by Cara McKenna
Laurel studied his smile from the passenger seat. “Was he much like you?”
He shrugged. “I hope I’m something like him.”
“Sounds like you are. Fighter, tattoos, non-drinker.”
“It’s a start. Anyhow, he was in the Army Reserve and then everything went and fucked its own ass in 2001. He got shipped out, came back after a couple years, all different. Real angry. He mellowed after a while, but he was always sort of…tired after that. He always cared more about stuff than everybody else around him. Tried harder. Just gave more of a shit than everybody else. I think it fucked him up to be over there, then to come back and see everything the same here, everybody still fuckin’ around, being idiots, pissing their lives away, after he saw whatever he did in Iraq.”
“Ah.”
“You know when you spill, like, cleaning fluid or butane on something plastic, and it takes all the shine off it?” Flynn asked. “It’s like Robbie was shiny when he left, and he came back dull.”
Laurel frowned at this sad scrap of poetry and watched the pedestrians as Flynn turned them down this street and that through the North End. He pulled up at her building and put the car in neutral.
He wrapped his arm around his headrest and turned to her. “When do I see you again?”
“Oh um…I’m off Wednesday night again, if that works.”
He nodded. “I’ve got training from four to six then I’ll grab some dinner and a shower, see you around eight?”
“Sounds good. Well, thanks for the ride.”
He dropped his arm and leaned in, took her face in his hands and gave her a long, hard, tongue-less kiss, fingers shoved deep in her hair. “Don’t you take any shit from any tourists.”
She smirked at him. “Only from townies.”
He ran his thumb over her chin and smiled. “Fuckin’ right. See you in a few days, kiddo.”
10
Laurel shifted the paper grocery bag in her arms and fumbled for her phone, checking its screen. Five twenty-eight. Flynn should be nearing the end of his training, but hopefully not so late that she’d miss watching some of it. She let the butterflies swirl in her middle, enjoying them. Until she reached the bar and they promptly turned to rocks.
Closed.
“Fuck.” What sort of a shady bar wasn’t open by this time? A man emerged from the alley, a huge white guy with a shaved head and tattooed neck and a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“Hey!” Laurel said. “Excuse me.”
His eyes met hers then took a brief trip down the rest of her body, wary but intrigued. “Yeah?”
“Is Flynn down there?” She nodded at the building.
“Yeah.”
“Is there some way I can get in? I’m supposed to meet him.” In two and a half hours.
“Sure, there’s a keypad.” He stepped close, looking around, his proximity and rather potent body odor making Laurel’s flight instincts hum a warning. “Punch in four-nine-nine-two-two-five, then the pound key,” the guy murmured.
“Thanks.” She offered a smile and sidestepped him, heading down the alley. The keypad was beside the heavy metal door and she entered the code. The box beeped and a lock released. Laurel heaved the door open and stepped into the dim stairwell and that familiar cologne of sweat and Tiger Balm.
The place was different by day, still seedy and dingy but brightly lit, feeling like a gym for the first time. She lingered at the threshold. Two men sparred in the ring, wearing head gear unlike on fight nights. The fingers clutching the bag tightened as her eyes landed on Flynn. Track pants and no shirt, same as when he fought, and, same as when he fought, his body made her weak.
He was working out at one of the tall leather punching bags, throwing combinations, hooks and jabs and uppercuts interspersed with blocking motions from his fists and elbows. He’d wrapped his hands but wasn’t wearing gloves. Laurel frowned, conjuring x-rays of fractured knuckles in her head. When he stopped to grab a bottle of water from the floor she walked over. He set the bottle down and went back to punching. He didn’t look at her until the third time she cleared her throat.
“Oh,” he said, eyebrows rising. He dropped his guard and hiked his pants up an inch, cinching the drawstring and retying it. “Hey. How’d you get in here?”
She offered a haughty little smile. “Some gigantic guy with a shaved head gave me the code.”
