Spite Club

by Julie Kriss

  The place was as run-down as I imagined, bigger than it looked from outside, with a sparring ring in one corner, a few workout and weight areas, and some open, matted spaces with punching bags hanging from the ceiling. There were a dozen guys there, of all sizes and colors, working out their sweaty, bulging muscles. They barely glanced my way when I walked in the door, and no one bothered catcalling me in my yoga pants and sweatshirt. I was relieved and a little miffed at the same time.

  I noticed Nick immediately. It was five o’clock, and he was here, just like he said he’d be. He was on the mats, punching one of the bags, wearing black gym shorts and a gray T-shirt that was soaked through in a V on his chest and back. The edge of a tattoo showed past the sleeve of his T-shirt, dark on his bicep. I hadn’t noticed that when I’d first met him, the night he’d punched Josh with his jacket thrown to the floor.

  As if he had a sixth sense, he stopped what he was doing and turned to me. A look of surprise crossed his expression, and he waved me over.

  I walked to him, trying to look cool and nonchalant. Because, holy fuck. Nick wasn’t bulging with muscles like some of the guys here, but his body was lean and mean, his chest and stomach taut with muscle that I could see through the clinging t-shirt. Even his legs were sexy, his calves roped with muscle and fine hair. There was a sheen of sweat where his neck disappeared into his shirt, his brown hair was damp, and he still had that shadow of stubble on his jaw. His gray eyes were focused on mine like lasers as I approached.

  “So you decided to get mad, huh?” he said as he pulled off the gloves he’d been wearing.

  I tried not to watch in fascination as the tendons and muscles moved in his arms. “Sure,” I said. “Here I am.”

  “I knew you’d show.”

  “Because you’re so irresistible?” I dropped my bag at the edge of the mat.

  He was looking me over, the same look he’d given me in the diner that had stripped me naked, but there was a thoughtful edge to his expression. “No. I’m not. You know that, redhead. I knew you’d show because Bank Boy pissed you off, and you want to hit him.”

  “You keep calling him Bank Boy,” I said. “I work at the bank, too.”

  He shook his head. “You won’t last.”

  “Excuse me?” Jesus, did everyone think I was hopeless at having a career?

  “You don’t belong there,” Nick said, his look going up and down me again. That look should make me mad, but instead it made me weirdly breathless. “That body, in a suit? You’ll quit. I’m calling it.”

  What about my body? Was he saying something good or bad? I couldn’t tell. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “We’ll see who’s right,” he said. “In the meantime, you came here.”

  “You said I have an anger management problem.”

  “Yeah. I think you should hit something.”

  “You?” I asked.

  He laughed low, probably at the hopeful tone in my voice. And now I was turned on again. It was so strange, what he did to me. “You’re dressed good enough,” he said. “Take your sweatshirt and shoes off and get on the mat.”

  I pulled off my sweatshirt, toed off my sneakers, and fished a hair elastic out of my bag, swiping my hair back into a ponytail. “I’ve never hit anything before,” I told him as I got on the mat, my blood pumping.

  Nick took a stance square across from me, just out of reach. “Okay, throw a punch,” he said. “Let me see your form.”

  I made a fist and punched the air.

  He watched me carefully, even though my punch was laughable and my arm looked like spaghetti next to his. “You’re punching up,” he said. “You hit on an angle, you lose power and you put stress on your shoulder. You want to punch at shoulder level, never above it. Not right or left, but straight to keep the power focused. Try it again.”

  I did. “Can I punch you now? Or at least the bag?”

  “Not yet, because you’ll crack something. Turn your fist, rotate it.” He demonstrated in slow motion. “Use your wrist. See? And your stance is all wrong. Put your power leg back.”

  I moved my feet, but he shook his head. “Here.” He stood next to me and slapped the front of my right thigh impersonally. “Leg back. Heel up. This is a power stance.” He took my hips in his hands and turned them, his big, warm grip making me jump, though he didn’t seem to notice. “Turn your torso.” He used the same warm grip on my shoulders, moving them just so. “Right arm back. Now you twist and hit in one motion, and the power flows from your feet up through your body and your arm. You feel that?”

