Below the Belt Page 3

  She saw the photography room as the next set trickled in. On the other side of the hallway, she spotted an open door. Not sure what she would find, she slipped inside. Thankfully, the room was empty. It was set up like the others, for a press conference, but the tables and chairs were askew, and there was trash on the floor.

  She had only started to relax when she heard something behind her. Whirling, she saw Abe enter behind her and shut the door.

  “Don’t leave,” he said.

  She just glared at him, since he was blocking her way out anyway.

  “I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. I just want to talk.”

  Paris raised her eyebrows. So, talk.

  He glanced down at her shirt. “So, would that be Paris, Alabama?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “Ah, no. Paris … Arkansas?”

  A corner of her mouth tilted up.

  He looked at the ceiling, thinking. “What could it be?”

  She opened her mouth, but he stopped her with a grin. “Arizona! That’s it.”

  She gave him a begrudging smile. “Is that what you came to talk to me about?”

  He turned somber. “I’m so sorry about what happened. Very, very sorry. It was immature and stupid and I never should have agreed to it. And you are worth so much more than that. I’m sorry, Paris. I feel really shitty about it.”

  It was harder than she thought it would be to stay too angry at him. She hadn’t expected such sincere regret from him. “You should. But, you know, whatever. It’s over.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I really hope it’s not over.”

  “Oh no? Is there a part two to the bet? Double or nothing you can get her to go down on you at a press conference?”

  He made a face. “Okay, I deserve that. But that’s not what I’m talking about. It only started that way, but you and I—we clicked. I want to get to know you better.”

  “And you want to fuck me again.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I really do. But we don’t have to do that. We can just hang out.”

  “No sex,” Paris said.

  “Yeah, get to know each other. We can be friends.”

  It didn’t sound like that great of an idea to her. She wanted him. In fact, she possibly wanted the sex more than she wanted to get to know him. But she wasn’t about to be that girl on top of whatever else she already was. And this supposed friends-not-sex idea was, if not more fun, definitely safer. Besides, she half-believed this was just his guilt talking and that she wouldn’t see him again after this.

  “Friends,” she repeated. “Fine.” Maybe.

  A small smile. “Good.”

  “That’s it,” she warned.

  “And maybe a little more.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, buddy.” But even as she said it she could feel his breath, light and warm against her lips. He’d leaned in close, or maybe she had.

  He held his lips next to hers, suspended. Waiting. For what? He was so close to her, yet held apart.

  This wasn’t friendship. This was her being easy again, and hadn’t she just decided not to do that anymore? At least with Abe. Especially with him. She should leave. Or stop the kiss at the very least.

  She pressed her lips against his, just the slightest of advances.

  He took it as the invitation it was and pulled her to him. She opened her mouth to him, and he entered. This press of bodies, this melding of mouths was almost as intimate as the sex they’d already had. More so, considering they’d agreed to be friends.

  Paris broke the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. What an idiot. How had she fallen for him…again?

  Abe leaned back casually and hit her with his cocky grin. Damn. Okay, that explained some of it. But still, Paris was always the reserved one, the cautious one. And here she was kissing a guy she barely knew, a guy who she’d had sex with just the night before in a shocking loss of control—a guy who’d embarrassed her. She was a pushover when it came to him and he knew it, which made her hate herself even more.

  Everywhere she went, everything she did was about her mom and her sister. Then with Abe, everything had been about what he wanted and on his schedule.

  She was tired of this. So tired of being second fiddle, or worse, background noise. Abe thought he could just humiliate her last night and then waltz back in unscathed, did he? He thought he had her all figured out, but she’d prove him wrong.

  She smiled back, but it wasn’t a nice one.

  He noticed. “Paris?”

  She said nothing, just stepped neatly around him and to the door.

  “What’s the problem? Was it the kiss? Talk to me.”

  She had to fight the instinct to do just that. She wouldn’t be the good one, the obedient one — not this time. Opening the door, she leaned outside where a few reporters still loitered outside the photography room.