Flynn spotted the grocery bag and took a step closer, giving her a deep whiff of his insanely good smell. “What’s all this?”
“I thought I’d save you some time and money and cook dinner at your place. If that’s okay.” Her heart stopped at a sudden possibility. “Unless you were meeting someone for dinner or something…”
He shook his head. “Nope. Cook away.”
Her pulse started up again. “Cool.”
“I hope I have all the pans and things you need,” he said.
“I’m sure you will. It’s just chicken pot pie, and I brought aluminum pie plates.”
“Shit, from scratch?” He looked impressed then leaned in close. “I hope you’re prepared to get your daylights fucked out, showing up promising home-cooked meals.”
“I did factor that into the planning.”
He straightened up. “Fantastic. Do you mind if I finish here? I’m kinda OCD about my routine.”
“Oh yes, pummel away. I’ll just watch the sparring.” Yeah, right. Like she’d take her eyes off Flynn when he was stripped to the waist and kicking the tar out of something.
“There’s chairs in the corner,” he said.
Laurel set up a seat with a good open view of the ring and a fine surreptitious view of Flynn. He finished his bag workout and headed to the far side of the gym, to the huge rack laden with free weights. It was easy to watch him through the ring’s ropes, staring past the men fighting to ogle his arms as he ran through reps with dumbbells. Laurel was confident she wouldn’t be able to lift the ones he used even with both hands, at least not without risking a slipped disc.
After the weights Flynn lay on his back on a bench off to one side, hooking his feet under a T-bar and doing a long series of complicated sit-ups that made Laurel’s abs ache just to watch. He finished ten minutes later and walked back to her side of the gym, grabbing a towel from the ground beside his water. She hurried over.
“Can I do that?” she asked, her eagerness drowning out any fear of seeming smothering.
“What?”
“You know. Like dab you dry?”
He laughed once, hard enough to double over.
“Unless that’s totally embarrassing,” she said as he straightened.
“Only for you, fan-girl.” He tossed her the towel. “And I like when you blush, so go ahead. Mop my sweat, you kinky beast.”
She did, happily, liking that he let her. Liking that it seemed like a girlfriendly intimacy and he wasn’t afraid for the other guys to see.
He left her to drag his gym bag over and pull out an undershirt.
“How often do you train?” she asked.
“Every day I don’t work overtime, which is most days, lately.”
“Jeez. That must be exhausting, after working a physical job all day.”
“Clears my head. The dudes I’m workin’ with right now are complete shits. Feels good to pound the crap out of something after putting up with those jerk-offs all day. Wanna head out? I’m all set here.”
“Sure.” She folded her chair and stowed it with the others, hoisted her groceries as Flynn shouldered his bag. She followed him through the back hallways and up into the sunshine.
“I hope that wasn’t…weird. My showing up here.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her as they came out on the sidewalk. “What, some hot woman showing up to be my towel girl? Yeah, you’re really crampin’ my style.”
“I didn’t know if there’s some sort of man-code down there.”
“Nah. The girls who work out there wouldn’t put up with it.”
“There’s girls who go to
your shady underground gym?” she asked, and a warm, unwelcome murmur pulsed up her neck.
“Not many, but three or four.”
“They must be bad-ass.”
“They are,” he said.
“Have you ever, like, dated a female boxer?”
Flynn smirked at her, squinting in the late afternoon sun. “Why, you jealous?”
She answered far too quickly. “No.”
“Chicks who box, you’re right, they’re bad-ass. They’re way scarier than the dudes, and they’re total pit bulls. Now think for a second what I like in a woman when the bedroom door’s closed.”
“Ah. Too aggressive?”
“Too many motherfuckers fightin’ over who gets to wear the pants,” Flynn said. “Or tie the ropes.”
“Gotcha.”
They paused, waiting for a walk sign. “So never fear, sub shop girl. There’s no competition to be found down there. Your alpha sub status is safe.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” Laurel said.
