Page 53 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“Do you still want to teach me boxing?” she asked, and was rewarded with a crooked smile, like Roz couldn’t help herself.

“Yeah? Boxing?”

“Stay till the end of the party,” Deepa implored. “Then we’ll go back to London together. To your club, wherever it is you train.”

“Alright,” Roz said finally, squeezing Deepa’s hands. “Alright, it’s a date.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES

When they arrived at the boxing club, the place was empty, as if the other women had better things to do on a Saturday evening. Deepa couldn’t care less what they were up to. It left Roz without a sparring partner, setting the perfect scene for Deepa to volunteered herself in a more experienced fighter’s place.

The club was a hole-in-the-wall shoebox of an establishment, unmarked from the street and unremarkable to look at. Inside, a number of heavy punching bags hung from the ceiling along the back wall with tumbling mats taking up much of the floor space. The training ring itself was a square construct with three ropes on every side, and the floor within was scuffed and well-worn from being trampled by so many feet for so many years. The whole place smelled of sweat and effort.

As Roz got straight to business, Deepa struck a seductive pose — not entirely on purpose; it was just that most of her body language was seductive, from force of habit — leaning one elbow against the doorway, the orange drape of her sari hanging down as its charms winked invitingly.

“You’re not going to stand there and hit that punching bag the whole time, are you?”

Roz turned back to look at her, one hand on the bag’s leather. “You said you wanted to learn. Figured I’d show you the basics on the punching bag first.”

“That seems a rather conservative approach to teaching when we have the luxury of this place all to ourselves.”

“You want to get in the ring with me?” Roz asked, bright-eyed in her amusement. “No easing into things?”

If Deepa were serious about learning to box, the correct thing to do would be to start with the bag. But Deepa had other priorities, and she glanced around, casing the joint. “How much privacy are we likely to have here, exactly?”

Roz’s eyebrows shot up. “Worried about embarrassing yourself in front of an audience, princess?”

“Not quite,” Deepa replied, flashing a smile. “But let's go somewhere we can ensure we won’t be interrupted.”

With that instruction, Roz took her to the changing room. It was long and narrow compared to the big square space of the club, with a few skinny benches running lengthways down the middle across from the lockers where the athletes and trainees kept their gloves and other personal belongings. That left just enough room at one end to move around, which was plenty of space for Roz to demonstrate how to throw a punch, and even enough for two women to grapple, if they were more inclined to wrestling than boxing. Deepa wasn’t particularly inclined to either, but what she had in mind wasn’t far from grappling, so the space would serve her well enough.

“You want to be wearing something comfortable, that you can move in,” Roz said.

Glancing down at herself, Deepa allowed that her sari would probably not fit the bill. “What do you suggest?”

In response, Roz shed her jacket and unbuttoned her shirt, peeling out of it before tossing it over. Deepa caught it by reflex only, staring dry-mouthed at Roz in her fitted undershirt, under which she was very conspicuously not wearing a bra.

“And my skirts?” Deepa managed.

“Best lose them,” Roz replied, barely hiding her grin.

Turning away as if in modesty, Deepa shed her layers one at a time — her draped sari, her long skirt, stockings, and finally her choli — folding them atop the bench until she was left standing in her underwear. Coyly, she glanced back at Roz from over her shoulder, batting her lashes before slowly pulling on the sleeves of her borrowed shirt. Her choli would have served perfectly well, sleeveless as it was, but then, that would lose her the excuse to wear Roz’s top, which smelled of her cologne.

Leaning one shoulder against the lockers, arms loosely crossed, Roz watched her like she was putting on the best show in the world.

With a brilliant lurch of heat, Deepa recognised that her greatest challenge wasn't going to be learning how to box. Her greatest challenge was going to be staying focused for long enough to learn anything at all. Bare-armed in her undershirt with her nipples visible through the fabric, Roz was distraction incarnate, and Deepa didn’t really want to resist. Roz lookedgood, and she wasn’t even within reach. By the time they were actually touching — by the time their hearts were pounding and they had both worked up a sweat, and Deepa was close enough to smell her, to taste her, even — By that point, Deepa seriously doubted she could keep pretending it was boxing she was thinking about.

But she doubted Roz would be much interested in boxing by then, either.

“Does this room have a lock?” she asked, and Roz’s eyes went dark and hungry like she knew exactly what Deepa was thinking.

Wordlessly, Roz returned to the door, pushed it shut, and turned the lock. Then, she visibly gathered herself, eyes shut for the duration of one strong breath. When she opened them, she looked like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will, and it was fraying.

“First, let me wrap your hands. If you throw a single punch, you want some protection to keep from breaking any bones.”

Obediently, Deepa held out her hands as Roz opened her locker to withdraw a roll of elasticised fabric. One hand at a time, Roz wound it around Deepa’s wrists, across her palm, in between each finger, overlapping and going around and around in an intricate pattern. Though Roz was focused on her work and clearly knew what she was doing, as if she’d wrapped her own hands a thousand times before, her touch was anything but businesslike.

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