by JD Hawkins
I almost laugh.
Tara’s dad is Howard Kelley—one of the greatest boxers who ever lived. She’s got fighting in her blood. That’s why she got the job working the front desk at my fight gym, that’s what made me get with her, and that’s why, in the end, I broke up with her over a month ago. The girl doesn’t know when to quit.
Even though she’s got a body that’ll break your neck from second looks, she can barely do a push-up (that’s what a diet of cigarettes and vodka will do to you). So she does most of her fighting in other ways. Mind games, petty arguments, emotional manipulation—she’s got a black belt in them all. Put a woman like that in with a guy who talks with his hands, thinks with his dick, and speaks from his heart, and you get a two year disaster you have to take some artistic license to call a ‘relationship.’
“Connor,” Tara smiles, trying her best and still failing to sound sweet and innocent, “I’m just offering to drive you back to the gym. I’m not trying to trick you or anything.”
All I wanna do is find that blonde and get her to call me a cab, but I know the rules: say yes and Tara will spend every second of the ride trying to get in my head, trying to convince me to take her back. Say no and she’ll make a scene, right here in the lobby where anyone—including the lingering paparazzi outside—can see us. I let out a long sigh, run a hand through my hair, and decide the first is the lesser of two evils.
“Ok,” I say. “Lemme just go to the toilet, I feel like I’m gonna bust a leak.”
Tara smiles and spins around to check out the lobby while I make for the bathroom. Once I’m done releasing a couple gallons of the organically-grown hippie-juice I drink every morning on Butch’s orders, I take a moment to wash my hands and run a little water over my face. I grab a paper towel to dry off and hear a click behind me.
I glance up at the mirror to see what it is, though there’s a part of me that already knows. It’s Tara, leaning back against the locked door, finger between her smiling teeth, leg cocked, a schoolboy’s wet dream.
“Gimme a minute,” I say, continuing to towel off, pretending I don’t know what she’s doing.
“I’m gonna give you a lot more than that, tiger.”
I turn around to find that’s she’s teleported right up against me, pushing her lush body against mine.
“Don’t do this, Tara,” I say, putting as much ‘leave-me-alone’ into my voice as I can. “It ain’t happening.”
She smiles and gets a glint in her eye, as if the frustration in my voice is a challenge, not an invitation to get the hell away from me. It’s a smile I know well—shit, I know everything about her too well. I have to go back a long way, and forget a lot of shit, to remember a time when I liked that smile.
I try to slide away but she grabs my shirt and presses me back against the wall right where she wants me, squeezed between a hard place and her hard tits.
“How long are you gonna keep pushing me away, Connor?”
“You’re welcome to come to my funeral.”
“You always get a smart mouth when you’re horny,” she says, tenderly running her tongue between her teeth as her hand finds its way down to the fly of my jeans.
I swallow, grabbing her hand to stop her but not pulling it away. I’m horny as hell, high off the rush I got from the interview, turned on by the way that blonde woman looked at me like she hasn’t been fucked in a long time, blood thumping at the prospect of an impending fight. But I know this is wrong, that this is bad for me, that Tara is bad for me.
I despise the woman standing in front of me, hate the way she almost ruined my career, the way she acted so selfishly when we were together, the way she took me for granted; I hate the way she likes me more now that I’m about to hit the big time. I hate everything about her, only my cock didn’t get the memo, and all I can think about is hate-fucking her in front of the bathroom mirror so I can watch the tattoos on her ass shake one more time.
“Wouldn’t it be so easy? Don’t think about it,” she whispers, reflecting my own thoughts back to me like the devil himself. “Remember when I used to tell you to fuck my face?”
I feel a surge of blood rush to my cock at the words, at the way she lowers her head, at the way she wraps those unforgiving fingers around me.
I’m all but gone. Down on the mat and counting. Head lost and unable to defend myself. If there was a referee standing here, he’d be seconds away from calling it.
I never stay down though.
“Enough,” I say, pulling Tara’s hands away and sliding out of her grasp in a dodge worthy of Ali. “Don’t try that shit again, Tara. We’re done.”
It might be the best comeback I ever made.
1
Connor
You haven’t truly suffered until you’ve been a professional fighter standing in line during the morning rush at Woodland Smoothies, where they serve what looks like sewage-in-a-cup along with a healthy side of holier-than-thou attitude. I hate this place. I hate the way it smells like a forest took a fart. I hate the way the servers act like they’re interrupting the writing of their screenplays to serve you. I hate the way there isn’t anywhere you can look without the words ‘organic’ ‘locally-sourced’ or ‘healthy’ in your field of vision. I hate the way everyone in there looks like they’ve never thrown a punch. I hate the way even the hot chicks look like they’d rather spend the night with their cat than with a real man. I hated this place the first time Butch told me to go here every morning to get breakfast, and I hate it even more now that I’ve been here every single day for the past week.
I shuffle forward with the line, but only a little. I guess it takes a lot of time to really bring out that exorcist-green color of the drinks. All I can think about every time I find myself standing in line here is how much I’d give for a bloody steak and a bowl of chili cheese fries. Or maybe a philly cheese steak on a soft roll, or a pulled pork sandwich slathered in barbecue sauce.
