by JJ Knight
“He rides a motorcycle.”
“Dangerous. I love it.”
I pick at my jeans. “He works out at the gym.”
“Aha. Now I see the interest in the job.”
“Something about him … reminds me of my dad.”
Zero sobers. “A daddy thing. Interesting. I’m guessing that’s what makes it work.”
Jerry pushes two tall glasses at us. They’re frosty and cold, and a cherry balances on top of the swirl of chocolate.
I take a long drink, the combo of sweet and cold making me want to swoon. This crappy day keeps improving. “He pulled me out of this swarm of jerkoffs.”
Zero pauses, his mouth inches from the straw. “What are you talking about? Did somebody come after you?”
“It was outside the pawn shop. Nothing happened.”
“You were at a pawn shop?” He clutches at my wrist. “Don’t tell me you sold Grandmama’s necklace.”
I should have kept my mouth shut. “Zero, I had to.”
“I TOLD you to ask me for money. I TOLD you not to sell that.” He whips around to face the counter, like he can’t look at me. “Where is it? I’m going to go get it.”
“I’ll buy it back.” I point to the sign. “First paycheck.”
He takes a long pull on his shake, frowning. “You don’t know you’re going to get that job. You don’t know what it pays. You don’t know anything.”
“I do. I can feel it.” And I do. It’s a tingle, like something has changed. Like the world is saying, Rock bottom is over, baby. You just made it.
Zero glances at me sideways. “You do seem like a different girl.” He turns back to me. “I tell you what. March over there with all this magic on your face. Get that job.” He reaches over to smooth back my hair. “But let me fix this mess first. You might see The Man.”
“Not before I drink this!” I pick up the cold glass and clink it against his. “To employment.”
He nods. “To better days for Jo Jo.”
Chapter 3
Unlike the pawn shop, there is no reflection in the dark door of the gym. The glass is all painted black. I have no idea what’s in there.
But I do know my hair is what Zero called “athletically fabulous.” He’s devised some loose, low ponytail with tendrils around my face.
I’m about to open the door when it pushes wide. I jump back, and the biggest man who’s ever been two feet from me stops dead.
“Sorry, miss,” he says. His voice is so teddy-bear soft that my panic slips away.
He’s monstrous, filling the whole doorframe. His shoulders are wide enough that I could fit my apartment between them.
He holds the door open for me like I’m a princess rather than a pauper. I nod my thanks and scoot inside.
It’s dim, but the smell is so familiar that it’s like stepping into my past. It’s lemony, like the spray polish my grandma would use on the furniture in her house when I was a kid. The floors are shiny, and everything seems freshly scrubbed.
It’s like Grandma’s been here. Like she prepared it just for me.
I glance at the ceiling, as though she might be watching. Then I steady myself with a deep breath. To the right is a small counter. Nobody’s behind it. I’m in a front room, but it opens into a bigger one filled with benches and weights. The clang of metal filters through the doorway.
There’s a hallway behind the counter with a couple small doors. Could be offices. Could be a locker room. I can’t imagine walking in on a bunch of half-naked men. I’d probably collapse into a puddle of mortified shock.
It’s why I live alone. I’m private. I want everyone else to be private too. Guys who work out here are probably a bunch of strutters.
This is suddenly very obviously a super-bad idea.
I whip around to leave when I crash into a solid mass of naked chest. My legs are already melting into that puddle I predicted when a pair of seriously tricked-out arms catch me. I look up.
It’s Golden Boy.
I realize I haven’t breathed for a few seconds too long and suck in a great gulp of air. I’m crushed against the heat of his skin, and he doesn’t smell anything like Grandma’s house. Woodsy. Like pine needles and sunshine.
“We meet again.” His words rumble through me. I think I hear him more with my body than my ears.
I try to find my voice, but it’s buried somewhere beneath the air I’m sucking in. The moment’s about to end. I can feel him pulling away. It’s like peeling a Band-Aid off too slow.
He lets go. “Did you need me for something?”
I step back and the Help Wanted sign flutters to the floor. He bends over to pick it up. I see down his naked back. Wide shoulders taper to the waist of his blue workout shorts. An intricate tattoo curls across his skin. I can’t breathe.
He straightens and hands the paper back. “You going to take a job here?”
I’m willing my voice to work. “Maybe,” I manage to say.
“Let me call Buster over.”
“Buster?”
He grins at me. “It’s Buster’s Gym.”
“You know him?”
He sighs. “Apparently I’m his new project.”
I don’t know what he means. I hang on to the paper like a lifeline while he steps up to the doorway of the weight room. When his arms are down, the tattoo on his back matches up seamlessly with one encircling his bicep.
His legs are tan and hairy and lean. His calf muscle bulges as he pivots, looking around. I’ve never inspected a man as closely as this. I’ve never wanted to.
“He must be in the addition,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you back.”
“Are—are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He waves me forward. “Buster is hiring several new people with the expansion. It’s my fault.”
Again I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I follow him. Inside the weight room, a half-dozen men and a couple girls are grunting and straining with barbells and stretchy bands. I keep my eyes on the concrete floor, cracked but shiny. The place is clean at least. I wonder if it will be my job to keep it that way. Maybe I can work after-hours, when nobody’s around.