  “Excuse me,” she called. When they looked over, she beamed at them. “Hi, I’m Abe Montgomery’s publicist. He’d like to take some time to answer a few personal questions on the record.”

  “Paris,” she heard him growl behind her.

  The reporters charged toward her as if she’d waved a red flag at them. “He’d especially like you to focus on the relationships in his life, and how the honor that he learned in martial arts factors into them.”

  The reporters peppered him with questions, with the cameramen close behind, aiming their cameras and recording devices at him. She turned to see Abe glowering behind her. His eyes promised retribution. Paris smiled sweetly. His eyes widened as he realized she was leaving him alone with the wolves.

  “Paris,” he said, in a low voice only she could hear. “At least tell me how to find you.”

  She took a step toward the door and gave a small wave of her fingers.

  “I don’t even know your last name,” he whispered urgently.

  But the reporters were already stepping up to fill in the space she left. With a last glance, she slipped from the room.

  Round two most definitely went to her.

  Three

  “The match goes to Abe,” Sa Bum Nim said.

  Still breathing hard, Abe shook hands with Rafael to signal the end of the set. They had trained together for years, so there was no rancor between them over a loss. Rafael headed off the mats for a water break, but Sa Bum Nim stopped Abe from following.

  “Your reflexes were slow. And your guard was down. Beginner mistakes.”

  Abe pulled off his headgear, wiping the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve of his dobok. “Yes, sir.”

  “Your head is not in right,” his master told him.

  Abe’s lips quirked at the phrasing, but he knew it was true. He wasn’t about to spill his love life, or lack of one, on the mats, though. “Yes, sir.”

  Sa Bum Nim considered him for a minute, his weathered face revealing nothing. “Put that back on.” He gestured toward the padding Abe held and joined him in in the center of the ring. Abe put on his headgear.

  “You and I. We will fight,” Sa Bum Nim said calmly, as if they sparred together every day. But they didn’t. His schoolmates sparred amongst each other, and Sa Bum Nim was there to teach them. But he rarely fought in real matches with any of them, due to both his advanced rank and age. Abe suspected the last time they’d sparred together he’d still been a stupid, rebellious teenager. Sa Bum Nim had put him neatly in his place, and they’d never looked back since.

  Sa Bum Nim waved Blake over. “You will referee.”

  Blake looked just as surprised as Abe that Sa Bum Nim would be sparring. Abe knew he’d take shit for the special treatment later, but he didn’t care. The other guys abandoned their own practice to gather around. Father away, even the competitors from other schools had stopped to watch. Blake focused in on Sa Bum Nim, narrowing his focus to their ring.

  Blake called out the orders for them to bow and get into stance. Facing each other, they must have made a contrasting picture. Abe, young and lithe, in his standard issue uniform and sparring gear. Sa Bum Nim, wizened and still, in his more traditional Korean master’s dobok with gold detailing. Sa Bum Nim didn’t wear any protective gear, but Abe wasn’t concerned he’d get hurt. He had enough control, assuming he could even make it past Sa Bum Nim’s defenses. In fact, Abe’s own gear would serve to slow him down.

  “Shi Jak!” Blake signaled for them to begin.

  Abe pushed aside his aversion to striking out against his teacher. He stepped to the right, used to the circling that happened before engagement. But Sa Bum Nim didn’t match his steps. Of course, every move must have a purpose.

  Matched as they were, student to teacher, Abe knew he’d be the one to make the first attack. And he also knew it would fail. The key would be the sequence of follow ups afterward. The moves formed in his mind, not concreted with words, but fluid like a flip picture book. He raised his right leg up into a roundhouse kick, aiming for the midsection. At the last second he pulled it up, going for the temple.

