by Unknown
"Hey, Emory," a guy called to him from the ring. He waved back. His dad, long dead but still a legend in this small place, made him pretty famous. At least to the handful of people who frequented the gym.
He dropped his backpack against the wall, took a swig from his water bottle, and stripped off his T-shirt. Emory was there to work out, not box, so he didn't worry about putting his name down for a turn in the ring. Instead, he put the ear buds in his ears, turned up a mix of metal and rock music, and found a spot by the weights.
Ten minutes into his routine, his muscles were starting to burn. He liked that feeling, liked knowing that he could still push himself despite years of hitting a nice stride with his fitness. Emory wasn't super strict about it, and he enjoyed a bowl of ice cream when he wanted one. The no-cakes thing definitely helped. It wasn't like there weren't gluten free baked goods, though, and he supposed he could get off his lazy butt and get to the specialty grocery store a few miles down the road to bring something home. But sweets were far more of an impulse buy for him, and the extra effort was more than he was willing to put in for a simple sugar craving.
This gym didn't have the fancy machines that the more commercial ones did. He was glad about that. If he wanted to run, he did it outside. If he wanted to climb stairs, there were three flights going up to his apartment. He saw the point of the machines—after all, Denver did get a fair bit of snow each year—but they didn't work for him. Emory put the weights back down on the rack, took another drink of water, and moved to a heavy, sand-filled punching bag against the wall. With music screaming in his ear, he wrapped his hands in tape and started in with a few quick jabs. He had a routine, one that he didn't like to disrupt, but most of the guys in the gym did. That was why there wasn't much talking between them. They came in, they did their own thing, got tapped on the shoulder when it was time to go into the ring, and practiced a few moves. Simple, easy, and completely free of any hassle. He liked that about the place.
Emory worked out against the bag for a good twenty minutes before stepping back. Sweat dripped down his face and into his eyes. If he hadn't taken to shaving off his hair, it might not have been a problem. As it was, he had to wipe off with his discarded shirt or risk being blinded. He sat down and took another drink from his quickly emptying bottle.
The wooden bench he was sitting on squeaked as someone joined him. Mac, really his only friend outside of Jonah, gave him a grin that was missing more teeth than not. "Hey," Emory said, removing his ear buds so that he could hear him. Mac was bigger than him by at least fifty pounds, and it was all muscle. Despite being nearly a decade older, he knew how to stay in shape better than most guys half his age. Emory knew his dad had taught Mac that.
"Hey, yourself. Doing any fighting tonight?" Mac asked him, his green eyes fixed directly on the ring as the men in it finished up whatever they were doing.
Emory shook his head. "Not tonight. Just here to work out for a bit and relax before bed."
"Jonah at work?"
"Yeah. Until three." Emory got up and did some stretches, groaning as his muscles, sore from a day spent hunkered over an office desk, protested.
Mac's mouth formed a hard line. "Sure that's safe? He's so small. Delicate, even."
Emory stood up and laughed as he stretched his arms over his head. "Jonah's fine. You want an excuse to go check on him yourself, you go right ahead. The bartender at the club owes me at least one round. Drink up."
Mac's dark eyebrows rose. "You really don't care, do you?"
Finished stretching, Emory put his hands loosely on his hips. "About what?"
"Jonah dancing, guys watching him ..."
He had to smile at the dumbfounded look Mac was giving him. "Nope. I really don't. It's not like he gets nude. You want to go see his butt, go right ahead. He'll flirt, guys give him money, and the club has a strict no-touching rule. The boss is even a decent guy, unlike those creeps you hear about at other places. I don't have any reason to worry. But if you're feeling like tossing out some money, go ahead and hand it over, I'll save you the trip." He finished the familiar speech by giving Mac a little shrug of indifference. Why so many people had a hard time understanding his being okay with Jonah's job was beyond him. Sure, he wasn't a jealous guy, but even an idiot could tell the difference between the Jonah who was on stage and the one he'd been kissing on the couch. They were two completely different people, and Emory didn't spend any time with the stage Jonah.
Mac gave a low whistle, sounding like he was surprised. "Not many guys could say that with a straight face."
Emory rolled his eyes. "We've been together for seven years. Ever since our first semester together at community college. If he wanted to walk, there've been opportunities. I don't keep him chained up in a basement somewhere. And we've got a strict rule about cheating."
"Which is?"
Emory gave him a soft smile, knowing Mac had had problems in the past with ex-girlfriends cheating on him. Training took a lot of time, and none of them had been fine with not being the center of Mac's world. "We don't cheat. Fidelity is important, and we set boundaries before he ever took the job. We were friends first, and that friendship and this relationship are more important than a one-night stand. That's just how it is." It made perfect sense to him, and as far as he was concerned, everyone else was the one with the problem.
He spotted the gym's owner coming down the heavy steel steps from his office upstairs and went to catch him before he left for the day. "Hey, Mr. Michaels," he said, struggling to catch up with his long strides.
"Emory. Good to see you."
He gave Mr. Michaels his best grin. "Sir, I know you're busy, but I was wondering if you might have a moment for me." Emory had grown up being so formal to him and had never dropped that distinction. It was how his dad raised him.
