by JD Hawkins
5
Connor
I feel about a hundred pounds lighter when I get home from the yoga studio. Like there’s a bubble of calm positivity surrounding me. Even my pitbull Tyson seems to sense it. Instead of scrabbling around on the hardwood floor like a maniac when I walk through the door, he bounds up to me and lets me roll his face in my hands.
“What’s up, buddy?” I growl back at him. “You feeling as good as I am?”
I lead him out to the backyard and toss a few treats for him to hunt down and eat. We chase each other around the yard a bit, partly to work off any excess energy and partly for the sheer joy of it. Eventually he gets tired enough to take his place sitting on the back porch, watching the birds. I rub his head a little, right close to his scarred ear where he likes it, then go back into the house to take a shower.
Hot water hits my back like a giant, soothing palm, and my mind immediately goes to Frankie, the way she put her hand up against my six-pack. The Python, Tara, it all feels like it happened long ago in a past not worth remembering, not after what Frankie just did for me, how she made me feel. It changes everything.
I close my eyes and try to visualize her, but it’s hard to recreate something so perfect in your mind. The best I can do is remember how she made me feel. Or maybe it was just the yoga. I ain’t sure anymore where the line is drawn.
It isn’t long before I’ve got a hard-on, thinking of Frankie’s half-smile as she told me I was doing it right. Of her sleek legs extended behind her when she did the downward dog. Of how even her tight sports bra couldn’t hide the elegant outline of her tits when she curled backwards.
It would have been so easy to put a move on her, to pull that waist up against me, plant my tongue between those fertile lips. I play the scene out in my mind, hand on cock, mouth opening a little as if I could actually taste her. I love eating pussy as much as the next guy, but something about this woman makes me want to go down on her for hours, bury my head between those toned thighs, drink her essence until her tight little body spasms with chaotic joy.
I come hard, slamming a hand against the shower glass to steady myself, a week’s build-up and the impossible pull Frankie compels in me combining to make the orgasm feel like a trigger being pulled inside of me. Tara got one thing right; I have been pretty pent up.
I lean back and let the water continue to hit me, contented emptiness spreading out from my cock. My body is satisfied, but I still can’t get her face out of my head. Still feel like it’s not quite enough.
By the time I get to bed my mind’s going like a washing machine again, just like it always does around this time. I lay there the same way I’ve laid there every night this week, body begging to fall asleep, to let my muscles repair, but my mind going through a million things at breakneck speed. A half-waking nightmare of mistakes I made in sparring blending with the stress of my upcoming fights and stained recollections of Tara—good and bad, though even the good seems bad with hindsight.
It goes on for hours, the memories getting older, the ability to turn my mind off and sleep getting even more distant. I try to remember the breathing exercises I learned with Frankie, but my thoughts are too chaotic right now for me to focus. By the time the dawn breaks I’m having imaginary conversations with my dad, asking him for advice, and imagining what he’d say, then disagreeing with him, the way I always did.
I blink and then the alarm goes off. My body feels like a bag of cement I’m hauling out of bed. Another sleepless night. I’m not sure of anything when I get up, only that I need Frankie’s help a lot more than I realized.
“Connor!” Butch screams the second I enter the gym. I smile and walk up to him, draining the last of my liquid green breakfast from its biodegradable container.
“Thought I’d treat myself,” I say, offering him one of the two cups I’m holding, “to a triple serving of seaweed today. And I brought one for you too.”
Butch scowls at me, then the cup, exactly the same way he did yesterday when he was giving me the hairdryer treatment. I almost wonder if he bothered changing his expression before he went to bed.
“I’m not drinking this shit,” he says, raising his scowl back to me.
“I’ll take it,” Matt says, emerging from the side and grabbing the cup. He takes one small sip, then screws his face up and suppresses a retch. “Dude…I think this is past its sell-by date.”
I slap him on the shoulder cheerfully.
“‘People of worth eat and drink only to live,’” I say, turning to Butch. “Who was that again, Butch?”
He winces at me.
“Socrates.”
“There you go,” I wink back.
“What the hell are you so happy for, Connor?” Butch asks. “You’ve no right to be with the way you sparred yesterday.”
“Today’s not yesterday, though,” I say, thinking of Frankie, and wondering if it’s her or the breathing that’s got me in such a good mood.
Butch growls from the back of his throat and steps aside.
“Get warmed up, Connor. No mucking around today.”
Once I start training though, it isn’t long before Butch starts easing up on his forehead wrinkles. I go hard, breaking my own numbers for weight-lifting sets and dealing out more damage on the punching bag than I’ve done in months. The fire’s still there, the tightly wound spring of violence in the pit of my stomach that lends strength to my hits and edge to my focus—but it’s got some room to breathe now, a little composure. I feel free and loose, a little more open. Yesterday my mind was holding my body back, but today both are pushing each other in perfect harmony, despite another sleepless night. I feel mean and in control. I feel like I can do anything, that the world is mine. I even notice Butch nodding as I work the bag.
Hours pass, Butch pushing me harder and harder as he sees I’m in the zone, and I relish every task he sets for me, wisecracking my way through the morning’s training as if nothing else existed but this, as if I’ve done it forever. It’s only when the whole gym erupts with a hero’s welcome that I stand back and look away from the bag in front of me.