  I did. I felt everything, the power of my legs, the turn of my body, the jab of my fist. I could also feel the heat of his hands on my hips, as if he was still touching me. He was close enough that I could smell the tang of his sweat and I could see the way his biceps moved when he extended his arm. Good God. I was starting to get pleasantly wet, something I wasn’t about to admit to him. “Now can I try the bag?”

  He moved me over, his touch giving me the shivers again. “Just hit lightly. You don’t need force. Practice the hit. Straight from the middle knuckle, not the fourth finger or the pinky. Go.”

  I hit it a few times, hearing the satisfying smack when my knuckles hit the leather, feeling the surprising jolt in my arm. “I like this,” I said. “Now I know why you hit Josh.”

  “You bet your sweet ass,” Nick said. “Now the cross.”

  He showed me the moves—cross, jab, uppercut. He showed me the stances, the body work—I had no idea that punching started with the feet—and made me get the form right before hitting the bag. I was sweating in my t-shirt by the end, but my blood was singing and I was having more fun than I could remember. And Nick hadn’t even insulted me once. Maybe he was in a good mood after doing the Victoria’s Secret model he was banging in my imagination.

  “Okay, now we try the real shit,” Nick said, picking up two big white pads and holding them up. “You try and hit a moving target.”

  I obediently faced him, getting in a stance. “Shouldn’t I learn how to dodge?” I asked him.

  “No, because I’m not fighting you. This is only about you kicking ass. Now go.”

  I advanced on him, throwing punches at the white pads as he moved them. He moved back, to the side, then closer again, making me learn to get my footwork right while moving. Sometimes I missed, or things landed sideways, but I landed a few hits before he stopped me. “Fine,” he said. “You’ve got the hand placement, the wrist placement. Now gloves.”

  He put gloves on me and we went again. “Oh my God, this is awesome,” I said as I smacked the pads over and over. “I can hit hard without worrying about my hands.”

  “Hit as hard as you can,” he coached me as we moved around the mat, probably because my hardest punch was something he could barely feel. He still never made fun, though—not once. It was weird. I had no idea whether any of the big meatheads here were watching, or smirking, and I didn’t care; I just wanted to hit those pads as hard as I fucking could.

  “Shout,” Nick told me after a few minutes, “when you hit. It makes you hit harder and it forces you to expel your breath. You’ll see.”

  So I shouted “Josh, you suck!” as I threw another punch, and I felt it land with a satisfying thud. Sweat was beading on my forehead and my temples now, making loose strands from my ponytail stick to my neck. I felt exhilarated, powerful, like I could conquer anything. It was better than sex, at least any sex I’d ever had. “You humiliated me!” I shouted, hitting Nick again and again as he moved. “I trusted you! She’s a piece of trash!” Smack, smack.

  “Jesus, redhead,” Nick said, provoking me. “You hit like a girl.”

  “I am a girl!” I shouted back at him, hitting harder. I was getting the form right now, and I could feel the power in my punches. The words were coming out of me in a rush, not stopping until they were done. I actually started picturing Josh’s face on the boxing pads I was hitting. “We were supposed to get married!” I shouted as I pu
nched him. “We were supposed to follow the plan. Now the plan is shit and I’m going to die an old spinster unless I date Dave from Client Management! And he has a kid and a bunch of baggage!” I stopped, out of breath. My back and shoulders were on fire. I’d be paying for this for days.

  It was worth it.

  Nick dropped the pads. “Well, fuck,” he commented.

  I stared at him. I had a sudden fantasy of walking up to him and kissing him. Ripping his shirt off, pushing him down on the mat, pulling his shorts off, and jumping him. Right here in the middle of the gym. Blowing off steam, you might say, in one big orgasm.

  Oblivious, he stepped forward and took one of my gloves in his hand, unfastening the velcro tapes at my wrist. I stared at a drop of sweat in his clavicle as if hypnotized. Sex, my brain said senselessly. Sex, sex, sex.

