by Shandi Boyes
She steals my chance to retaliate by pressing her lips to mine, giving up that cherry lip gloss I’ve been dying to taste all night. It’s only the briefest peck, but it fills me with hope. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t kiss my friends goodbye on the lips. That may have more to do with the fact they’re male, but still, it’s the truth.
When Lola inches back, I run my tongue over my lips, ensuring I get every smidge of lip gloss she left there before digging my phone out of my pocket. “We should exchange digits… so you can text me your shifts, then I’ll know what time to pick you up.” I only add on the last part because she was seconds from once again reminding me that we’re not on a date, so number swapping is a no-go zone.
My brow arches when she inputs her number by copying it off a card stored in her purse. “I recently got a new number, so I don’t know it by heart yet.”
I guess that’s why she was freaked about an unknown number messaging her at three in the morning?
After storing her number in my contacts, she hands me back my phone, almost leans in for another kiss before remembering that isn’t something friends do, throws open her door, then bolts down the sidewalk like her backside is on fire. Once she enters the safety of her home, I drop my eyes to the screen of my phone.
I try not to look too deeply into the two x’s at the end of her name.
I miserably fail. I knew she digs me!
The next morning, Noah’s head pops up from the bowl of cereal he’s devouring when I enter the kitchen. “What’re your plans this weekend, Jake?”
I grab the orange juice from the fridge. “I’m gonna head to the gym for a few hours; wanna come?”
“Hours?” He looks seconds from barfing. “No thanks.”
I laugh at the disgust crossing his face. I’ve dragged him to the gym a handful of times the past twelve months, but his limit is an hour—max. I like to go much longer than that. I’m not a gym junkie by any means; I just grew an obsession with fighting after I was approached by a trainer a little over four months ago. . .
“Can you fight?”
Peering up from my large Taco Bell meal, I’m met with the curious eye of a dark-skinned man wearing mirrored glasses and a wonky smile. I glance over my shoulder, unsure if he’s talking to me or someone behind me.
As my eyes return front and center, I witness him pulling out the chair across from me, spinning it around, then straddling it backward. “Can you fight?” He talks at me as if I’m slow, which I find amusing.
“I haven’t needed to. Because of my size, no one is game to take a swing at me.”
The stranger chuckles while pulling off his sunglasses so he can look me in the eyes. "Hank." He nudges his head to the back entrance of the food court I'm dining in. "I own a gym in this complex. I also train fighters. Would that be something you'd be interested in pursuing?"
I take a moment to consider his question. I've been studying business via correspondence, but my efforts have severely lacked the past few months, so a changeup couldn’t hurt.
"I could be interested."
Grinning as brightly as a sky of stars, Hank's hand delves into his trousers to pull out a wallet. After securing a tattered business card from inside, he hands it to me. "Come to the gym. I'll put you through some drills. They'll soon tell us if you have what it takes."
Not speaking another word, he stands then stalks away. I wait for him to be out of eyesight before dropping my eyes to his card. “Hank’s Gym,” I read off the card. Nothing original there.
When a sweet voice above asks, “Is this seat taken?” I shove his card into my pants pocket.
A pretty blonde in a light blue sundress is standing above me, raking her teeth over her lower lip. She has bright blue eyes that pop off her face and an enticing body. I noticed her when I entered the food court ten minutes ago, but figured it’d be best to finish my lunch before going on the chase.
Clearly, she has other plans for us.
“It is now.”
I kick out the chair Hank just vacated with my foot before gesturing for her to sit, liking that she came to me instead of waiting to be chased. As I said earlier, a changeup rarely hurts anyone.
By the time I enter my room later that night, I’ve completely forgotten about my run-in with Hank. If his card hadn’t fallen out of my pants while I was stripping for a shower, I wouldn’t have given our conversation a second thought. Now I’m giving it a third and fourth once-over.
