Fierce

by L. G. Kelso

  Sketchy much? No phone number, no email address, hell, no company name. But, they didn't say desk experience needed and the part time with more hours possible would be perfect with school. After all, if I got there and the place was sketchy, I could leave.

  I found three more various places that allowed me to submit an electronic application. I even applied to the big, corporate all-in-one store that would undoubtedly turn me into an arsonist if I had to work there.

  I made a few adjustments to my résumé—which only had one job experience listed and that was the diner from age nineteen to twenty-one—printed it out, and placed it by my keys so I wouldn't forget it the next morning. I left my previous experiences off the résumé seeing as professional "violence" tended to make people freak out.

  "You didn't notice my hair, did you?"

  I looked up and over the half-wall that divided our tiny kitchen from the living room.

  "I like it."

  "You better." Leah's heavy New Mexican accent flared with her excitement. The fresh blond and brown highlights looked beautiful against her bright blue eyes that were intensified by her dark eyebrows. The woman changed hair like rabbits popped out babies. She didn't exactly have the money, but she had the time and claimed it all helped her "career."

  Eventually, Leah's career as a country singer may take off, but it was no guarantee, and she could be stuck singing in shitty bars the rest of her life. After we graduated high school, Leah had decided her education belonged on the back burner, maybe even done forever. I, on the other hand, decided everything else was done. School made sense.

  I'd have a stable job. Logically, my choices were solid.

  I may have been going after something that Leah often voiced was boring and "not my dream," but at least I'd have a pay check and health insurance.

  Safe and failure free. That was what I needed.

  #

  I shuffled through the library, juggling two books and my thermos. Since school was in its first week of the second semester, not very many people were in the library. Even the coffee shop only had three people in line. Settling into a chair at a large table, I turned up the volume on my phone and dropped my backpack to the floor.

  A few minutes later, I was scanning book titles, drinking my coffee, and moving my head and feet to the music. It took too much effort not to feel it. The hip-hop drummed through my senses, and my body reacted. My fingers drummed along the shelves, and my lips mouthed the words without my consent. Before I realized it, my head bobbed. Even after all these years, my body still wanted to fall into position. The music had been a part of my warm up routine for years, and it took all I had to keep my hands at my side.

  I found a book that looked promising—well, as promising as marketing could be—and pulled it from the shelf. An audible ease sounded through my earphones as books shifted and the space filled. I opened the book, and flipped through the contents. I didn't look up until I reached the end of the aisle.

  The book almost slipped out of my grasp. I stumbled to a stop, tripping over my own feet. Wow, my grace had gone down the shit-hole recently.

  I had two horrible realizations at once.

  One, I had walked to the wrong end of the aisles. Instead of finding my table, I found the back of a book aisle. I obviously had no internal GPS.

  Two, I also found a man I so did not want to see right now.

  Max leaned against the built-in desk along the back of the library. His legs stretched in front of him, his feet crossed at the ankles. His hands held an open book. His eyes and head were angled down, attentive to whatever he read.

  He hadn't noticed me. I had time to escape. However, my surprise won, and I stood firmly in place as I studied him. His dark brown hair fell over his forehead, and bruise graced his cheekbone. Had he been hit during the scuffle?

  It wasn't fair that anyone should look so sexy while reading.

  Oh, God. Where had that come from?

  He looked up a second later, black glasses around his dark eyes. Closing the book, with his fingers still tucked in it, he straightened up. "Hi."

  "Hi," I said. "Bye." I pivoted, ready to bolt the other direction. At least my reflexes seemed to be working again.

  "Is that for Professor Lowe's class?"

  I turned back to him, and looked from the book to his face. "Yes."

  The black frames, which I had never seen Max wear, intensified the dark depths of his eyes.

  "You're wearing glasses," I said. Wow. Way to go, Captain Obvious.

  He smiled. "I am. Lowe loves the book by Jeanie Mathews. Use that for reference and you'll be set."

