Cassie Mint

  Hard Knocks

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2023

  Copyright © 2023 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-915735-20-1

  Cover art by Bookin' It Designs

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Lara

  2. Dawson

  3. Lara

  4. Dawson

  5. Lara

  6. Dawson

  7. Lara

  8. Dawson

  Teaser: Going Rogue

  About the Author

  One

  Lara

  Another break in. Only three buildings down this time, and they emptied that place out, leaving poor Mr Markopoulos with nothing but his battered old sofa and a layer of broken glass and debris on his apartment floor. Whoever did it even drank the poor guy’s case of ouzo from when he visited family back in May, spilling a giant, sticky puddle on the floorboards.

  Ugh. People are such animals.

  And it’s the fourth burglary on this block in two months. Must be a local crew, and I hate that thought.

  It’s making me suspicious, and now I second guess every person I walk past in the street. Like: is it you? Or you? Or you?

  I don’t want to be a paranoid jerk. Sure, this neighborhood is a bit rough around the edges, and when I moved here I declared it was just until I finish my grad program and get a pay rise. Figured I’d bounce right out of here as soon as I could swing a bigger rent, off to a part of the city with more trees and fewer graffiti tags scrawled on the walls.

  But I like it here. The people are friendly and the food places are great. And it turns out I don’t have to be on guard around here the same way I do at college—always on my best behavior, always saying the right thing. Never stepping a foot wrong or giving people reason to doubt my intellect.

  This neighborhood is my home, the only place I truly relax, and there are only two flies in the metaphorical ointment.

  Fly number one: the break ins.

  Fly number two…

  Well, I gust out a long breath before I knock on his door.

  There are muffled sounds inside my neighbor’s apartment. A creaking floorboard; the clatter of something tossed on a table. The low drone of a TV or radio. So I know he’s home, but it’s just like Dawson Reynolds to take forever to answer the door. He’s been nothing but a giant pain in the ass since the day I moved in.

  I still think about it sometimes. The shit-eating grin he gave me as he carried my heaviest boxes up the stairs, barely breaking a sweat; the way his muscles bulged and his eyes twinkled. At the time I was flustered, stammering my thanks, but then he called me that stupid nickname—

  Dawson tugs his door open wide and smirks. “Princess.”

  My hands ball into fists. I blow out a slow breath and force my fingers to unclench, smoothing them down my pinafore dress.

  “Hello. Um.” You know, I rock my seminars at college. I’m always well-read and thoughtful; I make powerful arguments that impress the lecturers. Then I spend ten seconds around this man, and I can barely string a sentence together. God, I hate him. “Do you have a minute?”

  Dawson’s smirk stretches wider and he gives a mock bow, his dark hair flopping over his forehead. It’s shaved close at the sides, long on top—the same shade as his short beard. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Breathe, Lara. In and out.

  I will not less this man push my buttons. I am better than this.

  But Dawson’s got a dish towel flipped over one shoulder, like Mister Domestic. As though I interrupted him cooking up a gourmet storm. I bet he keeps it by the door to look busy when someone knocks; bet he never picked up a spatula in his whole damn life.

  He probably lives off boxed mac and cheese and those instant ramen packets. He has that energy.

  “You’re thinking evil thoughts about me, princess,” my neighbor drawls, leaning against his door frame and folding his arms. “I can always tell. You get this little scrunch in your nose.”

  I do not—

  Dawson grins as my hand flies up, feeling along the bridge of my nose, and okay. This is why I’ve barely ever knocked on this man’s door before.

  I can count the times on one hand, actually. The first time, he’d accepted a delivery for me while I was out. The second time, I was getting everyone to sign a bon voyage card for Mrs Klimp. And the third…

  No, I think that’s it.

  I try very hard to avoid Dawson Reynolds.

  But desperate times lead to desperate measures. And four break-ins lead to the most humiliating request of my life.

  “I need self defense lessons. From you.”

  Dawson blinks. For once, he’s stunned to silence, and I should relish this moment, because it sure as hell won’t come around again soon.

  “I’ll pay,” I say quickly before his mouth starts working again. “And we can do it here, or in that gym you go to. The Center?”

  “The Corner,” Dawson murmurs. He’s still staring at me, green eyes wide.

  He hasn’t said yes. Why hasn’t he agreed? I know he takes on odd jobs between stunt work. He gets bored otherwise.

  “Why?” Dawson says at last, and his voice sounds rougher than before. I clasp my hands, goosebumps prickling over my bare arms.

  Figured that would be obvious. “There’s been another break in—”

  “No,” my neighbor interrupts, and damn him, he’s smirking again. Fully recovered from his shock. “I mean, why me? Lots of people could teach you self defense. Do you even realize what you’re asking?”

  Oh, please. It is hardly rocket science. “I need to learn to defend myself, Dawson, and you are very conveniently located—”

  “You’re asking me to spend time with you.”