Mr. Michaels paused, his hand on the back door that would lead to the parking lot. Emory knew he parked his car there so that the neighborhood kids wouldn't see it and try to mess with it during the day while he was at work. It wasn't a bad part of the neighborhood, but Mr. Michaels owned a '68 Chevelle and it was nice enough that it turned more than a few heads. Keeping it hidden behind the building helped some. "For you? Of course. What's on your mind?"
Emory started to lose his nerve. He hated asking for favors, especially from friends, and Mr. Michaels had been really good to both him and his dad through the years. "Well, sir, I was wondering if you might have some work for me."
"Jonah not bringing in as much?"
There was no judgment or condemnation in his tone, only simple observation. And Emory didn't mind people knowing what Jonah did, or that he made far more than Emory ever had. Especially now that he didn't have a job to speak of. "That's not it. Just looking for a bit extra. Holiday money sort of thing."
Mr. Michaels gave him a wistful smile. "Ah. Yes. The holidays. Love this time of year; don't love the expensive price tags. Every time I think my grandkids couldn't get any greedier, they surprise me."
Emory's smile turned weak. He knew the gym couldn't be making much, and most of the guys Mr. Michaels had had working there over the years traded the chores for time training in the ring. "Never mind, it wasn't a good idea." He took a step back, feeling foolish for even bringing it up.
Shaking his head, Mr. Michaels stopped him before he could go. "Now don't go thinking all that. Tell you what. You know we're having a little fight here next week, right?"
Of course he knew; the flyers were all over the building. It was an amateur fight, nothing serious, and the prize money wasn't great. But it was a way to bring attention to the gym, and somehow Mr. Michaels had been able to swing the mayor into agreeing to it. What could Mr. Michaels possibly be getting at by mentioning it? "Sure. Everyone knows about it."
Mr. Michaels gave him a considering once-over, then, appearing satisfied, nodded to himself. "You fight in it, don't even have to win, and I'll give you a job training some of the new guys just like your old man used to do."
&nbs
p; He hated to say no to the offer, but that was just what Emory ended up doing. "Sorry, sir, but I don't fight anymore. I haven't for years."
"Did you forget how?"
Emory wasn't sure someone ever really forgot how to box. Like anything else done over and over again, there was muscle memory involved. "No. I didn't forget." He tried not to sound as offended as he felt.
Tilting his head to the side, Mr. Michaels seemed to be thinking about his response. "Then what's the problem? Jonah won't let you?"
Emory shook his head. The idea of Jonah telling him not to do something when Jonah had been one of his biggest encouragers on every little whim Emory had made no sense. "No. I stopped fighting for me. My own reasons."
Mr. Michaels groaned. "This again? Kid, we all miss your dad. He was a great guy. Damn fine man. But he loved boxing. You used to love it too. Just because he died doesn't mean you have to stop. Now, you've heard my offer. Get back to me with an answer in a few days once you've had time to think it over."
"I appreciate it, really, I do. But my answer will still be no," Emory replied reluctantly. Did he want to box again? Of course. But there were complications. There always were.
Mr. Michaels shook his head and walked out of the building, leaving Emory alone in the hallway to think it over. He went back out to the main room and found Mac doing pull-ups on the bar. He leaned against the cold iron as thoughts circled in his head. "Hey, Mac?"
"Yeah?"
Emory pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you think of me going back into boxing?" He wasn't really serious. But after Mr. Michaels had mentioned it, of course the thought was refusing to leave Emory alone. It had been far too long since he had boxed at all, and even though he was in good shape for most, he was far from in shape for boxing. Why wasn't the idea leaving him alone?
"You serious?" Mac asked him. Emory really didn't know if he was or not, and so he shrugged instead of answering. If anyone knew if he could box anymore, it was probably going to be Mac, as he had known him the longest. "And what would Jonah think about you getting back into it?"
"He would think it was fine," Emory said, but really, he wasn't entirely positive. It wasn't like Jonah to say no to him about anything, especially over something important to him like boxing had been at one time. At the same time, he knew that Jonah would likely be worried about him. He remembered some days when he would come home with a lot of bruises to a very unhappy boyfriend. Not that he could blame Jonah for being upset about a couple bruises and a split lip.
But it wasn't like Emory had actually tried to get hurt; he just wasn't quite as fast as some of the others since he'd always been a bit bigger than them.
"Why are you even thinking about this?" Mac asked him. "You haven't wanted to box since your dad died."
There it was again, the reminder of why he'd stopped in the first place. He didn't want to talk about it, or even think about it, but the idea was refusing to leave him alone. "I'm not really considering it, and it's not like I'm that serious about the question. Just curious. It's really not a big deal. Anyway, I'm going to do a bit more weights, then head home."
"Yeah, you have to get home to wake up early for work tomorrow. They have you up at a really ungodly hour."
