Page 13 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

J ust like Callahan said, my bags were sitting behind the couch in my sitting room. After being surrounded by all the wealth of the Keane residence for the last twelve hours, it makes the pitiful three bags of clothes seem inferior. I grimace. Cohen plops down on the couch and pulls out his phone.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I say as I grab the handles of the three bags and waddle over to the bedroom.

Cohen waves me off from where he lounges. “Take your time. I’ve got nothing else to do with my day.” He never looks up from his phone.

Right. Babysitter .

I bump the door open with my hip, and shut it behind me with my foot. My bags land in front of the wooden chest at the end of my bed with a faint thud .

Unzipping the worn blue gym bag, I pull out its contents.

At the bottom of the bag remains my trainers, along with some towels, tape, and icy hot patches, which I leave in the canvas bag.

I stuff the rest of the gym clothes into a dresser drawer, one not filled with another woman’s underwear.

Then I pick a random top and a pair of leggings to throw on, along with a pair of socks and my sneakers.

At the thought of the used panties of whichever woman lived in this room before me, my face floods with heat.

In an act I can only describe as irrational, I yank open the drawer and scoop out all the underwear, then march over to the bathroom and toss them in the small trashcan.

It overflows immediately, spilling her underwear onto the floor.

Fuck. I bend down and shove the underwear to fit the trashcan, until all that’s left is a mountain of another woman’s silk.

I stomp out of the bathroom and return to my task at hand. Working on autopilot, I hurriedly French braid my hair to keep it out of my face. Jude taught me very early on just how easily an opponent can use it against you.

In my pocket, a ding chimes. Without thinking, I slip out my phone and check the screen. Six missed calls and at least ten text messages from Leon, getting progressively more aggressive with each text: Loren …Followed by: Call me, Lo. This is serious. All the way to: What have you done?

Why would Leon care so much about my life?

Hudson made it clear that I used up the last of my goodwill with the Bianchi family when he helped me get the wristband for Abstrakt.

My shoulders tighten as I grind my jaw, frustrated with the audacity some men have.

It’s impossible to live up to their contradictory expectations, and when I finally take things into my own hands, somehow it’s the worst thing I could do.

His words swirl in the back of my mind, but I refuse to let him sink his misplaced anger into me. Shaking off the texts, I clear the messages and mute his contact so I won’t be notified the next time he tries to reach me .

When I’m done, I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and exit my room. Cohen looks up from his phone, and his eyes narrow.

“I thought you said this was a social appointment.”

I press my lips into a thin line to hide my amusement. Jude would fucking die if he knew I was using him as an excuse to get out of my newfound gilded cage. But alas, my frayed nerves mean I’ll need to punch something besides Cal’s face if I have to sit on my hands while he searches for Mason.

“Yes, it is a social appointment. At the gym.”

“You know we have a full gym in the basement, right?”

I didn’t, but that is handy information. I shrug. “Your gym doesn’t have what I need.”

Cohen huffs a laugh. “You haven’t even seen it, so how would you know?”

When we pull up to Strikers, I get the distinct pleasure of seeing Cohen’s face light up.

“You kickbox?” His words are disbelieving, but his tone tells me he’s impressed.

“For about eight years now. Jude is my instructor, and I’m here a few times a month.”

Cohen nods, eyes sparkling with interest as we walk into the gym.

It’s in a warehouse, with four rings in the center of the space.

There are dummies, bags, weights, and smaller spaces lining the walls where people can train independently.

The distinct and familiar smell of rubber, powder, and sweat wraps around me.

“Hi, Loren!” Jenna waves from the front desk.

She’s tied the top half of her shoulder-length blonde hair into two buns atop her head, and her round cheeks are flushed.

She probably just finished her workout—a perk to working at the front desk at a gym.

And being married to its owner. Jenna and Jude have such an insane story that when she first told me how they met, I was in utter disbelief.

It happened all under my nose, too. Granted, Jude and I hadn’t really shared anything personal by that point, so why would he tell me about his love life?

Now, we make Jude our designated driver whenever Jenna, Alice, and I have a girls’ night out.

“Hey, lady. He in a sour mood still?” Jude wasn’t thrilled when I told him what I was doing.

