Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  He glanced at me, and I braced myself for an order, but none came. He just turned and walked back into the restaurant, so I did, too.

  Chef Dylan stepped wordlessly into his office, taking out a sheet of paper and starting to write on it. I stayed in the hallway, unsure of what was happening, or what he expected of me. Was he making a sign for the door?

  Abruptly, he turned to me. "Call the city," he said. "Find out everything you can. When you're done, come meet me here."

  He thrust the paper into my hand. There was an address scrawled on it. When I looked back up, Chef was already halfway to the front door.

  I was on the verge of chasing after him, when I realized that I had nothing to say.

  ***

  While I was on hold with the city, one of the restaurant's cordless phones tucked between my ear and shoulder, my curiosity got the better of me. I unfolded the piece of paper Chef had given me, and typed the address into my phone.

  RON'S GYM, said the Google Maps entry.

  CLOSED, the Yelp entry noted.

  Hmm. It would have almost sounded ominous, like an empty business front that the mob brings people to "take care" of them. But Yelp had been wrong before.

  I left the restaurant as soon as I could, curiosity eating away at me. It was halfway to the train station, so I took my bag with me and said my goodbyes to the staff who hadn't wandered home yet.

  Waiting at a crosswalk, I tried to picture the kind of gym where Chef Dylan would work out. High ceilings, clanging weights, a lingering smell of body odor dating back to the mid-60s - I'd walk in the door, and I'd almost certainly be the only woman there. Maybe the only woman who'd ever been in there. There might be a few wilting plants by the window, but other than that, it would be strictly business. No TVs, no fancy elliptical machines, no yoga mats.

  Hurrying down the sidewalk with the crowd, I almost walked right past it. Doubling back, I wanted to pat myself on the back. It looked exactly how I'd imagined. And, opening the door, yes - there was that smell.

  It wasn't as strong as I would have guessed, though.

  The place felt even colder than it was outside. I drew my coat around me tightly, walking over towards the boxing ring in the corner of the massive room. Under normal circumstances, I would have felt self-conscious with the many sets of eyes following me curiously. I was right; I could almost hear them wondering what the hell is SHE doing here?

  But at the moment, all I could see was Chef.

  It was just a friendly sparring match. That much was clear. Their hands were taped up, but they wore no helmets, the sweat dripping freely from their hair as they circled each other. Just like in the kitchen, Chef Dylan was in constant motion. His heels never seemed to touch the ground. Captivated, I watched him move around the ring with a fluidity that seemed to contradict the tautness of his body. Every muscle was poised for action, waiting, waiting, then SNAP! The action. And then more waiting. His arm would lash out and return so quickly, I felt like I could blink and miss it.

  His muscles rippled under his skin, under the sheen of sweat, and I felt something clench deep inside me. He was pure raw power. Even under restraint, like he was now, like he was nearly always, I could see it.

  Feral.

  His opponent's fist connected lightly with his ribs, and he snarled, actually baring his teeth as he dodged just a split-second too late. The other man was already curling up before Chef had fully regrouped, which only took a moment - protecting himself with his forearms in preparation to block the counter-attack. It came with a fury, still connecting only with the lightest of touches, but with such speed and precision that it was very clear who would win a real fight. I tried to imagine being Chef Dylan's opponent.

  A shiver ran through me, from head to toe. It wasn't fear, but it still left the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention.

  It felt like I'd been standing there, watching him, for hours. But it must have only been a minute or two. His eyes briefly flicked in my direction, breaking his single-minded concentration for just long enough to notice me.

  He raised his hand to his opponent, in a wordless gesture: stop.

  The other man nodded, stepping back and out of the ring. Chef Dylan came towards me until he reached the edge of the ring, leaning on the ropes. He gestured with his head - come here. Little beads of sweat flew from the ends of his hair. Gross, I tried to convince myself. But it wasn't. It really, really wasn't.

