An hour later, Jo was under her first hot shower in six months—her first one, period, in four—and was considering staying there until she drained the motel water tank, if that was possible.

She'd already emptied three complimentary bottles of shampoo, used up one whole hotel-sized bar of soap, and ruined a formerly white washcloth. There was probably no point in trying the conditioner, but it was an excuse to let the hot spray pound her back and wonder what the hell had just happened.

She'd tried to kill a man—a bad guy, but still—and babbled her crazy fantasy to an almost complete stranger, who probably knew three ways to kill someone with a paperclip. A man who was right now at a laundromat trying to get her clothes clean—supposing they didn't dissolve when the detergent hit them. Who might actually have agreed to help her become . . . well, to become. To fight. To fight back.

She'd moved way out of her comfort zone, for damn sure.

Her mind buzzed, suddenly overwhelmed with anticipation and anxiety. What if she fell flat on her face? What if she was wasting Spencer's time, abusing his generosity? What if she was actually delusional and this was just another pretty dream before the nightmares began again?

She could leave, slip out before he returned, choose another patch of the city—even if Spencer looked for her, which wasn't very likely, he'd have a tough time tracking her down . . .

No.

She covered her face with her hands, scrubbing with rough palms until the dizziness passed. "You wanted to wake up," she told herself fiercely under the sound of the water. "Don't you dare screw it up now."

It might harder to walk toward something that it was to walk away, but she was done with the easy way out.

She rinsed her hair one last time, shut off the water, and reached for the stack of towels. The largest barely wrapped around her torso. Street living was tough, but not body-building tough, and she'd never been a small woman anyway. But that might not be a bad thing—it wasn't like she was hoping to launch a modeling career.

Spencer had picked up a courtesy hygiene pack from the front desk, but she hadn't wanted to touch the toothbrush until the rest of her was clean. She'd considered using the razor, but figured it would be more trouble than it was worth to keep unclogging the cheap blade. Deodorant was luxury enough—she'd indulge in optional grooming later. Right now, she was going to scour her teeth until the enamel squeaked and then see how long she could keep the contents of the tiny Listerine bottle in her mouth before it burned a hole through her tongue.

Forty seconds into the experiment, Spencer knocked. "You still in there?"

She spat green into the sink and coughed. "Yeah."

"Clothes are outside the door."

She waited until she heard him switch on the TV, unlocked the door, and opened it a few inches. The pile of clothing was there, but she hesitated.

An amused voice spoke over the sound of a football game. "Training don't start until you get dressed. Scout's honor."

She grabbed the pile and shut the door, shaking her head. No use being embarrassed now—the man had seen what passed for her underwear . . . and, she discovered, replaced it with a sports bra and a three-pack of bottoms, still in the plastic. There was a new tee-shirt, too. She had no idea how he knew her size—she didn't even know for sure anymore.

But everything fit, if a little closer than she was used to. At least she still had her old jeans and the least shredded of her oversized shirts, which now smelled of nothing worse than fabric softener. She wrapped the shirt around her, uncomfortable seeing a woman in the mirror. Grabbing the comb, she opened the door and padded into the other room.

He glanced up from the game. "Some of it fell apart in the washer," he said. "Hope you don't mind."

She shook her head and winced as she worked out a tangle. "I wasn't attached." She tried a smile. "Thanks for the new stuff. Thanks for the shower. It's been a while."

"Shelters have showers," he said, giving her a look.

"Most of the time you have to live at one to get bathroom privileges. The homeless population of this city has more than tripled over the last two years. There aren't enough free beds to keep up with the demand." She caught his look. "What? Newspapers aren't just for insulation, y'know."

His lips twitched. "You could get yourself on a waiting list."

She yanked too hard at the last tangle and hissed. "And knock some kid out of a bed? Make a family choose between shelter and staying together? Families are forced apart often enough—it's not going to happen again because of something I did."

Oh, crap.

"Again?" he said.

She blew out a breath, wondering if she could risk reminding him that he was the one who owed her. Except it was already the other way around and she knew it.

But he was shaking his head. "Never mind. None of my business."

"That ever stop you?" she asked, before she thought.

"Yeah," he said, saying it so she believed him. "I understand secrets. I've just been around nosy people a little too long." He tossed her a pack of socks and pointed to a pair of Keds on the low bureau. "Those may be big on you, but they'll do for now. Put 'em on and let's go."

OOOOoooooOOOO

After Jo had seen how immaculate Spencer kept his car, she'd been doubly glad the motel had been within walking distance from the park. She wouldn't want to be the one responsible for destroying the upholstery.

They pulled up in front of a low building and got out. "Don't forget your bag," he said.

She grabbed the small duffel that held her new toothbrush, the leftover hot dogs, and a couple other things, and glanced up at the sign. "The Gym?"

"Kinda says it all, don't it?"

They went in, and she saw that it did.

The place seemed to be divided into two sections, with the front desk on the dividing line. The immediate right half was dedicated to weight lifting, free weights and machines; though Jo thought she heard the hum of a treadmill and the rhythm of an elliptical from that direction. The left half was an open space holding two practice rings, various punching bags, and other sparring equipment.

The air was full of clanks and grunts and the pounding of feet and the place smelled like Murphy's Oil soap, old socks, and hard work. It felt . . . familiar. Homey.

Behind the desk, an enormous man was helping a woman in street clothes. ". . . and the aerobic machines are along the far back wall past the weights," he said, in a deep baritone. "Locker rooms are straight back. If you want to keep one here, put a lock on it and give us the number." He handed her a membership card and she left, smiling at Jo as she passed.

Jo blinked and smiled back just a moment too late, but Spencer was moving to the desk. "Hey, Ron," he said.