  He took off my other glove, and I raised my eyes to see him looking at me. His expression was unreadable.

  “That’s good for today,” he said. “Let’s go get a milkshake.”

  Seven

  Nick

  I changed into another t-shirt and a pair of jeans and met her by the front door, my gym bag over my shoulder. She had put her shoes back on but her hair was still tied back, that brown-red color that looked different under different light. I’d be having boner dreams for weeks remembering what she’d looked like throwing punches, all those curves alive and moving.

  “Sorry,” I said. “There isn’t a women’s changing room here.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll be sweaty, I guess.”

  “I didn’t shower. So we’re both dirty.”

  She paused at the word. Then she frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

  “Too bad,” I replied. “Where we’re going, it doesn’t matter.”

  She hefted her bag. “Where are we going?”

  I pushed open the door and led her down the street. “Papaya Hut.”

  “What is a papaya hut?”

  “It’s a place that makes the best milkshakes you’ve ever tasted. And if you’re worrying about fat, don’t. I have no clue what they put in those things, but it isn’t cream.”

  “Please,” she said, catching up and following at my shoulder. “Do I look like a woman who worries about fat?”

  “It’s legal to have an ass, Evie Bates,” I said, pushing open the door to Papaya Hut. “Some of us even like it. If someone tells you you’re fat, now you know how to punch their teeth in.”

  She was quiet after that.

  The Hut was just a long, narrow space with a counter along one wall below a hand-lettered menu. I chose the blueberry-flavored shake, and she picked chocolate. She was still quiet as we got our shakes and took two high-top chairs at a narrow counter by the window, watching the street go by.

  “This is ridiculously good,” she said, her eyes going wide as she sipped her shake. “I was picturing Josh’s face when I was punching back there. Is that normal?”

  “Considering I punched his actual face, it’s pretty tame.”

  “I’m not usually aggressive.” She glanced at my chest, then my shoulder, then away again, as if she couldn’t meet my eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Okay,” I said, watching her mouth as she sipped from her straw again. Force of habit. For a nice girl, she had a sexy mouth.

  “You don’t seem very torn up about it. The whole cheating thing.” She paused. “Gina.”

  “We weren’t dating very long,” I said. “Being torn up isn’t my thing. And it’s different for guys. It’s all about pride.”

  “Pride?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You really want to know?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “We like to know our cock is the only cock. You know, King Cock. No other cock in the universe can compare.”

  She stared at me open-mouthed, her cheeks going pink. “King Cock?” she said.

  I narrowed my gaze at her as my temperature went up, starting in my balls. “Say that again.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Seriously, Evie. Say that again.”

  She swallowed. “Are you flirting with me?”

  Now I was watching her throat. “I don’t flirt. Ever. There’s no point.”

  She put down her drink, flustered, and licked her lip. I couldn’t stop staring. Finally she looked me in the eye. “You really are a bad boy, aren’t you? Like, the real thing.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I said, my voice thick. “Does it mean I get in your pants?”

  Her pupils were dark as she looked at me. “I think you’re actually coming on to me,” she said. “Your version of it, anyway.”

  Was I? I didn’t know. All I knew was that if we fucked, it would be hot and hard and we’d both get off in minutes. “You want me to?” I asked her.

  “I thought you didn’t want in my pants,” she replied. She lifted her chin a little. “I’m not your kind of woman, remember?”

  Right. She was a good girl. I needed to behave. “And I’m not your kind of guy.”

  “Not even remotely,” she said.

  I’d heard what she said back at the gym about wanting to get married, wanting a schedule. No, I was definitely not her kind of guy. “You take my advice yet?” I asked her.

  “I thought I just did,” she replied, confused. “Coming to the boxing gym for my anger management problem.”

  “No, the other advice. To find someone to fuck.”

