Page 15 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“Don’t worry about it, love.”

Facing the wall, Roz peeled off her top like self-consciousness was a foreign concept. Since Roz was clearly unbothered, Deepa gave herself permission to look. And, once she did, she didn’t want to look at anything else.

Roz was beautiful the way beasts of burden were beautiful and cows were holy. Deepa, who had always appreciated trim-waisted elegance in her men, found her mouth gone dry and her pulse fluttering like a hummingbird when faced with such obvious strength in a woman. Roz could lift her one-handed and carry her on her shoulder. Her muscles rippled against her back, not cut for vain display, but with a healthy layer of body fat on top to pad them.

It was fashionable for women to be slim and flat like boys. Deepa herself had such a build, though she was taller than most women. Despite her androgyny, Roz couldn’t be further from that ideal. She wasn't curvy like a Botticelli painting, but thick and sturdy as a bull, built to carry weight and take a hit like it was nothing.

As she pulled on a tight, elasticised bandeau designed to flatten the little chest she had, the muscles in her shoulders bunched and Deepa wanted to know what it felt like to be lifted by her, carried, held. She wanted to press her palms against Roz’s back and feel the animal heat of her, her heartbeat through her ribs, the strength of her core.

She’d never wanted to do such things with any of her men. She had neverwanted, full stop.

Roz shrugged into a loose-fitting button-up as she turned, and broke into a wide smile when she caught Deepa openly staring. As the other women filed out of the room, Deepa took half a second to decide whether to play innocent before dismissing the notion. Wanting Roz was the first honest reaction she'd had to another person in a long time; she wasn’t going to deny herself that.

“Like what you see?” Roz asked, pulling on her suit jacket as she closed the space between them. She was in a pearl grey top and dark slacks in a flattering shade of aubergine, though she would likely call it purple. Stopping a respectable few feet away, she put her hands in her pockets, but that was still close enough to send Deepa’s heart flipping in anticipation.

“Do you win all your fights?” Deepa asked.

“Most of them. I'm glad I won that one, anyway. I would’ve hated losing in front of you.”

“Me, specifically?”

“There’s always more on the line when I’m fighting for a beautiful girl. Can’t compare to the regular crowd of punters.”

Deepa had been complimented on her looks a million times before. It didn’t normally affect her.

“Can I take you to dinner?” Roz asked.

“Now?” It was closing in on nine p.m.

“I don't want to wait another week before seeing you again.”

Doing some quick math, Deepa said, “I need to be home by eleven.”

“Before your carriage turns into a pumpkin? Alright. Not a real dinner, then. How about just a quick bite?”

Deepa extended one hand in invitation. She didn’t have to wait long before Roz took hold. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“Depends what you like,” Roz said easily. “I figure you’d want something classier than pub food, yeah?”

“You choose. You must be starving after your fight.”

Roz seemed to take that as a challenge, though Deepa hadn’t necessarily intended it as one. “I know a good pub just a few blocks from here. You mind the walk?”

“Not at all. Let me just tell my friends not to wait for me.”

“Roz!”

Still holding her hand, Deepa could feel Roz tense at the call. Turning, she found a man leaning through the doorway to wave Roz down without actually setting foot inside the changing room. He looked out of place among so many women: stubbled and balding, with a once-strong body that had since gone paunchy.

“Excuse me a second,” Roz said to Deepa in an undertone. “That’s my manager wanting a word about the fight, I reckon.” Slipping away, she made her way to the door, shoulders squared and arms crossed as she blocked the man from coming any further. Deepa only caught a few words — congratulations on the win, scheduling further training — before they broke apart again, the man disappearing into the bar, and Roz making herway back to Deepa’s side, looking rather more stone-faced than anyone should after such a solid victory.

“Trouble?” Deepa asked, blatantly fishing for context.

Roz just shook her head, recapturing Deepa’s hand to tuck it in the crook of her elbow. “Nothing important.”

“Your manager’s not important?”

Roz’s mouth twisted, a wry little hook to one side. “Not really. Come on, let’s get out of here before the night’s gone.” Walking Deepa from the changing room, they exited the bar without acknowledging Roz’s manager, who was on his elbows over the bar top to talk to the establishment’s owner.

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