IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (26 page)

And with all of that said, you’d somehow allowed one man’s dazzling smirk and picturesque body to scare you off. It wouldn’t happen again.

The fact of the matter was that you weren’t
that girl
and he needed to know that. You would straighten things out and reintroduce yourself to him. Then you’d talk to him one on one about (A) the
dog
, and (B) the fitness center and the game plan he had for it. No matter how humiliating it would be to face him again, you couldn’t afford to leave this job, and for reassurance that the center was in good hands, you felt compelled to understand Nick’s plan to save it. Despite your initial bitterness at Max’s news, now you realized that, although you followed Nick on Instagram, you knew little about his personal life. It seemed perfectly rational to get to know him before you jumped to conclusions.

“I’m sorry I have to leave you like this,” you admitted to Rat Dog, “but I’ll come back soon to check on you. It’s all going to work out.” You made sure there wasn’t anything in the small storage room that he could get at and choke on, kept the light on, and went to close the door. Rat Dog approached the crack in the door and you closed it a little more. “I’m coming back,” you reassured him.

Max wasn’t in his office. Neither was Nick, which made you feel somewhat relieved because that meant more time spent not embarrassing yourself in front him. It would also have been weird seeing him in Max’s beat-up desk chair, surrounded by all of Max’s trophies gleaming on all sides of the walls. Max had been a professional boxer when he was younger, until he got a terrible
shoulder injury that forced him out of the ring for years. Instead of moping around about his dreams being crushed, he became a coach to help others reach their own dreams. A fantastic coach, if you said so yourself. Max had taught you everything you knew about self-defense and boxing, which later led to learning martial arts.

Max introduced you to the best outlet for your anger. Your father had been the most important person in your life. You felt his absence every day. Seven years later, and it still made you furious that he was
dead
and the man who’d murdered him was somewhere out there,
alive
. Max understood that. In fact, he was the one person after your father died who didn’t treat you as if you were some broken, damaged girl. He’d treated you as if you were an equal. Pushed you until your
real
breaking point, until you collapsed to your knees on the mat and finally grieved over your father’s death. Max trained you to become capable, independent, and strong.

However, the one thing he didn’t prepare you for . . . was men.

You’d had sex before, so you weren’t one of those girls who steered away from men to “save herself.” And you weren’t a radical activist who believed “all men are animals.” If you were interested in a man and he was interested in you, then you rode with the feeling and went where it took you. Had that led to a rather large douche bag in your life? Yes. And his first name was Rhett. You’d met through underground fighting.

One night, when you’d just begun sharing an apartment, Rhett lost an important match and drank too much.
Way
too much. That night, he’d accused you of flirting with one of the other fighters during the match and said it’d distracted him. In his delusion, it was
your
fault he lost. SparkNotes version: Rhett had anger issues and you dumped his pathetic ass.

Rhett was now in jail for assault and battery. Turned out, he had a warrant for arrest for previous domestic violence that you didn’t know about.

You had a type—a dangerous type at that. You liked fighters. Not because you needed a man who was tougher and bigger than you, but because fighters understood one another. Every fighter you’d come across had some sort of darkness in him, some sort of obstacle he’d overcome. Rhett had his obstacles with taking steroids, but other than that, he was simply a piece of shit with anger issues.

What about Nick’s obstacles? He seemed to have it all. Model, actor, cash, fame, and here he was abandoning it all to try to resurrect a beat-up fitness center.

Interesting.

You decided to head back to the storage room to check on Rat Dog and grab your boxing gloves. That destination changed when you heard music blasting from one of the sparring rooms. The door was cracked open a good four inches. Curious, you peered into the room.

Your mouth went dry. Nick was shirtless and working a bo staff to the beat of the loud music, spinning the staff between his fingers, around his torso, his neck, and attacking imaginary opponents with punches and kicks in between. His dark brown eyebrows were knit together in deep concentration.

You couldn’t help but think you looked the same when you fought. Maybe you had a little more in common with Nick than you thought.

