Grounds for Divorce (10 page)
She inched her way to the restaurant doors without telling anyone. No one paid her any mind, though three of the waiters smoking outside did go remarkably still when she passed by. It was a very deer in the headlights sort of response, but Imogen didn’t stop to revel in the brief and slightly perverse power trip.
She had borrowed Russell’s battered Buick to attend the wedding and though it smelled slightly of potato chips and minty air-freshener, hearing the engine purr to life was music to her ears. With a belch of exhaust eddying up in her wake, she was off. There would be other weddings for her mother to twist the knife at her leisure and, after that, wedding showers, baptisms, funerals. The list went on.
Imogen pulled the bowtie loose from around her neck and popped the top buttons on her starched shirt. Finding formal wear that fit her body type was hard enough. The sheer thought of having to shop for a cocktail dress had nearly broken her out in hives. The suit had been a practical alternative. She could rejoice in the good deal. The event itself was always going to be a bust.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot outside the aptly named
Espina Fitness and Gym
with a screech of tires. The Buick lurched to a stop and Imogen slid back her seat, prying her shirt undone with deft fingers. She’d sooner die than walk into the gym done up like a goddamn clown. There were standards everywhere. Russell would never let her live it down.
“Must’ve been some wedding if that’s how you went,” he said when Imogen stomped into the office with car keys in hand.
Imogen cocked her hip, tilting her head with a smirk. “Are you eyeballing me, Mister? Now what would the rulebook have to say about that, I wonder…”
He didn’t stand up to greet her, but even seated Russell Espina was all tight-laced strength and had a scowl to put her mother’s to shame. He had been a fighter in his day and the physique remained even if he’d cut down on the hours he spent lifting. “Did they have a big, fat spread, at least?”
“Everything from chocolate eggs to spanakopita. Oh, and caviar. And the cake—”
“What about the cake?” Russell asked, pressing his full, red lips into a tight line.
Imogen knew what was coming. She’d heard the lecture before and she’d tried to fight it with reasoned arguments about how her body was her own to do with as she pleased. Experience had taught her that it wouldn’t fly. “I don’t know,” she shot back, beaming. “I didn’t have any. And no champagne, either.” She had toasted the happy couple with water, like a teenager.
Russ received the news with a tip of the head. “You’re still banged up,” he drawled, neither praise nor reprimand, just a fact of life.
He always put the work first, no matter how Imogen tried to rile him.
She spun the keychain around her index finger, shrugging. “It’s just cosmetic. Doesn’t bother me when I move.”
The match two days ago had been a clean win, but her upper body had taken a beating. She wasn’t lying about the pain being manageable. Her joints barely ached and she was confident she’d pull another rabbit out of the hat tonight, the better to prove to Russell that he had made a wise investment.
He didn’t seem convinced as he pried the toothpick from his mouth and tapped it against the desk. “No weights today. Warm up and then a twenty-minute spar. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” Imogen couldn’t help a disbelieving note from slithering into her voice. “But I told you I’m fine—”
“And I’m your coach,” Russell said. “Do we need to go through the ‘who does what’ again?”
Imogen glared, tossing Russ’ car keys to the desk. “No,” she sighed, grudgingly giving in.
He snagged the keys with a big, meaty hand and tossed them into a drawer. There was little chance that they wouldn’t go missing amid the pervasive clutter that crowded Russell’s office. “Good,” he said curtly. “Get some ice on that elbow before you get in the ring.”
“Careful,” Imogen sing-songed as she made her way down the metal stairs. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to think you’re sweet on me!”
The gym was sparsely populated at this hour and a few heads turned to watch her progress between weights and sandbags to the locker rooms. She knew all the familiar faces—the weekend warriors, the bodybuilders who did porn on the side—and it had been some time since she’d felt anxious under their scrutiny. As for newbies, there really weren’t any.
Espina Fitness and Gym
had seen its halcyon days sometime in the mid-nineties, like most of the fighting circuit in the Windy City. Everything since was just an exercise in pig-headedness.
Imogen splashed water onto her face in the locker room, as though that could erase the crawling sensation of not fitting into her skin. When she glanced up, the woman staring back at her was ashen, her bushy eyebrows in bad need of plucking. She was a far cry from marriage material.
“Well, tough,” Imogen breathed. She had better things to do.
About the Author
Helena Maeve has always been globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she’s collected in her excursions. When she isn’t writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Email:
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Helena loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.totallybound.com
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