Page 42 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

right on time

Reagan

“Give me a jab, cross, hook, cross, uppercut combo,” my coach says as I dance around the one-hundred-pound bag.

I do the combo, but he steps behind me after the first go, pulling my gloved hands back by my ears.

“Pretend there are magnets in your cheeks and in your gloves. Those gloves go right back after each punch. Starting your punch there will give you more power, for one, but keeping your gloves up will help protect your face.”

I nod and try the combo again, getting the bag to swing with the force of my punches. Wow, that’s satisfying. I go again and again until it starts to feel natural.

“Good job!” he says. “That was good work. Did it feel good?”

I nod, grinning. I’m five three and a buck-fifteen.

I’ve never been particularly athletic or strong or whatever, but boxing makes me feel like a total badass.

I honestly wish I’d learned it sooner, but this is good.

As my grandmother used to say, things come into your life “right on time.” I never really gave it much thought, but I guess she meant things happen just when they’re supposed to. Boxing included.

It's noisy in the gym, which I’m glad about because it gives me a sense of anonymity, like no one is paying me any attention. Which would very much freak me out, making me more self-conscious than I already am.

“There’s a lot of people in here, today,” I say.

Theo, my trainer, looks around and nods. “Yeah. More than usual but it’ll thin out. This is just the post-holiday New Year’s resolution swell. Most will come for a few weeks and then give it up.”

I snort at this. “I’ve never understood why people rush out to the gym just because it’s a new year. So weird.”

He shrugs. “Human nature. I ate too much during the holidays and I feel guilty, ergo I must show everyone on social media how committed I am to get back in shape.”

Theo has me switch to round kicks for a while. I’m getting better at them, but I keep hitting on my shin instead of the top of my foot. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” I mutter after hitting on my shinbone one too many times.

“Yes, it will, but you’ll get there.” He gives me an encouraging grin.

The next stop is the speed bag. As we walk, Theo pulls off my gloves. I notice a tall, dark-haired guy in the ring sparring with another one of the trainers. Muscled and broad-shouldered with really good hair.

And tattoos from his neck down to his gloves.

Probably all the way down to his fingers, if the rest of him is any clue.

Beautiful ink, and a lot of it.

He moves gracefully, his feet fast and light as he dances around, jabbing and ducking.

I watch for a minute or two, intrigued by him.

It’s hard to tell what he really looks like from this angle.

He’s wearing protective headgear and a mouth guard, neither of which makes anyone look particularly attractive.

However, the full-body fitness, the artful ink, and the dark locks give me a feeling the face won’t be a disappointment.

“Stop drooling and get to work. Thirty hits on each hand, then do a burpee in between.”

Theo steps away to grab something from the office while I work.

And by working, I mean making a total mess of my rhythm on the speed bag.

Fundamentally, I know I need to keep my rhythm of movement and a one-two-three count between hits.

But I keep losing it, hitting too hard. Hitting in the wrong spot. Forgetting the counts.

“Oof,” Theo comments as he strides back over. “Did you forget everything you learned last time, or is that guy over there frying your brain right now?”

“Sorry.” I frown and shake my head. “Can’t get it together today, I guess.”

“Take a water break, Reagan.” He points me to the bench where my water is.

I follow his directions, my gaze going back to linger on the big guy in the ring. “Do you know who he is?”

“Name’s Mikhail,” he says. “Plays hockey. Comes in to spar every once in a while.”

I hum a sound and even I’m not sure what it means. Theo just raises an eyebrow and shakes his head before telling me my water break’s over and to get back to the speed bag to finish up my workout.

Workout finished, I gather my stuff and shoulder my gym bag, heading outside into the mid-morning Las Vegas sun.

Which is hot and getting hotter as the minutes tick by.

I’m used to the desert heat now, but there was a time when I never thought I would.

The gym is less than a ten-minute walk from my apartment building, so I never bother with calling a ride.

After one block, though, I feel the presence of someone behind me, my hackles rising. I hold my head high and square my shoulders, refusing to look weak. Eventually, I get the courage to look behind me and…is that the guy from the gym, the one Theo said was Mikhail?

Mikhail sounds like it could be a Russian name to me.

But he wasn’t paying me any attention at all, so it can’t be.

I attempt to calmly tell myself it’s probably just a coincidence.

I take another glance as I quicken my pace. He’s got earbuds in, and he’s looking at his phone.

Not at me.

I try to keep my breathing under control and keep walking.

The past couple of years haven’t been great. The last couple weeks? Even worse. I work at one of the bigger casinos—Tangiers—and there was some trouble with one of the high rollers recently. His people think I did something I did not, and now I watch out for creeping Russian goons everywhere I go.

Hence, the boxing lessons.

So yeah, maybe it’s just a coincidence that a huge dude named Mikhail is following me down the street—call me paranoid or whatever—but I’m ready to pull out my pepper spray and give this guy a surprise.

I’ve always been a shy, quiet girl. A wallflower.

I’ve tried to stay out of the way, away from conflict.