Nick lunged and flipped on the red floor, muscles clenching beneath sweaty, bronze skin. When the song terminated, he struck the air with one last blow and unleashed a roar from his throat.

Well, shit.

Nick remained locked in that final position, breathing hard.
As if sensing your stare, his head whipped over his shoulder. You were quicker, pulling away from the door before he could spot you.

So much for talking to him one on one.

YOU’D GONE BACK
to the storage room to retrieve your boxing gloves. Instead, you ended up unwrapping your hands and rewrapping them, so that the fabric was tighter against your skin. You were about to say good-bye again to Rat Dog when your phone buzzed in your bag.

Fifteen missed calls from Chip.

Chip wasn’t really his name, but it was his street name because (A) his real name was Norbert, and (B) his front tooth was chipped pretty badly from a motorcycle accident. He hooked you up with underground fights and was one of the few people who tolerated your aggressive personality.

Chip was also gay, and that was the
last
thing he wanted anyone to know in his line of work. He’d told you that in confidence. You trusted one another.

“This isn’t a match-scheduling sesh, babe. You better sit down for this one,” Chip said as soon as he picked up. “Rhett has been out on parole for good behavior and is back at the Cesspool. He was asking for you last night. I told him you moved to Philadelphia and couldn’t afford it here. You need to watch your back. Stay aboveground, you feel?”

Your heart began to thrash in your ears.
“What?”

“I know. I know that’s rough to hear, but you needed to know. Where the hell
were
you last night, anyway?” Chip demanded. “I called you.
Fifteen times.
I thought he . . . I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. “Fucking answer your phone next time, all right? You scared me shitless, woman.”

“Rhett doesn’t know where I live now,” you replied hollowly,
lost in your thoughts. You felt sick to your stomach and leaned against a storage bin. Rat Dog started to whine at your feet, looking up at you with his head tilted.

“Fuck, Chip,” you finally breathed into the phone. “I’m the reason Rhett was put in jail in the first place. But I can’t . . . I can’t just . . .
shut down
because of him. I live for the fights at Cesspool, you know that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re addicted to the ring
that
much. You’re not a moron, babe. Don’t come around here right now. Rhett’s apparently got something bigger lined up for his fighting career. Heard him bragging about it. Chances are, he’ll vanish again in a few weeks. Just stay away from here and I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Seriously. You’re one of the best fighters down here, but you’re nothing dead.”

“You’re right,” you breathed out, feeling your chest tighten. As if knowing you were upset, Rat Dog began to lick the ankle of your sweatpants. “I gotta go.”

“Call me if you need anything.” Chip hung up.

You squatted down, picked up the dog, and kissed him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine, little guy.”

You put Rat Dog down and exited the storage room, waving at him as you slowly closed the door.

“Who are you talking to, kid?”

Startled, you slammed the door the rest of the way and spun around. Max and
Nick
were directly behind you. Nick wore his tight long-sleeved T-shirt again and was still sweating. You couldn’t meet his gaze. Had the two of them heard your phone conversation, or just the good-bye to Rat Dog?

Be friendly. Say something. Be friendly. Make a joke. Maybe mention that Nick’s dog is most likely in the closet behind you. TALK, YOU IDIOT!

“My equipment,” you replied firmly, deciding it would have
been too weird if you’d opened the door and said, “I think this is your dog, Nick.” If you’d done that, you would have explained
how
you knew it was his dog. And you were
far
too socially awkward to explain that on the spot. “I was just . . . talking to my equipment. The other equipment gets jealous when I only grab my gloves.”

Max chuckled. “Now that’s one dedicated athlete.” He looked down at your wrapped hands, and it dawned on you that you’d forgotten your gloves
again
in the storage room. Now he knew you were lying, but before he interrogated you further, his phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he groaned.

“It’s the wife, I gotta take this. I’ll see you two later.” Max clasped Nick on the shoulder. Then he looked over at you and winked, before strolling away with his phone to his ear.

