Page 19 of To Catch A Rook

For a brief moment, I let him soap me up, closing my eyes to pretend this stranger meant something to me; that the heat of his body was mine to own, mine to command.

But he was a means to an end, and he’d played his role. I opened my eyes and clamped my hands over his wrists, pushing him away from me in the cramped space.

“Not a cuddler, huh?”

The hot stream of water still spraying from the shower head muffled his chuckle. He turned his toned body into the stream and lathered himself up, like fucking a man twice his size in a public shower was an everyday activity.

Maybe it was.

It wasn’t for me. Being in Carlisle was already making me reckless. It hadn’t even been a week. A man in my position couldn’t afford to be reckless.

I ignored his teasing and shifted my considerable bulk to walk out of the stall and away from this bad decision. A surprisingly powerful grip tugged on my wet hair from behind. I turned to shoot him a warning glare—a glare that could make most men piss themselves. His playful smirk stopped me in my tracks.

“I like a kiss goodbye after a good ride, mate.” He bit his lip and winked a green eye as he continued to soap himself up; his complete lack of intimidation causing me to pause.

Intimidation wasn’t about fear; it was about power. In every sexual transaction, I always held the power—with anyone but Hillary. Even then, she handed her body over to me to be worked as I saw fit.

This man didn’t bat an eye and his gaze roved over my naked form with blatant lust. Tugging on his dick, he brought himself to half-mast as I stood there, momentarily dumbfounded.

I snapped out of my temporary lapse and growled out an “I don’t kiss.” Then I shoved back the curtain and stalked through the locker room, leaving the anonymous fuck and his stiffening cock behind.

I’d pay off the manager to remove the smug man from the membership so I could come back and work out in peace without my poor decision sticking to me like a foul smell.

One problem solved—on to face the rest of my shit-filled day.

“Again!”

My muscles begged for mercy as I resumed my training in Sammy’s gym, working through the obstacle course he had laid out for me.

Before I could catch my breath, a black-cloaked figure came into my periphery and launched at my torso. They grabbed the hem of my athletic tank and pulled me to them in an aggressive tug, quickly latching large biceps around my shoulders and incapacitating me in a choke hold from behind.

Rule one in Krav Maga: stop the threat. I slipped out of the choke hold using the technique an old mentor had taught me and twirled around, my face now at the attacker’s crotch.

Rule two: aggressively counterattack on the most vulnerable areas as quickly as possible. I head-butted them hard and satisfaction rippled through me as my skull cracked against their pelvic bone, likely busting a testicle or two.

My attacker shrieked in agony and dropped to the floor, but grabbed hold of my ponytail on the way down. At the yank, my roots stung from the force as I was pulled to the mat beside him.

I let my body go limp for a single moment before gathering all of my strength. Propelling forward, I wrenched away from his tight grip despite the agonizing tingle across my scalp.

He shifted his weight, crinkling the mat material, then moved off of it, coming after me again. I reached for anything to use within changing my stance. My hand closed on the tacky surface of a ten-pound barbell. I swung it backward with all of my might, risking only a brief glance to see it successfully smash my intended target—the attacker’s ear.

He stumbled and clutched the side of his head. I took the opportunity to run to the other side of the gym, following the next rule: disengage from the situation. Once successfully out of his path, I searched my surroundings, looking outwards to fulfill the last rule: scan for the next threat.

Despite common misconceptions, Krav Maga wasn’t about defeating the other attacker, it was about survival. I had taken up the practice when I was twenty years old. Eleven years later, the principles remained the same.

I sank back against the rough cinder block wall to catch my heaving breath as Taylor, Sammy’s sparring partner, ripped off his padded mask and grinned. A deep crimson stained his satisfied smile.

“Good work,Ojitos! Take a break.” Sammy’s call hollowly echoed from the opposite end of the building. Taylor nodded in agreement, then pivoted on his heel to grab his water bottle.

My gaze roamed around the gym’s stark interior. Cracked black mats were marred from years of absorbing the brutalities of man. Platforms of varying heights and wrought-iron stairwells mimicked the streetscapes of a city. A few grab bars were scattered randomly throughout the network of pathways.

The gym was mostly used by parkour enthusiasts and street fighting rugrats. Over the last decade, I also made it my personal training facility.

I had found Sammy through a mutual acquaintance; a woman who lost her sister in a dangerous domestic violence dispute. Sammy had helped her train, which had helped her to heal, and when I saw how his guidance transformed her into a methodical machine of fury, I knew I needed a Sammy too.

I wouldn’t settle for a knock-off version—a counterfeit trainer. I hired the man himself. Then, when I had all the pieces in place to avenge the women of our city, I found another use for his black ops training.

Sammy wasn’t just another loyal employee. He was family.

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