  Sa Bum Nim blocked Abe’s shin with his left forearm. His right arm reached up to block Abe’s punch to the midsection. Twice blocked, Abe was too open. His right leg reflected down from the kick, and he used its momentum to turn to the side. He should back away and regroup, but he couldn’t resist one last throw to the midsection. Sa Bum Nim parried to the side at the same time as if he’d known it was coming. Without anything to catch the force of his thrust, Abe toppled forward to where Sa Bum Nim had stood. Barely catching himself before eating mat, he swung around and set his stance.

  He’d just gotten his ass handed to him, but he was ready to go again. If anything, the loss just pumped him up, fueling his determination. They clashed again in a blur of limbs, neither hitting a point target, then broke apart.

  Already tired from his previous match and working hard at this one, Abe slowed with exhaustion. He was moving slowly, almost sluggishly, and dripping with sweat. He’d been hit all over, probably bruised, though he couldn’t feel the pain right then.

  Sa Bum Nim looked barely affected by their match, his bright eyes the only sign of his exertion. Abe knew that Sa Bum Nim could have scored points if he wanted to, or he could just end the match, but he hadn’t. That meant he wanted Abe to keep trying to score. So that’s what he would do. Abe had the utmost loyalty to his teacher, and he wasn’t about to back down from a challenge. He’d keep trying until he dropped.

  What if Sa Bum Nim wants me to drop?

  Abe stopped and pulled back, still in the ring and poised to defend himself, but not on the offense. Heaving air, he searched Sa Bum Nim’s stoic countenance for a clue. What was he waiting for? There had to be a point to this, but Abe’s brain was shorting out under the physical stress.

  His head wasn’t in right, that’s what Sa Bum Nim had told him. Well, what was he trying to do? Knock it back into place?

  He became aware again of Blake and the other guys raptly watching their match. He didn’t mind getting schooled by Sa Bum Nim in front of them, but this wasn’t really about a physical challenge. This had to do with his state of mind, and he most definitely did not want to air his dirty laundry in front of them. Still breathing hard, he shifted uneasily on his feet.

  “Your pride or winning,” Sa Bum Nim murmured, low so only he could hear. “Which is more important to you?”

  That was a fair question. And Lord knew Abe had more pride than self-preservation. “But I can’t win.”

  “Ah. Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Abe said dryly.

  “And when faced with certain loss, you will hold onto your pride with both hands.”

  “What else is there?”

  Sa Bum Nim’s lips curved up slightly in a rare smile. “Indeed. We are done for the day. Go get cleaned up.”

  They bowed together and shook hands, but Abe felt an acute disappointment in his gut. He headed toward the showers, his eyes on the mats in front of him. He felt like he’d failed something, something more important than any number of sparring rounds.

  In the shower, he closed his eyes, palms braced against the tile wall. The near scalding water beat down on his sore bruised muscles. This complex, with its individual shower stalls and never ending hot water, was way fancier than his gym back home. He heard commotion from the other guys coming in to shower. They’d want to know what Sa Bum Nim had said to him, but most of them would be respectful enough not to ask. Still, he didn’t leave the stall.

  He hadn’t felt anything specific happen to his knee, but it was starting to stiffen up. When he hadn’t heard any noises in a while, he turned around, leaning his back against the slick tile. He let the water pour over him, as if it could drown out the emotions swirling around in his head. Guilt, shame, fear. But Abe Montgomery wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Though a certain small, soft woman was giving him a run for his money. She’d slipped under his defenses, twice now, and then slipped away again. She wasn’t expecting him to do anything or badgering him for a relationship. It should have been a relief. Instead he felt empty.

  He wasn’t sure he really wanted a relationship, but he definitely wanted to see her again. He wanted to get to know her better, like he’d said. And he wanted to fuck her again, like she’d said. But once again, he was left without a way of finding her.

  Just thinking of Paris had the predictable response—his cock hardened. Resting his head back against the wall, he reached down to grasp his cock. Damn, he was fully erect, but this was no place to jack off. The locker room was probably empty, and even if it wasn’t no one was likely to look in here, but it still wasn’t a great idea.

