by Zahra Girard
But I put both of those ideas down about as quickly as they come up. If I do any of those things, it’s just as likely that I’ll wind up in jail along with the people who’ve been ruining my life. Or I’ll wind up dead.
Some homecoming this has turned out to be.
I heave a sigh and push on the door, carefully placing my hand to avoid the blood and dirt and grease that seem to be just caked all over the thing.
I think the meat locker in Rocky was a more sanitary place to work out.
Inside, it’s like a whole different world.
It’s clean.
The concrete floor isn’t cracked. There’s a spotless, clutter-free desk up front manned by a woman who looks like she eats nails for breakfast each morning and has turned this lobby into her monument to order.
“Can I help you?” she says, in a way that seems like she’s asking herself that question, too.
Can anyone here really help me?
Granted, I don’t really look like I belong here at all. I don’t have any tattoos, or scars, or that crazy glint in my eyes that says hurting people excites me in a way that isn’t healthy at all.
“Yes, I’d like to see about taking some boxing lessons.”
My voice quivers a little.
This woman — Ana Maria, according to the nametag on her shirt — is just looking at me like we’re in some pre-fight staredown. I am seriously confused. What did I do?
She blinks a second, then opens a drawer in her desk and takes out a thick manila folder. Out of it, she pulls a stack of papers and separates them into two piles.
“You and your friend there will need to fill out these release forms. Initial each section, then sign at the end.”
Bryan and I move closer to the desk and she hands each of us a pen.
I start in on the forms, but only get to the second paragraph of house rules before I have to stop.
I show her the form where I’ve underlined a section.
“Um, Ana Maria, why does it say here: ‘I will only use the punching bags for their intended purpose and will not ride, climb, cut open, or molest them in any way’?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Something happened about a year ago. They just call it ‘the incident’. It was before I started here.”
Bryan tugs and my sleeve and leans in to mumble in my ear. “We can just go hit up my dojo if you don’t want to deal with these ridiculous forms.”
“No, I want to do this, ok?” I snap back, then return to filling out the forms.
I initial the punching bag molestation section and show Ana Maria another part. “And this one?”
“Also part of ‘the incident’,” she says.
“Really? Aerial kicks off the ropes of the boxing ring?”
She nods. “Yep. It was a whole thing.”
“Is this place really a boxing gym?”
“Reyes Boxing is the best boxing gym in this part of California. Now, finish those forms and I’ll give you the rest of your things.”
I finish signing and hand them over to her and she slides them into a file folder where I’m sure they’ll never be looked at again. Then she takes out a set of keys from the top drawer of her desk.
“This is for your locker. Number’s printed on the side,” she says, handing me a key. “Ladies locker room is inside to the left. Men’s is inside to the right.”
Ana Maria turns to Bryan. “And this is for you,” she says, handing him a different set of locker keys.
“I’ll catch you inside, Stef,” he says to me. “See if you can find an open heavy bag, and we’ll start with some warm-up drills.”
“You box?” Ana Maria says, arching an eyebrow.
She doesn’t sound impressed.
Bryan nods, and as I turn away and head off to go change, I hear him say: “Among many things. I’m the top programmer for IdentaLock, too. Programming and fighting both take a lot of discipline. Fortunately for me, I have plenty.”
I shove open the door to the women’s locker room and find my locker. I start to change, I’ve got my shirt halfway up over my head and then stop dead in my tracks.
What is a man like that doing here?
What is a man doing in here at all?
To say that he’s handsome doesn’t cut it. He’s handsome, sure, but in the rugged kind of way that says that he’s at home in a boxing gym and he’s spent more than a little bit of time in the ring. I’ve had my eyes glued to him for two startled seconds and even I can see fighting’s a part of his life.
Jagged edges mark his smile, which just drips with cockiness and confidence. Tattoos decorate him, one circling his forearm like some kind of gauntlet, another wraps his bicep, dark lines conforming to the power adorning his upper arms. Some kind of writing peeks out from the opening of his shirt, letters written in some elaborate, flowing script.
There’s something about him, the way he moves, the way he holds himself, that’s like danger coiled and ready and just waiting for an excuse to unfurl.
But, handsome or not, this is the women’s locker room and he is staring right at me like all he’s waiting for is me to just say ‘yes’ and he’ll devour me. And even though part of me wants to blush at having a hot guy nearly strip me down with his piercing green eyes, the greater part of me is just confused as hell that there’s a man waiting for me in here at all.
So I do the smart thing and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Chapter Two
Luca
I’m not good at much in this world, other than killing and getting myself neck-deep in trouble and even deeper in pussy. I do both with skill and panache, and make for an interesting life — even if it’s one that could end at any moment.
Even with the risks, with all the bullshit that comes with a Mafia life, I was good enough to claw my way to the top of my corner of the underworld. My Family made me rich, and I aerated their enemies skulls with lead.
And now?