  "Thanks," I said, mulling it over. I didn't remember seeing a book by a Jeanie Mathews on the shelf. I caught sight of the corner of the paperback in his hand, and cocked my head to see the title. Another surge of surprise hit me.

  "That's one of my favorite books." I looked away from the book, and back to him. His fingers beat against the edge of the desk, and his head bobbed slightly. My earphones had slipped out and swayed over my shoulders.

  "Really?" He held up the book.

  "Is it for class? Please say yes, because that would be the best class ever."

  "No. It's for fun."

  "I love that one. It's my favorite out of the series."

  "Really? I thought the last one was hard to beat."

  "This one does it. He's a little too descriptive for my taste, but the rest makes up for the pages of description." Sometime, in my blabbering on about the book, I moved. I found myself a few feet from Max, leaning against the same desk. After I spent another who-knows-how-long on my descriptions rant, I looked up from the book and met his eyes. Amusement flickered across his features.

  "What?"

  "I didn't know you read."

  "Why would you? I've served you pie and coffee. That's it."

  "Fair point. For someone I see weekly, I guess I don't know much about you."

  The question stalled, thank God, in my mouth before I spoke it out loud. Would you want to?

  "You know there are some cheap classes for students. Like self-defense classes. Or some kind of martial arts class," he said.

  After my brain adjusted to the sudden change in topic, the thought made my heart ache. The yearning returned, muddling my logical brain.

  "I don't know if you're interested in that sort of thing," he added.

  I didn't know how to answer, so I simply decided not to. This deep into the library, the noise from the espresso machine and people talking in the coffee shop had been drowned out by silence. I inhaled through my nose, and Max hit my senses. God, how did Max already have his own smell? The space between Max and I had diminished more. Had he moved closer? There was no stale heat and less sweat, but Max smelled as his car had the other night. Something about the smell reminded me of home. Not where I slept, but where I had practically lived for most my teen years.

  I had no idea someone could smell so good.

  "I'm starting to think I must stink all the time," Max said. "I swear I do shower."

  "What?" I asked.

  "You're doing that cute, erm," he cleared his throat, "funny thing with your nose again," he answered.

  I would have taken a hook to the liver over the heat that poured through my cheeks.

  "You don't stink," I blurted out. "You just…do you wear cologne or something?"

  "No. Do I need to?" Pink flared across his cheekbones.

  "No. That's not what I meant."

  His eyebrow quirked.

  "You, well, smell good. That's all." Well, today was officially an epic failure.

  The pink on his cheeks spread, and he looked down at his book.

  I needed to get the hell out of dodge before I did anything else stupid. I put one of my earphones back in, and began to say goodbye when a loud voice interrupted me.

  "You are such a whore!" A girl's voice boomed through the library. I couldn't see her, but I could hear the voice screaming in reply, muffled and fuzzy, through a phon
e speaker.

  Max sighed, and put his book onto the desk. "It was nice talking to you, but if you'll excuse me, work is calling."

  "Yeah, no problem. I need to...wait, work?" I asked, as Max started to walk away.

  "I don't mind if people get kind of loud in the library, but screaming curse words is a different story. It's distracting for everyone."

  "What are you talking about?"

  He looked over his shoulder, a smile on his face, before he disappeared around the corner of the bookcase. "I'm the librarian."

  The librarian.

  Curious to see if he was serious, I hurried to the end of the aisle and watched as he approached a bleached-blond girl screaming into her phone.

  Taking in the book on the desk and the way he politely but firmly told the girl she needed to leave the library if she wished to continue her phone call, the library gig actually seemed to fit him.

  Somehow, but only partially. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about him felt familiar. Something familiar in the way he carried himself and the way he moved.

  The blonde screamed into the phone, adding in a stream something to the effect "now you're getting me kicked out of the library," but with more swearing. Now was my chance to sneak off before I had to face Max again.

