I push the image of his muscled body and chiseled jaw from my mind and finish washing the bits of plaster and dust from my hair. Anything to keep my hands busy and far away from the ache between my legs. There’s no way in hell I’m giving him the satisfaction of rubbing one out to his memory.
Instead of remembering Nikolai, I let my mind wander to the shithole my grandad allowed this club to become. With my mom dying when I was just a baby, my entire life has been based around boxing. My grandad boxed when he was younger, my dad boxed until he got too old and fat and drunk to do it, and it was only natural that I took it up as well.
Had my dad been able to tolerate his own father, it’s possible I would’ve run into the infamous Russian boxing club, but two male O’Connors living in the same town is unheard of, so when I was little, my dad moved us a few hours away. Boxing was still all he ever talked about, and the local boxing club was like my second home. It was inevitable that I would be drawn to the sport. Naturally, they laughed their asses off at the idea of a female boxer in the family, but it just made me train twice as hard until eventually I was allowed to spar with the guys. When I proved I could hold my own, they stopped laughing, but they still never treated me as an equal.
Finding out that my grandad had been arrested for murder should have shocked me a lot more than it had, but the truth is, he was always a wicked, old bastard. With my dad’s death last year, I was the only relative left for him to sign the business over to. As shitty as he is, not even he could stomach signing over to anyone who wasn’t blood related, and whatever distant relatives we still had in Ireland, none had been willing to pick up and move here to inherit a rundown boxing club that was losing more and more money with each passing month.
I’d been the only O’Connor idiot willing to do it, but I’m determined to make this work. I have to. I’m putting everything into this boxing club, and, I remind myself, I sold the house I grew up in, so it really is sink or swim, and I’m not going down without a fight.
Turning off the water, I grab a towel and look around at the gym’s locker room. This place could really be amazing if I can get it all fixed up the way I want. For now, it has everything I need to survive. I do miss having a kitchen, though.
Throwing on some pajamas, I brush my teeth and make sure everything is good and locked up before crawling under the covers. Every muscle aches from swinging that damn sledgehammer all day, but at least I knocked down the wall I needed to. Turning on the small lamp I put by the bed, I reach for my guilty pleasure—a paperback highland romance. It’s really the only time I truly embrace my roots. Some of my relatives are Scottish, so it does still count.
Snuggling down, I get lost in the historical romance, but when my eyes get too heavy to keep open and I start to drift off to sleep, it’s not a Scottish brogue I hear whispering in my ear, but a sexy Russian accent spoken by a man with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
I wake the next morning with a stiff neck, a vague memory of an intense sex dream starring Nikolai, clawing at the corners of my mind, and the miserable realization that I have a full day of work ahead of me. Never one to lay around and feel sorry for myself, I throw back the covers and hobble to my makeshift kitchen that consists of a table with a microwave, a toaster oven, and a Keurig balanced on top of my mini fridge. What else could a single, twenty-one-year-old want?
After a hot cup of coffee and a bagel, I start to feel somewhat human again and change into my work clothes. Turning up the kick-ass ‘80s list I made for just such an occasion, I get to work on taking down the old, torn-up punching bags and clearing out all the debris from yesterday’s demolition project.
Several grueling hours later, my growling stomach forces me to take a lunch break. I dig out a small frozen pizza and pop it in the toaster oven before grabbing my laptop. I tell myself I’m just going to do some research on the area, but as soon as my fingers hit the keyboard I’m typingNikolai Sokolovinto the search bar.
Scrolling through the list of things that pop up, I’m disappointed by the lack of information. I click on a link that’s from an old news article about the opening of the Arctic Fox nightclub. I quickly scan the article, eager for any news I can find. My eyes are immediately drawn to a photo of two insanely gorgeous men. I recognize Nikolai’s brooding scowl and realize the guy next to him must be Dmitri, the man I’d seen carrying a baby out of the club the day I’d driven past them and nearly wrecked. Nikolai is just a bit taller, and his eyes are as dark as Dmitri’s are blue. Both look intimidating as hell, and the large scar running down Dmitri’s chin isn’t making them look any friendlier. They’re standing inside a nightclub that looks to be packed, and there’s a swarm of scantily clad Russian beauties standing around them, all of them wearing very tight-fitting tops that say, “Arctic Fox,” across their ample chests. I push aside the ridiculous spike of jealousy that rushes through me at seeing the beautiful blonde leaning into him and read the caption.
