Page 25 of The Chance

“You’re all mad, I swear,” Peach remarks with his own bounce and testing jabs to my forearms.

“He says with a smile.”

“Boxing was your idea, genius.” I snort at his comeback and tilt my head just out of his swing’s reach. “And as much as I love beating you up … you wanna talk about it?”

What a loaded question.

Do I want to talk about spending the night in my client’s bed, his body tucked into me like some kind of metaphorical puzzle piece, or that I dreamt of my parents dying all over again as if I haven’t thought about that night every day for the last two decades?

Or maybe I should talk about how I’ve never felt like a single thing in my life was steady enough to trust? No home or family placement lasting more than a few months at a time, the centers even shorter. That my foster care was filled with judgmental assholes and bullies for parental figures that made sure I knew I didn’t belong.

How this job is the one I’ve held the longest, and I think that’s only because nothing here is ever the same either, that each day brings something new for me to navigate?

That I’ve started having … thissomethingtingling down my spine, like some kind of symbolic message from the universe, except they forgot to leave me the notes on how to read it?

And I’m not even going to let myself think about how part of my panic this morning included morning wood that gotstifferwhen I remembered it was Mac in my arms. How? I still don’t understand considering my heart was racing out of my chest, yet my dick kept pointing straight.

His ass and those fucking rainbow eggplants.

“No,” I snap out way too fast and duck under a swing he throws out. “I mean, no thank you.”

Peach snorts. “He thinks he has manners.”

I shrug and we dance, rounding the ring with light taps each of us block. “I think I’m funny,” I deadpan with another lift of my shoulder.

“You sound just like Mac.” Peach snickers.

My stomach flips at the mention of my drummer and a whole new wave of questions roll right over me, fast and hard.

Shit I hadn’t even begun to consider.

How do I know I’ve crossed the line between client and friend?

I pounce, using the rush to throw a punch that Peach not only deflects, but catches and twists. He holds on, his grip tight even with the gloves’ smooth surface.

“I—how did you … fuck.” We circle and I fight against the hold with a growl that’s all frustration and nothing to do with the spar.

“Go ahead. Talk to Papa Peach.” He dips and snickers when I throw an elbow with my free arm. “Not letting go until you say something.”

How am I getting my ass handed to me right now?

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” My chest is pumping and not from the exertion of working out with the fittest person I know.

No, it’s panic that’s bubbling up all over again.

Caging me in and closing my throat.

It makes me act before my brain can catch up, all of my thoughts whooshing right out of my ears as my head thrusts forward and my forehead connects with Peach’s nose.

The noise that escapes him is pure shock as he stumbles back, his gloved hand releasing his hold on me to go right his face, though the leather does nothing to hold back the gushing of blood that leaks out.

“Again? Motherfuck.”

His free fist flings out, the glove connecting with my jaw and splitting my lip wide open.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my tongue running through the blood filling my mouth.

“A headbutt?Seriously?” Peach scoffs and uses his teeth to rip the Velcro back so that he can free a hand and pinch at the bridge of his nose. “You assholes and your big feelings.Pfft.”

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