I have a mop. And a bucket of dirty water. I’d have some janitors scrubs, too, except they’re too dirty to wear right now. The laundry service doesn’t come until Tuesday, so until them, I’m making do with my workout gear.
“What the hell are you doing here?” says a woman’s voice from one of the sets of lockers.
I’d paid a bit of attention to her when she came in — she’s hot, curves up and down her body that I could spend days exploring and still not be tired. I’d checked her out because I happen to have a set of working eyes, but I’ve since gotten back to work.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m working,” I reply over my shoulder.
I shake my mop at her for emphasis. Droplets splash everywhere.
Even with the glare she’s shooting at me, she’s a knockout. But she is too hot and too innocent-looking to be in a place like this. People like her don’t come in here. The only people that come to Reyes Boxing are people that need to turn someone’s face concave with their fists. Whether that’s for personal or professional reasons, we don’t ask questions.
Besides, she is definitely not my type.
She looks like she belongs in front of some grade school class, with kids putting apples on her desk, or whatever the hell it is they do. I wouldn’t much know. School isn’t my thing.
I doubt she’s ever been in a fight. Or even set foot in a strip club.
But still, she’s got curves, dark brown hair, and these wide, hazel eyes that just seem to suck me in. Even if she’s not my type, she’d be good for a night or two, I’m sure.
I hold out the mop in my hand — which is still dripping — and use it to point towards the yellow “Caution: Wet Floor” folding sign I have set up not more than ten feet from where she’s at.
“Watch your step.”
“Can you leave, please? I need to change.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, which has the dual effect of making her look both more upset and making her tits stand
out more from her chest.
Is that supposed to make me do something other than stare at her tits?
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Her body’s just begging for an audience, and I’m happy to fill that role.
The way she blushes — this gentle pink that lights her up from face to cleavage — is too fucking sexy. And she’s wavering.
“I’m sure. Can you give me a minute alone so I can change?”
There’s a small open duffel bag in her hands and she holds it up to emphasize her point. I see a pair of yoga pants and a “Clash” t-shirt poking out of it.
That’s it.
No boxing gloves, no wrist tape, no mouth guard.
She’s got to be in the wrong place.
“You know, we don’t really do the whole ‘boxercise’ thing here, sweetheart. There’s a place a few miles from here, near Sepulveda and Spring Street, that might be more your thing. I hear they even have a smoothie bar.”
Her brows come together and, even though she’s trying to look angry, she just comes across hotter. There’s more fire in her than I’d thought.
“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” she says, with a sharp edge to her voice. “And I really don’t think it’s any of your business as a janitor to give me boxing advice. Get the hell out.”
She’s pissed.
I like it.
Nice tits? Nice ass? Pretty face? And an attitude?
Maybe I misjudged her.
I shrug in reply. “Fine, bella, but take a bit of advice and take it easy out there. A lot of people hurt themselves starting out. They can go from Joe Schmoe to Joe Frazier in just a couple sessions.”
She nods in the way that says I’m not listening to a damn thing you say. “Thanks for the tip. Now, can I change?”
You could change now, I wouldn’t mind, I think. But instead, I nod.
On the way past her out the door, I stop one last time. For a legitimate reason — but even so, I check out her ass out of the corner of my eye.
“Oh, and be careful with a couple of the faucets in the shower. Some of them leak and spray all over the place if you turn them on too high. We’re working on fixing it, but for now, just be aware.”
She’s silent a second, and I think she’s taking the time to come up with some other way to tell me to get the hell out.
I take that extra second to keep checking out her ass.
It’s fantastic.
“Did you try opening them up and checking the seal around the o-ring?”
She says it so matter-of-fact that it catches me off guard. This woman is just full of surprises.
“I will. Later. When the locker room’s not in use,” I say.
“If that doesn’t fix it, you’ve likely got mineral deposits in the shower head. Calcium or lime, probably. It’s pretty simple to clean out, you can buy stuff for that at most any hardware store.”
This woman has me all turned around. She doesn’t look at all like he belongs here in this gym, and, now, she’s suddenly an expert on plumbing?
“How the fuck do you know this shit? Are you a plumber?”
She shakes her head.
“No. I’m just someone who wants her privacy.”
Then, casually, she puts both hands on the door and shoves it closed right in my face.
Chapter Three
Luca
I’m left standing in the lobby with a dripping mop and a dirty bucket while Ana Maria and some jackass in a Cobra Kai outfit stare at me.
Ana Maria’s giving me a dirty look, as usual. It’s what she does when she thinks I’m slacking off. I don’t know what kind of look Cobra Kai guy’s giving me; he’s just too damn awkward looking and I can’t get beyond the ninja outfit.
“You finished?” she says.
“No. The lady needed her privacy, so the rest will have to wait till later. I’ll be in my office.”
I set the mop and bucket in a corner and leave before Ana Maria can berate me in front of the ninja.
Stepping out onto the gym floor, I’m reminded of why I work here, why I chose this place to settle down and try to start over. In every corner, from the punching bags to the free weights to the boxing ring that dominates the center of the room, there are people — men, mostly, but a few women — working hard to improve themselves and their ability to kick someone’s ass.
