Текст книги "Against the Ropes"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER

21

His initial instinct had been to avoid. Distract, duck, evade and maneuver his way out of the conversation that led to him confessing his entire ugly childhood. He didn’t want to go there willingly.

But as Reagan deepened the kiss, pressing into him, his motive turned from distraction to . . . oh, who the hell cared what his motives were? There was a smoking hot woman on his lap and she was kissing him senseless. Motives be damned.

“God, you do the best things to my body,” she said, gasping when he nipped at her ear. And when she started to pull the tank up and over her head, she was grinning. She threw the fabric to the armchair and arched her back as he took one nipple into his mouth. His hands rubbed down her bare back, loving the feel of her soft, smooth skin. The arc of her body was almost artistic as she rested her hands on his knees behind her.

He was crazy for this woman.

Slipping one hand inside the waistband of her sweats, he squeezed her ass. No panties. Perfect. She wriggled, but made no move to help him out with the sweatpants like she had the tank. So, he’d just do it himself. He walked that hand, those fingers, around to the front, where she giggled as he pressed into her stomach momentarily before finding her center. Parting her, he found the exact spot he wanted by touch alone and rubbed at her clit.

“Oh . . .” She rubbed against his hand. “Yes, please yes.”

“Like I’d say no to you,” he growled, moving to pay attention to her other breast. Her hands squeezed hard on his knees in response. She was still arched back, offering herself to him in every way possible.

After just a few flicks, a couple of caresses, she exploded against his hand. Her body raised up and then over him, pressing him deeper into the couch as he helped extend her orgasm as long as he could. Thighs pressed against thighs, skin against skin, and he was ready to throw her down, rip her pants off and plunge into her with all the grace and elegance of a water buffalo.

But she finally stilled, gripped his wrist to pull his hand from the waistband of her sweats, and climbed off with a secret smile. “Come to bed.”

“What’s wrong with the couch?” he protested, following along easily. He liked a bed as much as anyone else, but there were other ways to make love. Creativity and variety added a dash of something else to the mix.

“It’s a nice couch, and I paid good money for it, that’s why.” She grinned as she entered her bedroom, then hopped out of her bottoms. “The bed’s more comfortable, and less likely to be wrecked when I attack you.”

“Attack me, eh?” He pulled his own shirt over his head and tossed it, working on the buckle of his belt before she could say more. “Sounds exciting.”

“Hopefully.” She chewed on her bottom lip a moment, and he immediately dropped what he was doing and walked to her.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. I can’t wait to have you again. Whether it’s slow and sweet or fast and sweaty, I’m going to be inside you in the next two minutes, and it’s going to be damn good. Because it’s with you, and there’s no other way for it to be.”

Her eyes closed briefly, and he wasn’t sure if she were composing herself or convincing herself. But either way, when her eyelids lifted, it was determination and anticipation he saw in those beautiful brown depths, not trepidation.

Picking her up with a squeal, he tossed her on the bed and jumped on top of her. He reached into her nightstand and fished around for one of the condoms they’d thrown in there the evening before. Then he stood, shucked his jeans and donned the protection. He slithered back on bed and rolled them so she was on top, straddling him.

“Off you go.”

She glared at him. “Off I go? What, like I’m a racehorse now?”

“No,” he said slowly, enjoying himself more than he could ever remember before. “But I’d been ready for some girl-on-top sex on the couch, and you deprived me of it. I think it’s only fair you make up for it now.”

Her scowl was adorable, and totally unbelievable. “Make up for it, hmm?” Grasping him with her hand, she squeezed once, and he swore he saw stars behind his eyelids. “You want me on top, riding you, like we were on the couch? You want me to do all the work, so you can watch me bounce around?”

“Yes, please.” He grinned when her annoyed look only darkened further. “Bounce away!”

She positioned herself over him, slid down his length, taking him entirely. He moaned, knowing she liked the sound of reassurance. “There we go. God, that’s good. You’re amazing, Reagan.”

She huffed.

“A goddess. Temptress.” She pulsed around him without moving a muscle. “Ah . . . siren. Pick a noun, it’s yours.”

She rocked, just a little. “Let’s try tease.”

His eyes flew open. “No, please. Back to goddess. That was a good one.” When she simply stared at him, unmoving, he added, “Reagan, please move.”