  The first time I’d suggested it, she’d been outraged. Now she looked out the window pensively and bit her lip. And something inside me woke up and roared to life. She can’t possibly have done it already. It’s only been a few days. No fucking way. She would have—

  “No,” she said.

  The beast calmed down.

  Evie looked at me. “Have you?”

  I shrugged, as if this whole conversation didn’t affect me. Jesus, I was losing my mind. “No.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Really? I mean—I’m surprised.”

  I’d said I was considering it in the diner, but the fact was it hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’d just been trying to shock her. “Why are you surprised?”

  Now, finally, she looked slightly embarrassed. “Because I heard rumors about you.”

  “Yeah? They’re probably wrong.”

  She worried her lip again. She was polite, and she didn’t like to gossip. “I heard you come from family money,” she admitted finally.

  “Okay,” I said grudgingly. “True.”

  “And you don’t have a job and you party all the time.”

  “Also true.”

  “And you get a lot of women.”

  “Define ‘a lot.’”

  She shook her head. “Okay, I admit I didn’t actually hear that last one. It was an educated guess.”

  “Where are you hearing this shit?” I asked. There was no way she was talking to Gina. The two of them didn’t inhabit the same planet. I didn’t blame her because right now I didn’t want to inhabit Gina’s planet, either.

  She took another sip of her milkshake. “I heard it from Josh,” she said.

  The beast woke up again and growled. Fucking Bank Boy. She was talking to him? She was mad at him, but she hadn’t answered the question when I’d asked if she was in love with him. Maybe she wasn’t over him. Maybe she was hoping she’d get him back.

  Why the fuck did I care?

  “He knows a hell of a lot about me,” I said, “but he doesn’t know a fucking thing.”

  I must have sounded dangerous, because she put down her drink and stared at me. “He hates you,” she said.

  That didn’t surprise me. Most people hated me, including my own parents. “Yeah? Why?”

  “Because you punched him. You embarrassed him. You made him feel this big.” She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “He called me up. He told me to stay away from you. He thinks you’re going to take advantage of me. He said you’d come on to me and take advantag
e of my hurt feelings—like I can’t control myself. It was idiotic. I’ve never seen him so mad.”

  “Yeah?” I said again. She’d lost that hollowed-out expression she’d had in the diner, when she’d said she wasn’t skinny or good-looking enough to deserve him. When she talked about how mad Bank Boy was, her brown eyes were lit up with pleasure.

  So there was one favor I could do for her. Everyone has a special talent. Mine was pissing people off.

  “Let’s make him mad, then,” I said to her. “I mean, really mad.”

  “Nooo,” she said, drawing the word out as she looked at me warily. “We already said we aren’t doing that.”

  That made me smile. “Evie,” I said, “you don’t get it. We don’t have to fuck. Bank Boy already thinks we’re doing it, or almost. We just have to make it look like he’s right.”

  “And how do we do that?” she asked, her voice a little strangled.

  I thought it over. I already had a few invites on my phone. “What are you doing tonight?”

  She shrugged, the motion tight. She seemed to be holding her breath.

  “Gina and I have a lot of the same friends,” I told her. “One of them is throwing a party tonight. We go, we act like we’re fucking, and the gossip mill will do the rest. Gina will hear about it in minutes. That means Bank Boy will hear about it. Our work is done.”

  She thought about it. She wanted to do it, but she was wavering. I could practically see the argument in her head. “I have to go to work tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t stay out late.”

  It was Thursday. I always forgot, because I didn’t have a job. “No problem,” I said. “We stay just long enough to be seen.”

  She was still wavering. “You can’t kiss me or grab me or anything,” she said. “You know, to make it look convincing.” She cleared her throat. “No making out.”

  I put my hand to my heart. “No making out. I swear.”

  “Then how will it look like—”

  “Trust me,” I said. “We show up together, I tell them we’re dating, and it’s done.” I couldn’t resist. “Unless, you know, you want to make out.”

  “I do not,” she snapped. Then she ran a hand through her ponytail. “I can’t believe I’m considering this. A bunch of people will think we’re dating. It’s, like, a lie.”