He smirked again, playfully skeptical. “Could you pretend you are? Makes me feel fuckin’ ten feet tall.”
“You said before that on fight nights, there’s not really any rules.”
“Not really. Gloves and shoes, hit above the belt.”
“What about steroids?” she asked. “Some of those guys are huge. Do they do any testing or anything? Do they care if people are clean?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, fight whoever’s slot you draw,” Flynn said.
“That seems unfair.”
“It’s a bar basement, sweetheart, not the Olympics.”
“You haven’t ever used anything, have you?” She looked at his arm, big but not in that lumpy, veiny way she associated with ’roided-out body builders.
“Nope, never. Too much of a Boy Scout.”
She smiled up at the sun. “Obviously.”
They walked the last couple blocks in silence and Laurel liked the stares they got. Questioning stares, probably wondering where Flynn had gotten the bruises on his jaw and arms. Nosy stares, dying to know if Laurel had bruises of her own hidden beneath her clothes, evidence of abuse. She couldn’t care less what people wondered, though—she only wanted to be seen walking beside this man, knowing what his body was capable of, wishing everyone else knew too.
He pushed the elevator button and Laurel enjoyed being in the tiny foyer with him, so close to his smell and energy.
He peered into the bag again. “Can’t remember the last time somebody cooked for me.”
“Heather doesn’t?”
“My sister spent her teens and twenties raising me and my older brother, then her daughter. I think she’s all set, cooking for ingrates. Now I bet every takeout joint in Southie recognizes her voice.” The elevator arrived and Flynn punched the buttons for the second and fifth floors.
“It’s not a fight night,” Laurel said.
Flynn shrugged and dropped his bag as the doors opened up at two. “Hold it.”
Laurel pushed in the door open button and listened to Flynn knocking down the hall. A lock clicked and he said, “The sexy one’s cooking me homemade chicken pot pie.” Then he said, “Ow,” and Laurel heard the door shut.
He returned rubbing his arm.
“The sexy one?” she asked.
“That’s what Heather calls you.”
“Did she bite you or something?”
“She pinched me,” Flynn said. “She’s always been a pincher.” The doors reopened at his floor.
“You get socked in the face twice a week,” Laurel said.
“You don’t understand. That bitch can fuckin’ pinch.” He unlocked the apartment and Laurel carried her groceries to his counter.
“Tell me what you need,” he said as he eased the lights on above the living area.
For a second she thought he meant sexually. “Oh—for dinner? Nothing. Well, a measuring cup, if you have it. And a saucepan. That’s it. I’m sure I can find everything else.”
She unpacked ingredients—a little bag of flour, a box of butter, chicken, gravy, vegetables, the pack of aluminum pie plates.
“I’m making three,” she said. “You can keep one in the freezer and heat it up whenever.” And think about how awesome I am when you eat it. “Three seventy-five for forty-five minutes,” she added, turning to him.
Flynn was unlacing his sneakers at the couch. “Think I can handle that. I’ll take a shower while you’re playing housewife, if you’re all set over there.”
“Yup, knock yourself out.”
He disappeared into the bathroom as she got the crusts made, using a pint glass in lieu of the forgotten rolling pin. Flynn came out in a towel and flicked on the radio that sat atop his fridge, scrolling until the Sox pre-game broadcast emerged from the static.
“You know,” Laurel said, “this wasn’t the smartest idea for dinner in July. This is really more of a winter meal.”
“It’s so hot when you fret about girl crap.”
Her breath turned short as he drew close, wrapping his bare arms around her waist from behind.
“Smells fucking phenomenal.”
“Good.”
“So do you,” he added, pressing his nose into the space behind her ear. Everything that had happened after Saturday’s fight replayed itself in an instant across Laurel’s cavewoman brain.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about tyin’ you up when I jerked off all this week,” he murmured, “but maybe I’ll have to replace the ropes with apron strings, after this.”
