turn of my body, the jab of my fist. I could also feel the heat of his hands on my hips, as if he was still touching me. He was close enough that I could smell the tang of his sweat and I could see the way his biceps moved when he extended his arm. Good God. I was starting to get pleasantly wet, something I wasn’t about to admit to him. “Now can I try the bag?”

He moved me over, his touch giving me the shivers again. “Just hit lightly. You don’t need force. Practice the hit. Straight from the middle knuckle, not the fourth finger or the pinky. Go.”

I hit it a few times, hearing the satisfying smack when my knuckles hit the leather, feeling the surprising jolt in my arm. “I like this,” I said. “Now I know why you hit Josh.”

“You bet your sweet ass,” Nick said. “Now the cross.”

He showed me the moves—cross, jab, uppercut. He showed me the stances, the body work—I had no idea that punching started with the feet—and made me get the form right before hitting the bag. I was sweating in my t-shirt by the end, but my blood was singing and I was having more fun than I could remember. And Nick hadn’t even insulted me once. Maybe he was in a good mood after doing the Victoria’s Secret model he was banging in my imagination.

“Okay, now we try the real shit,” Nick said, picking up two big white pads and holding them up. “You try and hit a moving target.”

I obediently faced him, getting in a stance. “Shouldn’t I learn how to dodge?” I asked him.

“No, because I’m not fighting you. This is only about you kicking ass. Now go.”

I advanced on him, throwing punches at the white pads as he moved them. He moved back, to the side, then closer again, making me learn to get my footwork right while moving. Sometimes I missed, or things landed sideways, but I landed a few hits before he stopped me. “Fine,” he said. “You’ve got the hand placement, the wrist placement. Now gloves.”

He put gloves on me and we went again. “Oh my God, this is awesome,” I said as I smacked the pads over and over. “I can hit hard without worrying about my hands.”

“Hit as hard as you can,” he coached me as we moved around the mat, probably because my hardest punch was something he could barely feel. He still never made fun, though—not once. It was weird. I had no idea whether any of the big meatheads here were watching, or smirking, and I didn’t care; I just wanted to hit those pads as hard as I fucking could.

“Shout,” Nick told me after a few minutes, “when you hit. It makes you hit harder and it forces you to expel your breath. You’ll see.”

So I shouted “Josh, you suck!” as I threw another punch, and I felt it land with a satisfying thud. Sweat was beading on my forehead and my temples now, making loose strands from my ponytail stick to my neck. I felt exhilarated, powerful, like I could conquer anything. It was better than sex, at least any sex I’d ever had. “You humiliated me!” I shouted, hitting Nick again and again as he moved. “I trusted you! She’s a piece of trash!” Smack, smack.

“Jesus, redhead,” Nick said, provoking me. “You hit like a girl.”

“I am a girl!” I shouted back at him, hitting harder. I was getting the form right now, and I could feel the power in my punches. The words were coming out of me in a rush, not stopping until they were done. I actually started picturing Josh’s face on the boxing pads I was hitting. “We were supposed to get married!” I shouted as I pu

nched him. “We were supposed to follow the plan. Now the plan is shit and I’m going to die an old spinster unless I date Dave from Client Management! And he has a kid and a bunch of baggage!” I stopped, out of breath. My back and shoulders were on fire. I’d be paying for this for days.

It was worth it.

Nick dropped the pads. “Well, fuck,” he commented.

I stared at him. I had a sudden fantasy of walking up to him and kissing him. Ripping his shirt off, pushing him down on the mat, pulling his shorts off, and jumping him. Right here in the middle of the gym. Blowing off steam, you might say, in one big orgasm.

Oblivious, he stepped forward and took one of my gloves in his hand, unfastening the velcro tapes at my wrist. I stared at a drop of sweat in his clavicle as if hypnotized. Sex, my brain said senselessly. Sex, sex, sex.