  My legs felt like jelly as I walked towards him. There was still a hot, tight little knot of anger in the pit of my stomach, but I couldn't quite access it. It was all I could do, really, to stay upright and look him in the eyes. For the love of God, don't show your weakness. Don't let him see what kind of effect he's having on you. It'll ruin everything.

  He'd caught his breath by now, but he just pointed wordlessly off to the side of the room. Following with my eyes, I saw a little side-room packed with surplus equipment and a broken, dirty mirror.

  "You can change in there," he said. "Then we'll go a few rounds."

  The impulse to laugh was strong, but instead, I just choked a little. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard what I said." He stepped back, sitting down on a stool in the corner and lifting a water bottle to squirt some into his mouth; he swallowed, then swiped the excess off of his face, ignoring the trickle that ran down the tightly-sculpted muscles of his chest.

  But I didn't.

  "You're kidding," I said. "I mean, it's obvious that you're kidding, but I don't know what your point is."

  "Do I look like I'm kidding?" He didn't. He looked like I'm fucking serious personified.

  I lifted my lower jaw with an effort. "I've never..."

  He snorted. "I'm not going to hit back," he said. "Obviously."

  Obviously. My lips were suddenly very dry. I licked them, slowly. "So what's...what's the point, exactly?"

  "Does it matter?" He grinned, fiercely. "Employer-employee bonding. Get your frustrations out. A chance to punch your fucking asshole boss without consequences, are you really going to look that gift horse in the mouth?"

  "I hate that saying," I said, forcing my wandering eyes back to his face. "If they had looked the horse in the mouth, they would've known better than to let it into the gate, wouldn't they?"

  "So much the pity for them," said Chef. "Go change. I know you've got your gym clothes in that bag. You always go after work."

  He was right, of course. Those sharp eyes didn't miss much. Under this lighting, they were the most startling shade of slate blue.

  "This is ridiculous," I said. Was it? I did want to hit him. Of course. Me and a thousand other people. But why was I getting the chance to actually do it?

  I remembered what Beckett had told me about his brother. People always think he's trying to trick them. They ascribe these evil genius motivations to him. But it's really very simple. You've got to take what he says at face value. When he tells you something, believe him.

  So what had he said?

  A chance to punch your fucking asshole boss without consequences.

  Was this a way for him to work out his guilt? Did he think it was going to make me feel better? In his mind, would this somehow solve the problem that we couldn't work together?

  He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and dumped the rest of the water bottle onto his hair. It dripped down his face and body, a few thin streams tracing a pathway down his stomach to the waistband of his shorts. As he blindly grabbed a towel and scrubbed himself dry, I clenched my fists at my sides.

  "Okay," I said, finally. He didn't even react. He'd known I would do it. Of course he'd known. "Fine. But you better not hold a grudge against me if I accidentally hurt you."

  To his credit, he didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. He opened one eye, then the other, fixing me with a sincere, artless gaze. "I won't," he said.

  My heart was thudding against my ribs as I changed, hastily. The dusty bare bulb hanging from the ceiling didn't give off much light, but it
was enough to notice just how tightly my workout pants hugged my hips. It wasn't something I'd given much thought to, before. They were purely pragmatic, something I put on my body that would wick away the sweat and wouldn't flop around or get caught on something. But holy shit were they tight.

  And then there was the issue of my shirt. Specifically, that I didn't have one.

  When I'd first started working out at my gym, I'd self-consciously worn a baggy workout shirt for a few weeks. Then, I finally realized I was the only woman there who actually wore something on top of her sports bra. Bare midriffs were in, and I looked like a refugee in someone's cast-off clothes. After that, I never brought a shirt again.

  Today, I wished I had anything else to wear. Even something stupid and embarrassing, if it would just cover some skin. But I had no choice. I'd already said I would do it.

  I couldn't back down, for the same reason I couldn't say no in the first place. If Chef Dylan challenged me to something, I accepted. It was the only way to deal with him. I had to meet him, toe to toe, eye to eye, whether it was in a kitchen or in a boxing ring. Otherwise, I'd never have his respect.

