DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  As easy as it would have been to leave it at that, I didn’t. While he stumbled and tried to regain his footing, I planted my feet and looked for an opening. He didn’t make me wait long. His right hand raised instinctively to try and protect himself.

  As soon as his elbow cleared his ribcage, I swung another hard punch.

  What do you think of this, motherfucker?

  The breath shot from his lungs in one loud burst. Now teetering with his head at the height of my chest and his eyes glassy and unfocused, I knew one more punch would end it for him. I had every intention of doing just that – ending it. I swung a ferocious right hook. The punch connected perfectly with his left eye, knocking him into a stumbling series of steps.

  Rocked hard by the barrage of quick punches, his brain was no longer able to control his muscular functions. He and his tattoos fell in a pile on the sidewalk.

  I shook my aching hands and glared down at the wad of human waste. “Got your ass kicked by a fucking girl, didn’t you?”

  “What the fuck happened?” someone from behind me asked.

  The voice was thick with a Texas accent, something I didn’t have – or want. I picked up my backpack and spun around. Baldy stood a few feet away, shaking his head. He was massive, but now that he was close enough to touch, he seemed like a big teddy bear.

  I raised my pack. “He was trying to take my stuff.”

  He rested his hands on his hips and stared down at the tattooed idiot. “Tryin’ is about right. Jesus, you kicked that poor dude’s ass six ways from fuckin’ Sunday.”

  Wearing cargo shorts and a wife beater, he looked like a typical meathead – shaved head, goatee, tattoos, and muscles on top of muscles. The only thing about him I liked was that he was wearing a pair of Ed Hardy Chuck’s. I admired them for a moment, glanced down at my worn out shoes and wished I could afford a new pair.

  “Your hands are quick as a motherfucker, girl,” he said, the tone of his voice matching the excitement in his eyes. “Where the fuck’d you learn to fight like that?” he asked.

  “In a boxing ring.”

  The human tattoo managed to stand up. He spoke his mind, but only after he stepped well beyond my reach. “Fucking bitch.”

  Baldy folded his arms in front of his massive chest and stepped between us. “Kick rocks, motherfucker. Or I’ll start beatin’ on ya.”

  Dip-shit picked up his stocking cap, pulled it down low on his head, and mumbled to himself as he turned away.

  I tossed my backpack over my shoulders and glanced toward where I expected my coffee to be. Overturned on the sidewalk, the cup was empty.

  Fuck.

  It may not have seemed like much, but to someone on an extremely fixed budget, the cup of coffee was pretty big deal. A luxury.

  “What’s your name?” Baldy asked.

  “Jaz.”

  “I’m Ripp,” he said excitedly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  I stood filled with wonder while he ran to his car. He quickly returned with a business card. “I train boxers. You ever fight pro?”

  I chuckled. “Nope. Just when people piss me off.”

  “Wanna consider it?”

  I glanced at the card. Fighting pro seemed like something the professionals should be doing, not me. I acted interested nonetheless. “Does it pay?”

  “Depends on how good you are.”

  I clenched my fists and raised them. “How good am I?”

  He grinned a cheesy grin. “Good enough you’ve got my interest, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

  His free use of the f-word and the excitement in his voice made me feel comfortable. At least he wasn’t trying to sugar coat who he was. I bent down and picked up my empty coffee cup. “Buy me a cup of coffee, and I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

  He tossed his head toward the entrance. “Come on.”

  Dressed in sweat pants and a Kidd’s Gym tee shirt, his handsome friend stood quietly by the door. I snuck a quick look. He had an early summer tan, dark hair and the muscular structure of a boxer. He was so perfectly good-looking that his mere existence was sure to intimidate women, me included.

  Ripp slapped him on the shoulder. “Ethan, this is Jaz.”

  I glanced at Ethan. It was the biggest mistake I’d made in a year. He met my gaze. His blue eyes sucked me in like a vacuum. I stood there, frozen. Lust leeched from my pores.

  I tried to look away, but didn’t totally succeed. “Nice to meet you,” I murmured.

  He grinned and pulled the door open. “Nice hands.”

  You’ve got nice eyes.

  And a terrific ass.

  I walked past him, but my eyes stayed locked on his. I broke his gaze immediately before I walked into the edge of the cashier’s counter. I felt like a love drunk teen. I probably looked like one, too. I realized I had yet to acknowledge his comment about my quick hands, so I did.

  Feeling slightly self-conscious about my chipped fingernail polish, and wishing I had taken time to fix them before I went out, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “Thanks.”

  If being trained by Ripp included anything to do with Ethan, I was all for it. We got our drinks, went back outside, and sat in the sun. I tried to focus on what Ripp was saying and not gawk at Ethan. Not looking at him entirely was impossible, so I took an awkward glance each chance I got.

