by Maxi MacNair
I guess it doesn’t really matter. He’s only showing me around as a formality. I’ll be working at the front desk, and it’s not like any of the members would single me out to get pointers on weight lifting; not with my thin arms and slender figure.
As if he could read my thoughts, Dwight sighs quickly and his voice gets a bit softer. “Look,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know that you won’t be using this stuff, and if the world worked a bit better, other clueless idiots wouldn’t touch it either. But a lot of the time, clueless idiots do pick this stuff up and they either hurt themselves or they break shit. It gets expensive. I need you to know when to tell someone to stop and have someone else teach them how to use the equipment. Got it?”
I give him a quick thumbs up. “Sure thing, boss.”
He gives me a once over, and I can tell that he hasn’t made up his mind about me yet. He does gently squeeze my shoulder before letting go and continuing with his lecture about proper equipment use. It feels friendly enough, like he was an uncle that I don’t see more than twice a year. I wonder if I might have been too quick to judge. Dwight doesn’t seem like the typical muscle-bound meat head, though he certainly looks the part. His biceps look to be thicker than my thighs and could probably support about three times my bodyweight.
I shake my head to clear it. The first day on the job is no time to get distracted, especially by anything to do with my new boss. I follow after him as he continues walking me through the tour. It doesn’t seem to be anything too special. There’s the pool area and some rooms for group classes and lessons, and separate rooms for weight training and cardio machines. I all but swoon over the rock wall that takes up the entire south wall of the facility and goes up three stories. I haven’t done any climbing since my early days in school and I miss it fiercely. My fingers itch to feel the textured plastic of the fake rocks again. I don’t let my pace slow too much as I trail behind Dwight. He’s talking about the rest of the work that all the employees pitch in to get done.
“We all have to keep up with the towel situation. Gym policy is to provide all members with clean towels to use, which can be a pain in the ass,” he said, a vein starting to bulge out of his temple. “Lots of people just leave them lying around places. Just, whenever you get a chance, take a walk through and pick up any of ‘em that you see and pitch ‘em in the bins. There’s one by every door, so you’d think it’d be easy enough for…” He trails off and gives an embarrassed little cough. “Just, if you see any, put them in the bin.”
“Towels in bins. Anything…else…?” I can’t help but get distracted this time. Underneath the stairwell, there’s a small ring set up like a boxing arena, but it’s an octagon rather than a square. Inside, two men are beating the living hell out of each other. I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all, if not for the crowd growing around the stairwell and on the walkway above. They’re getting all riled up by something going on in there, and the curiosity gets the better of me.
My entire face must be a question, because without even asking, Dwight says, “Ah, looks like Stark’s got another victim. Care to watch?”
Violence for the sake of violence has never really appealed to me, but something in Dwight’s tone convinces me that this is something that I want to see. I nod, and we walk over to join the crowd. We’re not the only ones. People flock over to gawk at the spectacle.
And what a spectacle it is. Two men in shorts and gloves circle each other, and there’s the distinct smell of testosterone in the air. They’re both somewhere between twenty and thirty, and both are drenched in sweat. Both men step close, and one throw a sweeping punch towards the other’s head, but misses as the other man leans back to kick the first in the ribs. The puncher takes the hit easily, pulling back to circle around and throw an elbow directly into the kicker’s kidney.
“Luke Stark,” Dwight says, pointing to the puncher as the other man buckles and falls to his knees. “One mean son of a bitch. He keeps it in the ring, though. Never met anyone so polite.”
“Luke…Stark…”
It isn’t the violence of the event that draws me in, but I can’t help but appreciate when someone seems to be doing exactly what he wants, and I could have watched for hours. Luke’s tan arm extends to connect a punch straight into his opponent’s jaw. His muscles aren’t bulky like Dwight’s, but they’re by no means small. They have such distinct shape that I wouldn’t call him wiry, but he’s a good deal smaller than his opponent, a hulking bear of a man. From the blood on his face, it looks like Luke’s taken his fair share of punches, but he still seems to be winning. His grin seems to imply as much.