Dmitri Volkov, owner of the Red Wolf boxing club, standing beside his business partner Nikolai Sokolov on opening night of the Arctic Fox.
Other than that, there isn’t any information about Nikolai. The man has zero social media and aside from a few small mentions about a new youth boxing club that Dmitri and his wife Gina opened about a year ago, there isn’t anything. I can’t decide if I’m pleased or pissed. I think about it while I eat my lunch, not letting myself think too hard about why I left my computer open to the photo of Nikolai, or why I felt the need to magnify it.
There’s no harm in admiring something so damn beautiful. I could easily be staring at a piece of art. Of course, I’ve yet to find a painting that makes my panties wet, but I push that worrisome thought aside and finish my lunch. The rest of the day is spent working on the club, and by the time the sun sets, I’m filthy and in desperate need of a drink and a proper meal.
While I shower I think about the club I’d read about. The reviews for it are excellent, and it is Saturday night. Just because Nikolai is involved with it doesn’t mean I can’t go there and have a good time. I deserve a drink after all this hard work, and in one of the reviews they said they have the best cheeseburgers in town. Besides, maybe I’ll find some hot guy to flirt and dance with. I need a distraction to take my mind off the Russian I can’t seem to get out of my head.
This is one of the many times in my life that I wish I had a friend I could talk to. None of the girls I went to high school with wanted to hang out with the weird girl who liked to box, and none of the guys wanted to date a girl who could kick their ass. It was a really awesome four years, and after graduation nothing changed. I worked a job I hated and hung out at the boxing club anytime I wasn’t at work, and now I’m here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to continue on like this.
I’m determined to make this place my home and to make this club a success. With that in mind, I look at my sad assortment of clothing still bunched up in the open suitcase laying on the floor by my bed. I’m not much of a dress person, so I settle on a pair of skinny jeans and a snug, black sweater that I’ve always thought looked good on me. There’s no helping the black sneakers, because it’s either that or a pair of snow boots, but I add a pair of dangling, silver earrings hoping that might make up for it.
After a light dusting of makeup, I shove my ID and some money in my back pocket and lock up the gym before I lose my nerve. The drive to the club doesn’t take too long, and I quickly find a spot in the parking garage across the street. I’m doing okay until I see the long line weaving down the sidewalk outside the club. All of a sudden, I feel underdressed, absolutely ridiculous, and painfully, obviously alone.
If I didn’t have my heart set on a big, juicy cheeseburger, I would’ve just hightailed it out of there. Oh well, it’s not like I’m a stranger to awkward. I get in line behind a group of young women who were clearly the most popular girls in school. They spare me a small, passing glance before turning back to their conversation.
“Oh my God, Chelsea said she saw him here last night, and he was totally into her,” the one in a miniskirt so short I doubt it actually qualifies as clothes says.
The only brunette in the group barks out a laugh. “Please, Chelsea had her head in the toilet all night last night. She always thinks everyone is into her when she’s that drunk.”
Miniskirt responds with a huff and a “Whatever, she said she sat at the bar and talked to Nikolai, and I believe her.” She lets out an honest-to-God giggle and says, “I wonder if he’ll be here tonight. I’d love to have a chance at him.”
The others join in, laughing while I stand there wanting to punch someone. The line feels like a never-ending crawl, but finally the giggling group in front of me is standing before a very large bouncer who doesn’t look all that pleased to have to wait while they dig out their IDs from their useless, tiny purses.
He scans the IDs before looking over them at me. “Where is ID?” he asks in a thick Russian accent.
“Oh, she’s not with us,” miniskirt says, and I frown at the nasty tone of her voice.
The bouncer takes their money and waves them in before holding his hand out for the ID that I have ready and waiting. My reward is the smallest, fastest smile I’ve ever seen as he grabs my license to check that I’m over eighteen. When he sees my name, he lifts his dark eyes back up to mine and studies me for a second.
“You own Irish club now?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking back my ID. Damn, word travels quickly around here.
There’s an amused look in his eyes when he waves me in and says, “Enjoy,” before turning to the group behind me, ignoring my own cover charge. I thank him and make my way inside, wondering what in the hell Nikolai told all his pals about me. Refusing to be intimidated, I square my shoulders and weave through the packed nightclub, trying to make my way to the crowded bar.