  I grabbed my bag and hurried pass them, catching the girl asking him why she couldn't continue her conversation inside. Max's gaze met mine, and our eyes briefly locked. He gave me a quick grin before turning serious.

  He straightened his glasses, and I tried to give my best empathizing look by turning my lips into a slight smile and shrugging. He went back to explaining to the girl why. He sighed, but his voice never turned mean.

  I would've told her to shut the hell up or dragged her ass out. Obviously, Max was a much nicer person than I was. I slipped out of the library, feeling more unsettled than before. The idea of Trevor being gone didn't feel so illogical suddenly. Maybe, just maybe, someone like Max would fit into my safely planned life.

  Chapter Three

  After almost a week with no callbacks from any of my applications, and no news when I tried to follow up with them, I decided to take my application to the place looking for secretarial work.

  I found the only pair of slacks I owned in the back of my closet and covered my tank top with a nice button-up shirt, leaving the top few buttons unbuttoned. Add a smooth bun and a little makeup, and I hoped I looked professional.

  I looked at the address and headed east once I reached the street. As I continued, the numbers getting closer to my goal, a hint of panic started to swell in my chest and under my ribs. This was familiar terrain. Too familiar.

  It would be fine. There was a ton of businesses on this strip.

  But with each business I passed, the hint turned into a gnawing volcano, flowing beneath my sternum and through my stomach.

  A small building a little farther up looked promising. A sign with the words CPA gave me some hope. A CPA place could definitely use some extra filing. I started to the door, but the silver numbers of the address caught my attention. Not the place I searched for.

  Damn.

  I was running out of options.

  I checked for traffic and darted across a side street. One more block separated me from it. Even though the outside wasn't much different from the surroundings buildings, I could still make it out at the end of this block, on the corner of an intersection.

  Halfway there, I had to give up hoping I'd find the address prior to reaching my old stomping ground. Or, more like pounding ground, but whatever.

  The burning panic flared through the rest of my body as I stumbled to a stop in front of the building. Sure enough. The black letters protruding from the wall matched the address for the job.

  Rhoad's Fight Academy.

  MoFo.

  The double doors loomed a few feet away. The shadow from the yawning over the door ended at my toes, leaving me in sunlight that burned the skin beneath my leather jacket. Black rod iron plated the large window and door.

  "Walk away, Tori," I warned myself. "Walk away."

  I knew I should have turned around. I should have given in to the part of me that wanted to rip my résumé and run, as fast as I could and as far as I could. I needed to get away before it was too late, yet I couldn't move. I could only stand and stare and get swallowed by an overpowering ache that turned my panic into ice.

  I screwed up and allowed the ache to guide me as I opened the door and stepped inside.

  The music hit my ears first, but then the moan of fractured air and impact emerged through the beat.

  Adrenaline spiked in my blood; my skin flushed. In two seconds, all of it rushed back. The nerves, the excitement, the adrenaline, the crave of the endorphin rush. I closed my eyes and listened.

  Babam babam.

  Fast hard, fast hard. Maybe a jab cross jab cross. Bam bam bam. Hard hard hard. Maybe a jab cross hook. Baba Bam. Fast fast hard. Undoubtedly, it echoed a jab jab cross.

  Deja vu engulfed me. The place had grown a lot, but the smell and noises were the same, and oh, they were so good. Sweat. Hardwork. Energy. Adrenaline. Not the clean pristine air from outside, and God, it was so much better. I inhaled deeply, but the bitter sweetness of the situation diminished the initial eagerness that had infiltrated my senses. Somehow, I had let my guard down. I forced the wall back up.

  Against the scolding of my mental self, I took a few steps toward the dojo in the gym's interior. A feeling similar to the contentment I felt when walking into my parents' kitchen consumed me. It hadn't been an easy fit, not at first anyway. But once I nestled in here, it had become home.