“Luke does most of his training here. He’s nice enough, but I’ve heard some talk that he might be involved in some underground fighting. Probably best to stay clear of all that,” Dwight says. He gestures for us to move on with the tour, and I follow after him, taking one last look over my shoulder at the dark-haired fighter. There’s a tattoo on his left shoulder, but he won’t stay still long enough for me to figure out exactly what it is. It could be a Celtic knot, or maybe some kind of tribal band.
The image of Luke dodging around his opponent in the ring stays with me all day, even when I take my place behind the reception desk and make casual small talk with my co-worker there, Justin. He’s a bit younger than me, and does his chemistry homework after showing me the basics of the computer system. I don’t much mind, as my thoughts insist on wandering back to that fight. And it isn’t like the job is mentally taxing; I swipe membership cards and the system tells me if they’ve paid their fees or not. It’s January, so there are still plenty of people pouring in to keep up with their New Year’s resolutions. I find myself uncharitably thinking that things will slow down a lot in the upcoming weeks, but for now, I’m glad for the distraction.
‘I’ve really got to stop thinking about that fighter,’ I tell myself as I get my things ready to go.
“Don’t forget to do a walk through,” Justin reminds me as I pull the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “Gotta’ get those towels under control.” The sardonic tone makes me laugh as much as the jaded look on his face. I remember college being pretty rough; apparently that’s still the case for Justin.
As I wind my way through the facility at a more leisurely pace than before, I notice a few things that I hadn’t on my whirlwind tour with Dwight. For one thing, the gym is spotless. Everything looks so meticulously cared for that I have to wonder what kind of magical janitorial staff works here.
‘If they’re working this hard, I guess picking up a few towels is the least the rest of us can do,’ I think, pulling a grossly damp towel from the seat of a stationary bike. I make a note to check out the showers at some point. They’re probably cleaner than my entire apartment.
I shake my head and continue on my way. There are more instruction rooms than I remembered from Dwight’s whirlwind tour that morning, and they all seem to be empty. Most have large windows to make the whole room visible from the hallway, but there are a few that are entirely private. I make a mental note of where those rooms are, in case I need to duck away from work for a few minutes.
‘Or whatever else I would need privacy for,’ I think with a sly smile. As it is, even with the ring fighter fresh in my mind, that sort of thing doesn’t sound appealing in the least. I’ve been in a good place recently, but that’s only due to a lot of effort and healing. There was a rough patch a few months back, fallout from my breakup with Sam. He was what I thought I wanted, with a collection of qualities that I’d told myself I was looking for. Little by little, it became clear that he had a rather serious drinking problem. It drove us apart, ruining a relationship of almost two years.
‘I just need time to sort out my feelings,’ I think, shaking my head. ‘Dating is the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I need casual sex even less.’
I meander back towards the entrance, waving goodbye to Dwight. He’s jogging on one of the treadmills, staring intently at the heart rate mo
nitor on the console, so I doubt that he sees me. It’s still early enough in the day that I don’t have to worry about the lack of lighting in the parking lot, but I do decide that any time I stay late, I’ll have Dwight or somebody walk me out. ‘Better safe than sorry.’ Maybe I’m just too nervous for my own good, but being vigilant rarely ever got anyone into trouble.
With the thought that the day had been plenty of excitement, I drive myself back to the apartment that I share with my best friend, Monica. She’s always good for a laugh, and I find that I can’t wait to tell her about this mysterious Stark guy. Of course, when I walk through the door, Monica’s already dressed to go out. Her low cut dress shows off her wealth of cleavage, and the bright yellow of it makes an amazing contrast against her dark brown skin. Her lips are stained a deep plum, and I’ll never know how she does her contouring to show off her magnificent cheekbones, but they look as perfect as ever.
“How was your first day?” she asks, fiddling with one of her earrings and staring at herself in the mirror.
“Oh, you know,” I say. I know she’s only asking to be polite and that there will be plenty of time to talk about Stark and everything else later. “Job’s a job.”
