Driving Her Wild

“I got nothing, here. If I punch in one more PIN and it doesn’t work, the cops get called.”

“Can you call the security company?”

“I did. They’re sending a guy out.”

She relaxed back in her chair.

“He’ll have a service PIN that’ll disarm the system from the outside. But he has to do it in person—it requires a code and a key. He can’t just give me the digits.”

“Oh well.”

“But the guy on call is over in Chicopee, so...”

“What? Oh come on. That’s two hours away!”

“Sorry.” Patrick unbuckled his tool belt, set it aside and sank heavily into the other recliner with a wailing of springs. “This time it really isn’t my fault.”

Good God, two more hours...? But what was the alternative? Call 9-1-1 and get the door busted in, probably wind up stuck here answering questions and filling out police forms, with both the manager and owner out of town... Plus if this really wasn’t Patrick’s fault, it’d be a shame to drop him in trouble over whatever fees they might get charged if the fire department had to bail them out. She could appreciate that as lousy as her evening was turning out, at least she wasn’t worried about whether or not she’d still have a job come morning.

“Okay,” she said with a mighty shrug of surrender. This night was just destined to suck. Might as well embrace it. “I guess we’ll just have to wait it out.”

He turned in his chair, leaning his arm along the headrest. “I appreciate it. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re still a terrible electrician,” she reminded him. “But maybe this could have happened to anyone, given how old the wiring must be. And maybe it’s the company’s fault the system’s not working. Though it’s weird both those things should have gone wrong in one night. To one man.”

“Luck of the Irish.”

“You would know, Patrick Doherty.”

“Maybe it’s fate that we got trapped here together.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m single,” he said casually. “You’re single, for as long as I can keep you out of that hot doctor’s clutches...”

“Please don’t hit on me. This evening has been enough of an ordeal already. Let me just watch my movie and take a nap, and we’ll both pray the security guy can fix all this in like, two seconds. Then we’ll never speak of it again.”

She shut her eyes, but Patrick didn’t make it even a full minute before interrupting her snooze. “So, your job...”

She sighed, meeting his eyes. “What about my job?”

“So are you like a pro-lady-wrestler, or...”

If looks could kill, hers would’ve punched straight through his heart and out the other side. “I’m a jujitsu instructor.”

“That’s what that’s called, all that rolling around in a karate outfit you were doing the other day? Joo jitzoo?”

Lordy. At least he hadn’t called them pajamas, she supposed. “It’s called a gi.”

“But it’s basically wrestling, right?”

“Brazilian jujitsu evolved from judo, and yeah, it’s a grappling-based martial art. But I don’t get greased up in a sequined bra and booty shorts and body-slam other women.”

“What do you do?”

“Have you never seen cage fighting?”

“Not really.”

That would never do. She sat up straight, chair back snapping to attention.

This wasn’t how Steph had planned on spending her evening, but she might as well make good use of the time by educating yet another person on what MMA was all about. She went to the shelf, finding a VHS of one of the best pro events there’d ever been from way back in the sport’s more lawless days. Patrick had to help her, switching the video input to the VCR.

“See?” he asked, crouching beside her, switching cables, close enough for her to catch the annoyingly pleasant scent of his skin. “I’m not completely useless.”

Steph hit Play and they returned to their seats. “Now pay attention and I’ll show you exactly how un-like pro-wrestling this is.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you ever watch boxing?”

“I don’t follow it, but yeah, I’ve seen a few matches.”

“Kickboxing?”

“Does that Van Damme movie count?”

“Nearly. Anyhow, MMA is way more like boxing than pro-wrestling. For starters, it’s real.”

The event coverage started up and she fast-forwarded, skipping over a particularly bloody preliminary match.

“Whoa,” Patrick muttered.

She stopped when the tape reached the main event. It was an epic fight—nonstop action, the perfect mix of stand-up and grappling, a million exciting reversals and near-submissions.

“So, wait,” Patrick said halfway through the first round.

She turned, finding his lips pursed, brow furrowed adorably.

“Yes?”

“So you actually do this?”

“I do. Or I did. I’m just a trainer now, so I won’t be doing much more than sparring. I’m getting old for it.” Some fighters could stay professionally viable all the way to forty, but Steph wasn’t destined to be one of them. She could feel the sport taking its toll in her joints, and her post-match aches and pains lingered far longer than they had when she was twenty.

“But you got hit in the face and stuff?”

“I did. Plenty.”