by Monica James
And in my case, it’s better than not moving at all.
***
I’ve never been afraid of the dark because I know what goes bump in the night, and I know how to kick its ass.
So as I’m walking down a deserted stretch of road, alone at 2:16 a.m., I’m not concerned in the slightest. I actually think it’s peaceful at this time of the night, and everything always seems calmer when no one is near.
The only sounds I can hear are leaves skittering along the road, and the occasional hoot from an owl, watching me with her attentive eyes.
Due to my insomnia, I’ve decided to check out the twenty-four hour gym in town, as the alternative of sitting in my room waiting for the sun to come up was not an option.
A flashing sign indicates the gym’s location is just up ahead, and looking around the empty streets, I wonder why a sleepy town like this would need a twenty-four hour gym. Maybe South Boston is filled with gym junkie insomniacs. Either way, win for me, as I know I’ll be here often into the wee hours of the morning, running away from my nightmares.
Peeking into the glass window, I can see there’s no one working out—even better. I take a step inside and instantly it smells too clean and new. I guess it’s a nice change from the gyms back home that smelled of sweaty ass and moist armpits.
A girl in a purple polo is shoving a handful of candy into her mouth while watching a TV screen which is mounted above her head. She’s sitting on the bench, totally enthralled in whatever’s on the screen. I make my way over to the counter, hoping to make it quick, as I am itching for a workout.
As I approach the counter, I can hear Brad Pitt telling his fellow disciples what the first rule of Fight Club is. I wait about a minute, not wanting to be rude, but the girl is totally oblivious I’m here.
“Hi,” I mutter when she’s still engrossed in the TV.
Her eyes tear away from the screen and she looks shocked that she’s not alone.
“Oh, sorry!” she says, wiping her hands on her black shorts, placing the bag of candy onto the counter as she jumps down.
“Brad Pitt,” she says, pointing to the screen as if that explains everything.
I give her a small, stiff upper lip smile, really just wanting to work out and not make idle chitchat. I’ve wasted enough time, and I really just need to kick the shit out of something.
She thankfully gets it.
“Right, well, welcome to Punch It. I’m guessing you’re new because I haven’t seen your face here before. I’m Mandy. Any questions, please gimme a yell,” she says happily, reaching under the counter for my membership papers.
As she’s typing away at the computer, inputting all the fake information I just gave her, I ask, “I do have one question.”
She looks up from the computer screen, happy to answer my question.
“Where is your boxing equipment kept?”
***
My body is aching, and the sweat is pouring off my torso, but I can’t stop.
My muscles feel alive and alert, and my brain is switched off.
This is why I love boxing. You can get a workout by punching the shit out of something which doesn’t talk back.
I’ve been at it for about twenty minutes, and with each kick or punch I deliver, I come back twice as hard the next time.
I know I’m going to be sore later, but it’s so worth it.
“Night of the Hunter” by 30 Seconds to Mars is blaring through the speakers, and I’m concentrating on the beat to time my kicks and punches with the upbeat tempo.
My hair is sticking to my sweaty brow, and my clothes are molding to every curve of my clammy body. I don’t own any gym clothes, so I have made do with my black cotton shorts, red tank top, and black high tops.
But I don’t care how I look. This is the first time in a long time I’ve felt alive.
I deliver a roundhouse kick and nail it dead center into the red bag, which sways with the force of my power.
“What did the bag ever do to you?” a husky voice asks from behind me.
My skin prickles as I turn around to meet a smirking Quinn, wearing black sweatpants, a tight Pink Floyd t-shirt, and black skater sneakers. He looks too good to be working out.
His scruffy hair appears to be a shade darker than usual, and I realize that’s because it’s wet, sweat collecting at corners of his brow. It sits messily, and obstructs me from completely seeing his vibrant, green eyes. He has a heavier growth from when I saw him last, but it suits him as it highlights all his sharp angles and slopes.
I really need to stop obsessing over this guy. He’s smug, a smartass, and totally bad news, and that’s the reason why I can’t stay away from him.
“Good to see you’re up to your old stalking ways again,” I reply smartly, turning back to the bag and kicking it-hard.
I hear Quinn chuckle, and I hate that my body reacts in a way that it never has before. It wants to hear it again.
“Ah, you know, a man’s gotta have a hobby,” he replies. “Besides, you’re the one who’s stalking me.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “How d’ you figure?” I ask, concentrating on the bag and whipping its ass.
“Well, I was here first. And same goes for the other night when you stole my nuts.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” I retort, punching the bag twice. “It’s not my fault you’re slow and easily distracted.” I chuckle, referring to my air of seduction getting to him.
He’s off to my right side, as I can see him in my peripheral vision, standing arms crossed, watching me closely.
I show off a little as I throw out a left jab, and thrust my left hip forward to give me some extra power behind the punch, and quickly finish off with a right uppercut. My toned arms execute the move and I pull back, slightly breathless.
“Where’d you learn to fight?” Quinn asks, picking up a pair of focus pads from the floor and walking over to me, palms raised.
