The Gentleman Has Left the Building (6 page)

“It was Rhys’s
first party tonight.” She stood beside me, her knees nudging
mine.

Joseph gave a
dry little laugh. “You’re braver than me.”

“It was all
right, actually." I said. Leila was practically rubbing against me
and I wrapped an arm round her waist with my pulse hammering in my
ears. “I had some lovely company.”

She eased the
bottle from my hand, dropped it to the floor and then straddled my
thigh. Her knickers were still damp--even through my trousers, it
was obvious--but I couldn’t quite get into the kiss, not with him
watching. I’d gone from predator to prey in about ten minutes.

“Rhys…do you
want to…?”

She was shoving
me gently, wanted us to fall back on the sofa together.

“I--” Oh fuck.
Now she stroked my semi-erect cock.

“We could…I
mean, he’s here to supervise, so…” She brought my hand round to
rest on her ass cheek and I nearly bit her tongue off.

Now you’re
probably thinking:
dude. This is your first (and possibly only)
opportunity for anal. What are you doing? Swing her over the couch
and get on in there.
Even I was thinking this.

But I couldn’t
do it.

She softened in
my arms, cupped my chin. “It’s okay.” She trailed down my neck and
my eyes closed instinctively; if we couldn’t be alone, I was built
to emulate it.

“I should go.”
I stood against her, willing my cock to deflate. “I’ve got work in
the morning.”

Leila nodded,
handing the bottle back. “If you’re sure.”

“Oh, I’m…just
need to get dressed.” I cocked my head towards the bedroom and she
tugged on the shirt she was wearing.

“You’ll be
needing this, then. Sorry.”

Joseph was
suddenly behind her, his fingers working the few buttons she’d
bothered to secure. Then he slid out of his fine-knit sweater as he
passed me my shirt. My gaze darted to her full, naked breasts and
then rolled to the toned chest behind her…and that was when I
noticed the marks on their skin. It had been too dark to see in the
bedroom, but Leila had a J carved in pale pink, just above the line
of her knickers. Joseph had an L in the same style that curved
about his hip-bone. They weren’t tattoos--I was sure of that.

They were quite
possibly scars.

Then Leila
slipped into the sweater and huddled against Joseph. They both
studied me with curious expressions.

“So I’ll get my
clothes. Yeah.” If I’d have walked any faster, I’d have skidded
into a pot plant and landed flat on my face.

I took my time
getting dressed. Paused to call a cab to the lobby. The afterglow
of sex had faded but I was still jittery, pulse hammering in my
ears. I’d been preparing myself mentally for tonight--mostly to get
rejected--and while I’d gone through a hundred wank-worthy
fantasies, none of them had been anything like this.

None so close
to the bone (or the boner, for that matter).

Now to make my
exit. To make it out alive.

Suited and
booted, I strode out and offered a sitting Joseph my hand. He
pumped it firmly. If he was surprised at my surge of confidence
then he didn’t show it.

“It was good to
meet you,” I said. “Thanks for…well.”

His eyes
flashed in amusement. “A pleasure.”

Leila knotted
her fingers in mine as she led me out to the door. When I’d
shuffled into my jacket, I gave her the parting kiss she deserved:
slow, deep and affectionate. Her little gasps and sighs were
jarring; they made me realise that she’d never felt borrowed.

“You,” Leila
murmured, “made my Tuesday, Mr Rhys.”

You made my
last six months, you gorgeous creature
. Not that I could say
that out loud.

“I had a great
time. Thank you.” One last kiss, then I released her. There should
have been a beat of discomfort before one of us broke and asked for
a phone number or an email address. But that wasn’t what tonight
had been about, and it was kind of refreshing. Not as cheap as I’d
expected it to feel.

The lobby was
all cold leather seats and flashing lights against glass windows.
The silver-haired doorman cast suggestive glances in my direction;
I avoided his eyes. (I’d have whistled, but it seemed cliché). As I
climbed into the cab, my phone buzzed and I cracked open the
text.

AIDAN: So r u
ready 4 Nicole yet?

Shadows rolled
through the windscreen to swallow me. They bounced right off my
chest. My own mouth tasted different in the wake of a foreign
tongue.

Euphoria
claimed me, made my tapping fingers shake. I felt drunk and
empowered and blissful, but starkly sober at the same time.

RHYS:
Dude.

I'm ready for
anything.

Author's Note

Thank you for
taking the time to read Rhys's story.

A lot of the
characters in this book feature in companion novels; you can find
Leila and Joseph in
Breaking Leila
and
Breaking
Joseph
, along with Aidan. He's also in my newest novel,
Tainted Touch
(and you can read chapter one of that book at
the end of this one). Bailey, Rhys's sister, can be found in
Beautiful Mess.

This particular
short story is brought to you by Indian Summer cider. And a warm
Easter evening. And scones.

Twenty-year-old Caitlyn McCoe likes logic, cake and
breaking a sweat. In that order. What she doesn't like is the fact
that her manipulative ex, Dominic, has crawled out of the woodwork
after their breakup last summer. She needs to concentrate on
passing her business degree, not telling him to get lost. But
fantasising about Fist Candy--the boxer she loves to watch at the
gym, where she works--is excellent escapism. He's beautiful,
untouchable...and safe.

Until he's her
new co-worker. And then he's not safe at all.

Art Lyons was
a rising star on the boxing circuit and a brilliant student. Then
he dropped out, disappeared, and has just resurfaced as the new
sports massage therapist at Caitlyn's gym. He doesn't want to talk
about why he's no longer at uni; he doesn't want to explain the
tattooed slashes across his hip.