In the far corner, a man punches at a big red bag while a tiny older guy holds it. “Give it more, give it more,” the guy says, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. “What sort of pussy are you?”
One of the girls slams a gigantic weight to the ground. “Stop with the pussy bullshit.”
The old guy waves her off. “Right, fine, sorry.”
The girl is placated and rolls another giant wheel from a rack.
I’ve never been any place like this before.
A sheet of plastic covers a gaping hole in the back wall. Golden Boy lifts a corner and peers through. “Buster back here?” he calls out.
He turns back to me. I kinda wish he’d put on a shirt, and kinda don’t. I’m all off balance. This isn’t how I pictured this going at all.
He ducks under the plastic and holds it up for me. Two acts of chivalry in ten minutes. Boys here are nice, not threatening. It’s like I’m in another world.
The new room is a disaster. Plaster falls from the walls. The floor is covered in dust and scattered lumber. Two men in overalls are talking to a bald guy in a shirt that reads “Buster’s Gym” on the back. I’m assuming that’s Buster himself.
I stand beside Golden Boy, still holding the sign. I’d shove it in my pocket, but now I think they will need it again. Plus he knows I have it.
“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Golden Boy says.
“What are they doing?”
“Building a practice ring.”
“For boxing?”
“Technically it’ll be an MMA cage.”
I don’t know what that is. I’m pretty sure I am too ignorant for the job. But if it’s just cleaning floors, I can do that. I’m not proud. Pride got me in all the trouble before.
I try not to stare at his chest. His eyes are up there. But he’s looking out ove
r the mess. He can’t see my wandering gaze, so I linger.
His words start to penetrate as I tear myself away from his pectorals. “Wait,” I say. “How is this your fault?”
Golden Boy huffs, like it’s an annoyance. “I’m here by order of my father. He’s like a king to these people. They are expanding to accommodate me.”
“Should I know your father?”
He looks down at me, amused. “I guess we were never really introduced.” He smacks his fist against his chest in an imitation of Tarzan. “I’m Colt McClure. My dad is—”
“The Cure McClure,” I finish. I watch enough television to know that. “Boxing champion.”
“That’s him.”
I don’t remember anything about a son. “So, you box too, then?”
He looks amused. “I’m UFC. Big disappointment to Pops.” He glances over, sees my confusion. “UFC is the big promotion company for MMA.” He smiles, finally realizing I know nothing. “Mixed martial arts. It’s a fighting style.”
“But not boxing. He wanted you to box.”
“Dads always want their sons to take over the family business.”
I picture a glove smashing into Colt’s perfect face and wince.
“That’s how I feel about it too.”
“How are you a disappointment?”
He laughs. “I keep losing.”
The men turn around and notice us standing there.
“Buster, I’ve got someone for you,” Colt says.
Buster spreads his arms wide like he’s reuniting with an old friend. “Colt ‘Gunner’ McClure! You’re darkening my door finally.”
The two men embrace, Buster’s shiny head barely grazing Colt’s chin. “We’re getting your ring built. Your dad was very precise.”
“I bet.” Colt gestures to me. “I know you’re having to hire on some help. This here is—” We both realize that I haven’t told him my name.
“Jo Jones,” I cut in.
Buster finally takes a good look at me. “What you got in mind for this girl?”
Colt shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll figure out something.” He turns back to me. “I leave you in very competent hands.”
I realize he’s taking off and panic shoots through my chest.
“Your trainer here?” Buster asks him.
“He arrives in a few days. I just wanted to get the lay of the land.”
Buster claps him on the back. “We’re glad to have you, boy. I remember when your dad would work out here.”
“Yeah, well, glad we could circle back around.” Colt’s about to turn back to the plastic, then he stops. “Give her something to strengthen her up.”
Buster crosses his arms over his chest. “You think she’s got something?”
Colt’s hazel eyes gloss over me, and I shiver.
“Yeah, I do.” Then he disappears through the doorway.
Buster stares me up and down. He runs a roughed-up hand along his shiny head. “You look like a ten-pound kettle bell will knock you over.”
I bite my lip. I don’t know what a kettle bell is. I picture a teapot with a clapper. I am so out of my element. “I can clean stuff.” I glance around. “I can help in here.”
He sniffs, and I’m reminded of the pawn shop owner from that morning. That already feels like a lifetime ago.
“Pay’s ten an hour since the minimum is going up anyway. I guess since you’re one of Colt’s, I’ll give you as many hours as you want. It’s about to get real busy once the world gets wind that he’s training here.”
I nod.
“Come back tomorrow at eight,” he says. “I’ll show you around.”
He walks back over to the workers, and I stand there a minute, dumbfounded.
I have a job.
Chapter 4
Buster’s outside the next morning, sticking the Help Wanted sign back on the window. I guess he’ll be hiring someone else too. This makes me feel better. I won’t be the only new employee.
He nods at me and opens the door. He towers over me, but he’s friendly in a teddy-bear way. “All right, Jo, let’s go over some things.”