“Here and there,” I reply, opting to leave out the streets of L.A., dealing drugs.
“You’re good,” he says, flicking back his hair, revealing a pair of emerald jewels. “Wanna fight me?” he questions with a twinkle in his eye, daring me to accept his challenge.
“You think you can handle me?” I retort, shaking my hands to stretch them out.
Thankfully, I’ve taped them, as I’ve gone harder than I normally would.
“Give it your best shot, Red.” He smirks cockily, putting up the focus pads and steadying himself with a balanced stance.
He’s serious? Okay, bring it on, because dealing with my response to him… I can’t do. But fighting him… I can do.
I arrogantly walk up to him and look him in the eyes before focusing on the pads and delivering the combination of a right-left-right, and then the opposite left-right-left combination, ensuring my weight shifts correctly. My entire body is involved, because that’s where my power comes from.
I make sure to put all my force behind it, and when I’m done, I pull away without even breaking a sweat.
I raise an eyebrow at Quinn proudly, as I know that looked good.
He lets out a big yawn and smirks. “Oh, sorry, are you done? I thought that was a warm up,” and I’ll be damned, a dimple appears on his left cheek—smug bastard.
I launch forward and deliver a six series combination using all punches, but quicker this time. And also, with a lot more force. I decide to add a front kick, as he’s taking my punches with ease.
The kick pushes Quinn back a fraction, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my cheeks. The sight of tiny me, causing burly Quinn to stumble slightly, gives me the motivation to kick his ass.
And this goes on for five minutes, nonstop.
My body is aching and perspiration is pooling at the base of my lower back, but I can’t stop. It feels too good. I can feel his eyes watching my every move, and I feel alive under his vigilant gaze. I know I’m pushing him, but he doesn’t tell me to stop, he just lets me go until I almost col
lapse into a fatigued heap.
“Now… I’m done,” I say breathlessly, wiping the sweat from my brow.
Quinn is panting as he removes the pads and shakes his hands, stretching his fingers out.
“I’m impressed,” he says in between breaths. “Remind me not to piss you off anytime soon.” He chuckles.
He tosses the focus pads onto the floor and stretches his arms above his head, cracking his neck from side to side.
He holds himself with an air of confidence, and I would even go as far to say an arrogance, and that makes him all the more attractive.
“So, feel better?” he asks as I lean down to take a long drink from the water fountain.
Wiping the water that is spilling over my lips with the back of my hand, I look at him, confused.
“You know, cause you have some serious, pent up anger.”
“I do not!” I snap angrily.
The corners of his lips begin to pull up into a tight smile.
“I think you do, Red.”
“Well, isn’t it lucky I don’t care what you think,” I irritably bark.
I need something to do with my hands before I strangle him. Or have an urge to pass my fingers through his silken tresses—which frightens me more than the strangulation. I begin unraveling the white tape from around my hands, avoiding his eyes, and also, my reaction to him.
“Hey, it’s not a bad thing, it’s far from, actually,” he adds, and I know he’s smiling that smug smile. “I’m just calling it as I see it.”
“Oh yeah? So what do you see when you look at me?” I ask, frustrated, as my hands are fumbling and I can’t get the stupid tape undone.
“Here, gimme that,” he says on a sigh.
I look up and see him holding his hand out, gesturing with his chin for me to give him my hand. I know my fingers are shaking in rage… or something else.
I pull my hand back, but he’s lightning quick as he reaches for it, and pulls me and my hand toward him.
We are standing toe to toe, and my hand and heart feel like they’re both on fire.
What is wrong with me?
My eyes are focused on Quinn’s chest, which suddenly begins rising and falling in quickened breaths. Lifting my eyes to meet his, I can see his jaw is slightly clenched. But other than that, he’s giving nothing away. He has the perfect poker face.
“I see,” he says as he begins gently unraveling the tape from around my hands. “A young woman who isn’t like everyone else. She’s different. She’s witty. She doesn’t take shit from trashy cheerleaders, and doesn’t bat an eyelash when a complete stranger walks in on her while in the shower.”
His mouth tips up as if recalling the memory.
He reaches for my other hand, which is resting by my side, motionless. This time however, I don’t resist.
“I see bravery. I see naïveté,” he says softly as he continues untying the tape with expert care.
And in the small space between us, I can feel an invisible pull toward him, a longing to be near him.
He raises his eyes to meet my wide ones. “But most of all… I see a survivor.”
The word survivor comes out of his mouth like a forceful punch.
The cool breeze on my hand alerts me to the fact that Quinn has finished, but there’s a warmth spreading up my arm like a forest fire.
I lower my eyes, and am hypnotized by the sight of Quinn’s index finger running backward and forward over my tattoo on my inner wrist.
He doesn’t speak, but his touch fills the silence with a million words.
“So…” I clear my raspy throat. “You got all that, just by watching me box?” I ask lightheartedly, as I can’t explain what is passing between us.
Quinn’s mouth slants into a lopsided grin.
“No, Red. I got all that by watching you when you didn’t think anyone was looking and you let your guard down. It may have only been for a second… but it was enough.”