I’ve never considered professional fighting as a career, but there’s no harm giving it a shot. I'll try anything once. It’s not like I’ll be beating the shit out of some random for no reason. It's a professional sport with referees and shit. It's above board and legal, unlike some activities I undertook in my teen years.
I’ll try it. If I hate it, I won’t do it again. Plain and simple.
My stomach launches into my throat when I enter Hank's gym early the next morning. There’s a funky smell in the air. It’s not a stinky armpit smell you’d expect after a hard workout. It’s an indescribable scent that fucking reeks.
“It’s about time you showed up.”
When my eyes drift to the voice, I spot Hank skipping rope near a ratty, old punching bag chained to the ceiling. For a guy in his late fifties, if not sixties, his body is ripped. His black afro is clipped close to his scalp, and his torso and arms are covered with tattoos.
After slinging the jump rope around his neck, he grabs a towel from a worn-out bag on his left. "You can't work out in cargo pants. Go change into gym clothes, then meet me in the ring."
Once I'm dressed in black gym shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, I make my way to the boxing ring at the back of the deserted space. Compared to the gym I lift weights at, the equipment here is badly outdated. It doesn’t look used, just old.
When I stop next to the ring, I stare down at the ropes, unsure how I’m supposed to get into the ring since they go all the way around. With a shrug, I pull them down before stepping over them. Hank laughs loudly. “You’re supposed to go through them, not over them, but whatever works, man.” He strolls toward me with a pair of red boxing gloves in his hands. "Lose the shirt."
I hesitate. I’m no longer the little fat kid who got bullied at school, but I’m self-conscious enough about my body that I’m not a fan of wandering around shirtless.
Noticing my hesitation, Hank gives me a look, one that reveals I either remove my shirt, or he’ll remove it for me.
“Fuck it.” I yank it off before hanging it on the ropes.
My biceps flex when Hank pulls my hands in front of me to slip on the gloves he’s holding. “I knew you’d be ripped, so why hide under baggy clothes?”
I don’t answer him. I’m not being ignorant; I just don’t know how to explain my annoying neurosis. I’ve always worn layers of clothes. It’s just the way I am.
Once my gloves are in place, Hank inches back before raising a set of protective pads in front of his face. When he instructs me to hit them, I do, albeit hesitantly. Hank is buff for his age, but he isn’t overly tall or wide. I don’t want to knock him on his ass.
Hank mocks the lack of oomph in my swing with a chuckle. “What’s your weak spot?”
When he bounces around the mat, I follow him. “I don’t have one.”
“Bullshit! Everyone has a weak spot.”
I take a step back when he swings his pad at my head, but I’m too slow to avoid colliding with it. He smacks me upside the head with the pad before stinging my left cheek with a non-playful slap.
My next set of whacks to his pads connect harder than my first few. I’m usually pretty laidback... until you piss me off.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
While shaking my head, I continue following Hank around the mat, jabbing left and right combinations as instructed.
“Daddy issues?”
I once again shake my head.
“Mommy issues?”
I glare at him over the gloves protecting my
face. “My mom is dead.”
He murmurs an apology before attempting to wipe the arrogant expression off my face with a sneaky left hook. I block his hit this time around, his smile telling me I did the right thing.
“Okay, so no weak spots. Then why are you such a pansy? Hit me!”
He just found my weak spot.
There’s nothing I hate more in the world than being called a pansy. My brother Patrick calls me a pansy all the time. How was I to know when you're being called a fat cow by schoolyard bullies in kindergarten that you aren’t supposed to cry?
Patrick told our dad I cried, but instead of comforting me as all good dads should, he gave me a lecture on how boys aren’t allowed to cry—ever! I haven’t cried since that day, but my brother never lets me forget the one time I did.
As my anger rises, so does the power behind my swings. I pummel Hank’s pads over and over again until the occasional fist slips to regions of his body not protected by thick padding. Hank doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles before using his pads like gloves. He gives as good as he’s getting... until a right hook steals more than the wind from his lungs. It sends blood dribbling down his chin as well.
