A Twisted Fantasy (Leon Kennedy X OC) [BOOK 2]

Prologue

"So, how's Kevin?"

I tossed my gym bag on the bench, as a deep sigh tore from my throat, my head rolling back to stare at the ceiling for a second as I tried to summon the strength to deal with this man today. "Are you EVER gonna let that go?"

I turned to face Chris Redfield and that signature shit eating grin already shining bright on his face.

"Not in this lifetime, so let me repeat myself: How's Kevin?"

"I'm going to punch you," I grumbled, turning back to my gym bag and quickly unzipping it.

"Did he want you to smack him around? I'd always heard he was a freak but it was never concrete. Maybe that's why he moved to California, plenty of punishing women out West."

Jesus, was he ever going to shut up?

"It was ONE time," I said, unable to keep the hiss of annoyance from my voice as I continued to dig through my bag. A chuckle from behind my back confirmed I had indeed shown too much reaction and painted a proverbial target on my back.

"Fun fact, he failed his STARS entry exam twice, but you knew that right?" He snickered, bending down to pick up the boxing pads as my fingers finally curled around the strips of hand wrappings I'd been searching for. I began winding the thin white dressing around my knuckles as I turned to face Chris again.

"Actually, Yes, I did. A rather annoying asshole frequently reminds me," I shouldn't give him the reaction I knew he was looking for. He loved pushing my buttons before a workout, claiming it made me work harder. 

Chris shrugged his shoulder, slipping his hands into the boxing mitts, "Oh did I? Sorry, forgot." I shook my head, "But it's important you know everything about this new boyfriend of yours."

My nose scrunched, lip curling. Boyfriend. Kevin Ryman was a lot of things but my boyfriend definitely was not one of them. Hell, even that tattered punching bag slumped in the far corner was more suitable boyfriend material than him. A good lay sure, but the minute his overconfident dickhead demeanor comes to play I quickly make my exit. This just goes to show I shouldn't tell Chris anything, lest it be thrown in my face at every other boxing session.

I raised my fists and squared my shoulders, "Just shut up and raise your hands, unless you're volunteering your face." I frowned.

"Oh alright," He drawled, picking up the pads and moving them into position, "but don't go easy on me."

I slammed my right fist into the pad, and quickly followed with the left. The pads resisted the force of my knuckles, huffing out whispers of air as I threw on hook after strike toward them.

Chris smiled as I threw my whole weight into the punches, offering chirps of encouragement and critiques as we went. Just a few minutes later my skin was glistening with sweat, my muscles now loose and ready to move on.

Chris abandoned the pads and went to retrieve our sparring gloves from his locker as I sipped water and surveyed the gym. The BSAA had set up a pretty little number for all the agents to use in the basement of our offices. Even without access to regular light it still managed to be open and inviting, and of course stocked full of all sorts of machines and tools. A handful of other agents were scattered throughout the space. Two women jogged on two nearby treadmills, another hefty man was lifting weights in the far corner while making very strong eye contact with himself in the mirror, and another was jumping rope a few spaces over.

I turned my attention to the news station on the tv mounted on the adjacent wall within the small boxing area. Whispers and rumors of bioterrorism and rogue B.O.W.s had been brewing for months. The BSAA and government had been able to keep a lot of it under wraps but there was always witnesses that slipped through the cracks. The news reporter was now discussing some alleged unsettling event in South America, which was where Chris was heading next.

The man in questioned returned a second later, handing me my sparring gloves as he slipped his own on, "Alright, no cheap shots this time." Chris said, throwing a pointed glance my way.

"It's not a cheap shot just because you didn't see it coming," I refuted, shoving my fingers into the holes of my worn white gloves that would definitely be seeing the inside of a trash can in the next few weeks.

"Yeah, sure. Just make sure you're not hitting the merchandise," He said, waving a hand in front of his face, "Can't have a black eye weighing down my devilishly handsome good looks."

I gave a disapproving shake of my head as I raised my fists into the ready position, squaring my shoulders and adjusting the placement of my feet. Chris' own joking demeanor melted away in an instant as he took up his starting stance. A nod from him had me stepping forward first, throwing a fist that he batted away and followed with his own.

We weaved through each of our moves, the actions flowing together like we were in some practiced dance. I was vaguely aware of the women on the treadmills stopping and observing us. We often did have an audience when we moved like this, moving so quick it was hard to keep up with what was happening.

Once sweat was pouring down my back and the stray tendrils from my ponytail were sticking to my shoulders, we finally pulled away.

"You need to work on your left cross," Chris said, yanking off his glove and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"You say that every time yet it's never become a problem."

"Fine," He said, throwing up his hands, "But don't say I didn't tell you when someone dislodges your jaw."

"I'm going to dislodge your jaw," I threatened, yanking my gloves off and beginning to peel away the dressings underneath.

Chris glanced at the TV as he moved for his water bottle, the reporter having shifted focus on the rumors of bioterror in Europe.

"When do you leave?"

"Friday," He replied, brows furrowing slightly as he looked to me.

"Did they tell you how long it'll be?"

"As long as it takes to get to the bottom of everything," He answers, taking another long swig of his drink, "Don't count on me making it to next Wednesdays session."

While the news anchor wasn't aware, the BSAA had been searching for another ocean liner intercepted and hijacked with an unknown viral nature destined for Brazil. The frequency of things like this had only increased since Umbrella officially folded earlier this year. It felt like for every stray scientist we find and arrest, two more pop up.

Chris got the call two nights ago, they'd be sending him to investigate the ports in South America, following any murmurs or whispers he could surrounding the ship and any of the viral load aboard. I'd volunteered to go with him, to scout the area and trail any leads we could dig up, but two idiot agents would draw too much attention.

"Alright," I turned, shoving my gloves and wrappings back into my bag, "What's for lunch?" Maybe some greasy food would help mop up the tension pooling in my stomach.

"How about--Shit,"

"You want what?" I barked, grabbing the small hand towel and wiping at my face, "Well you're free to eat that but I want--" I turned and my voice dropped. Chris's eyes were wide, mouth pulled into a deep frown as he stared at the TV.

The new report had a new red banner stretched across the bottom of the screen, the words BREAKING NEWS zipping along the line of color in bold print. The anchor looked solemn as he began to read from his teleprompter, Chris scrambled for the nearby remote perched on a shelf, quickly turning the volume up as the image of a girl overtook the screen–but not just any girl. A smiling face almost everyone in America would recognize.

I wouldn't believe the news if the anchor's voice hadn't said it in that gut-wrenching voice.

The President's daughter has been kidnapped.