Monica frowns and tweaks her hair to sit more securely in place. “That’s no way to think,” she says. “Positive, Anna! You gotta’ think positive!” She winks at her reflection and then turns to me. “Am I good?”
“Flawless,” I say. She ducks in close to me and kisses the air beside my cheeks.
“I won’t be long. Promise.”
“I won’t wait up,” I reply.
She laughs. Her purse is in her hand and she’s out the door in a flash. I smile vacantly after her. Same old Monica, always in a hurry. I hang my keys on the hook by the door. Monica brought in the bills and left them in a pile on the kitchen table, and I flip through them with a groan. I’m already late getting my rent to Monica. She told me not to worry about it, to just pay her when I can, but I worry anyway. I’ve been trying so hard to not be a burden while I get my life back on track. Breaking up with Sam had taken its toll, and I’d lost most of my friends, my job, and more. Maybe this job is what I need to turn things around.
I find myself wishing once again that I had done the reasonable, responsible thing and gone to trade school, but no, I had insisted on pursuing a major in art history. Even knowing that it was inevitable that I would find myself in the sort of situation I’m in now, I had forced my way into the program and stuck with it, and now I have my degree for all the good it does hanging on my wall, reminding me of all of my debt.
And with that, all my stress comes flooding back. It always does when I think about my finances, though that’s all I can really think about these days. My head drops back and I let out a long groan. I can feel the telltale signs of a stress headache building up behind the bridge of my nose, and I decide that maybe a bath will help calm me down and let me relax.
I head over to my bedroom and stretch my arms high above my head, rolling my neck to try to alleviate some of the tension forming there. Knowing how much I love taking baths, Monica let me have the room with the attached bathroom because it came with a gorgeous claw-foot tub. I trace a finger over the cool porcelain as I start the water running. I wait for it to get scalding hot before putting down the stop. I like to resemble a cooked crab by the time I get out of the bath.
As the tub fills, my mind wanders back to that fight. Watching Luke in the ring, he looked more like a dancer than a fighter. His body moved with such grace, he had such complete control over every tiny motion; I can’t help but wonder if he had choreographed the fight, if he had practiced that specific set of movements over and over, or if it had only been his instincts paired with intense amounts of skill and training. It’s easy to see why people would think that fighting like that could be fake, but the determination in his face was so different than the expression of a man trying to remember the right steps. He had stared down the other man, reading into his movements, reacted, circled around, fully committed to the fight. The dance.
I sit down on the toilet, stripping off my clothes and dropping them to the floor. The brush of my fingers against my skin makes me shudder, cluing me into how keyed up I’ve become. I have to remind myself again that I’m not attracted to violence, that I don’t want to see men pounding each other into the floor. My fingers skate up to my nipples, circling around my areolas. The heightened response I receive has me gasping and leaning into my own touch. My nipples rise up, rock hard, eager for more. I squeeze one, slipping my other hand over to cup my breast. A shuddering sigh spills out of my mouth as my lips quiver in pleasure. I can feel a building wetness between my legs, but I don’t indulge just yet. I let my fingers coax more and more ecstasy from my skin.
I tell myself again that it isn’t the violence, but I remember Stark standing over his much larger opponent. I picture the swift pivot that led him to swing his elbow and connect right in the other man’s soft tissue. I think of the triumphant glint of his eye, staring down at his fallen foe. Finally, it’s more than I can take. My hand traces down my stomach and arrives at the line of my pubic hair, shaved into a strip down my groin. It’s all pressed flat from the tightness of my underwear and shorts over the course of the day. The sharp blade of my fingernail ghosts over the throbbing mound of my clit, and I let out a small moan. I don’t bother trying to muffle my sounds; instead, I let them feed and amplify my arousal. A trickle of liquid beads around my opening, and I extend my finger to catch it, dragging it back up to my clit and finally applying the pressure that I crave.