Regret hits like a ton of bricks when he gargles water before spitting it into a bucket. It’s vibrant red. “It’s safe to say we found your weak spot.”
“Shit, Hank, I’m sorry—”
He cuts off my apology with a swipe of his hand through the air. “Don’t apologize; your giant ass is going to make me rich!”
I chuckle when he jumps into the air with more agility than a man his age should have...
For the next four weeks, we trained sun up to sundown seven days a week in preparation of my heavyweight fighting debut. Another three months have passed since then, and I still haven't competed. I'm not scared. I'm just... scared? Not of losing. I just hate failing.
I’m done with that now, though. It’s time to put some serious thought into my career. I’m not getting any younger, so I need to seize the moment, or whatever other shit my dad said to me last week.
I also have a new motivator. I offered to drive Lola to and from her shifts without putting any thought into the ridiculously high gas prices lately. I'm studying, which means I don't have an income, so being Lola’s chauffeur is an expense I can't afford—but refuse to give up. I get Lola alone for eighty miles every shift. That's worth more than any prize money I'll make during my fighting career.
Chapter Seven
Lola
Butterflies take flight in my stomach when I send Jacob a text saying I’m due at Mavericks at 7 PM. He offered to drive me, but I still feel guilty, like I’m using him for a ride. I don’t have another viable option. A taxi would gobble up my pay before it hits my bank account, and my mom’s double shifts at the hospital mean she can’t pick me up at whatever ungodly hour my shift finishes. My dad could drive me since he’s unemployed, but with him rarely around, I haven’t had the chance to ask. Instead, I reached out to the one man who offered assistance without any stipulations attached.
God, am I making a mistake? I don't want Jacob to get the wrong idea. I like him; I just don't trust myself around him. It's like granting me a bite of my favorite cake, then telling me I can't have any more. That's worse than torture.
Forever a gentleman, Jacob replies to my text promptly.
Jacob: I’ll be there at six xx
And there’s the cause of my worry. Two little symbols that can mean so much more when viewed by the wrong eyes. Stupid kisses. Stupid driving instructors who failed me because they were snooty cows. Stupid heart that got so severely broken, it's lost its trust in everyone.
After trudging into my bedroom, I search my closet for the full-length jeans Maggie instructed me to wear. When my hunt comes up empty, I put on white denim shorts instead. This outfit is sexier anyway, so it’ll help patrons be more generous with their tips. A win for all involved—Maggie included.
Not long after I’ve finished applying my makeup, a car horn sounds outside. When I peer out the lace curtain, I spot Jacob’s car in the driveway and smile. He’s learning quickly, which means my body should soon understand that we’re only friends.
I dart into my room to grab my purse before racing outside, bypassing Emily’s room on my way. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Her head pops up from the giant textbook she’s reading. “Okay. Good luck.”
Waving, I dash outside, my pace remarkably fast considering the height of my stilettos. My strides half when I notice Jacob's entranced stare as I saunter past. I add an extra swing to my hips, loving the zeal in his eyes before realizing prancing like Bambi isn’t something friends do for other friends either.
Ugh! Why does this have to be so damn hard?
“Hey, Jake.” As I slip into the passenger seat, I drink in how his light blue long-sleeve polo shirt makes his eyes pop off his ruggedly handsome face.
His grin makes me wonder if he also noticed my prolonged gawk. “Hey. You ready?”
“Yep!”
I cringe when my girly voice bounces around his car. My nerves can’t be helped. Even though Mavs is a piece-of-shit pub, I’m still excited to have secured a job. I’ve been looking for ages, but since I don’t have a college degree, my applications were constantly overlooked. I could have gone to college on student loans, but with my mom already working double shifts to pay for our tiny house in one of the most expensive counties in the state, I didn’t want to burden her with more financial worries.
If I had brains like Emily, I could have applied for a scholarship. Unfortunately, I spent more time worrying about how I looked instead of hitting the books during my senior year, leaving my grades less than stellar. So, as much as Mavs is only a stepping stone, a job is a job, and I’m stoked to finally secure one.
