***

“Move that ass, Westwood.”

Fuzzy bellows the order like a pumped-up drill sergeant and I join the class in yet another soul-destroying sprint across Redemption’s overly long warehouse.

Good as his word, Jake arranged with Max for the cost of my classes to be covered in exchange for my new role as Redemption’s unofficial attorney. Although Max already has a stable of attorneys at his beck and call to deal with his business matters, he spread the word in the gym that if anyone needs general advice, they can come to me.

And I already have one new client. Except now, instead of shuffling his feet and mumbling about needing an attorney because the bank is foreclosing on his parent’s house, Fuzzy is screaming abuse like he’s trying to get us ready for the front line instead of just getting us fit.

“Come on, ya buncha losers,” he screams. “Whaddya thinking? That we’re having an afternoon stroll with Grandpa? MOVE.”

My legs wobble as we turn and race across the mats. Foolishly, I slow my pace to catch my breath.

“Westwood. You’ve already had a warning. You need a kick in the ass too?”

“Gimme a break, Fuzz.” I whine a breath. “I’ve spent the last few years in a…”

“What did you call me?” His usually cheerful face turns an unusual shade of purple.

“Um…Fuzz?” A warning prickle creeps over my skin, and I look around for someone to tell me what I’ve done wrong. Curiously, the entire class is huddled down at the other end of the warehouse and looking in the other direction. A few fighters sparring on the mats smirk. Over by the free weights, a betraying Jake is talking to Obsidian when he’s supposed to be protecting me from Fuzzy’s wrath.

“In this class, you address me as Sir,” Fuzzy shouts.

Swallowing hard, I give him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

Fuzzy scowls. “Not funny. On the floor, gimme twenty-five push-ups. NOW.”

“Someone is suffering from delusions of grandeur.”

“FIFTY.”

With a loud sigh, I drop to my knees, lean forward, and place my hands on the mat. Fuzzy kneels beside me and hangs his head upside down in my line of vision.

“What the f**k are you doing?”

“It’s a woman’s push-up.” I grunt my annoyance. “We have a different center of gravity. It’s just as hard for me to do the push-up from my knees as it is for you to do a push-up with your toes on the mat.”

“Jesus f**king Christ.” Fuzzy clambers to his feet and hollers for Shilla the Killa. A few moments later she joins us, a grin plastered across her face.

“Amanda here thinks women need to do push-ups on their knees.” His derisory tone sends a shiver down my spine. “Gimme twenty…man style.”

Shayla snorts a laugh and drops her cut, muscular body down to the mat. Her thick, brown ponytail swings violently over her shoulder as she does twenty perfect, man-style push-ups without breaking a sweat.

“You want another set with me clapping my hands between each push-up?” She looks over at Fuzzy and grins. “Or maybe with one hand?”

“Nope. We’re good. Dismissed.” Fuzzy gives her a high five. Shayla’s cheeks glow pink and she bounds back to the fight ring. Fuzzy glares at me sitting back on my heels and points down.

“You gonna keep scowlin’ at me, or are you gonna do the push-ups? The class is called Get Fit or Die for a reason.”

I glare at Fuzzy. I don’t like him anymore. He’s mean, mean, mean. It’s like he had a personality transplant when he stepped into the gym. I wish I had never signed up for Get Fit or Die. I wish I had never set foot in Redemption. I wish I hadn’t had burritos for lunch. They’re weighing me down.

With a sigh, I drop to my knees. “I can do maybe five…sir.”

He folds his arms and then gestures to someone behind me. “Gotta girl here with a lotta attitude. Needs to do fifty push-ups before she rejoins the class. Can you watch her for me?”

“I dunno.” Jake joins Fuzzy, a smile curling his lips. “That scowl on her face is kind of scary. What if she attacks me?”

Fuzzy laughs. “Don’t think you have to worry about that any more than you’d worry about getting scratched by a declawed kitten.”

As I open my mouth to protest, Fuzzy holds up one finger. “One more word outta you, and you’ll be doing the push-ups with Renegade on your back.”

Mmmm. I picture Jake lying on top of me—naked—as I struggle and strain to push myself off the mat, my body slick with sweat, my ass rubbing up against…

“So…fifty push-ups?” Jake stands in front of me arms folded, legs spread. My kneeling position puts my eyes directly in line with the bulge beneath his fight shorts.

Oh God. So big. Look away. Look away.

My cheeks burn and I stare at the mat. But maybe it’s not all him. Fighters usually wear a cup. He must be wearing a cup. Of course, he’s wearing a cup. I look up just as he squats down beside me. Now I am treated to a close-up view of his lean, ripped body glistening with sweat and tight thigh muscles bunched under red fight shorts and…

Nope. He’s not wearing a cup. That’s all him. How could I have forgotten an important detail like that?

“Buncha deadbeats,” Fuzzy yells at the cowering class across the gym. “Did I tell you to stop running? MOVE.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” they chant.