We’re back in the lemony front room. I still half expect Grandma to show up with her rag and spray can. I wish she could.
Buster rubs his bald head. “I’ve got equipment coming in daily and no place to put it yet.” He points behind the front counter. “There’s a stack of boxes with sandbag weights in that corner. Open ’em up and organize the bags by size along one of the walls of the main room.”
He leads me to the doorway of the weight room and points. “Over there.”
I peer inside. Colt is in one corner, squatting with a bar on his shoulders. The discs on both ends are enormous and stacked deep. His thighs bulge as he prepares to stand. His eyes are squeezed shut in concentration, or pain. Or both.
Buster clears his throat. “So it’s like that? I reckon you better keep it on the down low in the gym.”
I straighten. “I’m sorry?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Buster looks disgusted. “I figured Colt would bring on his girls. But if all you’re doing is mooning over him all day, you’re not going to be much use to me.”
Oh, God. “I’m sorry. I was just—”
“I know what you are just.” He swears under his breath. “Move on and get those weights. Colt wants you beefed up. We’ll get you beefed up.” He stalks through the weight room and past the plastic into the new addition where we met yesterday.
I turn back around and head to the boxes. My face is on fire. He thinks I’m one of “Colt’s girls.” I don’t know what sort of girl Colt normally brings on, but I’m guessing they aren’t just to move weights around.
With a quick jerk I tear open the top box. Soft round discs filled with sand are layered inside. They say eight pounds. I lift one. Not bad, so I take four.
I cross back into the weight room, making sure I don’t look Colt’s way. His girls. Whatever. I’m grateful for the job, but not that grateful.
The wall Buster directed me to is thankfully on the opposite side of the room.
A girl sits on a red padded bench near the wall. Her elbow is propped on her knee, and she’s working a little hand weight like there’s no tomorrow. A half dozen guys are working out on Colt’s side.
I bend down to stack the eights in a nice neat pile. It’s going to be the prettiest, most organized row of sandbags ever made. I’ve spent twenty years not looking at men. I need to get back to my own personal status Jo, as Zero likes to call it. He doesn’t ask why I don’t date, don’t trust men. And I don’t ever say. I left all that behind three years ago, and it hasn’t caught up to me yet.
I head back for a load of ten-pound bags and take three. Not bad. I can do this.
The next box starts with fourteens. My arms are a little shaky, so I just take two. The gym has quieted down. Colt is still somewhere on the other side, lifting with a random guy.
I stagger a little by the time I’m up to the twenties. The two boxes on bottom are bigger. I have a bad feeling about how far up they are going to go. I picture Buster’s snide look. It’s a test. I won’t fail.
I think about all the crap bosses I’ve had over the years. There was Minnie, the head waitress at a diner where I got my first job clearing tables. She used to yell she was going to “box my ears” if I didn’t hustle. I was seventeen and scared to death of her. I was a real mouse in that job, scurrying around, afraid of everything.
That was one of the jobs I had to quit over a hurricane moment. It had been an ordinary shift. I left out the back and a bunch of cook staff was in the alley, smoking. They got to saying things about me. “Girl, I want your ass.” They went on, but I had to block it out so I wouldn’t blow.
When I cut through them, somebody grabbed my shoulders from behind. That’s the trigger. Always has been.
I don’t remember what all I did, but I do know I made two of them bleed out the nose. I never went back, not even for my last paycheck.
My back is screaming. I drop the weight on the floor. The sand doesn’t make much of a sound, just a light thud.
Buster moves to the doorway, arms crossed on his chest, as I open the next box. Thirty pounds each. I have to bend to pull the first one out, and for a moment, I don’t think I can lift it.
But the boss is watching, so I do, heaving it up against my belly. Sweat is starting to form across my forehead. No hoodie tomorrow, that’s for sure.
I pass in front of Buster without looking at him. It’s not so bad walking with the thirty braced on my stomach. I bend at the knees to set it down. I’m getting it.
When I cross back through, he’s gone. I grab another thirty and head back inside. Colt has moved, and he’s talking to the girl with the hand weights. I feel a zing of jealousy that almost stops me in my tracks. What the hell was that? I just met the man yesterday. I drop the sandbag and whirl around.
When I get back to the front room, Buster tosses me a T-shirt. “You have to be broiling in that hoodie.”
I catch the shirt. It’s dark blue with the Buster’s Gym logo on the front. “Thanks.”
“It’s yours. Just don’t get arrested in it.”
I stand there for a minute. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to change. “I don’t really know my way around,” I finally say.
“Right.” He waves me behind the counter, and I’m relieved to have a break from hauling sandbags. We go down the little hallway.
“Back here’s the office.” He opens the door to basically a closet with a desk in it, covered in papers. “Right here’s a clipboard to mark your hours.”
We go back in the hall. “This door is a bathroom. The girls use it.” He thumbs toward it. “You can put the shirt on in there.”
He steps back to let me by. “The men’s locker room is on the other side.”
I tense up. I hope he isn’t going to ask me to go in there while people are around.
Maybe he notices, because he says, “I’ve got a cleaning lady who handles it. She comes five nights a week.” He turns around to leave. “We’ll figure you out as we go along.”
