Against the Ropes Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  Regan sat ringside, her gaze on the action of the first fight. The overhead fluorescent light gleamed, and the crowd buzzed with excitement. Her thoughts wandered back to five years ago, the pain as fresh as it had been then.

  The physical therapy training class had been held in San Diego and was supposed to run Friday through Sunday, but the instructor had gotten sick on Saturday and canceled the rest of the seminar. She’d tried to call Dylan numerous times on her way home to Los Angeles, but it always went straight to voicemail. This didn’t concern her because he had told her he’d be going out. She’d gone directly to his apartment in hopes of surprising him when he got in for the night, but instead, she’d been the one stunned.

  They hadn’t even known she was in the apartment as she watched him lift the brunette up and slam her back down on his lap. Agony ripped through her chest as she watched the betrayal, but she couldn’t take her eyes off them. Bile rose in her throat, and she wanted to scream, but she could barely breathe. Her eyes blurred with tears, and she knew she should leave, but the pain kept her in place.

  The cries of pleasure as they both orgasmed made her cringe, as if she were listening to nails on a chalkboard. When he saw her and stood up, she looked him over. He had been training hard for months, and was in top form. His wide chest tapered into a hard, ridged stomach, and his large arms, that had always made her feel safe and protected when she was in them, strained from their exertion. She stared at his glistening arousal, then over to the girl who was still unaware Regan was there, and she grabbed the door jamb, certain her knees were going to give out under the monumental weight of the hurt she was experiencing.

  “Regan,” he whispered.

  When her gaze met his, she saw surprise and remorse in those bloodshot eyes. Anger flared, and she was finally able to turn and leave.

  “Oh, man! Did you see that, Regan?” Brett asked, bringing her back to the moment.

  She had. Her two years in the boxing community had given her the ability to know who might make it in the difficult sport, and who wouldn’t. She could tell the kid in the red trunks had a shot at success.

  Kids. The boys in the ring were kids. Neither of the guys in the ring were any older than twenty-two, which was the same age Dylan had been when she met him.

  Dylan had walked into the upper-end physical therapy office when she was twenty-four and he was twenty-two. Regan had been working at the office for about six months. She was fresh out of school and felt confident and secure in a job she loved. Every day brought someone or something new, and she loved watching the progress her patients made.

  The office specialized in treating professional athletes, so she had the opportunity to work on people from all sports. Dylan had been her first boxer.

  She pulled the file and called his name. She watched as he stood to his six-foot, three-inch height and came toward her, his thick legs encased in jeans and wearing a red T-shirt, the way he walked reminding her of a slow-moving locomotive.

  Physical therapy was an intimate job. She touched people on all parts of their body; moving, massaging, and manipulating their arms, legs and back, and sometimes ending up in very close positions. However, she had been trained to keep the intimacy out of it, which usually involved a lot of mindless chatter about her life and what she was up to.

  As he smiled down at her, she wondered if she was going to be able to chat about anything, and she both feared and thanked the gods above for the opportunity to work on such a magnificent body.

  “Come on back, Mr. Gomez,” she said as she turned down the hall.

  “Dylan,” he said.

  She led him into the intake room and shut the door.

  Regan smiled. “Okay, Dylan. Tell me why you’re here today.”

  He said he was a boxer and was having trouble with his shoulder. She remembered thinking it probably had something to do with an injury due to repetition of hitting the bag. They talked for a few minutes about how long he’d had the injury, when he’d first noticed it, and what time during the day the pain was the worst.

  “Well, let’s take a look,” she said, pointing to the table.

  He sat down, and she started her exam, making notes on her computer about limitations in his range of motion.

  “What happens when I push here?” she asked, her fingers pushing on the front of his shoulder. Good God, the guy was a wall of muscle.

  “That hurts a little.”

  “And over here?”

  She tried so hard not to think about his scent, the hard cords of muscles moving beneath her hands, how close she was to that five o’clock shadow and his full lips . . .

  The room suddenly became very warm and she felt her cheeks flush. She stepped away, grabbed her laptop from the examination table and sat down at her desk. As she typed her notes, she noticed a little tremor in her hand.

  After regaining her control, she stood up and approached him again, determined to finish the exam in a professional manner.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was done.

  “Have you had an MRI on this yet?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t afford one. Those things are expensive.”

  She nodded while typing and sat back in her chair and met his eyes. “I think I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on, Dylan, and I believe I can help you.”

  “So you don’t think anything is torn?”

  Regan shook her head. “I don’t. I think there are some issues with the LHC and the a sack.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “And in English?”

  She grinned and stood. “Sorry.”

  As her hands moved over his shoulder, pointing out where the inflamed areas were, she was once again struck by how muscular he was. It had been her experience that often times the more brawny a man was, the less flexible he was and the more prone to injuries of the tendons.

  He hissed as she pressed on the top of his shoulder.

  “See? Bursitis. Why don’t you lay down, and I’ll do a little work on it before our time’s up.”