But lately, I’ve simply hit my limit. I’m tired of being used, pushed around, and being scared out of my wits.

Aggression has never been my style. But now?

Now, I’m ready to defend myself. I refuse to be a victim.

My pulse is pounding in my chest as I walk, trying not to look terrified, trying not to run. I do not want to answer the same questions I’ve already answered several times already. I do not want some strutting thug up in my face, touching me, threatening me. I’m so sick of it.

As I walk into the door of my apartment building, I let out the breath I’ve been holding, but when I turn around, that same guy with all the tats who was sparring at the gym, is walking in behind me. Into my building.

I spin around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. His eyes go wide as I lash out. “Listen, creep, I told those guys I don’t know anything. So stop following me and go back to your master like the good dog you are.”

His face is totally open, shocked, mouth in an O, eyebrows up in the middle of his forehead. “Huh?” is all that comes out of him.

His shock rings truthful to me, but I’ve learned that some people are better actors than they are at being genuine humans; so even though my initial fright and anger have dissipated in this strange moment, I still say, “You’ve been following me for the past five blocks.

You were in the gym, but I’ve never seen you there before.

Then you happen to follow me all the way to my apartment building?

I don’t believe in coincidence these days.

So, I want you to know you can go back to your boss and tell him I don’t know anything and to leave me the hell alone! ”

The guy’s face has gone from shocked to incredulous. He’s easily a foot taller than me. Also, very hot…just as I suspected when I was watching him sparring. I shake my head and silently scold myself. I should not be admiring the “hotness” of a guy who may just work for a crime lord.

“Lady,” he says coolly, “I did just leave the gym and I did just walk here, but this is my apartment building. I live here.”

The hell?

The elevator opens, and I step in. The big guy—umm, “hockey player” per Theo—takes up the rest of the space as he pushes the button for the third floor at the same time that I reach out to push the button for five.

We ride in tense silence after the door closes us in together.

When the elevator doors open at three, he turns slightly and speaks, “Nice to meet you, I guess.” Then he proceeds to step out and heads down the hallway with long, purposeful strides.

I hold the door open and peek my head out, watching the back of him retreat until he stops at a door, produces a key, and enters an apartment.

I’m literally shaking as I step off two floors later for my own apartment.

I never get aggressive like that, but I’m so tired of feeling terrified each time a man approaches me.

Grabbing a Vitamin Water from the fridge, I sink into my favorite armchair and think about the whole weird encounter.

Theo said his name was Mikhail and he played hockey.

Now that my paranoia has subsided, I can admit he didn’t give off the same vibe as the other goons have lately.

I probably overreacted. I credit the boxing for making me feel so badass, though.

Which was the point of taking the lessons in the first place.

So I won’t feel entirely helpless if (when) I’m threatened.

Because it’s clear, they’re not just going to leave you alone because you told them to.

Now I feel a little badly for lashing out at the guy if he indeed was just trying to get home after a workout.

“Paranoid much?” I ask out loud with a bitter laugh.

That Sodorov jerkwad…I can’t let him get to me.

What angers me the most is that I did nothing wrong, and yet, this creep feels it’s okay to intimidate me.

Calm down, Reagan, you’re okay. You’re home safe.

After a few deep breaths and a quick pep talk, I call my mom. I need my anchor in the craziness that is my life—and thankfully, she doesn’t know I desperately need a shower and stink. Surprisingly, she answers on the first ring, her voice chirpy and cheerful.

Immediately wary, I say, “Hey, Mamma, how’s it going?”

My mom, Audrey, launches into a ten-minute story about how she met someone in her neighborhood who wants to start a community garden.

She tells me all about how much she used to love gardening (she didn’t) and how she can’t wait to get out there and get her hands in the dirt.

She can’t wait to see food grow from her own work.

It’s simultaneously exhausting and exhilarating to hear her talk about this new project, because she puts as much energy into telling the story as she might put into the actual work.

I have no idea why she has this sudden interest in gardening, a hobby she’s never engaged in, ever, in my whole life. In fact, she’s always said how she couldn’t even keep house plants alive. But this is my mother, and she seems happy for the moment, so I just let her talk.

She never really asks me how I am, but that’s the norm. I’d be more surprised if she did at this point.

I don’t tell her about Sodorov. I don’t tell her about the near-constant dread I’m living with every day now. I don’t tell her I’m hating my casino job but stuck working there anyway.

Stuck, truly…because of her. Her actions. Her decisions.

And I won’t tell her, because she’s my mom, and I’d do it all again if I had to. Instead, I let her talk herself out, finally saying goodnight, telling her I love her as I try to hold back tears.

“I love you, Bug,” she says in her sweet voice, using the nickname she’s had for me since I was a toddler.

I try to keep it together; I really do try. But I can feel a mini breakdown coming on as the pressure of the day and my spiraling emotions get the better of me.

When our call disconnects and I can hear the dial tone buzzing, I lose myself to the tears.

How did this become my life?