She whacked the back of his hand with a spoon and he pulled away.
She sneaked little glances as he dressed in jeans and a fresh undershirt. He passed her to go to the fridge and pull out a can of something that fizzed when he opened it. The smell of ginger ale wafted past. She smiled unseen as she listened to Flynn flop onto the couch and sigh—a tired, satisfied noise.
When she’d stopped at the grocery store to pick up the ingredients she’d succumbed to a kind of easy excitement she hadn’t experienced for the past couple years. Flynn had become the most enjoyable feature of her life in recent weeks. Before he’d appeared she’d been feeling restless and disillusioned. It was pathetic, maybe, but seeing him gave her something to look forward to. He offered a challenge and a change a pace, a spark of dark excitement and a taste of self-discovery after months and months of half-assed floundering. She wondered what she’d have thought a few weeks ago if someone had shown her a video of the gym and the bloodied, muscly man she’d soon after be sleeping with.
“You know,” Laurel said when an ad break interrupted the radio commentary. “Every time we’ve hung out, you spent all day either working and training, or you spent three or four hours beating people senseless in that torture-chamber.”
“Yeah.”
She doled filling into each crust. “What are you like when you just have a day off? No training or fighting.”
“Insufferable.”
She laughed. “You must have crazy baseline energy.”
“I think I’m a bit manic,” he said, sounding thoughtful.
She turned to study him, his eyes lit up blue and gold in the early evening light flooding in from the west-facing windows.
“Like, really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think so. I’m just glad I grew up after everybody started going ape-shit with the ADD diagnoses.”
“You’re sort of straight-edge,” Laurel said.
“I suppose.”
“So is beating people senseless a good substitute for Ritalin, do you think?”
“You tell me. You seem to think I’m worth cooking for.” He caught her blushing then and grinned.
“Yeah, you are,” she admitted, then made her expression devious. “But only because I know I’m going to get massively laid later.”
Flynn laughed. “You’re a fuckin’ brat. And yeah, you are. Getting massively laid, I mean.”
“You know…” She trailed off, needing a deep breath.
; “What do I know?”
“You were talking about your friend Robbie. Who died.”
Flynn nodded.
“Who killed himself.” She clicked the oven on to preheat. “My mom killed herself too. A couple years ago.”
Flynn’s eyes widened and he stood. She prepared herself for an awkward hug but he went to turn the radio down then took his seat again. “Sorry, kiddo. That sucks.”
She nodded.
“Your dad still around?”
“Yeah, somewhere, but we’re not close. I never saw him much when I was growing up.” She turned her attention to crimping the top crusts onto the pies.
“Brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head.
“What was she like? Your mom?”
“Sorry,” Laurel said. “I wasn’t trying to, like, start a conversation about it. I don’t know why I brought it up.”
“Because we’re friends?”
“Maybe… Anyway, she was…” She shrugged, feeling a hundred years old.
“Wonderful?”
Laurel laughed, hating the bitterness anybody could hear in her voice. “No, she was really hard to live with, actually.” She finished one crust and moved on to the next. “She had a really nasty kind of depression. She hardly ever could keep a job for more than a month, and she was needy and demanding and she sucked the life out of everybody around her.”
“Oh,” Flynn said simply.
“By the time I was ten I already knew how to forge her handwriting so I could write the rent checks. She’d go on these days-long jags where she’d lock herself in her room.”
“Sounds awful.”
She nodded, hating the pressure stinging in her sinuses. But she decided to tell Flynn something she hadn’t told anyone, not her roommates or friends, not in any wine-soaked moment of weakness. “It was sort of a relief. When she died.”
“Oh,” he said again. “Did you love her?”
She hissed out a long breath. “I don’t know. I don’t really think so.” Laurel sealed the last pie and stabbed vent holes in all the tops with a fork. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You need a hug or something?”