Still pinching at my nipple, I start rubbing myself in small circles, collecting my wetness and smearing it across my most tender flesh. I increase my pace, abandoning my nipple to spread my lips wide to allow myself better access. My breathing is all kinds of erratic. I slip a finger down and enter myself, lost to my heat. I press up against my g-spot and my mind supplies the image again: the two men circling each other in the ring, the spectators losing their minds, and all of it is so much. I lift a leg, placing my foot on the tub, and add another finger inside of me.
It takes more than a moment to realize that something is off. My foot is getting wet. A cold dread grips at my chest as I open my eyes to see the tub overflowing, water spilling out over the bathroom floor. I swear and grab for the faucet, hastily stopping the cascade soaking into the bath mat and coating the tile. My cheeks flame as I let out the stopper, draining the tub enough to allow me to get in without further flooding the bathroom. Luckily, the damage doesn’t seem to be too bad. The water wasn’t overflowing long enough to be a huge problem, but I would still need to take a mop to the floor.
‘Later,’ I decide, frowning at the sticky mess coating my inner thighs. I shake my head, annoyed to have squandered what would have been such a promising orgasm, but I slip into the water all the same. I missed my moment, and it would take too long to get back up to that same level of arousal, and I don’t want to have to refill the tub after letting the water get too cool. I have to take advantage of the steaming bath water before too long.
The scalding heat of it makes me hiss, but as soon as I’m submerged, I feel the tension begin to slip away, rushing out of my body as I breathe in deeply. As my lungs fill up with steam, I return my attention to my throbbing pussy, but the moment has passed. I can’t get the reaction I want; the soothing burn of the tub will have to suffice. My head drops below the surface of the water as I slide forward. The soft skin around my eyes burns, but I wait until I absolutely need to breathe before coming back up. The shampoo that I’ve been using for the past month is too expensive to warrant using every day, but I squeeze a dollop into my hand and let the gentle tingle of the peppermint oil relax me further, massaging my scalp gently. I love the smell of it, and love the way it opens up my throat. I close my eyes and rinse it out, sinking into the feeling of the water.
One more time, I let myself think about Luke Stark, this time to hope that I don’t see him in the gym
tomorrow. It’s going to be awkward, I already know. I never let myself fantasize about people that I see every day for that exact reason. As I loofah down my upper arms and shoulders, I try to imagine what I would even say to him, were we to be introduced.
‘The normal stuff, I guess,’ I thought with a smile. ‘It’s not like he knows anything about me.’ I tried to remember the exact words Dwight had used. ‘He said “another victim.” I guess that means he’s at the gym pretty often.’ A frown pulled at my lips. ‘And he said something about underground fighting. Definitely a dangerous guy.’
The water has started to enter lukewarm territory by the time I’m ready to get out, and my fingers are pruned. The drain gurgles as the water spills out, and I stand in the cold puddle from my earlier lapse in self-control. I blush as I hurriedly fetch the mop from the kitchen and work on getting everything dry. With the mop already in hand, I sigh and decide that I might as well mop up all of the floors.
‘It’s been a while, I guess,’ I think. ‘No time like the present.’
I pull on a bathrobe and switch on my Pandora. I’m just about done when the door opens and Monica walks through, looking thoroughly nonplussed.
“Baths…” Monica’s nose wrinkles, and I laugh. We’ve never shared musical tastes, but at least we’re good sports about it. “Thanks for mopping up.” She drops her purse on the kitchen counter and walks over to collapse on the exposed bit of couch.
“No problem. Just get your shit out of the living room.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Her eyes slide closed and she leans back. I stow the mop back in its corner, and creep up behind her.
“Not a chance, Anna,” she smirks. One of her eyes snaps open to catch me trying to surprise her. “So you want to tell me how your first day really went?”
A smile brightens up my face, and I forget about everything except sharing my experience with my best friend. I sit beside her on the couch and launch straight into a rough outline of my day, starting with Dwight and his little tour. Monica’s always been an attentive listener. She nods along with my story, asking appropriate questions in the lulls and pauses. I never feel like I’m boring her, and she never interrupts or cuts me off. I reach the part of the story where I saw Luke, and I all but melt. I know that I probably sound like a schoolgirl with a crush, but I can’t help it.