  I leaned against the wall and lingered on each thing going on. Leather hit leather. Hooks and jabs made contact, forcing air out of the empty spaces in the mitts and gloves. Pairs of people sparred, moving through one side of the room. A man in the pair closest to me dodged a hook. He rolled under the strike, rose back up, pivoting on his back foot, and sent out a right uppercut. The strike cut through the air, the glove and mitt hit, the hiss from the man's teeth drowning in the bam.

  It was beautiful.

  In the middle of the flow and impact was the pulse. The pulse of it all, and at one time, I had been positive it had been my lifeline.

  In another corner, two people shadow-boxed, and near them two people did footwork drills.

  "Can I help you?" A man rounded the corner and went to the desk to my left. His eyes were hard and his face angled sharply, as though I was wasting his time.

  I glanced at my résumé. I couldn't do it. I couldn't come here to work. It would be too hard to keep the distance, too hard to keep the wall up. It would be too easy to get emotional and do something stupid.

  However, I also really needed a job. There was no way I'd make my bills unless I got offered a job and started immediately.

  No, I couldn't do it. I had to leave. I looked at the man regarding me with crossed arms. Maybe it was his irritated eyes or his defensive arms, but a sudden realization hit me. Taking the job was logical. Not taking it because of an emotional reaction was, well, irrational.

  Now, if I applied and they didn't want me, well, then I tried, right? I did the logical thing and it just didn't work out.

  "I saw a job for some desk job work? I'd like to give you my résumé." I held my résumé out.

  His arms didn't move.

  "Can I give this to you?" I shook the paper.

  "You have any secretary experience?" he asked. His hands stayed still.

  My fingers flexed, the paper of my résumé crinkling in my grasp. Why wouldn't he take the thing so I could be on my way, and away from this place? "No."

  "And you—" He paused and looked me up and down, no doubt scrutinizing my khaki slacks and navy blouse. "—want to work here? Have you ever been in a gym before?"

  "Yes," I said through gritted teeth.

  "I mean an MMA gym. Not some women's only fitness thing."

  "You know what? I don't want the job.
Nevermind." I hurried by the desk. Almost to the door. Soon I would be out, in that fresh and empty air.

  "I'll be damned."

  It had been exactly two years and nine months since I had heard that voice. Prior to that, I had heard it on a daily basis for seven years. And before that, every Christmas.

  The door might as well have been 1000 feet away now. I turned around and attempted to hold back my smile.

  "Hey, Uncle Jeff," I said.

  He walked over to me, a stiff walk from an old ankle fusion. In the years since I had seen him, Jeff had aged tremendously. After my father moved away for work, there was no reason to see Jeff at family functions. He and my mother had never gotten along, and she took it to a whole new level of crazy after my injury.

  I hadn't had the guts to come back and say hi. Not because I didn't love him like the uncle he was and the trainer he had been, but because I didn't think I could keep it together if I saw this place again. I feared that I would never get myself to leave, and that it would kill me.

  He put a hand on my shoulder. His thin-lipped smile flattened when he took in my outfit.

  "You have a new...fashion style?"

  "No. I thought I was applying for a job."

  His smile came back. "For the desk job?"

  "I decided not to apply." I wanted to look at the floor, or the massive air fans in the ceiling, but I couldn't. I had been trained better than that.

  "Damn. I was hoping you finally decided to come back. Or at least came to say hi."

  "Jeff ..."

  "I know, kid, I know. But do you want the job? You've got it."

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, Mr. Stiff Arms on the other side of the desk snapped, "She has no experience with secretary work. She probably doesn't know her way around a gym."

  Jeff's eyes flitted over my shoulder. "First off, Manny, you're a student. I'm not sure why you care so much. Second, Manny, this is Tori. My niece. Now, Tori, let me show you what I've done with the place and then we can talk about your work schedule." His hand edged my shoulder forward and we passed Manny as he whispered, "Manny wants to be my right hand. Don't mind him."