You locked eyes with Nick.

You stuck your wrapped hand out and introduced yourself. For some reason, you felt more comfortable with Nick this time, but still a swarm of heat crept up to your face when his paw of a hand clasped yours. He had a strong yet controlled hold on your fingers and didn’t immediately let go.

His voice was low and raspy. “I like that name. It fits you.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, unsure whether that was a compliment. “Um . . . sorry about before. I wasn’t feeling too well.”
Aka, I recalled a dream I had a while back, imagined your head between my legs, and I had to get the hell out of there before I humiliated myself even further. Nice to meet you.

He let go of your hand. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thank you.” Neither of you knew what to say next, so you smiled and walked past him, tossing a thumb over your shoulder toward the exit of the locker room. “I was planning on boxing. . . .”

Thankfully, he didn’t ask,
With no gloves?

“Leaving so soon?” Nick asked instead, stopping you in your tracks. You turn back around and analyze his sharp, handsome features as he stepped closer to you. “Max tells me you can use a bo staff. You any good?”

At first, you took that line
sexually
because your hormones were clearly off the fucking charts. You brushed off those dirty thoughts and let out the breath you were holding.

“Kinda,” you replied humbly. Obviously, Nick was into martial arts and you knew he’d won a world title. From what you’d seen during his bo staff routine earlier, he’d probably won a lot of other awards too. Going up against someone like him in a fight would prove difficult.

“I box too,” you decided to add.

“Are you being modest?”

“That depends. Are you making sure I can’t kick your model ass before you challenge me to a fight?” you answered brashly.

Whoa.
Where had that come from? Something about his flirty nature entailed experience and self-assurance. He knew he was hot, and his behavior struck you as strategic—as if he was tactically trying to get into your pants. You couldn’t hide your irritated reaction to that conclusion. Was he one of
those
guys?

Nick was visibly surprised by the harshness of your tone. The two of you shared an intense moment. Before, when Nick looked at you, it had no depth. You were just some chick who was easy on the eyes, intimidating, and tomboyish. Not exactly every guy’s type. Now when Nick looked at you, he appeared to be a little intrigued and raked his gaze slowly over your body. Your skin lit into flames beneath your clothes. It was as if Nick had developed X-ray vision and could see through your baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, right to your black sports bra and panties.

“You know I’m a model?” Nick finally replied, hitching his gaze back up to your face.

“What?”

“You said my
model
ass. I’m just assuming . . .”

Fuck!
Now you were thinking about how you followed Nick Bateman on Instagram, had googled his name on multiple occasions, and had
touched
yourself to delicious shirtless images of him. (Those were just moments of weakness, damn it!)

“You just look the type,” you managed to reply calmly.

He arched an eyebrow. “The type.”

Was he fishing for compliments? “I think you know what I mean, Nick.”

He looked you over again. “Do we have a problem or something? You don’t seem to like me very much.”

“I’m not having the best morning. It’s nothing personal.” You couldn’t seem to shake the bitterness you felt toward Nick for taking the center away from Max.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Nick ran a hand absently through his hair. “Are you all right?”

You nodded.

For a moment, Nick appeared to want to press further, but he didn’t. “Have you won any titles?” he asked instead. Just like that, the conversation switched to something else. Was he really interested in your answer, or just passing the time?

You hadn’t, but you’d won matches in illegal fights before, which you wouldn’t mention in case it cost you your job. You needed this job to pay your rent.

“I never had the opportunity,” you replied. “But I wouldn’t work here if I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“And I wouldn’t
want
you to work here if you didn’t know what you were doing.” Nick stepped even closer to you, and your eyes must momentarily have looked like two big blue saucers. He was a good foot taller than you. You fought the urge to step back. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I need around seven hardworking, reliable employees. Right now we have ten. I plan on hiring one new employee and firing four, but that’s just an estimate
based on what Max has told me about everyone’s work ethic and hours put in a week.” Nick paused. “You work part-time, don’t you?”