“I think that’s a pretty normal reaction, to be angry,” Henri said. “Your entire life changed last night because of his bad decision.”
Bailey nodded but said nothing, and as Henri continued to look at him, an idea formed—if Bailey was in the mood to leave the loft for a little while.
“Hey? You gotta be anywhere anytime soon?”
“No. I’ve been put on administrative leave until the case is cleared, whenever that is. Then, who knows.”
“So…” Henri brushed a kiss over the corner of Bailey’s lips. “What you’re saying is you’re mine to do with as I want for the foreseeable future.”
Bailey raised an eyebrow, but for the first time since they’d woken up, he smiled. “Is that what I said?”
“I mean, that’s what I heard.”
“Ahh, well. I guess that’s what I said, then.”
“Exactly. And I have a plan.”
Bailey’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Henri rolled away and sat up on the edge of the bed. “Should I be worried?”
Henri looked over his shoulder. The covers had fallen down and were resting over Bailey’s hips, and as Henri thought over his plan, he couldn’t help but run his eyes over all the smooth skin covering Bailey’s spectacularly built chest.
“You shouldn’t be. But ask me if I am when we get there.”
Chapter Twelve
CONFESSION
There’s something so cathartic and hot
about getting rough and sweaty with the right guy.
“BOXING?” BAILEY STEPPED through the grimy glass doors that had Frank’s Boxing Gym peeling off them and took in the large open space in front of him. When Henri said he had an idea of something that might take Bailey’s mind off things today, this was the last thing he’d expected. But as he walked further inside the gym, Bailey realized it was absolutely perfect.
The pungent smell of lemon cleaning supplies and sweat hit his nose, and Bailey felt his lips curve. This was like a big, warm hug.
Directly off to the left were two rows of punching bags suspended from steel beams—there were a couple guys making hard jabs at them—and at the end of those were several freestanding reflex bags and a sparring BOB for practice.
At the far end was a boxing ring, and there were red and black sparring mats off to the side for warm-up and practice. The ring was center stage, the heart and soul of the place, and it called to Bailey just as it had the first time he’d ever seen one at the annual Chicago PD vs. Chicago FD boxing tournament.
That year his father had won the championship cup for his station. Slammin’ Sam, they’d called him after that, a name that eventually became tragically ironic.
But Bailey wasn’t about to go there right now. He had enough on his plate without adding that as the cherry on top, so instead he focused on the gesture.
“This is perfect.” Bailey looked back to Henri. “How did you know?”
Henri gave a modest shrug. “Lucky guess, that’s all.”
Bailey doubted that. Henri had been listening, paying attention, because one of the things Bailey remembered mentioning briefly in passing was that he liked to box to keep in shape. He also did it to unwind, something Henri had clearly clued in to.
“Well, you guessed right. This is exactly what I need.” Bailey ran his gaze down Henri’s tall frame, and remembered Henri’s joke about being worried about what they were going to do today. “You ever done this before?”
Henri walked over, his eyes drifting past Bailey’s shoulder to the ring. “Not often. But I’ve been in a ring a few times. I’m thinking I can hold my own with you.”
The spark in Henri’s eyes made Bailey’s stomach flip, and he gave himself permission to forget everything that had happened in the last twelve hours and instead think about the last time he’d been with Henri. When they’d been planning their two days together after setting his kitchen on fire.
Bailey took another look at the ring behind him. “You think so, huh?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Bailey nodded. He’d never been able to resist a challenge, especially when it came to boxing. “True enough. Bring it on.”
Ten minutes later, they’d paid for a day pass and changed into the clothes Henri had brought from home. Bailey was in a pair of black sweats and a white tank, and Henri was in the same, but all black, of course. The Nikes Bailey had worn to the station worked out perfectly, though he would’ve preferred his lightweight shoes for a workout/sparring match. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and with all the years he’d been doing this, a pair of shoes wasn’t going to make or break him against someone who’d done this maybe once or twice before.
Not that it matters who wins. Oh, who am I kidding? With the way I broke down this morning, is it so much to ask that I be able to kick a little ass here this afternoon?