“I’m not in a very bouncing mood currently. But maybe just a little . . .” She squeezed and rolled an inch. The smile she shot him was sharp. “You did say you wanted me to do all the work. Me on top, riding you. I get to pick the pace. Girl on Top’s prerogative.”

“Dammit!” He swore, then reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. She complied easily, meeting his thrusting tongue. But her hips stayed irritatingly still, minus little pulses just random enough in tempo to keep him guessing.

“C’mon baby,” he whispered as he worked down her jaw to her neck. “You can pick the speed—” He gritted his teeth when she pulsed around him, rolling forward and back quickly before stopping with a cheeky grin. “You can pick the motion, anything.” His hands glided over the smoothness of her spine, around her hips, to where they were joined. She sucked in a breath, but stayed stubborn. “Maybe this will help?”

He fought for his most contrite look when she reared back and glared at him. But as his fingers played through her intimate curls, then found and played with her folds, her eyes closed as if in unbelievable pleasure. He removed his hand, and her hips rocked forward to find his fingers once more. He did it again, playing for a moment then removing, and she moved without thinking, seeking his touch. Then her eyes popped open, aware of the game he played.

“You suck,” she bit out, thrusting again. “You suck so bad.”

“But you like it.” He grasped her hips, pulled her hip a bit, then let her naturally slide back down. Their twin groans were in harmony. “Let’s do this, Reagan.”

As if those words unlocked her willingness, she started to move. Slow at first, then gradually picking up steam. Relief at finally having a pace he could match, could anticipate was quickly covered by the realization he was going to come way faster than her.

Those little pulses and quick thrusts, frustrating as they were, had done a number on him.

“Not so fast,” he muttered, finding her clit once more with his thumb.

“You wanted fast. You begged for fast.” She let the motion of their hips rock her, and she arched back, face tilted to the ceiling. She was a goddess. “Now you want me to slow down?”

“No, I . . . forget it.” He pinched her between two fingers. From the way she tightened around him, he’d found what she wanted. “You do whatever you want, baby. Your show.”

“You say that now, after you manipulated me to—oh!” She shot up straight as an arrow, looking down at him. “Do that again.”

With a grin, he did. She fell forward until her hands landed beside his shoulders. “I’ll pay you a million dollars to never stop . . . never stop . . . that.”

“For you, Reagan, I’ll do it for free.” He didn’t stop, until neither of them could slow down the inevitable climax that gripped them both.

Spent, she draped over him, their sweat causing a suction of skin to skin along their bellies.

“Bouncing,” she grumbled, biting his collarbone. He yelped, because she wanted him to, and smacked a hand over her ass playfully.

“You do wonderful work in that department, baby.”

*   *   *

GREG was currently hogging the shower—and all the hot water for the day. Reagan debated a moment fighting him for it—ha! like she’d win that one—then gave up. Let him have the hot water. She’d go surf online for a bit. Maybe dig up some dirt on Mr. David Cruise that would have him begging forgiveness.

Probably not. But it was a nice thought, at least for the moment.

She sat down at her computer, tapped a finger to the mouse pad to illuminate the screen, then just stared at it for a moment. There was nothing pressing, at least not yet. But it wouldn’t hurt to get started on another round of positive campaign ideas. Maybe something about the yoga lessons. She could work that into making the boxing team sound more gentle and nurturing . . . you know, when they weren’t beating the crap out of others inside the ring.

Her phone vibrated beside the laptop, and she glanced at the readout. Mom. Before she could even think twice, she sent the call straight to voicemail.

Two minutes later, she received a text from her younger brother, Dale, who was three years behind her.

Dale: Answer mom’s call. I’m sick of listening to her bitch about it.

A few moments later, the phone vibrated with another call from her mother. She hesitated, checked to make sure Greg was still in the shower, then answered.

“Mom? Everything okay?”

“Well, you answered this time.” Huffing out a breath, her mother sounded like a wheezing chew toy that had the squeaker ripped out. “Figured you’d send me to your answering machine again.”

She recognized that tone. No, there was no problem. Just her own mother’s impatience and belief that there was nothing more important in this world than your mama’s call. “It’s a cell phone, Mom. No answering machine, just voice mail.”

Reagan could actually visualize the eye roll her mother was now performing in Wisconsin.

“Never mind that. Tell me how things are going.”

“Going good. Everything’s good. I’m . . . good,” she finished, then winced. That wasn’t even remotely believable.

