Page 23 of Tinsel & Chrome
Larissa
The gym in the clubhouse smells like sweat, old leather, and determination. It’s quieter than the rest of the place, and that’s exactly why I came here. I need space. I need to breathe.
My fists pound against the heavy bag, each punch sending a jolt through my already sore body. It hurts, but I welcome it. Pain is simpler than emotions. It doesn’t twist or confuse you. It just is. And right now, it’s better than letting my thoughts spiral.
Better than thinking about Tex.
Too bad. You’re getting saved anyway.
The way he said it, like I’m some damsel in distress who can’t handle herself, made me want to scream. I didn’t survive years with an abusive asshole just to have some smug enforcer act like I’m helpless. Tex doesn’t know me like he thinks he does. He never has.
“Your form’s sloppy.”
I whirl around to find Tex leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and that damn smirk on his face. The bastard’s been watching me.
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,”
I snap, turning back to the bag. My fists connect with a satisfying thud.
Tex chuckles, the sound low and rough.
“Just saying, if you’re gonna throw a punch, make it count. Otherwise, you’re wasting energy.”
The audacity of this man. I pause, wiping sweat off my brow with the back of my hand.
“What do you want, Tex? You here to lecture me on my technique?”
“Thought you might want a sparring partner,”
he says, stepping into the room. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s giving me a chance to kick him out. As if I could stop him if I tried.
“I’m fine on my own.”
“Yeah, I can see that,”
he says, eyeing the bag with a raised brow.
“But you’re not hitting it right. Let me show you.”
He’s already peeling off his cut and setting it aside. Before I can argue, he’s standing in front of me, his hands up.
“Come on, princess. Hit me.”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Tex.”
“Good,”
he says, his voice dropping a notch.
“Neither am I.”
Something about the way he says it makes my pulse skip. My eyes flick to his hands—strong, scarred, steady. He’s not taunting me, not really. He’s giving me an outlet. And dammit, I need one.
“Fine,”
I say, stepping closer.
“But don’t cry when I break your nose.”
His grin widens.
“That’s the spirit.”
I throw the first punch, aiming for his smug face. He sidesteps easily, catching my wrist and twisting me just enough to throw me off balance. I recover quickly, aiming a jab at his ribs, but he blocks it, his palm brushing against my knuckles.
“You’re pulling your punches,”
he says, his breath warm against my ear.
“Afraid to hurt me?”
I grit my teeth, frustration boiling over.
“Not in the slightest.”
This time, I go for his jaw, putting everything I have into the punch. He catches my arm again, but instead of twisting, he uses the momentum to pull me off balance. I stumble, and before I know it, I’m pinned against the wall, his body pressing against mine.
The air shifts. The playful banter is gone, replaced by something darker, heavier. His hands are on my wrists, holding me in place, but his grip isn’t bruising. It’s firm, controlled. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, matching the heat in his gaze.
“Still think you don’t need saving?”
he murmurs, his voice low and rough.
I glare at him, refusing to back down.
“I think you like pretending I’m weaker than I am.”
His lips twitch, but there’s no smirk this time.
“I know exactly how strong you are, Larissa. That’s the problem.”
For a moment, I forget how to breathe. The weight of his words, the way he’s looking at me—like he sees every jagged piece of me and doesn’t care if they cut him—makes my chest tighten.
I shove at him, and to my surprise, he lets me go. I take a step back, trying to steady my racing pulse.
“You don’t know me, Tex. Not anymore.”
“Maybe not,”
he says, his gaze never leaving mine.
“But I’m willing to learn.”
And just like that, he turns and walks out, leaving me standing there, breathless and furious—and maybe just a little intrigued.