Page 6 of Tortured Eyes
“You got time?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but hey, one day he might surprise me.
“I’m all yours. Just give me the rundown.”
“I just need to let off some steam.” I drop my training bag and lean against the corner of the gym. This is Jimmy’s space—a small gym set up, two blocks around the corner from the station. Perfect. No pretences. Just a few rooms. One for sparring with a line of punching bags swinging from the back wall. A weights room and some sort of cardio room. That isn’t my thing. “Give me five.”
I head back to the rudimental changing space and pull wraps from my bag before securing my kit and my gun in a locker. The process of wrapping my hands is a sort of meditation, focusing and clearing my mind. As the bindings wrap and protect, my body centres and all the mess of work and my dad drifts away. At least for the next half an hour.
Jimmy is a mountain of a man. A retired cop himself, he set up this place after being forced out due to sustaining a gunshot wound to his shoulder. The forces loss, but my gain. He’s been my personal trainer and therapist for the last four years. The closest thing I have to a friend outside of the office as well.
I find Jimmy on the mats, his own pads already strapped to his hands, ready to give me a workout. As he moves and loosens up, his muscles strain against his tight tee. A handful of women visit regularly, and it’s all because of the eye-candy on display. It certainly isn’t the shitty decor.
“Bryce, you going to get over here or what?”
“Yeah, yeah. Give me a break.”
“Not likely, baby. You know me. You ready to go for it?”
I roll my shoulders and start to bounce on the balls of my feet. “Ready.”
“Those pretty, red nails going to be okay?”
“Don’t worry about me, Jimmy.” With that, I lead with a quick right jab and follow up with a volley of punches that push Jimmy back a foot.
We quickly find our rhythm, our own dance, consisting of hits and punches, Jimmy leading me, and providing the perfect target for my aim and aggression. Before long, my body hums with heat and sweat, the endorphins doing their thing and pumping me up. My mind closes down to focus on nothing but the hits I land and the combinations I need to push my body harder.
“You good or do you want to take it up a notch?” Jimmy asks, breaking my balance and forcing me to break my concentration.
I give him a smirk and step back. He knows I love a challenge. “Jimmy, you always know how to show a girl a good time.”
He lowers his pads and begins to take them off. I tear the bindings at my wrists and unwrap my hands. Fighting with Jimmy is the best workout. Nothing’s better. Apart from sex. And only if the guy knows how to use what God gave him.
Jimmy’s size gives him an obvious advantage, but I’m faster and more mobile. It’s a good mash-up, and we always end on good terms. He craves this as much as I do.
The energy around my body fizzes in my veins, and I welcome the buzz. The big grin on Jimmy’s face tells me he’s ready.
Punch, twist, grab, pull and back off. Attack, duck, dodge and grab again. We go about our own choreography, blocking, hitting and generally trying to kick the shit out of each other. Luckily, we’re both pretty good, and neither ends up landing many hard hits. At least nothing that will break bones. The fighting lights me up, and any pain I feel translates to an energy that craves more. Fifteen minutes in and we’re both damp with sweat and breathing hard. I make a final strike, dropping to the mat and sweeping my leg to knock Jimmy to the floor, his arm twisted up into a hold behind him. “My win.”
“This time. I’ll give you that. We good?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I let him go and offer my hand to help him up. “Thank you. I needed this.”
“Anytime, baby. You done?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a few things to start looking into.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.” Jimmy misses working the cases. And he is connected. He could be helpful.
The showers are shit, so I tolerate the ride home in my gym gear and dive into my own shower as soon as I’m in the door. Amazing how a good workout and some hot water can change a girl’s outlook.
With a clear head, I approach the table littered with the past cases. Everything in the files is years old, cold cases I’ve pieced together. But Cane is still running this city somehow. They must be. Or at least the man behind the business is, but Carter Wade has kept out of the headlines that cast any shadow over the business. There’s another Cane, though: the son, Logan, yet there’s nothing on him. Only rumour and gossip. More ghosts to chase. And I’m done with ghosts.