And her mother, using the maternal intuition that must be created along with the hormones in pregnancy, caught on immediately. “Reagan Marie Robilard, tell me right now what’s going on.”

She could lie. It wasn’t as if her mother were going to know the difference. If she lied and said all was fine, or hedged and gave half-truths, she could make it out of the phone conversation without bleeding.

That’s wrong. You just mentally scolded Greg for not being up front with you. Start taking your own advice. Don’t hide from your own mother. Maybe this time, she’ll surprise you.

“Well,” she said, fingers nervously tapping on the desktop, “I’ve had some trouble with my job recently.”

“Trouble?” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just . . . stuff. Vandalism issues with the team, which aren’t my fault of course. But I’m struggling to keep everyone and everything together, and keep the PR spun the right way. There’s a reporter who can smell blood, and my supervisor won’t get off my ass about it and . . .” She bit her lip, and the feeling of helplessness swarmed her once more. Which only served to piss her off. “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on.”

“Good.”

Reagan blinked. “What?”

“Good. Then you can come home.”

Some children might think that was a loving thought. That their parents wanted them to come back and be a part of the family unit. That they missed their daughter. That they missed their sister. That it was love that gently tugged her back.

She knew better.

“Mom, I’m not coming back.”

“You just said you’re failing out there. You know you shouldn’t have taken that job. But you got all high-and-mighty about that degree of yours, and thought you could do anything you wanted to do. Everyone knows that’s a crock.”

“Gee, Mom, you should put that on a motivational poster for elementary school classrooms. ‘That’s a crock.’” Reagan focused her eyes on a spot on the wall above the laptop screen. If she stared hard enough, she wouldn’t cry.

“Don’t you start that. You know you were meant to be here. Your brothers didn’t hightail it out of here when they graduated.”

Only two had actually graduated high school to begin with.

“And they stay around here and help me out around the house. Your brother is getting close to marrying the Casper girl. And where are they gonna live?”

“In your basement?”

“Three blocks over,” her mother said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Because they know where they belong. Never could impress on you that a degree was pointless. You’ll just end up back here anyway. Nothing in this town needs a degree. You spent all that money, still paying all that money, and for what?”

So I could get yelled at once a week by you for my stupid choices, Mom. Obviously.

“Hey, Mom, I’m ahead of you time-wise so I’m getting pretty tired.” She faked a yawn, though after it was finished, she realized she truly was exhausted. “I’ll have to call you another time to catch up. Say hi to the boys . . . and that Casper girl, whoever she is.”

“Doreen,” her mother snapped.

“Sure. Add her to the list. Love you, bye!” She hung up before her mother could argue and demand she stay on the line. Then she blinked as hard as she could to clear the tears.

“Family sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”

She gasped, dropped her phone and turned to find Greg leaning against the door from the bedroom. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough.” He walked to her, wrapped her in a hug where she sat, and just held her awhile. Reagan wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his stomach, which was at face-level. “I’d apologize for listening in, but I’m not all that sorry.”

She laughed a little, then sighed and bit his stomach lightly. Or what she could get of his stomach. Not much there to sink her teeth into. “Eavesdropping is rude.”

“Let’s call it a recon mission. Nobody has to apologize for missions.” He tilted her back enough that she could look up at him. Swiping his thumbs over her cheekbones, he nodded. “No tears, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Not that bad. Just that expected. You’re not supposed to be embarrassed by your family.” She paused. “Are you?”

He gave her a pained look, then shrugged. “I don’t think there’s any ‘supposed to’ when it comes to family. You just . . . do or don’t.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I’m not Dr. Phil over here, Reagan. I don’t have the answers.”

“Okay.” She sighed and pressed against him. “I’m a mess.”

“Do you want to”—she could feel him swallow hard—“talk about it?”

“Let’s not, for tonight. I just want to feel you.”

She swore the sigh he released came with its own whispered thank God. But he merely stroked her hair and let them both breathe.

It wasn’t everything she needed, but for the moment, it was enough.

*   *   *

THE next morning, Greg watched with a grin as Reagan sauntered—no other word for it—into the gym about fifteen minutes into practice. She wore a tight pinstripe skirt and matching jacket with a deep purple shirt underneath. Her long legs ended with heels that matched the navy of her suit, and her hair was up in its normal elegant twist that left her gorgeous neck bare.