  God, her breasts were full and plump. He’d loved the feel of them in his hands, their weight. He hadn’t gotten a proper look at them that night, but he knew the skin there would be smooth and pale just like the rest of her. Suddenly, he was dying to know the color of her nipples, the taste of them in his mouth. He stroked his cock once, then again harder.

  If there was a next time, when they had sex next time, he’d get her fully naked. He’d play there for a long time, until he knew every goddamn inch of her. He’d go slowly, drive her crazy, a little payback for what she did to him. He pulled at his cock roughly, almost angrily.

  He wanted to take her from behind. He could already imagine her on her hands and knees, her back arched, sloping up into her very grabbable ass. And he would. He’d hold onto her hips as he rammed into her. Or maybe, no. He’d tangle one of his hands in her hair, that thick black mane of hair, while he rode her. The steady pumps of his hand on his cock quickened. His eyes closed.

  She would look back at him, her lips parted, her brown eyes dark with passion. She wouldn’t want to leave him again, damn it. She would want him. She would stay with him. He came, arching off the shower wall and biting back a groan. Panting slightly, he watched as the white streams swirled in the water down the drain.

  When he’d recovered, he soaped himself down quickly. He sucked in his breath a few times as his hands hit tender places. He’d have to take it easy tomorrow so that he’d be in shape for competition in two days.

  He shut off the water and wrapped the towel around his waist. Gear and dirty towels littered the floor, but it looked like everyone had already gone to lunch. He headed for his locker, completely caught off guard when he was hit from the side and slammed into the wall.

  He levered himself from the wall, preparing to attack. But when he saw who it was, he pushed Blake’s hands off angrily. He barely caught the towel before it slid off of him. “What the fuck?”

  “You need to be taken down a notch, Montgomery.” Blake practically snarled, but Abe wasn’t intimidated.

  “Fuck off, Blake.” Abe gave him a small warning shove. He wasn’t afraid of handling himself in a fight, but he also wasn’t willing to risk it. Not only could they cause a serious injury to one another, disabling them for the competition, but they could both be disqualified if they were caught fighting. There was a time when Abe wouldn’t have backed away from a fight, when he’d even escalate it just to make a point. But Sa Bum Nim’s first lesson to him had been that the best fight was one avoided.

  “What’s the matter? Are you going to run and tell Sa Bum Nim that Big Bad Blake scared you?”

  “I’m not scared, you fuckwipe. I’m annoyed. What the fuck is your problem?” Although he had an idea.

  Blake sneered. “You want to know what my problem is? First, you got off making a spectacle of yourself, fucking some slut in the middle of a goddamn banquet. Then it wasn’t enough that you hogged the press conference, but you had to stage an individual Q&A session to give your lame ass personal life story. And now you’re playing star student to Sa Bum Nim, getting special treatment. What the fuck was he saying to you anyway?”

  Abe wanted to punch Blake in the face for calling Paris a slut. His anger, normally tightly controlled, simmered up near the surface…then petered out. Because aside from that, he could understand why Blake was pissed off. Maybe if he wasn’t the one getting VIP treatment he’d be pissed off, too. They’d joined the school together as friends, and they’d both worked their way up, only Abe had gotten just a little farther ahead. But that didn’t mean he was going to let Blake give him shit for it. It wasn’t in his DNA. He didn’t take shit from anyone except Sa Bum Nim, and now maybe a certain woman, but he wasn’t going to think about that.

  Abe looked away and then back, just to let Blake know how unconcerned he was with an attack. “I think you’re just jealous.”

  “And I think you’re a goddamn prima donna.”

  Abe shrugged, holding in his wince when his aching shoulder protested the movement. “I can’t control how other people act. If you have a problem with the press or with Sa Bum Nim, go take it up with them.”

  Blake snorted. “As if you don’t encourage it.”

  “Believe what you like.”

  A shuffle caught both of their attention. Abe looked up to see a blond guy in uniform saunter into the locker room.

  Abe recognized that smirk. Nicholas something. He was from some east coast school, flaunting his Judo creds like that meant shit to Abe.

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