Between shots of tequila and a few Irish car bombs, I finally spilled what had me in such a funk.

Well, Jenna had done most of the probing, but Jude listened to each slurred word, his face reddening either from the liquor or the information.

Something tells me it was the latter. But then he surprised me when he shared just how much he knew about this world, and he spent the better part of an entire session last week trying to talk me out of it.

Apparently, he’s got connections he could’ve asked for help, but they were on the other side of the country.

I informed him I didn’t have that sort of time to wait, and he stormed out of our last session.

This is my first session back, and we haven’t spoken since.

Jenna’s face scrunches, which that tells me all I need to know. Then she glances to my left, where Cohen stands silently. He fits right in with his tactical gear, and his eyes scan the gym.

“Jenna, this is Cohen Graves. My personal bodyguard for the time being.”

Jenna’s brows shoot to her hairline, but she quickly recovers and extends a hand to Cohen, who shakes it once .

“Bodyguard, huh?” Then she turns her blue gaze to me. “Thought you could take care of yourself just fine. Or what have you been doing for the past decade?”

I huff a laugh and shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s not really my choice. At least he’s pretty to look at.”

Jenna eyes Cohen up and down and grins. “That’s very true,” she says with a wink.

“Any chance you’d be interested in teaching self-defense classes here?

Even with the recent…abductions”—Jenna visibly winces—“trying to get women to sign up for classes is next to impossible. Having some eye candy as an instructor might help fill out our classes, but our trainers are stretched thin as it is.”

Cohen’s face reddens, and a blush creeps over the ridge of his nose and tips of his ears. He opens his mouth to speak, but an even grumpier man cuts him off.

“You realize I’m standing right here, woman?” Jude says as he appears from the doorway of the office.

“Oh, I’m aware.” Jenna turns back to her computer, a smug smirk painted on her face.

I don’t hide my snicker.

Jude turns to me to glower. “You’re late.” He stalks off into the cavernous warehouse.

I roll my eyes. “No, I’m not,” I call after him, then turn to Cohen. “I’ll be done in an hour.”

With that, I leave Cohen behind and trail after Jude. When I catch up to him at the ring, I reach into my bag to grab the tape for my wrists. As I pull the roll out, I freeze. I’d completely forgotten about the rock on my left hand .

As if Jude hears my thoughts, his gaze zeroes in on my ring finger, and he scoffs. I slip the ring off and toss it unceremoniously into my bag.

“You know, the normal reaction is to send a gift or even just say congratulations,” I say with slight irritation bleeding through my words.

I know Jude wanted to help, but I’m a grown fucking woman.

And Callahan was my best bet to find Mason, so if marrying him is what it took, then that’s what I was going to do.

Why did I have to keep justifying my actions?

I finish taping my hands and shove them into my gloves, then slide under the rope and enter the ring.

“A normal reaction to your friend marrying one of the most dangerous men in Roswell is to tell that friend they’re being a fucking idiot.” Jude stuffs his hands into his pads and throws them up for my warmup. He levels me with a stony stare. “And you’re being a fucking idiot.”

My first punch takes him off guard, and he absorbs the impact with a muffled grunt.

“And you’re being an asshat.” I throw another punch, this time with less force. I’m not trying to pull a muscle just because I’m getting pissed at one of my longest friends.

We fall into a familiar routine, and before long, we’re sparring.

I refuse to speak, instead channeling my frustration with Jude, with Callahan, with Mason, with everyone into my workout.

Sweat trickles down my spine and over my temple, stinging my eye as it drips.

I hiss and swipe an arm over my forehead.

Jude pauses, his chest heaving and sweat darkening his gray muscle tee.

My breath is labored, the physical exertion having lessened my animosity. Though only a fraction.

Jude readies himself to go again, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he approaches me. Then he just has to open his fucking mouth. “I’d rather be the asshat, as you’ve so lovingly described, and face your wrath, than have you die because nobody told you that you were making a fucking mistake.”

I’m suspended, the fervor of his words stunning me just long enough to fully evade his right hook. It lands on my ribs. A whoosh escapes me and I double over, cradling an arm around my torso, but the ache piercing my chest is a vestige of his words, not his blow.