The team was still in cardio warm-ups, about to be divided into weightlifting and shadowboxing groups. But at the sound of her heels, the entire group looked up from their stretching and watched as she approached Coach Ace. The burly, barrel-chested man had his arms crossed, watching his team for any sign of weakness or incompetence.

Most of which he found daily, and let them know it.

Someone gave a low wolf whistle, and Greg fought against the urge to stand up out of his hamstring stretch, find the asshole and kick him.

But Reagan seemed to take the unexpected attention in stride. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She clacked up to the coach, whispered something in his ear that had him dropping his arms, then walked toward his office. Coach Ace followed, barking for Coach Cartwright to finish the warm-ups.

They stood, and Tressler leaned in from behind him. “Jealous?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Greg replied in an easy voice. “If you can manage that, I mean.”

“Just wondering if it matters much that your current mattress partner is constantly spending time alone with other guys. Coach Ace looked pretty excited to meet with her. Wonder if that’s how she’s keeping her job after all those fuckups.”

Greg pushed him back a step. “Shut up.”

The younger man held up his hands. “Hey, it’s no biggie to me if she keeps her job by ‘servicing’ others. The longer she stays, the longer I get to admire that ass walking around the gym. Just don’t be shocked if you find out you’re not the only fuck in town for her.”

Greg realized then that the color of rage wasn’t red. Everything he’d heard before said when you went into a rage-induced bender, the world was covered with a red mist.

He realized, three minutes later, it was black. Pitch black, like his memory of the past three minutes. He came to, half-sitting on the mat, half-lounging with his back against Graham’s front, his arms locked behind him. Tressler was likewise trussed up, with another teammate holding him back and Brad crouched by his face, speaking quietly into Tressler’s ear. Whatever Brad was saying wasn’t going over well with the younger Marine, because he flung a fuck-you at him and kicked out as if to make contact.

Marianne hustled over, her two interns following behind. Nikki stayed back, eyes wide with fascination, while Levi looked disgusted at the whole thing.

Angry with himself, Greg struggled out of the hold and stood, turning his back on Tressler. Graham stood beside him, half-angled in front, as if to be able to grab him in case he went after the asshole again.

Greg shook out his arms, realizing then that his knuckles burned. He wasn’t ready to turn around and see the handiwork on Tressler’s face yet. Please, God, let him not have done damage.

“What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On.”

In the nearly silent gym, the deep words, spoken low, were like a gunshot. They all turned in unison and saw Coach Ace, hands fisted by his side, standing beside a horrified-looking Reagan.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“I wanna know what the hell is going on in my gym.”

CHAPTER

22

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Greg wasn’t sure anyone even breathed. He glanced across from him at Tressler, who stared steely-eyed at the wall to the left, mouth pulled into a mulish line of silence.

After thirty seconds of complete silence, Coach Ace stepped forward. “You,” he said, pointing at Tressler, “let Cook look at you, then get back to work. And you,” he added, pointing to Greg, “get in my office.” When nobody moved, Coach added a bellowing now! that had them all scrambling.

He walked with stiff joints toward the coach’s office. As he passed Reagan, he saw her reach out, just a fraction of an inch, then pull back.

Probably for the best. He wasn’t in a good place to be coddled or soothed. He needed to burn the anger right out of him.

He stood, in parade rest, facing Coach Ace’s empty desk, waiting his punishment. Would he get thrown off the team? Sent back with a black mark for his service record?

A month ago, he would have shrugged and not given a hot damn. He was there for fun, not because he had anything to prove. If he got cut, so be it. If he made the team, so be it.

That was a month ago. Now he knew his leaving would put the team in jeopardy. He’d miss his friends. He’d miss the competition, the new way of pushing his body, the camaraderie that came from a different type of family outside of his company back at home base.

He’d miss Reagan.

God, that struck the hardest. His impulsive, stupid actions could have cost him the chance to stay and be with her as long as possible. The longer he boxed, the more time he had with her.

Even if they kept him, she might have seen more than enough of his behavior to be done with him. Couldn’t blame her if she was. In those moments, he’d ceased being a human, a man, a Marine, and become something more base. An animal whose pride and position had been challenged.

More like a freaking whiny bear with a thorn in his paw. So the idiot kid made a few sexual jokes, who cared? He should have shrugged it off. He should have been the bigger person about it.

Instead, he’d shown his true nature. His upbringing.

Nature or nurture, he was screwed either way.

