Chapter 194: Gym Girlie?

Rachel was back in less than fifteen minutes.

Liam glanced up from his phone and stopped scrolling.

She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. She wore a fitted sage-green sports bra under a cropped white zip-up jacket she’d left half open, and matching high-waisted leggings in the same soft green that hugged every curve of her hips and thighs. A pair of clean white trainers, barely worn, completed the look. They were probably left over from one of her many failed gym attempts.

The leggings sat just below her navel, and the gentle softness of her stomach pushed slightly over the waistband. It wasn’t something she’d tried to hide.

On her, it didn’t look like a flaw at all. It made her look real and womanly, and honestly, hotter than half the women he’d seen in perfectly sculpted gym photos.

Liam let out a low whistle.

Rachel immediately crossed her arms over her middle. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do the whistle thing. I look ridiculous.”

“You look incredible. My third leg agress with me.”

“I look like I haven’t worked out in two years. Because I haven’t.” She tugged at the hem of her jacket, trying to pull it lower. “This is the only matching set I own. I bought it to motivate myself.”

“Did it work?”

“Clearly not.”

“Well, it’s working on me,” Liam said, smirking.

She rolled her eyes and turned away, but not before he caught the smile she was trying to swallow. Her cheeks had gone pink. She smoothed her ponytail, adjusted her jacket again, and stood a little straighter than she had a minute earlier.

Liam watched her and thought about the gym.

She was going to turn heads. There was no question about it. A woman who looked like that, walking in nervous and a little unsure of herself? Men would notice. Some would offer to spot her, show her how a machine worked, or strike up conversation by the water fountain. She wouldn’t just be making friends there.

He wondered, briefly, whether she’d fold. Whether the attention would be too much, whether she’d give up after a week like she had before.

But that was part of the fun. If she stuck with it, if she could actually be consistent, she’d build something real for herself: a healthier body, more confidence, and a routine that kept her out of that empty apartment and out of her own head.

And Liam knew who’d reap the rewards when she did, it would be him putting her through the mattress.

Let them look. She could look back if she wanted. She always had the choice to walk away.

But the way she’d thrown her arms around him at the kitchen table, the way she was glancing at him now to see if he was still watching, told him everything he needed to know.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

“Ready?” Liam asked, pocketing his phone and standing.

Rachel took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded.

[Ding!]

[Emotional Investment Alert!]

[Target: Rachel Kim (Low-Value MILF)]

[Status: Improving Emotional Connection]

[Emotional Meter: 49%→100!]

–

Drake pushed open the apartment door with his shoulder and stepped inside, one hand pressed against the side of his face.

The place looked the same as always. Burnt foil on the folding table. Stale smoke hanging under the ceiling. Somebody’s jacket balled up on the floor. Enrique was slumped in the corner on a pile of blankets, head lolled against the wall, mouth hanging open, completely gone. He’d been like that since before midnight.

Drake didn’t wake him.

There was no point. What happened in that alley was Drake’s business. Enrique had his own problems: his face on the news, his constant talk about leaving the city. He didn’t need to hear that Drake had gotten put on the ground by a stranger in a hoodie.

Drake lowered himself onto the couch and stared at the water-stained ceiling.

And despite everything, he found himself grinning. Or trying to.

Those eyes.

He kept seeing them. Flat and empty, with nothing behind them but an endless, patient kind of violence. Drake had spent so long thinking he and Enrique were the worst things walking these streets. And then that man showed up and reminded him how big the world really was.

It was strange, but it felt almost like relief. He wasn’t the only monster out there.

He didn’t dwell on it long.

Because the grin sent a bolt of white-hot pain through the left side of his face, so sharp his vision went spotty.

He’d thought it was just the concussion. The headache, the dizziness, the nausea that came in waves. But when he opened his mouth, something clicked wrong. His teeth didn’t line up anymore. His jaw sat crooked, and when he touched it, the bone shifted under his fingertips in a way bone was never supposed to move.

Broken.

He needed a hospital, but that wasn’t an option. A man with his face, from that part of town, would draw attention. He understood there was a slim chance but a slim chance wasn’t zero and with his luck, that was the only thing needed for him to get fucked.

So he called the only other person he could.

She arrived forty minutes later, carrying a scuffed black medical bag. Her name was Lorna. Everyone in the building knew her: a former nurse who’d lost her license years ago and now patched up anyone who couldn’t risk a real doctor, no questions asked, cash only.

She wasn’t pretty. Her teeth were crooked, her nose had clearly been broken more than once, and her face had a hard, weathered look to it. But she carried herself with an easy confidence, and her figure filled out her worn scrubs in a way that made people look twice anyway.

She knelt in front of Drake, tilted his head toward the light, and pressed her thumbs carefully along his jaw.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Yep,” she said. “That’s broken. Clean break, at least.” She looked up at him, eyebrow raised. “Damn. You must’ve taken one hell of a punch.”

Drake said nothing.

“Not gonna tell me? Fine.” She opened her bag. “Hold still. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker.”

She gave him a numbing shot along the gum line first, the needle a cold sting against already throbbing flesh. Then, while it took hold, she gripped his jaw with both hands and, with one sharp, practiced push, guided the broken bone back into alignment.

Drake’s whole body went rigid. A strangled sound tore out of him.

“Breathe,” Lorna said calmly. “Worst part’s over, big man.”

Next she took out a spool of thin surgical wire. Working slowly and steadily, she threaded it around his teeth, top and bottom, and twisted it tight, binding his jaw closed so the bone could knit back together.

When she finished, Drake could barely part his lips.

“Six weeks,” she said, packing up. “Liquids only. Straws. Don’t try to talk much, and don’t get punched again.”

She paused at the door and glanced back at him, then at Enrique snoring in the corner.

“Whoever did this to you,” she said quietly, “stay away from them.”

Drake stared at the floor and didn’t answer.