  After a few deep breaths, I walked back out into the gym with my head held high.

  If anyone but Chef looked at me, I didn't notice. I kept my eyes glued on his face, and he matched my gaze without wandering down my body, which was both a relief and a disappointment. He was holding a roll of tape in his hand, and there were two pairs of boxing gloves slung over the ropes nearby. I climbed up and bounced a little on the floor, getting a feel for it beneath my feet.

  "Here," said Chef, gesturing me over to his corner. "I'll wrap you. This fucker's all thumbs." He jerked his head in the direction of the kid by the spit-bucket, who shrugged, mumbling:

  "Whatever, man."

  I stopped a few steps away from Chef, holding my hand out flat in front of me. Like a kid waiting to get smacked with a ruler, I thought, smiling humorlessly. He didn't seem to notice as he closed most of the distance between us, looking down at my hands instead of my eyes.

  Now that I was up close, I could see him in all his glory, shining under the unforgiving fluorescent lights. I must have looked like hell, but he could have been on the cover of Sports Illustrated. A spicy, unmistakably masculine scent filled my nostrils.

  When his hand closed around my wrist, I almost let out a gasp. I managed to make it a long, shallow breath instead. A tingling heat, growing out from where we touched, traveled its way up my arm.

  He wrapped the tape around my hand with steady precision, while I tried to stay still, tried to pretend I couldn't hear and feel his breath and that I wasn't right now, at this very moment, imagining the salty taste of his skin on my tongue.

  The surreality of standing mere inches from someone, while I shamelessly imagined such things, wasn't lost on me. My head was buzzing. I felt like I couldn't hear myself think, but really, my thoughts were even louder than the white noise. And they were practically sub-verbal, in the way that only X-rated thoughts can be.

  lick suck bite taste moan kiss tongue writhe grab stroke slide

  fuck

  Fuck. I couldn't afford this kind of distraction. With my free hand, I dug my nails deep into my palm, until the sting was enough to shake me out of my fantasy world.

  Right on cue, Chef finished with my right hand and reached for my left. He never turned it over, so he couldn't see the marks in the soft flesh from my nails.

  When he was done wrapping, he laced me into a pair of gloves.

  Somebody rang a bell. It wasn't me, and it wasn't him. I didn't have eyes for anyone else in the room. As far as I was concerned, we might as well be alone. A thousand miles from civilization.

  The excuse that had been on the tip of my tongue - I've never sparred anyone before - wasn't quite true. As a kid, I'd become briefly infatuated with karate and advanced quite a few ranks before I lost interest. But I hadn't sparred in years, and I felt like a clumsy giraffe stumbling around the ring. I tried to lunge in his direction, but it was laughable. He might as well have been moving at Mach 5.

  "I'll admit," said Dylan, dodging me expertly, "when I first saw that pipe, I thought maybe you'd pulled a Carrie White. Destroying plumbing with the raw, unadulterated power of your rage. I've pushed a few buttons in my day, but that would have been my crowning glory for sure."

  "You get off on it," I managed, between short breaths. I wasn't quite panting, not yet, but getting there. "Getting an emotional reaction out of people, it's just a game to you, isn't it?"

  His forehead crinkled a little, as he bounced around me, maddeningly just out of reach. "Not a game," he said, his eyes darting from my hands to my feet, trying to gauge my next move. "Entertaining sometimes, yes, but it's not a game. You make me sound like a psychopath."

  I shook my head, gathering my breath to talk. "I don't know any psychopaths who yell as much as you do."

  Chef's eyebrows shot up. "How many do you know?"

  I had to focus. He was trying to distract me, keeping a chatter going so I wouldn't be able to pin him down. All I had to do was focus. Shut out the sound of his voice, the smell and the heat of him, the thoughts of how badly I wanted him to throw me down on the floor and pin my arms in place until he'd kissed the breath out of me -

  STOP IT, JILLIAN.