"Eliot! What's up, man?"

"This is Jo."

Ron smiled. "Nice to meet you, Jo. Need a gym membership?"

"She needs a job," said Eliot. "You still need a cleaning crew?"

"Yeah." He looked at Jo and grinned. "The hours are lousy and I can't pay much," he said. "But you get a staff membership. Still interested?"

She glanced at Spencer and nodded.

"That's good enough for me. Welcome aboard." He offered a huge hand and she shook it.

"Thanks," she said.

"She also needs a place to stay. You still have that room off studio three?"

"Sure," said Ron, frowning. "It's not much," he told Jo, "but it's yours if you want it."

"I'm gonna go change," said Spencer. "I'll meet you back there."

Ron led Jo past the boxing rings to a row of doors with numbers painted on them. He ushered her thorough door number three into one good sized room with a high ceiling and mats covering the floor. Jo followed him in and around the edge of the room to another door on the adjacent wall. Ron opened it and switched on the light.

"We've been using it as storage," he said, as she looked around at the cardboard boxes. "But we can move them out if you need more room. Cot's over there. Sheets are clean, but you might want to get a new pillow. Maybe a sleeping bag—the heat gets turned down at night."

She put the duffel on the cot and smiled. "I don't mind the cold."

"That's good. There's a bathroom through there," he added. "Just a toilet and a sink, but you can use the showers in the locker room. I'd appreciate you keeping an eye on things while we're closed."

She nodded and looked up at him—she was tall, but he dwarfed her. "Are you sure you want a complete stranger living here? I could be . . ." a stone-cold killer " . . . an axe murderer or something."

Ron shook his head. "Any friend of Eliot's is okay by me. He and his team helped me out a while back with a problem I was having—they're good people. Crazy, some of them, but good people. And then Eliot came back and helped me out with a couple other things. And now it looks like he found me a cleaning crew and a night watchma—uh, person. I owe him big."

"So do I," she said.

"No you don't," said Spencer from the doorway. He'd scraped some of his hair back into a high pigtail and was wearing a grey tee and a pair of loose pants. "Hey, Ron, loan her a pair of sweats, would you?"

"Sure." Ron eyed Jo and opened a box. "These should fit." He tossed her a pair of white sweatpants with The Gym in black letters down one leg. "I'll get the paperwork ready and the list of stuff that needs doing around here. You have your ID on you? I need to make a copy."

"She got mugged a couple days ago," said Spencer, before Jo could say anything. "I'm gonna drive her to the DMV tomorrow morning."

"Tough break," said Ron, easily. "Tomorrow will be fine. You need some help moving your stuff in?"

"I don't have a lot," she said. "But thanks."

"Sure." He waved and loped off.

"Put those on and we'll start. Oh, and here," he tossed her a hair elastic.

"Thanks. Can I ask you a question? Three questions?"

"Shoot." He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

"Aren't you supposed to be tracking down this Wharton guy?"

"As we speak," he said. "Don't sweat it."

"Are you su—"

"Yeah," he said, impatience creeping into his tone. "I'm sure."

She didn't think he was, but she dropped it. "Why are you doing all this for me?"

He shrugged. "I owe you."

"Not this much, you don't."

"I ain't arguing over how much my life's worth," he said, impatience showing again. "Or yours. Next question."

"Uh . . .the DMV?"

"I ain't prying," he said. "But if you need a new driver's license, I know someone who can get you a new one in any name you say."

She thought about that and about taking chances. Then she slid her hand into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out her old license. She held it out. "I'd kind of like to change this to my maiden name," she said. "It's Dermott. Two t's"

"Dermott," he said. "Done. Now quit wasting time."

"Yes, sir."

Ten minutes later, she was stretching and learning how to stand to optimize her center of gravity, and twenty after that, she hit the mats for the first, but not last, time. At the end of an hour, she knew she wasn't hitting them half as hard, though that was bad enough.

She only made the mistake of dodging once—she noticed that he was lowering his head a little just before he came at her, and managed to whirl out of his reach, just to get her feet swept out from under her. She hit the mat on her bottom and bounced.

"Don't run before you can walk," he said, but not like he was angry. He started coming at her a little faster after that, and in a couple different ways.

And he stopped lowering his head.

Jo lost count of the times she'd been sent flying, but it didn't matter, because she thought she was starting to get it. She relaxed into the next fall, rolled with the impact, and got to her feet in one quick movement, waiting to rub her side until she was facing him.

"It's always gonna hurt some," said Spencer, who wasn't even winded. "But you can minimize the damage and maximize recovery."

Jo nodded and assumed tadasama, the mountain position, determined to make it more difficult for him this time.

He shook his head. "We're done. Stretch it out. Next lesson is tomorrow morning, bright and early. If you still want to do this?"

"Yes," she said. "I do."

"All right then," he said, after a pause. "Six o'clock, right here." He turned to go.

"Hey," she said. "How many ways can you kill someone with a paperclip?"

He stopped. "You angry at an accountant or something?"

"No. Just curious."

"Four," he said, his tone serious. "But I'm not showing you anything like that until you learn how to fall and how to get hit."

"I can take a punch," she said, before she thought. Damn it, she was really going to have to remember to do that the other way around. She braced herself for questions.

But he just looked thoughtful. "I guess we'll see tomorrow."

She watched him walk away. "Tomorrow is going to hurt," she said to herself, dropping to the mat and stretching out her legs. "A lot."

But she couldn't stop grinning, even when her sore muscles screamed at her and Ron came back with her new list of cleaning duties.


The next chapter features the team, I promise.

Please review—if you don't, I won't learn nothin' . . .