  She massaged his shoulder and questioned him about his career.

  “I’m getting there,” he said. “I’m making some money and I should be able to jump into the pros within a couple more fights.”

  After a moment of silence, he asked, “Do you ever watch boxing?”

  She shook her head. “My dad was into it when I was a kid, and I watched with him, but nothing recently.”

  “Ouch!”

  “And that is the LHC tendon,” she said, smiling down at him.

  After a few minutes, she said, “I’m going to get someone to put some ice on that, and maybe do a little electric stim, if that’s okay with you.”

  “And that is?”

  “We put electrodes on you. It doesn’t hurt, but you’ll feel a little stinging or burning. It will help with the pain.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Regan startled as the crowd jumped to its feet as the kid in the red trunks knocked down his opponent with a cross.

  Brett sat down and smiled at her. “I’m going to get a beer. Would you like one?”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Watching the people file in, Regan realized it was going to be a full house tonight.

  “I hope Dylan Gomez gives this guy hell tonight,” she heard a man behind her say, and her stomach clenched.

  “Me, too. That dude used to be so good. He was on his way to the pros. Don’t know what happened to him.”

  “He ended up in jail, man!”

  “No shit? What’d he do?”

  “Don’t know. But whatever it was, the dude fucked up bad!”

  Regan closed her eyes. Dylan? In jail? They had to be wrong, didn’t they?

  Although Dylan came from the gang-infested streets of L.A., his mother had made sure he grew up on the straight and narrow. He was a straight-A student for most of his high school years, and
he stayed away from drugs. As Max began to seriously train him, he worked to stay in top shape and eat well. He had never been in any trouble when she knew him. What had he done that put him in jail?

  “Here,” Brett said, sitting down and handing her the beer. “Cheers.”

  She tried to calm the nerves in her stomach as she met Brett’s gaze. “Cheers.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dylan paced the fifteen-by-fifteen foot room trying to focus before the fight. The grey, industrial-grade carpet that was the same shade as the walls, muffled his footsteps. It reminded him of a jail cell—just a little bit bigger.

  “About fifteen to twenty minutes,” Max said, walking into the room.

  Dylan nodded.

  “What’s on your mind, Dylan? You’ve been quiet. Too quiet.”

  Dylan looked over at the man he considered his best friend as well as a father figure. Max had known him for too long, and it was hard to get anything by him.

  “Regan’s here.”

  Max’s thick eyebrows took a hike for his hairline, surprise shining in his eyes. “Really?”

  Dylan nodded. “I saw her when we were walking through the casino. I . . . I didn’t say anything.”

  Max was quiet for a moment, and then nodded. “There isn’t much to say.”

  Dylan continued his pacing.

  “I wonder if she’ll be at the fight,” Max said.

  “Me too.”

  When Dylan turned around, Max was in his path, and he stopped up short. “You need to focus, Dylan. You have too much riding on this.”

  “I know, Max. I know.”

  “My prostate’s acting up again,” Max mumbled. “I gotta take a leak.”

  As Max left, Dylan couldn’t focus on the present, but the past came crashing back at him.

  He knew from the second he laid eyes on Regan in that physical therapy office that she was his. Her big brown eyes against her porcelain skin, her straight blonde hair, and the long, lithe body made her the prettiest woman he had ever seen. Her laugh was deep and throaty, and he loved the dimple in her cheek when she smiled.

  They began dating after six physical therapy appointments. The sexual tension between them was a low hum at their first meeting and only got stronger after that. By the time he asked her out, he was practically shaking with desire for her as she manipulated his shoulder.

  “I want to take you out to dinner,” he said, lying on the table, her face inches from his as she worked on his arm. How he wanted to pull her head down and close that small space to taste her lips.

  “You do?” she said, her cheeks rosy.

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a moment, but he knew she wouldn’t say no. In the six hours of therapy appointments they had spent together, he knew she could feel the connection they shared. A slow blush tinged her cheeks when they held eye contact a little too long, and sometimes he swore he could feel heat coming off her body as she worked on his shoulder. Talking with her was easy, and it was apparent they had a lot in common. They enjoyed the same movies, loved the outdoors, and both hated Indian food. She seemed very happy to see him at every appointment and greeted him with her megawatt smile that made his insides feel mushy. She had to say yes because he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  “If I need to find a new therapist for you to say yes, then I will.”

  She stopped massaging his arm, stood to her full height and looked down at him. He swung his legs over the edge of the table and took her hands in his. “Are we done?”

  Gently, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the pulse on her wrist and met her gaze.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And you’ll let me take you to dinner?”

  They stared at each other for a moment, and he found himself praying for a “yes” to leave her lips. He gave her hand a squeeze, and decided he wasn’t above begging if it came down to it.

  “Okay,” she said quietly, and then smiled. “When?”

  “Tonight,” he said. No sense wasting time. “If you’re free.”