My stomach doesn’t growl anymore, it roars. I’d almost be embarrassed if I wasn’t already standing out, and if the girls behind me weren’t drowning out the sound of my hunger with their chatter.
“…trying to cram thirty hours of work into a twenty-four hour day. This is the first time in weeks I’m not drinking something caffeinated enough to make me as tight as a violin bow.”
“Have you tried meditating like I told you? Or at least the breathing exerc—”
“Oh Frankie, stop it with that, would you? Breathing deeply isn’t going to make a million dollar client stop asking questions every ten minutes.”
“But it’ll help you stay calm when he does.”
I let myself smile a little. It’s the first time I’ve heard a line conversation at Woodland’s that didn’t immediately make me roll my eyes so hard I got dizzy. There are dozens of fighters who do that kind of thing: meditation, deep breathing, focus exercises. Me, I find being a cocky son-of-a-bitch is all the mental preparation I need. I’ll try anything once, though, especially if ‘Frankie’ looks as hot as her voice sounds. The line shifts a little once more and I take another micro step forward.
“Meditation didn’t get me through college, and deep breathing didn’t land me a great job—hard work did. And hard work is the only thing that’s going to help me now.”
I hear the other one sigh gently, and it sounds a little too close to a moan for me not to start thinking filthy thoughts.
“A lot of people I work with think the same until they actually try it. I just really want you to give it a shot.”
Curiosity finally gets the better of me and I turn around to get a look at these chicks.
The first thing I notice is how easy it is to tell which is which. One of them is dressed like she’s about to fire a whole board of CEOs; all tightly pinned-back ponytail and expensive grey business skirt. The other looks like she’s just come in from Woodstock in a blue tie-dye dress so loud I can almost hear it, and Joni Mitchell hair.
The second thing that hits me is how they’ve got
the exact same dark eyes, tear-shaped and expressive. The kind of eyes that you couldn’t mistake.
The third thing is that they’re both hot—but the hippie’s fucking extraordinary. Even though she’s wearing a dress that looks like the backdrop of a drug trip, she carries her tall, lithe frame with such a sense of composure that I wanna tear it off her.
It’s her face that hooks me though. The kind of high cheekbones that would make a crowd of supermodels feel inadequate, and lips that make you realize God is an artist. The second I see that face something locks in me, a determination to get close to her, a need to get that much hotness into my life—and I’m an ass man, usually.
“You ever work with athletes?” I say, directing the question at the hippie, though I still notice the other one looking at me like a fly that just landed in her appetizer.
She directs those eyes at me and smiles gently, as if she half-expected me to turn around and talk to her.
“Yeah. All the time. What are you looking for?”
“Well,” I say, scratching my stubble to show a little bicep and stepping slightly toward her (despite the increasingly disgusted glare of Ms. Business Class), “I got this problem where I get fixated on beautiful women. Like when I see one—you, for instance—I just get this really deep urge do something about it.”
She folds her arms and leans back, smiling sardonically as soon as she gets my game.
“Ugh,” the other groans.
“I think the only way I’m gonna fix it,” I carry on, “is by taking you out to dinner. What do you think?”
“You’re a fighter,” Frankie says, sizing me up through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling broadly now. “You heard of me, right?”
“No,” she says quickly, making my smile retreat a little, “it’s the way you stand. Too much weight on the balls of your feet. Careful not to plant yourself too much. You also tend to keep your elbows tucked in, and your jaw down. Kinda like a Neanderthal.”
Suddenly I’m on the back foot.
“That’s a pretty good eye you’ve got there,” I tell Frankie, staying smooth.
The uptight woman rolls her eyes. “You’d have to be legally blind not to notice you’re a professional thug,” she says, sneering at my workout clothes. “You don’t exactly look like you work for NASA.”
“It was JPL, actually,” I quip. “But rocket science doesn’t offer all that many opportunities for ass-kicking, which is what I majored in at college, so.”
I hear the gorgeous sound of Frankie’s laughter at my joke, and it’s almost enough to neutralize the death stare I’m getting from her sister now.
“Well, regardless of your advanced skills,” Frankie continues, grinning from behind those folded arms, “I still think you could use a good yoga class. You’ve got tension running all along your shoulders—probably from the weight of those arms. Lemme guess, you tend to store a lot of your stress in your upper back?”
“Yeah…” I agree. “How did you—”
“And those veins in your forearms…” she says, looking me up and down like a secondhand car. “Either you’re flexing to impress me, or you’ve got to work a little on your circulation. Try eating less gluten, too, you’ve got the heavy brow of someone about to develop a sinus problem.”
For a moment, I’m dumbstruck. “Are you a witch or something?”
She laughs and produces a card so gracefully I can’t even tell where she pulls it from.
“No, I own a yoga studio. You could use a lesson. The times are on the back. First lesson’s free.”
“Hey!” Wall Street suddenly calls out, reminding me suddenly that she exists. “Time to order, horndog.”