He heard the door swing open all the way behind him, though he didn’t look. Coach Ace walked into view, slammed his massive, muscular body into his desk chair and gripped the edge of the desk to keep from rolling away. “God damn it, Higgs.”

He waited quietly, eyes faced straight ahead.

“What the hell are you doing pulling shit like that in my gym? You’re old enough to know better. You’ve been around longer. He’s just a damn kid.” After a moment, he added, “Answer.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize for my lack of temper and control, sir.”

“Coach.”

“Coach. I apologize. I let some comments get into my head and it affected me more than it should. I apologize for disrespecting your gym and the team, sir. Coach.”

He watched as Coach ran a large hand down his face, scrubbing hard before settling back in the rickety chair. “You put me in a shitty position. What the hell did he say to you to make you go off like that?”

Greg debated a moment. This was what they called a no-win situation. “Personal insults, nothing more. I should have ignored them, Coach.”

“You should have. But you didn’t, and now we’re here.” At the soft knock, which Greg didn’t turn around for, Coach Ace waved an arm. “Come on in, Ms. Robilard.”

Greg’s entire body tightened until his neck hurt from the strain. He waited while she brushed by him to take a seat. The soft push of her breasts against his shoulder nearly had him groaning. He wanted to look at her, study her face, see exactly what was going on in that beautiful mind of hers. Was she as horrified at him as she’d looked out there? Disgusted? Scared?

Please, God, don’t be scared of me.

“Ms. Robilard, is there a policy in place for fighting amongst the team members?”

“Not that I know of,” she said quietly. “I believe this is at your discretion on how to handle it. But before you do,” she said quickly, rushing on when it looked like Coach Ace was about to speak, “you should know that Gregory and I are seeing each other. I’ve already submitted the paperwork to my supervisor, but was going to tell you today after practice.”

He had to bite back a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t have confided that if she’d been ready to dump him, would she? Probably not.

“Lovebirds,” Coach Ace groaned, his dark face contorting into agony. He let his head hit the desk. “I’m surrounded by lovebirds. What did I do in a previous life to deserve this?”

“Just lucky, I suppose,” Reagan said, and this time Greg bit his cheek to keep from grinning. God love his smart-ass woman. “It has nothing to do with the situation, but I needed to disclose it anyway and hadn’t gotten around to doing so yet. So . . . disclosed.”

“You have a way with timing.” After raising his head again, Coach glanced between them. “You’re still capable of doing the duties assigned to you.”

“I am,” she said confidently. He wanted to give her a quick kiss for sounding so calm and smooth, with her deeper business voice.

“And you’re going to keep yourself from pounding every little shit who says something about your mama or God knows what else Tressler insulted, got it? You show that kind of temper in the ring and an opponent is gonna wipe the mat with your impulsive ass.”

“Yes, Coach.” He squeezed his fists tight, praying this was the end.

“You’ll be spending the rest of practice . . . nah, rest of the day, with Coach Willis, doing some conditioning exercises.” His grim smile creased the coach’s dark face. “You’ve clearly got enough energy for it, so let’s burn some off.”

“Yes, sir.” He waited for the coach’s nod of dismissal, and left without looking Reagan’s way. It killed him to leave her there, but he did it.

And while he was puking two hours later, after having run more than he could remember running in his life, he still thanked God he was there rather than on a plane heading home, away from her.

*   *   *

“I didn’t want to say anything while he was here,” Coach Ace said as soon as the door closed behind Greg, “but some stuff’s missing.”

Reagan blinked, focusing her rioting mind back on the moment. “What kind of stuff?”

“Pads, other equipment. It was all locked in the cage in the storage room, but it’s gone now.”

She thought for a few seconds. “Well, maybe the maintenance staff moved it to clean the cage? Or another coach came and borrowed it. There are a dozen explanations for that which have nothing to do with our vandal.”

“I’ve spoken to maintenance, and they’ve got nothing. Same with the other coaches I know, nobody took it. I guess there are a few other options but . . .” He sighed and let his ham-sized fists hit the desk hard enough to make her jump. “This is getting damn old, pardon the language.”

“Yes, it is.” She thought for a moment, then decided to go for it. “Security cameras would solve a majority of our problems.”