Emory didn't correct him. He really didn't need everybody in the gym knowing that he'd lost his job. Especially since it was over something really stupid. It wasn't as if he had actually done anything to get fired; he'd just had an attitude when his boss had asked about it. It wasn't an important job anyway, except that it was Even though Jonah made a lot of money as a stripper, they relied on both of their incomes. He wasn't about to ask Jonah to give up the things he wanted and rightfully deserved just because Emory had screwed up. He put his ear buds back in, turn the volume up on his music to drown out his thoughts, and continued his workout.
By the time he went home that night, he was sweaty, tired, and certain that he wasn't thinking clearly. Emory showered then went to bed just after midnight with the soft glow of the moon shining down on the pillow where Jonah would soon be asleep.
*~*~*
Jonah showered in the back room of the club even though he would have preferred the shower at home for its privacy, spaciousness, and familiarity. But their old pipes were loud, and he didn't want to risk waking up Emory, who he knew needed his sleep. Jonah changed quickly in the dressing room, pulled his hood up over his head, and left the club with his pockets full of money.
The night had been good, with plenty of rich businessmen, and there were even a few far rarer women with their friends looking to have a little fun on a weeknight. Jonah liked when there were women there—not because he was attracted to them, of course, but because it was fun trying to make them blush. The guys were grabby and sometimes rude, but the women never were. They catcalled to him, waving money in his face, trying to get his attention, but they were never rude about it like the guys could be. At least not to him. He'd heard stories from people coming to other clubs about women who were far more handsy than the ones he saw. The downside to the women in his club was that they weren't nearly as comfortable tipping as the men were. For some reason, men who frequented the club handed out a lot more money than any of the women ever did.
None of the people that he saw there looked down on him or took pity on him. At least not to his face. What they did on their time was none of his business, but Jonah liked seeing them happy when they were in front of him. It made being happy around them in return just that much easier, letting him enjoy the lights and the laughter around him so that he could simply dance. After so many years on the dance floor, it didn't matter that he didn't really have on clothes or that it was a room full of strangers who didn't know his name. He was just having fun, and the fact that his boyfriend didn't mind him doing it made it all that much better. Jonah really didn't think he could do this if Emory weren't on board. Sure, Emory never actually came to see him like some of the other people's partners did, but Emory also wasn't a jealous fool, either.
It had been about six months since the last major fight. Jonah didn't like seeing fights at all, much less drunken brawls between jealous lovers over someone who didn't care about either of them. It was far too much drama for him, which was probably why he didn't have many friends at the club, but for Jonah it was all about the dancing, getting to meet people, and bringing home a good amount of money at the end of the day.
It was actually sort of funny to him that he was the breadwinner of their little family, considering how he made his money. He knew that he'd make far more if he did porn like some of the other strippers—but even though he also knew that Emory wasn't jealous, he didn't think that quality went that far. Besides, Jonah was fine having sex with just one person, thanks very much.
Fresh after moving out and coming out on the same week before his freshman year in college, Emory had been his first. And Jonah liked it that way. He liked knowing that he was in love with his best friend and only had sex with him. From the outside, Jonah was sure that some people would think that was strange for a stripper to say, but he didn't much care about that. Jonah tried not to care about what other people thought about him in general and found that he was happier that way.
Jonah stepped out of the club , waved to the people he was close to, declined a few offers for a ride home, and headed back to the little apartment he shared with Emory. Sure, it would have been safer to drive with someone, and yes, it was cold since it was nearly December, but he didn't mind it. In fact, he actually liked the dark streets a little bit, as there was hardly anyone out this time of night. It was easy to let himself get lost in the feeling of being all alone even in a city the size of Denver. Cars drove past him and a few people were walking on the other side of the street, but no one showed up in his little corner of the world.
Finally Jonah got to his apartment building, unlocked the front door, and went up the few flights of stairs to let himself into their dark apartment. He was energized from the walk and the musi
c he could still feel pulsing in in his veins, but he didn't want to keep Emory up or wake him, so Jonah stripped down out of his clothes and got into bed next to him. Jonah was just about to fall asleep when he felt Emory's warm arm come around the front of him, holding him close. He sighed and closed his eyes as Emory sleepily kissed the back of his head and told him he loved him.
*~*~*
The next morning, Emory still had no idea how to tell Jonah that he'd been fired. So instead of coming clean by waking Jonah up and talking to him, he quietly got up, got dressed, and went for a cup of coffee like a coward. It sucked. Emory hated lying to Jonah, hated that he didn't have a plan. Hated that he'd woken up to a text message that morning reminding him that the remaining balance of the ring he'd put on layaway three months ago was due.
That, more than the lying, had soured Emory's mood the most, and he was still scowling as he made his way to the gym an hour before it officially opened. Emory had a key, all the regulars did, and so he let himself in and found a spot in front of a bag to begin working out. He was heavily into his routine when Mr. Michaels found him a few hours later. He hadn't been working hard, but the workout still felt good. The workout made sure that his muscles were looser, and he was more relaxed than he had been before. Emory was just finishing up and wondering what he was going to do next to waste time before Jonah left for work when Mr. Michaels tapped him on the shoulder.
"You're here early," Mr. Michaels said as Emory pulled the ear buds out of his ears.