When the first ten minutes of our trip occurs in silence, I attempt to spark a conversation. “How was your week?” Talking won’t settle the nerves in my stomach, but it’s got to better than humming like an idiot.
Jacob scratches his brow before he shrugs. “It wasn’t bad. You?”
“Could’ve been better.” I wait for him to ask what went wrong. It’s the longest two minutes of my life.
“What’s going on with you? You’re…” Freaking me out. Making me wonder if I slid into the wrong car. “…quiet.”
His eyes stray from the road to me. "I'm always quiet when I think. I'm not good at multi-tasking."
“Oh…then who did I fuck at Bronte’s Peak? He had the hair-pulling, clit-flicking, animal fucking down pat.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lola.” He tugs on his dick, making my body green with envy. “You can’t say shit like that to me.”
“Why not? I was wondering earlier if I got in the wrong car. Now I’m certain. You don’t have a twin, do you? If so, do you have any rules about not fucking the same girl?”
His growl is as cute as fuck. “I have a brother; he’s not my twin, and I’d cut his dick off with a saw if it got within an inch of you.”
“Alright. Calm down, Big Boy.” I playfully wink, loving the return of the Jacob I’ve been toying with the past two weeks. “If you’re merely thinking, why not do it out loud? Maybe I can help ease whatever is going on in that big head of yours.”
"You wanna talk? Fuck—maybe I should cut my dick off. It'll make my transition into womanhood easier."
I slap his bicep. Stupid mistake. It whips up the smell I’m struggling to ignore—his scrumptious aftershave. “I don’t necessarily want to talk. I just need to do something to settle the nerves in my stomach.” Stealing his chance to reply to my pathetic statement, I say, “So, come on, out with it. What has you sitting there like an army sergeant with a GI Joe stuck up his butt?”
“Eddie Murphy?”
“What?” Why does he have Eddie Murphy on his mind?
“Delirious by Eddie Murphy. ‘And GI Joe got stuck; GI Joe got stuck in the water.’”
I laugh loudly while pretending to clamp my hand aroun
d a gigantic air turd. “And then a big brown shark came.”
We laugh for several long, fascinating minutes. It clears the nerves from my belly by pushing them down several inches. Jacob's laugh is as delicious as his face.
"I can't believe you watched that. I thought I was the only one who loved classic standup."
I wipe away laughter-induced tears before angling to face him. "I watched it years ago but had a recent refresher when it was put on Netflix. It's hilarious—my favorite standup routine of all time. It's the realness behind it that makes it so funny."
"True." Jacob's nod says more than his words. Just like me, he's an everyday American. He wasn't raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and a trust fund worth millions. He's just an everyday guy. That makes me like him even more.
Disturbed by my inner monologue, I return my eyes and my torso front and center. Not long later, we pull into Mavs’ parking lot. Unlike last week, Jacob doesn’t attempt to open my door for me. He just lingers at the side, waiting for me to gather my things before shadowing me inside.
"Go show them who the Big Bad Wolf is." He nudges me toward the bar before heading to his friends, who are seated near the stage. Stupid butterflies are fluttering in my stomach, and my palms are slicked with sweat, but I have a big, beaming smile on my face.
Well, I did, until Maggie’s eyes arrow in on my denim shorts.
“I don’t own any full-length jeans.”
Maggie's brow cocks. "Uh-huh... and?”
“And... I'll buy a pair with my first paycheck?" It sucks admitting I don't have the money to buy a pair now, but since it's the truth, I run with it.
Maggie exhales a big breath like she heard my wordless confession. “Alright. Go through those doors.” She points to a set of double doors behind the bar. “There’s a pile of shirts on shelves as you enter. Find your size, get changed, then meet me back here.”
Happy to escape the tension in the air, I make a beeline for the door. After several yanks and a couple of pushes, I finally break through the heavily weighted door. For future reference, it's a push door.