  With an effort, I reached deep down inside myself and felt that anger that had grown cool when I first watched him fight. I tried to remember his biting words, his mocking laughter.

  The fire was stoked - the right one, this time.

  I might be a clumsy oaf compared to him in the ring, but I did have a few advantages. He was tired already, and his body - while magnificent - STOP IT, JILLIAN - was much bulkier than mine. Naturally. The man ran marathons in his sleep and probably benched four hundred. But if I could stop tripping over my own feet, I could be fast. I could be faster than he was. I was lighter. It was pure physics.

  I took a deep breath, centering myself.

  Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, motherfucker.

  The fatigue was starting to affect his movements, noticeably. He was at an almost pitiful disadvantage, on paper - especially with the self-imposed handicap of not hitting back - but like a bullfighter, I was still cautious. Mindful of his raw power. He'd still have it, even at the brink of exhaustion.

  I have no idea what I'm doing.

  Hell. If I couldn't even land a single tap, when he was practically handing it to me on a silver platter, how sad would that be?

  Maybe that was the point of this whole exercise. He was just finding another way to put me in my place.

  That's not it, and you know it's not.

  I pushed the thoughts aside. It didn't matter. I could speculate for hours on his true motivations, on whether I could take him at face value, the way Beckett assured me I could. Right now, my most important task was to hit him. Just once, at least.

  Moving forward, slowly but steadily, I made just enough sudden movements to keep him busy, to keep him distracted, and with any luck he'd be too tired to notice that I wasn't really trying to connect. I was just backing him into the corner.

  In retrospect, I'd never know if he was letting me do it. The suspicion was there, planted in the corner of my mind, but did it really matter? At best, I was outsmarting a man who was physically and mentally exhausted.

  A moment later, I saw my opening, and I took it.

  Lashing forward, I landed a light connection on his torso, unprotected for a moment by his arm. He jumped backwards, laughing, and I realized I didn't want to stop.

  I lunged towards him, looking for another opening, so that he had to hold up his arms to shield his body.

  "All right, all right!" he shouted, finally, dodging away from me. "You've had your chance. This isn't a fair fight."

  "Maybe not," I said, continuing my pursuit. "But it was your idea."

  Either I really had the best of him, in this moment - maybe just because he didn't expect it - or he was letting me.
Either way, I was intoxicated, and I couldn't help it. I had to take full advantage.

  For a moment, just a moment, he left his face unprotected.

  I lashed out. I lashed out, and I connected, right in his stupid, yammering, extremely strong jaw.

  To my utter shock, he actually stumbled back, losing his balance and having to catch himself against the ropes. I felt some kind of twisted bloodlust coursing through my veins. Or maybe it was just regular lust.

  I couldn't be sure, anymore, with him.

  "Good God," he said, dragging himself back to his feet. "Well, do you feel better now?"

  "Absolutely," I said, watching him stretch his jaw experimentally. "How about you?"

  He just smiled. Something between us had changed - and I felt it, almost palpable in the air, but I couldn't quite explain what it was.

  "Never been better," he said. "Will the main be fixed by tomorrow?"

  "Late tonight, supposedly," I said, startled by the sudden return to practical shop talk. "Go another round?" I waggled my eyebrows.

  "Hell no," he said. "I'm not going up against you again until I've had a good rest."

  I laughed, even as I felt myself blush.

  He was heading towards the edge of the ring. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jill."

  Feeling a bit disappointed, I headed back towards the closet. I could have used a few more good hits.

  As I went, I couldn't help but notice the "all thumbs" kid wrapping someone else's hands. I was no expert, but he moved with the speed and efficiency of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. No wonder he'd been annoyed at Chef Dylan's jab.

  What an arrogant prick.

  But I remembered the gentle brush of Chef's fingers against mine, the warmth of his hand on my arm. How we stood so close, the electricity between us. The simple intimacy of the act. The time he took to make sure I was safe, protected, so I wouldn't get hurt. And all so my anger would be satisfied.