He looked amused, as if catching on to her act. “I’m sure your supervisor already told you the reason why that’s not going to happen. No budget.” He said the last sentence as if it were a curse. “We’re lucky they didn’t stop hosting teams, period. The entire Corps—entire military—is cutting back. And if we keep making a nuisance of ourselves with vandalism and crime, we’re very likely going to be next. We already have a target on our backs thanks to the violence of the sport.”

It was the exact thing Reagan feared. “That’s not going to happen,” she said through stiff lips. “I won’t let it happen.”

“Good luck then.” With a weary sigh, Coach Ace nodded and dismissed her.

“Stubborn group of Marines.” She walked out to the practice area, and noticed most of the team attempting to give her a sidelong glance. Tressler, Greg’s opponent in their ill-advised bare-knuckles brawl, was nowhere to be seen. Probably in the weight room, then. But she noticed Greg almost immediately. He was running laps around the catwalk. His gray shirt was soaked through, and his face was screwed up in intense concentration.

She hustled to Marianne’s training room to avoid catching his eye. She didn’t want to cause even a moment’s distraction. Walking in, she stopped when she found Marianne giving an impromptu lesson on something at her laptop. The two interns were hunched over her shoulders, watching. Taking a moment, she got herself a cup of water and sat. Being off her feet felt good, but in general, just being away from the gym was good for her. The tension was triple its normal level, and she knew it was due to the scuffle Tressler and Greg had had . . . though she still had no clue what it had been about.

Marianne finished up and sent her interns on their way, then rolled over to a filing cabinet while still in her chair. “I bought you something.”

Reagan smiled a little at that. “Is it chocolate?”

“No, but it’s better for you, on several different fronts.” She pulled out what looked like a shoe box from the bottom drawer and shut it again. Then, wheeling over, Marianne handed the box to Reagan. “You recall that in my training room, I make the rules.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, but was paying more attention to the box than to her friend. Just because it was a shoe box didn’t meant it had shoes in it. She shook lightly, but the weight and movement gave nothing away.

“And so what I say goes?”

“Sure.”

“You’ll wear these, then, when you come in here.” Looking pleased with herself, Marianne crossed her arms and nodded. “Open up.”

Suddenly wary, Reagan lifted the lid and found herself staring at a very fuzzy pair of slippers in a vibrant blue. She pulled one out. “What the . . .”

“They’re better for you than heels. Plus,” her friend added, taking the slipper from her and turning it upside down, “look. Grips. Good for walking on the tile. Now you won’t be risking your neck in my training room with those icepick heels you insist on wearing.”

“Oh, but I can’t . . .” She glanced at Marianne, and the very firm line her mouth formed. “You’re serious.”

“Serious as a broken ankle. Put them on.”

Reagan watched her friend for another moment, praying to see a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Nada.

With a sigh, she slid her heels off—being careful not to sigh in relief in front of the traitorous trainer—and slid the slippers on. She extended one foot, then the other, then tapped the toes together and watched the fuzzy shoes quiver. They were actually kind of cute, if you ignored all normal fashion sense and just went with what made you smile. They looked ridiculous, though, with her suit.

“I guess they’re better than borrowing your Stewie-and-Brian slippers.”

“Keep them by the door, slip into them when you get in here, and back out when you leave. You know I’d rather you wear flats all the time in the gym, but it’s better than nothing. It’s something I can control.” Nodding in approval, she took the box, placed Reagan’s heels in it and slid it by the door. “So how goes it?”

Reagan lifted a brow at that. “You’re not serious, are you?”

Marianne sighed. “How can I keep on top of the gossip if my own friend won’t give it to me? What were they fighting over?”

“No clue.”

“Who took the first punch?”

“Didn’t see.”

“Did Tressler deserve the beat down?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Marianne blew at a strand of hair that fell over her forehead. “You suck, you know that? Your boyfriend is in a fight—”

“They always fight. It’s what they’re doing now,” Reagan pointed out, mostly to annoy her friend. It worked.

“You know what I mean.”

“Was Tressler okay?” Reagan asked quietly after a moment. “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .” She winced. “I couldn’t look.”

“He’s fine. His left eye’s going to be swollen, but he’ll survive. The real problem with that one is his ego, followed swiftly by his pride. They’re both oversized, with the ego leading the pack at three times too large.”

“They’re Marines. Aren’t they all egotistical, prideful patriots?”

Marianne laughed at that. “Probably. Add some crazy in there and you’ve got your basic definition. God bless them, every one.”