But he's
troubled by the connection he feels between the punch bag and the
brush of a lover's fingers. He wants to use his hands to heal, not
hurt. Caitlyn clams up when her friends go to hug her; after
Dominic, something changed beneath her skin, twists the things she
feels. If Art can find a way to reach beyond that, he could help
her. She could heal him.

That's if they
don't break each other first...

Sweat.

It drips on my
grey foam exercise mat as I push out another hard breath. I will
master the push-up. I will make it my bitch. It's not like Hans,
the instructor from hell, is giving me a lot of choice about the
matter. From my spot near the back of the studio, I can see him
demonstrating the push-up by balancing on one tanned, ripped
forearm. Damp blond hair sticks to his fine cheekbones, and a
purple ClimaCool t-shirt gapes just a little to reveal his pecs.
Dubstep pounds in my ears.

Each drop of
sweat that falls on my mat is proof of my dizzying effort, and Hans
has promised me results. Whenever we reach the last five minutes of
his Combat Blitz class and I'm struggling through the conditioning
work, I comfort myself with his honesty:
Work for what you want.
Earn the body, and it will come.
God, I'm working. My obliques
would scream if they were able, and my abs wouldn't be far behind.
I'll ache for days.

If only Hans
didn't bat for the other team, hmm? The only guy who never lies to
me, and he's gay. That said, unless Hans is into red-faced
brunettes who look constipated when they do jumping jacks, I'd be
out of luck anyway. Even though my yoga pants fit a lot better
since I started his class.

"Last round,"
Hans bellows over the grinding static of the music. "
Finish
this!"

Last
round
means another twelve push-ups. I ignore the pain in my
neck and glance sideways at Vicky, my best friend. Beneath her
freckles, she's almost as flushed as me she balances over her own
mat. Dark blond waves tumble from her loose ponytail and into her
face.

"Sadist," Vicky
hisses in Hans' direction.

He grins like a
Cheshire cat, throwing her a sly wink as he pumps up and down on
his thick arms. As usual, he makes the workout from Hades look
effortless.

She blows wavy
hair out of her eyes.
I hate him
, she mouths.

I nod in
sympathy, gritting my teeth. Five...four...three...two...

"And we're
done!" Hans rolls back on to his knees and then come to stand. Even
he's
out of breath. "Ace work. Okay...stretches. Child's
pose, people."

The dubstep
fades, and soothing piano music spills from the speakers. I take a
moment to pull back into child's pose, my hands stretched forward,
my sticky forehead meeting the cool mat. A sense of pride floods my
poor, adrenaline-wasted brain; I survived another hour of torture.
I even feel good for it. Exercise being awesome–I'm still getting
used to that, even though I've been doing this for over a year now.
Thank you, body. I think.

As we stretch,
I float off into thoughts of the upcoming spa session. Vicky and I
have a routine now–we allow Hans to beast us twice a week. Then we
head straight to the gym pool to swim off the trauma, followed by a
long, aromatic soak in the steam room and Jacuzzi. Finally, we take
leisurely showers, taking turns to bring in new products that leave
our hair shiny and our skin smelling like cinnamon and pomegranates
(or whatever smug crap we're into that week). If we're feeling
especially virtuous then we'll cook something healthy; if we're too
tired to think, we go to the pub. Rock and roll, my friends. And
they told me college would be crazy.

Hans leads us
through some combat blocking to finish. We bring our hands together
in a final bow, and then I lunge for the air conditioning unit,
draping myself over it with a groan of relief. Cool air blasts
against my hot muscles and makes me realise just how damp with
sweat my clothes are.

"Anyone would
think the unit was a dude," Vicky says, one pale eyebrow lifting in
dismay. "Stop grinding on it."

"I'm not
grinding. I'm just..." I pant. "It's how I'm breathing!"

"Come on." She
brandishes her water bottle. "I need a refill."

I peel myself
off the unit to swipe my bottle, mat and towel. Then we head down
to the drinks machine and fountain, both of which are
inconveniently stuffed at the end of the corridor. We have to weave
through a hoard of Hans's next victims just to get into the
hall.

"I propose a
pub night," Vicky declares. "Unless you want to cook, that is. All
I can think about are nachos covered in chilli and ludicrous
amounts of cheese."

"What happened
to that diet thing you were doing?"

"After that
class? It can go fuck itself." She mops her brow with the corner of
her blue towel.

Vicky's on a
mission to lose twenty pounds, despite the fact that she has one of
those figures that suits extra curves. If I could eat more cake and
wear it the way she does, I totally would.

"Although
there's always the Cupboard of Shame," she adds.

Said cupboard
is in the top left corner of our tiny kitchen, and is where we keep
the Nutella. And the Haribo. And the vodka. In the spirit of guilty
pleasures, we also have a tacky naked firemen calendar hanging on
the door. My mood lifts immediately, and not because we're walking
past the boxing gym.

"What kind of
choice is that to offer me? Pub
or
shame?" I complain.

"We could hit
the cupboard after the pub," she says pragmatically. "That would be
time-efficient."

"Time-efficient
binging is the best kind, true."

"Then we're
agreed." She feeds a couple of coins into the vending machine and
stabs the keys.

Beside the
machine, the boxing gym door is propped open by a plastic chair.
Two guys in nothing but track pants are huddled in the middle of
the room, deep in discussion as they swing fat red gloves on
strings.

Then, my eyes
are drawn elsewhere.

In the far
corner, a tall shape is smacking the living shit out of a black
punch bag. He drives in one fist after the other, and each hit
echoes loudly as the bag creaks on its chain
. Slap, slap, slap,
slapslapslap
. There's almost something dirty about that rhythm.
I find myself zeroing on the way the muscles in his broad back rove
beneath his skin; how the sweat glistens in pleasing evidence of
his
hard work
. Dark hair, cut short enough to be tidy but
long enough to form cute peaks when damp, licks the nape of his
neck.