Page 82 of The Payback

“With my credit card, no doubt,” he gripes, as if that earns him one.

I shrug, and he sighs, moving around the island and heading for the fridge. He opens the door, and while I’m wiping my hands of the excess peanut butter, he springs into action.

My reflexes are fast, and I defend when he feints left but then dives right, throwing out an arm bar. He hits like a fucking battering ram, but I lean back, the arm glancing over my chest and face, and I throw a jab, landing a hit on his spleen.

He wheezes, trying to drag air in, and I bark a laugh.

In all the shuffling, we’ve moved farther from the supplies, and I’m guarding the path to sweet, nutty deliciousness. “Come on, old man. Is that all you got?” I put my fists up and get into a fighting stance.

“You’re one to talk. You’re older than me.” Dimitri smiles and mirrors me, his left hand out front, opening and curling in acome and get itmotion.

“Dude, you’re still doing that? The Matrix is from the nineteen hundreds. It’s time to move on.”

“Fuck, that makes me feel old, but that movie is gold. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not, but you need some new moves,” I tease as I throw a jab. He deflects it with a forearm, and his hands come up around his head in proper boxing form. Dimitri and I were taught all forms of fighting when we were growing up together, but there’s one thing he’s never been good at.

Fighting dirty.

The man has too many morals, and when push comes to shove, there’s no guarantee your opponent won’t throw every trick in the book at you.

Honour, he calls it. I call it loss.

Dimitri throws a hit, landing it on my shoulder. While he’s extended, I dip low with my weaker hand and get him in the solar plexus. My arm hurts like a motherfucker now, and I know the bruise will be ugly as shit, but that’s the cost of giving an inch to gain a mile.

Dimitri shakes it off, and I advance, pushing him back to the open space beside the kitchen table. We square off, our feet making easy work of circling one another, looking for an in. We haven’t sparred since we were teenagers, but it’s hard to adapt to something new once you’ve developed your style. He always leads with his left. His feet are quick, but he’s slow to kick.

“Just give me a fucking sandwich,” he says. “I don’t want to hurt you over some peanut butter.”

“Why don’t you have your own peanut butter?” I ask. “It’s like five bucks a jar.”

“I’m on a diet.”

I roll my eyes. “Then why do you want it now?”

He throws another hit, and I block it, pushing forward as he retreats a step. “Because temptation is a cruel mistress,” he says with a laugh.

“Tell you what, D. You get me to submit, and you can have a sandwich.”

Do I need to make him fight for his sandwich? No. But do I want to? Hell yes.

“Deal.”

He shifts right, his hips leading the movement. I anticipate it, so I intercept with a cross. It glances off his arm and lands on his cheek. His visual cues are too obvious.

Three hits later, he’s staggering in his fancy-ass loafers. So, I decide to take it easy on him until he gives in. Can’t bruise the boss’s face, right?

“What are you guys doing?” Ellie asks from the doorway. I see her in my peripherals and refuse to turn towards her.

“Proving a point,” I say. “Dimitri here wants a sandwich, and I said no. But he tried to take it, anyway. Consent, man.”

Dimitri growls. “You know I don’t joke about that.”

“Fair enough. But my comment stands. You tried to take what doesn’t belong to you.”

Dimitri’s eyes quickly flick from me to Ellie, widening slightly. “What are you wearing?” he asks.

I’m so fucking tempted to turn around, but it could be a ploy to distract me, so I keep my eyes firmly fixed on Dimitri. I try to shift our positions to catch a glance at Ellie without losing focus on D, but he’s not letting me move an inch.

---