My knees begin to tremble at the thought of those emerald eyes watching my every move and dissecting me. Judging by the accurate description, he must have been watching very closely.
“Do you have any?” I ask quickly, needing to change the subject A-SAP.
“Any what?” He smirks, picking up on my discomfort.
“Tattoos,” I reply, looking down at where his fingertip is scoring my skin open with each stroke.
“Oh,” he says, looking at my wrist as if he only just realized he’s been touching me this entire time.
He releases his hold on me, and I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel cold without his touch.
He pulls on his lip ring, and I can’t help my eyes as they follow the movement.
“If I tell you, I’m gonna have to kill you,” he jokes.
I know it is only a saying, but the word ‘kill’ sends a shiver down my spine so intense I jolt.
Quinn sees my reaction and his eyes soften.
“I was only kidding, Red.”
I know he was, but the feeling I experienced down in Tabitha’s basement begins creeping over me, and I need to get out of here before I have another meltdown.
Stepping away from him, I quickly grab my backpack, which is slumped against the wall.
“I gotta go, thanks for the workout,” I lamely say, all but running for the exit as I shrug the straps over my shoulders.
“Hey, what did I say?” Quinn asks, panic crossing his handsome face.
I shrug it off and begin walking away from him hastily, my head bowed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, chasing after me.
When I keep walking, he reaches for my arm. The contact on my skin feels like a thousand knifes stabbing into me and I pull my arm back hastily.
“Please… don’t… touch me,” I say, barely holding on.
He instantly lets go, his hands raised in surrender.
“I’m sorry. Please look at me,” he says anxiously, as my eyes are glued to my scuffed shoes.
His breathing is as rapid as mine, and I feel horrible that I have freaked out on him for no apparent reason.
I raise my eyes and meet his, which are searching my face for answers.
“Talk to me, Red. What happened to you?”
He knows. How does he know?
I hiss in a deep breath, and suddenly, swallowing is a chore.
I can’t tell him, because he doesn’t want to know what I did.
I don’t even want to know what I did.
I killed my father.
I am a murderer.
What I did suddenly overwhelms me, and I have five seconds to get out of here before I break.
I meet his gaze for the final time because I can’t do this.
Quinn makes me feel… normal. He makes me want things I can’t have.
Things a murderer doesn’t deserve.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stutter, just holding back my hysteria.
The look on his face is one of worry and concern, and as he opens his mouth to reply, I charge out the door before he has a chance to utter a single word.
Chapter 12
One Step at a Time
I’m so tired, but the thought of going to sleep before my shift at the diner sends me into a panic. If I sleep, I’ll dream. That’s something I can’t deal with right now.
So this is what guilt feels like? Looks like I’m not the cold hearted bitch I thought I was. I actually prefer the not caring, as opposed to this. Now I feel like a meltdown is just around the corner if I, or anyone else, so much as breathes the wrong way.
That’s what happened last night with Quinn. I feel like a right royal idiot for running out on him when he was obviously trying to be nice. I don’t know why he’s wasting his time on someone like me, as I’m sure he isn’t short of admirers. But I would be a liar if I didn’t confess I feel kinda… alive in his company. Something I have never felt before when in the company of another individual. I don’t know what it is about him. Maybe it’s the way he ho
lds himself, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Maybe I’m envious of his carefree nature, and when I look at him, I see someone I want to be.
Or maybe it’s just my hormones reacting to the fact he’s the hottest guy I have ever seen.
Whatever it is, I have totally blown any kind of normalcy I could hope to have with him. Mia, the social pariah, strikes again!
Kicking off the bed, which I collapsed onto after my shift this morning, I decide to pay the library a visit before I’m due at the diner. I have other important issues to deal with, and that’s finding my mom.
I grab my backpack and sweater, and decide to pay Grandpa a quick visit before I leave. It’s funny how I have only been here five days, and I already feel more comfortable here than I did back home. I guess L.A. was never my home; I was only there because I had nowhere else to go.
“Hank?” I ask as I pop my head into the office. I don’t see him sitting behind the counter, reading the paper like he usually does.
Hearing the TV hum faintly in the background, I duck behind the counter and push past the curtain, hopeful not to find Hank atop any ladders.
Thankfully he’s grounded, and reading over some paperwork carefully. He’s blind as a bat, as the paperwork is mere inches away from his face, and I can see he’s trying desperately to read the fine print.
“Hank?” I ask again, as he hasn’t heard me call out to him.
He jumps, startled as his tired eyes meet mine.
“Oh, Paige, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he says, lowering the document.
“That’s okay,” I reply, concerned when I see his usual happy face looking troubled and worn.
“Everything okay?” I ask, looking at the piece of paper, hoping he might share its contents.
He folds up the document and places it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Looks like discussing what he was reading is not up for conversation.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” he says with a strained smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Whatever the matter is, I don’t press, as he has been respectful of my situation, and I owe him the same.
“So, you off to work?” he asks, nodding his head toward my backpack, which is strapped to my shoulders.
