A boxing gym. Not someplace for an ideal hangout of Penelope Garcia.
"C'mon, baby girl," pleads Morgan, whose shirtless body distracts technical analyst from the foul odour of sweat clinging onto the atmosphere, "just give me an hour here, okay? Ask my man Rick to give you keys to his office, and you can do your magic on your laptop there."
Garcia doesn't want to let this go, but at the same time...
"Fine, you can," she concludes, her childish tone coating the words. "I'll go find that Rick guy."
"Thank you, baby girl!"
Ugh, you're too hot to say no to, my chocolate thunder.
The boxing gym isn't too shabby, she supposes after looking. As she's walking around, her eyes have the delight of roaming around and appreciating the muscular figures of men and women alike (still, Chocolate Thunder wins over them). She is careful around the punching bags; God knows what would happen around those heavy motherfuckers.
Somehow, she's drawn to the two adversaries on the boxing ring. She sneaks in—soundproofing the loud clicks her heels make—to catch a closer look. The left is male, she could tell by the harsher build he has unlike his opponent, a curvier but robust female.
Garcia takes a liking on her, admiring the medium-length chestnut that's loosely tied up with strands slowly undoing from the hair tie. The analyist takes a few moments and stares at the black sports bra that revealed the chiseled abs below and the matching workout leggings that perfectly sculpted her slightly thick legs. Mother of sexy hell, have mercy on me!
Her staring sessions comes into a halt when the perfectly built woman initiates a knuckle on the man. Garcia squeaks as she watches the latter take the attack with a block move. He swiftly dodges a couple more before he swings one of his own, which his opponent manages to evade.
This proves to be a mistake on his end even more when she spins around and executes a wildly skilled roundhouse kick that knocked him down. Garcia almost screamed.
"Shit," the female curses, running up to him as she takes a few breaths, "did I hurt you too bad?"
"No, Alex," answers her defeated combatant. "God, that roundhouse kick. When, in all of our twenty-something years of our marriage, did you learn how to do that?"
"I took several martial arts classes for self-defence, starting at Taekwondo in middle school, James," Alex says, extending her fingerless gloved hand for James to take.
Garcia couldn't take it anymore. "O. M. G!" she screeches from afar.
"Who the f—"
"James!" Alex snaps, swatting him where she had kicked him previously. The hissing noise he makes is music to her ears.
She hops off the ring and lands on the ground gracefully, and Garcia swears she's melting by Alex's figure. The perky blonde always knew that the linguist was hot, but those damn curves of hers and the revealing abs make her shudder more.
"Hey, Garcia," says the linguist in topic. "Did Morgan drag you here or did you just want to see his chiseled body more?"
"Oh, God, both!" Garcia scoffs, laughing. "But I got distracted. By you. And your beautiful, distracting, chiseled abs."
It's Blake's turn to chuckle. "Oh, you flirt." She playfully jabs her.
"Believe me, honey, if I was flirting, you'd be under my spell right now."
Suddenly, Blake's genuine smile turns into a sneaky smirk as her gloved hand rests on Garcia's shoulder. "Let's put that to a test then," she whispers in her ear with a low growl. "James and I are practically divorced now; it's a date."
Then, a wild idea sparks up Garcia's dirty mind. She grabs her phone and starts texting.
—o—
When Derek's session is over, he goes to his locker room and finds his phone inside vibrating. He checks the notification, which read:
Baby Girl: Don't worry, Chocolate Thunder. I already left the gym with a certain linguist and am probably going to end up being late to work tomorrow. Or not at all. It's worth it though; sorry for ditching you!
A certain linguist. Now how did that happen, he wondered?