I glance one more time at Frankie, feeling like I’ve just been sucker punched, then turn around to the counter and place my order. When I turn back, business suit has carefully placed herself between us. I grab my drink, turn for the exit, and give Frankie one last look before I’m gone. She pretends not to notice, but I see the flicker of interest in her eyes—and that look alone is almost enough to make me actually consider taking yoga.
When I get back to my car, I take Frankie’s card out of my pocket and tuck it into my wallet, just in case.
You never know.
2
Frankie
“Ugh, what the hell are you doing?” Jaime hisses at me under her breath as soon as the walking advertisement for MMA is out of Woodland’s. “That guy was obviously hitting on you, and you invite him to your yoga classes? Are you out of your mind?”
I sigh and roll my eyes. Jaime’s my older sister, and it’s a role she takes as seriously as a full time job. When we were growing up she instructed me in all the ways of the world, from how to wear makeup properly to how to cook gourmet-level steaks. The only problem was that I spent too much time playing sports in the sunny heat for makeup, and I decided to go vegan when I was twelve. While she was pressing suits and sleeping three hours a night to become the head of one of the most successful accounting firms in L.A., I was going to India to study yoga and learn to play tablas. When she married a hedge fund manager who spent most of his time in New York City (but was too boring to cheat) I was busy setting up my own yoga studio.
But even after twenty-five years of life choices so different you’d question our genetics, of sisterly disappointment and untaken advice, Jaime still hasn’t shown any signs of giving up, and I still have no intention of doing what she wants me to.
“Why not?” I say, putting a little mischief in my pout. “He’s kind of cute.”
I only say it to wind my big sis up, and it works. She opens her mouth wide enough to drive a bus through, and her eyes go as shocked as an Amish girl at a Victoria’s Secret show.
“Please tell me you’re joking, Frankie. Please,” she says, putting her hands together and looking up at the ceiling for support. “That semi-evolved ape? That’s what you think is ‘cute’? The sort of man who’s one bout of road rage away from a jail sentence?”
I smile and give the waiting cashier my order, then urge Jaime to stop glaring at me and give hers. She does, still unable to peel the disgust from her face when she’s addressing the girl at the register, though to be fair the cashiers never look too different themselves. They probably find their clientele as obnoxious as I find the five dollar spirulina-wheatgrass-algae shots on the menu.
“Relax,” I say, shuffling along the counter to let the next people order, “I just…” I lower my voice a little, humbled by the thought before I can say it. “I’m not exactly in a position where I can turn away business, you know?”
Seeing the seriousness in my face, Jaime softens a little, doing that thing where she bites the inside of her cheek. It’s a gesture that she uses to express a lot of things; disapproval, sadness, uncertainty. We grab our drinks and make our way outside.
“I take it the business is still struggling then,” she says carefully, brushing a plastic seat with a napkin before daring to put her Givenchy skirt onto it.
“Business would be fine, it’s just…” I say, trying to pull back the frustration and anger from coloring my voice. I shouldn’t even be talking like this to Jaime, it’s just an invitation for a lecture, but God knows I need to get it off my chest. “I mean, I’m not doing anything wrong. We have a good group of regulars, and we still get a lot of new people. I’ve made a lot of contacts, people seem happy—I’m actually in a really good position to expand. Start doing more stuff.”
“So do it,” Jaime says, sarcasm coating her words like poison on a blade. “What’s holding you back?”
“It’s the rent,” I plead, more for the sake of telling someone than trying to convince her, “we’ve just had the third hike in a year. I’m having a little difficulty keeping up. Every time I think I’m about to start breaking even, my landlord slaps on another increase. And the fact that Fine Fitness decided to build a two-story gym down the street from us with yoga classes included in the membership…I worry I can’t compete with
a national chain like that.”
Jaime draws slowly from her drink, her eyes fixed on me like I’m on the witness stand.
“And are you still charging peanuts? Still doing ‘yoga for the homeless’?”
“It’s not yoga for the homeless,” I sigh. “But yes, I’ve kept the prices affordable, and I still do work in prisons and shelters. Are you really going to judge me for doing charity work?”
Jaime snorts and looks away, as if she’s heard enough.
“You do enough charity for the poor and you’ll become one of them yourself.”
“Jaime.” I feel a flash of irritation but silently remind myself to stay calm. “I know you want me to restrict my clientele to Hollywood actresses and the bored wives of producers, but that’s not what the studio—my studio—is about. It’s about wellness and spiritual betterment that’s accessible to all people...” I trail off as Jaime rolls her eyes.
She shakes her head and doesn’t speak, taking another sip of her smoothie before fixing her eyes on me like I’m miles away. I wait for it.
“So are you dating anyone?”
“No,” I say, drawing the word out. “And how did we go from talking about my business issues to my love life? Talk about a total one-eighty.”
Jaime shrugs innocently. “Coincidence. I was just thinking…”
“About my lack of a boyfriend…”
“About a guy I know who would be perfect…”
“And that’s my cue to leave,” I say, grabbing my drink and making to get up before Jaime grabs my hand and gives me the puppy eyes.
“Don’t be silly! Sit down.” I oblige very reluctantly. “It’s not even for you, it’s more for him. He asked me if I knew anyone who was single and…well…”