  She was, and he had taken her to the best Mexican food joint in the part of his neighborhood where he was sure they wouldn’t be shot at. José, his best friend, worked in the kitchen and did them up right with some enchiladas and tamales. Dylan loved that she didn’t seem to mind being on this side of town where things could get dicey at a moments notice. In fact, she seemed very comfortable, and that made him like her even more.

  “That was wonderful,” Regan said, sitting back in her chair. “I don’t think I can eat any more!”

  Dinner had gone well, and he liked the fact that she actually wolfed down the food. Living in L.A., he’d been on some dates where the woman ordered a salad, or barely touched what was on her plate. A woman who actually ate was something unique in this town.

  They talked effortlessly, and halfway through the meal, Dylan solidified his thoughts that he had found someone special.

  After that date, they spent every moment together they possibly could.

  He remembered the first time he had the pleasure of taking her to bed. It had been exactly three weeks after their first date, and they were at her apartment. The lovemaking had been achingly slow, as he never wanted it to end. Dylan learned her body over and over again, his lips and his hands finding every crevice, dip and groove of her soft frame. He remembered that night clearly, and thinking about it now made him smile and made his heart ache for what he had lost.

  Once Regan was in his life, things started to change quickly. Max grew to love her like a daughter and didn’t mind having her around, which said a lot considering he banned Dylan’s last girlfriend from the gym. Regan gave him the confidence he needed to work harder to make his dreams a reality.

  She kept him grounded so everything didn’t seem so overwhelming, and supported him fully, even during the times when he didn’t believe in himself.

  “You can do this, Dylan,” she had said one night as they lay in bed after making long, slow, burning love, the fan on the beside table blowing cool air on their hot, tangled bodies. A promoter was having doubts about whether he wanted Dylan on a particular card that would be televised nationally, and Dylan was feeling a little beaten up. She laid her hand on his chest, still damp with sweat, the room permeated with the sweet, musky smell of sex. “I know you can. We’re in this together, right?”

  He had gathered her in his arms and pulled her to his side. Kissing the top of her head, he said, “You’re right. We are in this together, baby.”

  She accompanied him to almost every fight and insisted on a phone call the second he was in the dressing room when she couldn’t be there. Regan was instrumental in kicking his career into gear by not only being the person that she was, but because she was able to fix his shoulder, something that two other PTs had not been able to accomplish.

  But with his successes came an arrogance and surety of himself he hadn’t possessed before, which led to the actions that sent him into his downfall.

  After his epic fuck-up, he had begged and pleaded with Regan to at least talk to him. Well, actually he had begged and pleaded with her voicemail. She wouldn’t return his phone calls, and she wouldn’t open the door to her apartment—except once when she threatened to call the police unless he left.

  Two weeks passed, and he found himself spiraling down into a dark and ugly place. It was only when she was gone that he realized Regan had become his anchor in his busy, demanding life of hard training, meeting with promoters, and the constant planning and strategizing that went along with an athlete trying to make it to the big time. He found himself drowning his sorrows in booze, which sent Max through the roof.

  “How in the fuck are you supposed to train for a fight if you can’t even get over your goddamned hangover?” he had screamed.

  With the alcohol came more lapses in judgment with women. A month after the catastrophe at his apartment, he was at Max’s gym trying to work out, but lacked the energy to put much effort into it. He sat on the e
dge of the ring, his head in his hands. A woman named Lila he had been with the night before dropped in, much to his displeasure. As he looked her over and took in her short stout body, long black hair, red claw-like fingernails, and overly made-up face colored in blues and reds, he felt like he needed a shower. When she started rubbing his shoulders, he wanted to cry and hit something all at once while Max stared daggers at him from the middle of the ring. He didn’t have the energy to tell her to go away, and he had to admit, the massage felt great as long as he didn’t think about who was giving it to him.

  Ten minutes later, the door opened and everyone turned. There stood Regan, her blonde hair windswept, her brown eyes sad. She said nothing, but stared at Dylan and gave a slight wave to Max.

  Dylan shot to his feet, his breath catching in his chest. The girl rubbing his shoulders grabbed on to his arm and asked, “Who’s that, baby?”

  He shut his eyes, willing her to get her claws off of him. Pulling his arm from her grasp, he walked toward Regan.

  “Dylan? What’s going on with her?” Lila asked.

  Regan’s eyes flitted from Lila to him, but still she said nothing.

  “Hi,” he said, stopping right in front of Regan. He remembered feeling like his heart might fly right out of his chest with happiness and hope at the sight of her.

  Lila had other ideas. She marched up to Regan and Dylan and laid her hand protectively on Dylan’s arm, digging her fingernails into his skin.

  “Are you going to introduce me?” she asked.

  Dylan couldn’t speak as Regan’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Fine. I’m Lila, Dylan’s girlfriend.”

  Dylan wanted to snap her neck. “No, you’re not,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “You could have fooled me last night, Dylan,” Lila purred.

  One tear ran down Regan’s cheek, and she turned to leave.

  “Regan, don’t! Please! Let me talk to you,” he begged as he disentangled himself from Lila.