It’s Dean Vardy. New middleweight champion. Red hair, frying pan face, and a Manchester accent that slices through a room almost as harshly as his punches. The kind of guy who shows he likes you by spending most of the time insulting you.
“Look at this wanker over here!” he says, noticing me and walking over, bringing his chipped-tooth smile with him. “The ‘Arse Man’ himself.”
“They still let you back in the country with a face like that?” I say, as we clasp hands.
“They begged me to come back,” he says, gripping hard and pulling in so close I can smell what he had for breakfast, “said they had a shortage of real men here.”
He laughs his wheezy, blank-mouthed smile and steps back.
“You alright, Butch?” he says, tuning his voice down a few keys.
Butch nods. “Congratulations on the belt, Dean. You put in a good fight.”
“Cheers,” Dean says, turning his smirk back to me. “Heard your lad’s got a shot now. Though I don’t fancy his chances much.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, encouraging him to dig a little further.
“I mean, Hendrix, yeah. I beat Hendrix myself when I had a fucking flu. But Pete the fucking Crippler Foreman? Mate, you’re a good fighter—and you’ve got a great coach behind you—but come on.”
I feel the muscles in my neck tense, even though I should be immune to taking shit from my old friend by now.
“He’s winding you up, Connor,” Butch sighs, as if he’s hanging out with children.
“Am I lying though?” Dean says, glancing at Butch. “Let’s face it, the only reason you got that title fight was that you’ve got a big mouth and a pretty face—though I don’t think you’ll be getting many offers once Pete’s done redecorating it.”
I laugh—knowing Dean is fishing for a bigger reaction—and fold my arms.
“Your money’s on the Crippler, then?�
� I say. “Shame. I thought you only looked stupid.”
Dean quickly fakes as if to punch, but I don’t flinch, and we both laugh. He points a crooked finger at me as he turns to move away.
“Keep talking, it’ll only make the odds—and my winnings—get bigger.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“Eh?”
“Nothing,” I say, smiling at his confusion, then turning to Butch “He’ll get it when he hits eighth grade.”
Butch laughs, Dean heads off shaking his head, and I get myself back to work.
I spend the rest of the day training and thinking about Frankie, and once I’m home I look at the yoga class schedule that I stuck on the fridge door. I find myself double checking the times whenever I walk past it, as if I might have missed an opportunity to see her sooner. After a light dinner I get in my car with Tyson, taking him out for a long run along the beach. I try to keep my thoughts slow and steady, but whenever I let my mind wander it goes straight to her.
I’m not dumb enough to think it means anything, though. When you spend two years with a girl like Tara it kind of messes with your idea of women. She knew what a hot outfit could do to a man’s mind, how she could use it to fry his circuits and make him almost destroy himself. She knew just how to kill you with kindness, just how to whisper doubts in your ear at the same time she’s giving you a backrub. Men might spend most of their time trying to destroy each other, but a woman can do it without even trying.
Frankie ain’t no Tara, that’s for sure, but it’s gonna take more than a nice yoga lesson for me to open myself up to that again. Not that I’m looking for anything more than an opportunity to explore her body, to make the most of those toned hips and juicy lips. Just two consenting, mature adults fucking each other like rabbits on Viagra. I don’t need anything more than that.
Tyson runs ahead and slows up by the bench, the one I always like to stop at when we go for these evening runs. I nuzzle his head a little as I sit down and lean back to let the dusty haze of the Pacific sunset fill my eyes. The enlarged orange half circle casting all kinds of dancing colors on the water. It’s a glorious sight, and it doesn’t get more perfect than this, but I still close my eyes and visualize her again. Run an imaginary hand across those imaginary cheekbones, hear that honey-sweet voice say my name…
I’m long past trying to sort the threads of this feeling. Maybe it’s just the effects of the breathing, maybe it’s just the novelty of meeting someone so different, maybe I’ve just gone too long without screwing a woman so hard she’ll scream my name out ten years later when she’s in bed with her husband. Or maybe…
No. I’m not about to get in deep with anything—with anyone. Not with the two biggest fights of my life coming up. The last thing I should be doing is the time-suck, mental drain, and potential turbulence of a relationship, especially with someone I know almost nothing about. Although I need to do something about Frankie, before whatever it is that’s got its claws in me starts becoming a problem more than an advantage. I need to get this unresolved hunger out of my system.
But hell, if the way she touched me in the yoga class is anything to go by, she wants it just as much as I do. So maybe it’s time to make my move.
I get up and whistle for Tyson, who comes bounding toward me. Once he sits, I pull a dog biscuit out of one pocket, and my phone out of the other, rubbing Tyson’s head as I dial the number from the business card Frankie gave me that first day we met. I hear the line ring and hope it’s her cell I’m calling and not the studio phone.
“Hello?” Frankie says, and for the first time I realize how hot her voice is—it’s easy when those eyes aren’t there to distract you.
“Hey, Frankie.”
“Connor?” she says. I guess I’m not the only one recognizing voices. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much at all, actually. Which is why I wanted to ask if you had some free time and wanted to grab dinner with me.”
