We won’t fail. I won’t let us.
13
Jackson let me fool around with the punch bag for ten minutes when I first came into the gym. Today’s lesson focussed on teaching me to kick like a man… as opposed to a girl. Now I’m dripping in sweat on the spin bike, keeping a steady pace in the verses of the dance tracks he’s playing through the sound system and sprinting through the choruses. Jackson is hollering at me to go faster. It feels good. Through each leg turn, I vent my frustration. We’re back to where we were a week ago, overshadowed by uncertainty. But now the question isn’t only whether the CPS will charge Gregory; it’s also whether they’ll charge me. I can’t rely on self-defence. There was no glass in my side, no chain around my neck, killing me. There were only two things. The first, and I think or hope the most prevalent, was my need to protect the man who unequivocally possesses my heart. The second was the black streak of revenge coursing like tar through my blood.
John Harrison KC really does have his work cut out.
When my chorus ends, I drop the pace of my rotations and push back on my hands, sitting up straight and filling my lungs.
I open my eyes to see Gregory, back from his run, his grey T-shirt stained with sweat, his hair wet and slicked back. Anything I was thinking just got lost in the Land of Lascivious.
‘Keep turning, Scarlett,’ Jackson hollers, pausing midway through a bicep curl.
A smug half-smile washes over the face of the reason my legs feel like spaghetti. I force myself to keep going, picking up the pace with the beat of the music, but I can’t take my eyes off my fine specimen as he removes his earbuds from his ears then peels his top from his hot, damp skin and over his head. Every muscle in his chest moves. If I was in paradise with just this man, there’s no way I’d ditch the Adam to my Eve for an apple. This is why God made men, of that I’m sure.
‘Like what you see?’Arrogant arse.
Ignoring him, I drop my head to sprint through the chorus but can’t help a cheeky little glance up through my lashes.
He straps himself into boxing gloves and sets off swinging at the bag.Fuck me gently!His back twists, turns, stiffens, releases with each punishing blow. I think, I know, my jaw is hanging loose. When I realise that the tune in my ears is already part-way through the next chorus, I force my feet to spring into action, much to Jackson’s amusement.
When I hit thirty minutes, I climb down from the bike and move to the area where there are mats, mirrors and exercise balls, to stretch. I make sure my leggings and Climacool T-shirt are where they should be, then reach up high and bend from my hips to touch my toes. When I rise, I take my legs wide. I reach up again and drop my hands to the ankle of my right foot. It feels so good, I hum. Then I repeat the same move, bending to meet my left ankle. The pounding of gloved fists against the punch bag stops. Peering between my legs, I find Gregoryunashamedly standing next to the punch bag, arms folded, watching my arse.
‘Like what you see?’ I say with a smirk.
The Velcro of his gloves is ripped open and he’s on me in a flash. He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me, my back pressing against his chest as my legs flail in the air and I squeal. ‘Damn right I do.’
We leave Jackson laughing on the leg press. He’s obviously feeling stronger. I’m laughing too as Gregory darts up the stairs carrying me like I weigh nothing. He flicks on the shower then plants me on my feet, spinning me to face him.
‘Such a temptress.’ His hands are already under my T-shirt, lifting it over my arms. His mouth is on mine before my top reaches the floor. We kick off our trainers. This is going to be an extension of his high-energy workout. An endorphin fuck: killing my pain and taking me to Gregory euphoria all at once.
‘Which one?’ I scan the row of Gregory’s supercars in the basement car park.
‘You pick.’ He stops walking, adjusting the cuffs of his high-end designer jacket.
‘Let’s try one I haven’t been in before.’ I have no idea about cars but I do recognise the Ferrari emblem. ‘Ferrari,’ I say with a smile.
He bends and adjusts the bottom of his dark jeans over his leather boot. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? I’ve never been in a Ferrari.’
‘Are you getting a taste for fast cars, Miss Heath?’
‘Everything high and fast, right?’
He moves towards me, engulfing me in his firm arms. ‘That’smy girl.’ He drops a kiss on my brow. My inner princess swoons. ‘But we’re not taking the Ferrari because the key in my pocket is for the Aston Martin.’
‘If you had the key the whole time, why did you let me pick?’
He shrugs and drops a hand into mine, walking us towards the DB9 as it bleeps and flashes. ‘Because winding you up is fun.’
I scowl at his back as he ducks into the driver seat.
We get to Lincoln’s Inn with relative ease, rush hour having subsided. We walk the corridors of the old building in silence, my grip on his hand tightening as we get closer to John Harrison’s office. Another dramatic switch from light to dark in our turbulent relationship. One minute, we’re making love like animals in the shower; the next, we’re on our way to see a lawyer about a murder charge.
I make to knock on the antique office door but Gregory grabs my hand and turns me to face him. ‘Before we go in there, I want you to promise me that we’re doing this my way. No attitude, Scarlett, do you hear me?’
‘And by attitude, you meantruth?’