  He is maddening. But Dawson leans forward, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’re alone on this floor, our two doors the only sign of humanity. Obviously this building is full of people, but right now, we might as well be stranded on Mars together. Two souls alone in the universe, where anything could happen.

  “Time alone,” he murmurs. “Talking. Touching. Not killing each other.”

  I cough to clear my throat. It’s tight suddenly, my heart fluttering in my chest. Must be indigestion.

  And why is he making such a big deal about this? We can be alone, no problem. We’re alone right now, with zero casualties!

  “It’s purely professional,” I say.

  He grunts, like he disagrees.

  “It is.”

  Dawson tilts his head. “Whatever you say, princess.”

  Gah! I throw up my hands, already turning on my heel, because this jerk is right. Plenty of people can teach me self defense.

  I don’t know why I wanted it to be him so badly. Sure, he’s familiar, and he feels very safe and homey in an irritating sort of way—but those things aren’t important. I need lessons, that’s all. A simple business transaction.

  Nothing about Dawson Reynolds is simple. This was a terrible idea.

  “Wait,” my neighbor says, snagging my elbow before I can stomp back to my own door. “I’ll do it. No need to go all huffy.”

  “I am not huffy, and if I am it’s only because—”

  “We’ll start at The Corner. Plenty of witnesses there.” Dawson’s thumb rubs against my elbow, and I try desperately to ignore that tingly sensation. “Tomorrow evening at seven. That sound good?”

  I nod stiffly.

  He lets go.

  And I take a giant step away, tugging my clothes straight even though they’re already pristine.

  Dawson’s expression flattens, and he rolls his eyes before stepping back inside his apartment. “You can use that revulsion tomorrow, princess. It’ll help you fight harder.”

  I’m not repulsed. I’m just… I’m flustered, that’s all. Whenever this man’s eyes are on me, my whole body flushes warm, and I can still feel those tingles where he touched my arm.

  So I open my mouth to thank him, to smooth this over, but Dawson’s apartment door swings closed.

  Thump. Right in my face.

  Charming.

  Two

  Dawson

  I get to The Corner fifteen minutes early, agitation making me walk faster than usual. I stomped the whole way here, marching like I was setting off to war, and in a way, I am.

  An hour or two with my prissy little neighbor. It’s more time than we’ve ever spent together, and with good reason: the two of us were built to push each other’s buttons. So usually, she can’t wait to get far, far away from me—and I’ve worked hard to bury my disappointment over that.

  It doesn’t matter. It can’t.

  Me? I’d love to hang with Lara. She’s prim, yeah, and kind of a know-it-all, but in the best way. Any idiot can see she’s got a huge heart to match that beautiful brain.

  But even though I liked her immediately when I met her, she did not return the favor. And life’s too short, you know? No point in trying to coax people to like you. Either they’re into you or they’re not, and a man’s gotta have some pride.

  But I pluck at my black t-shirt, wrinkling my nose at the sweat beneath, and hope I don’t stink by the time Lara gets here.

  God. I’ve got no dignity when it comes to this girl. She raises her hoity-toity nose and asks me to jump, and all I can say is: “How high?”

  So I’m pissed off by the time she arrives at The Corner, picking her way through the mats and looking so damn out of place. Even in workout gear, she’s neat. Bet she ironed those blue leggings.

  Her dark braids are tied in a big bun at the nape of her neck, and her white t-shirt glows against her brown skin. Even though she’s covered up, those hourglass curves are on full display.

  Fuck. The longing swells in my chest, same as it always does: a giant wave crashing through my insides, leaving splintered wreckage in its wake. She’s so goddamn beautiful. But then Lara spots me, her whole body going tense, and I push all those feelings away.

  She doesn’t like me. She never has. So, as she said last night: this is a business transaction, nothing more.

  I’d have taught her this stuff for free any time, even before the break-ins, never mind all the bad blood between us. But this is better. Keeps things clear.

  “You’re late,” I say when she reaches me, nodding at the big clock on the wall. It’s seventeen seconds past the hour, and I’m obviously teasing her, but Lara frowns like I’ve insulted her honor.

  “I reached the entrance in plenty of time.”

  Ever the stickler. Will she ever let her guard down around me, even a tiny bit? I sigh, scratching my beard. Signs point to no.

  The Corner’s busy this evening, despite the sticky summer heat. All the doors and windows have been thrown wide open to the sidewalk, and giant fans are dotted around the walls, wheezing hard as they work overtime. But it’s still scorching hot in here, the air humid enough to chew on, and sweat pours down all the fighters’ faces as they spar. Lara looks alarmed as she peers around.

  “You don’t have to worry,” I hear myself say. “No one will bother us. Jax runs a tight ship.”

  Lara’s plump mouth twists, but she says nothing.

  Right. Fine. I jerk my head at the boxing ring in the center of the massive room and start leading the way.

  “Wait, we can’t go in there.” My neighbor trips after me, hurrying to keep up. She darts around each mat and pair of sparring fighters, giving them double the space she really needs to. Her sneakers are dazzling yellow and white. “People will stare.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  They’ve all got better things to do than looky-loo at a beginner lesson. This crowd is dead serious about their training, and sometimes they don’t even stop to watch the big guns fight, like Jax and Sarge—and okay, me.