She sighs gently on the other end of the line, and I try not to let it set my imagination off. She doesn’t answer for a second, and I say, “So? Is that a yes I’m hearing?”
“Sorry,” she replies, and I can hear her smile, “I’m just wondering why a stressed-out, hot shot fighter would decide to ask his yoga teacher out.”
“Are you an amateur psychologist now?” I tease, starting to walk back to my car.
“Don’t tell my mother.”
I laugh. “I won’t. I’m a Jungian anyway.”
“You’re certainly an archetype of some kind,” she says, her voice relaxing into musical laughter.
“And you ENFJ types always move too slow.”
Our mutual laughter fades together.
“Just to clarify,” she says, “you are asking me out on a date, right?”
“If it goes well. If not, then it’s just a free meal and some conversation.”
She laughs again, and then there’s another pause.
“I can’t,” she says finally. “I’m about to teach a yoga class to a group of preschoolers from the Girls and Boys Club. Maybe another time.”
For a split second my smile drops, but I’ve already spent all day thinking about seeing her, and I’m not about to give up that easy.
“Can I come?”
She lets out a short, sharp laugh. “You serious?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well…I mean…there are gonna be about twenty hyperactive kids and about a dozen parents at the studio—”
“Sounds like you’ll need all the help you can get.”
There’s another pause as Frankie realizes it’s checkmate.
“Ok,” she says, releasing a sigh that sounds a lot like relief. “Maybe you could help, yeah. Can you get here in thirty?”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
After I go home to leave Tyson curled up on the sofa, I make my way to Frankie’s studio. Sure enough, once I get there I find twenty-odd kids running about while Frankie tries to set up twenty-odd yoga mats on her own, a bunch of disinterested parents in the studio lobby shooting the breeze all the while. A couple of the parents recognize me when I walk in and seem to perk up right away, throwing questions at me faster than most reporters and telling me what to do to down the Crippler. I breeze through them, all oil-slick Hollywood smile and media-friendly answers before making my way to Frankie in the studio.
“Pretty stressful way to start a yoga class, isn’t that?” I say, as she tries to carry three rolled-up mats to the other side of the room.
Frankie notices me for the first time, and in the process drops two of the mats.
“Ugh, Connor. I still have to fix the sound system and the parents hate it when I run over. Can you help me out?”
“Sure,” I smile, turning around to face the mass of chattering preschoolers. I clap loud enough the kids might mistake it for a thunder clap, and a couple dozen curious faces turn in my direction. “Hey kids!” I call out, putting on my best children’s TV presenter voice—it’s the same one I use for radio interviews, only less swearing. “Last one to grab a mat, roll it out, and stand still on it facing the front, and I mean really really still…is a rotten egg!”
Whether they’re intimidated by my size or just excited to make a game of things, the kids buy it completely, scrambling for the mats and setting them up around the studio. Of course, the rotten egg was yours truly. I don’t know whether it’s the animated way I talk, or the fact that I can pull enough faces to get a show on Broadway, but the kids seem to like me, and as they set themselves up in perfect position for Frankie’s class, I catch her looking at me with a deep appreciation in her eyes.
I take the class with the rest of the kids, a few yoga positions and games to get them moving. I act the fool a little, just enough to keep the kids interested, falling on my ass and walking on my hands for a footrace across the studio. I’m amazed at the way Frankie’s calm seems to seep into them as the class progresses, how mellow the little hellions are actually capable of being. It seems
to go well. Well enough that when Frankie calls time, the kids groan at the idea of it being over.
Afterwards I mingle with the parents a little, selling the studio (and Frankie’s skills) in between talk of fighting. Eventually the parents and kids start filtering away, and I stand with Frankie in the lobby, waving like we’re sending them off to the first day of school. When the last one leaves I turn to her. She slumps her shoulders and exhales long and deep.
“I love doing this volunteer stuff for the Girls and Boys Club, but kids’ classes always take it out of me,” she says, leaning back against the reception desk.
“I think you did fantastic,” I say, standing in front of her. “Seemed to go really well.”
Her eyes fix themselves on me, a half-smile of unsaid thoughts beneath them.
“I think you did fantastic. You’re pretty good with kids, you know that?”
“Sure. Kids are easy. It’s mainly adults that I have problems with.”
She laughs a little and looks down. I move closer.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” she says, raising her head again. We’re so close I can smell her sweet breath, the light warmth of her sweat. My body urges me to grab her right there, but the sight of her in front of me is too beautiful to give up.
“Anyway,” she says, moving to the side and around the back of the reception, “I’m beat. Thanks, Connor. I’ll see you at the next class.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I say, smiling as I walk backwards to the door.
And the crazy thing is, I mean it.
6
Frankie
I only teach a handful of classes over the next two weeks and let Jim use the space for a few of his women’s self-defense workshops, preferring to do more house visits, where my clients can’t turn into no-shows. Still, Connor turns up at the studio for every single one of them. So do some parents of the kids from the Girls and Boys Club class I taught, which means I don’t have to cancel any of my classes for lack of students. And I know it’s because of Connor.