It’s a monument to sweat, blood, and hard work. People kicking the shit out of themselves and others in some relentless pursuit of being just a little bit better each day.
What can I say? I might be living clean and staying out of trouble now, but I can’t change who I am, and there’s just something about driving a fist into someone’s face that resonates with me.
Jose — my business partner, and the man who founded this gym forty years ago — looks up from his desk as I enter the office.
“That was fast, kid. You finish everything on Ana Maria’s list already?”
I shake my head. “No. I had to clear out of the women’s locker room. We might have a new member or two today.”
“Yeah, but did you get to that thing she mentioned in the men’s room?”
I shake my head and Jose lets out a long, slow whistle.
“You know she’s not going to be happy with you.”
“Yeah, I get it, but it’ll have to wait.”
“Sure, fine. It’s your funeral.”
“There were some extenuating circumstances.”
Which is really the simplest way I can think of to describe the fact that I didn’t want to clean up the locker room while a guy in a ninja outfit stared at me.
“Yeah, but were they important enough to put off something you told her you were going to do? That’s a big risk, man.”
Yes, Jose, I damn well know that. But I have self-respect, and I’m not going to have Karate Kid see me deal with that mess.
Ignoring him, I sit down at my desk and get to work. Running this gym isn’t easy. When I bought into this place eight months ago, I imagined I’d be spending a lot more time out on the training floor, working the bag, sparring, and just generally punching things and having a damn good time.
Instead, I’ve got a mountain of papers on my desk so tall that I feel like I need a fucking Sherpa.
Sometimes I miss my old life, where the only paperwork I had to deal with involved little sheets of green with president’s faces printed on them.
My phone’s intercom blares to life.
“Mr. Moretti, there’s still that issue in the men’s room.”
Frowning, I ignore Ana Maria’s nagging and focus on the paper ledgers in front of me.
This office is my quiet sanctuary in the gym. It’s sound-proofed; peaceful.
And whenever I’m tired of looking at papers, all I have to do is peer out through the two-way mirrors in the wall and see the combat taking place on the gym’s floor.
“You better get to it, kid. She won’t give you another warning, and you don’t want to see her when she’s angry,” Jose says, grinning at me from his desk on the other side of the office. “I made that mistake once. She hit me so hard, took me back to my boxing days.”
My phone buzzes again like some angry hornet and only shuts up when I unplug it.
“Hell no. I don’t know who it is — and when I find out I’m going to have a serious talk with that coglione — but one of our members treats the bathroom like he hates the sight of a clean surface.”
Dirty jobs included, there’s still no place I’d rather be. I was involved in some serious shit before I came here, before I made a promise that I can’t break: that I’d leave my old life behind, that I’d try and get clean.
And on rough days, when I’m wavering and my old life calls out to me like some bloody siren, all I got to do is tape up my hands and head out onto the floor and pound whoever has the guts to spar with me.
Working here is therapy.
But even so, the best therapy only helps you manage your demons. You recognize them,
but you also recognize that you’re going to be wrestling with them the rest of your life. I’m doing good, for now, but there are always going to be days when the temptation to go back is strong.
“You think it’s someone with a bit of fetiche?” the old man’s grin gets even bigger, and he intentionally exaggerates his Hispanic accent on the word.
Sometimes, Jose redefines what it means to be a dirty old man; a boxer that grew up in the sixties and cut his teeth in the ring during the seventies and eighties, he’s probably seen the kind of dirty shit I can’t even imagine.
I frown. “You mean a fetish? No fucking way. You think this is something sexual?”
For fuck’s sake, I hope not.
Jose nods, still grinning. “I can think of a couple of the older guys that might be into that sorta thing. People tend to get freakier as they get older, kid. You realize you ain’t got a lot of time left, so you might as well enjoy it. Get weird with it.”
I stand up.
“No. Fuck no. I don’t want to even think about that.”
Then, even though I try not to, I think about it and it creeps me out on some deep, profound level.
I wasn’t a boy scout before joining Reyes Boxing, but this might just be too much for me.
I look over at him.
“Some of the older members?”
I don’t want to know, but I ask anyways.
Jose nods. Once. Slow. Still smiling.
“I know Eduardo’s into some freaky stuff.”
No. Just no.
Eduardo’s probably sixty and has a spare tire around his waist that’s big enough to fix a flat on a semi truck.
Jose’s desk phone comes to life.
It’s Ana Maria.
“Mr. Moretti, I know you’re there. Stop fucking around and do your job.”
Jose bursts out laughing. “Have fun.”
“Can’t Jeremiah deal with it? That’s what we pay him for, after all,” I say back over the intercom.
Ana Maria’s reply is immediate. “He’s not here yet. His shift doesn’t start until noon. You know that. Oh, and you’ll want the rubber gloves. And maybe a stepladder. Someone said it’s on the ceiling.”