  Baby’s first punch? Hardly gonna draw an audience. But Lara’s shoulders are rigid, her lips pressed in a line, and she glares daggers at me as I hold the ropes apart so she can duck through.

  It’s like she thinks I’m punishing her or something. Putting her on display. But people honestly aren’t gonna give a shit what we’re doing, and this way, I don’t have to worry about my cute neighbor getting caught by a stray kick. The ropes will keep everyone at a good distance, and we’ll have more privacy than if we grabbed a random mat.

  Try telling that to Her Highness, though. She shakes her arms out in the center of the ring, stretching her neck left and right, and she’s clearly picturing me in a crumpled mess on the ground.

  “Easy, tiger.” I stand in front of Lara and grip her gently by the shoulders. “You can wipe the floor with me in a second. Let’s start with your stance.”

  * * *

  Lara’s a quick study. Figured she probably would be, what with that giant brain of hers, but head-smarts don’t always translate to a body in control. It’s depressing the number of clever folks we get in here who can barely throw a punch.

  They never last long. Ego’s a powerful thing.

  But Lara watches each move I demonstrate, frowning with concentration, then mimics it almost perfectly each time.

  “Drop your shoulders. Yeah. Watch where you’re putting your feet.”

  She takes notes well, too. Corrects her form with zero complaint, glancing over at me with those big, brown eyes as though to ask: “Like this?”

  Yeah. Like that.

  I turn around and snatch up my water bottle, chugging down three mouthfuls. The heat and the walk here—and okay, Lara—are getting to me. My throat’s dry as a bone.

  But I promised my neighbor a lesson, so I get back in there and hold up a pad. “You’re gonna punch this. Okay, princess? As hard as you can. Don’t forget your form.”

  Is she picturing my face as she pummels the pad, smacking it with her boxing glove? She must hear the idle thought somehow, because Lara shoots me a mischievous smile between hits.

  My heart lurches. I stagger back a step and she follows, still pounding the pad.

  She’s good at this. A natural. And that smile—

  I can’t think straight. That must be why I say it.

  “Okay, now lose the gloves. We’re gonna run some scenarios.”

  Bad idea, I think, as she unwinds the wrist strap and tosses one glove, then the other. Lara shakes out her fingers, blowing on the knuckles. They must be sore.

  Bad idea. Bad idea.

  Because I’ve got no business grabbing Lara, play-acting like some creep. Self control can only take me so far. If I lay hands on her… if she sees something in my expression, some treacherous flash of longing…

  “Actually.” She’s squaring up to me, bouncing on her toes. Her chest jiggles under her t-shirt, and I hate that I notice it. Goddamn lizard brain. “Maybe not. Maybe we should run some kicking drills.”

  “Hang on. What are the chances I’m going to use some fancy kicks in real life?” Lara points out, super reasonably. They’re slim as hell. “Let’s do the scenarios.”

  But…

  With a sinking feeling, I realize: I can’t grab her. I can’t.

  Some part of me knows, deep down, that I’ll cross a line if I do. The animal part of my brain will take over, and I’ll hold her too tightly; I’ll crush her curves against my chest. I’ll let slip how badly I’ve wanted to touch her, because there will be no way to hide how my body responds.

  Nope. No, thank you. I have exactly one shred of dignity left, and I’m gonna protect that little thing.

  “Let’s go.” Lara lunges for me, swiping with a fist, and I dance back out of reach. Over at the side of the ring, Jax has wandered over to watch. I flip him off, my face hot.

  Lara falters, glancing over too. “Who is that?”

  “Jax Sutherland. He owns the gym. Don’t worry, he’s not watching you; he’s trying to freak me out.”

  And it’s working, asshole. Can Jax see all the messy, tangled feelings I’ve been dragging around for my neighbor? We’ve been buddies a long time, so… probably.

  Ugh.

  Goodbye, shred.

  “Let’s do those kicking drills.”

  “No, come on.” Lara lunges for me again. I dance back. “You promised you’d teach me this stuff, Dawson!”

  Yeah, I did—and I took her money, too. But fear has me by the throat right now, and I don’t trust myself. Because what if I hurt her? I couldn’t live with myself. Or what if she realizes how I feel about her, and then she’s too horrified to live near me anymore?

  “I paid you,” Lara points out, fists still held up, and even though it’s true, it tenses my neck. I glare at her, mouth sour, and spit out my next words.

  “And I’ll give it back. I’m not doing this.”

  The sounds of the gym are so loud: the throbbing music and pained grunts. The smack of fists meeting flesh, and the squeak of sneakers against the floor.

  Lara’s arms drop, and she stares at me, bewildered and hurt. The air’s thick between us, the tension almost too much to bear.

  “Do you hate me that much?” she demands. “So much you won’t even touch me? After all this, you really won’t teach me to defend myself?”

 

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