  “So what do you think?” Ripp asked.

  Ethan was gazing into the street, obviously in deep thought. I was making note of how his shirt clung to his chest, in deeper thought. I tore my eyes away and met Ripp’s gaze. “About?”

  He took a drink of his coffee and winced in disgust. “Were you listenin’ to what I was sayin?”

  “I think I faded off for a second,” I said. “Lack of sleep.”

  “I said we ain’t got enough girls in the sport, and if you come to the gym and let me see you spar with one, I’ll let you know what I think.”

  “And then what?”

  Ethan shifted his focus to the conversation. I did my best to act like I didn’t care. For some reason, though, I did.

  “If you’re as good as I think you might be I’ll train ya.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I said.

  It sounded like I was destitute. I was pretty close, but I didn’t want them to know it. Before he responded, I corrected myself. “I meant I don’t have any money that I want to spend on lessons or whatever.”

  He tossed his cup of coffee high into the air and pointed toward the trash can twenty feet away.

  “Five bucks,” Ethan shouted as soon as the cup left his grasp.

  Ripp grinned. “Bet.”

  The cup fell directly into the trash can. A one in a million shot.

  Ripp slapped his hand down on the table. “Pay up.”

  While Ethan dug for his wallet, Ripp grinned his cheesy grin. “Won’t cost you a cent. If you’re as good as I’m hopin’, I’ll train ya for free. I’ll get some fights set up, and who knows? Maybe you’ll fight for the title one day.”

  “And if I’m good, it’ll pay?”

  He nodded. “If you’re good enough.”

  For a long moment, I sat and struggled with the thought of going back to a gym and wondered how I’d feel once I was inside the ring. I stole another glance at Ethan and decided all that mattered was that I got another chance to see him – hopefully one with his shirt off, covered in sweat, and in a fight with someone.

  I had an excuse to take another glance. So I did. “Do you train there?”

  “Sure do.”

  He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he didn’t have the Texas thing going on with his voice. I wondered where he was from. I decided Los Angeles. An actor turned boxer. The more I studied his handsome face, the more I was sure of it. A displaced actor.

  I’d made my decision. I glanced at Ripp. “When do we start?”

  He shrugged. “Be there tomorrow at noon?”

  The thought of seeing Ethan again caused me to smile. I let Ripp believe
it was him training me that caused my expression of delight.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  And it did.

  It sounded really good.

  TWO

  Jaz

  Day two.

  As soon as I walked in, I was met by the smell of sweat, adrenaline, broken noses and broken dreams. Memories of my old gym came rushing back, sending a tingling sensation the length of my spine. What little reservation I had about training instantly vanished, and I quickly filled with a desire to once again enter the ring.

  My eyes darted around the massive room. There were at least a dozen rings, all filled with boxers and surrounded by on-lookers. I stood quietly by the entrance and surveyed the entire area. Disappointed that I didn’t immediately see Ethan, my eyes soon found a familiar face. As he approached, I couldn’t help but smile.

  “This place is huge.”

  “Biggest in Austin,” Ripp said. He nodded toward my empty hands. “Where’s your gear?”

  “Well, that’s something I was going to talk to you about. I don’t really have any.”

  “What have you been using?”

  “I uhhm. I haven’t been to a gym since I was sixteen.”

  He looked confused. “You ain’t been to a gym since you were sixteen? That uppercut you swung looked pretty polished. So did that hook into his ribs.”

  I grinned.

  “So you need some gear?” he asked.

  Dressed in a sports bra, a sleeveless tee, and a pair of shorts, all I really needed was some shoes and a pair of training gloves to get into the ring. I had neither. I felt embarrassed. My eyes feel to the floor.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  In what was probably a walking pace for him, but a shallow jog for me, he took off across the gym. I fought to catch up, but eventually did. I followed him outside of the gym, down a hallway, and into a small sporting goods store inside the far end of the building.

  He pressed his hands against his hips and turned toward me. “Can you afford to buy gear right now?”

  I pursed my lips and inhaled a shallow breath. I had a job as a waitress, but it wasn’t a good one. While I prepared to respond, he reached down and gripped my wrist lightly in his hand. He dragged me through the store to the back corner, where the shoes were on display.

  “Got some of the new Nike HyperKO’s in a bunch of different colors. What color you like?” he asked.

  “I uhhm. I like purple, but I can’t really…”

  He released my wrist, did the hands on the hips thing again, and cocked an eyebrow. “Grab some shoes and training gloves. I wanna see you in the ring.”

  “But I can’t…”

  He shook his head. “Let’s just say I’m in tight with the owner. Grab what you want, and we’ll work it out later. You know who owns this gym?”

  I shrugged. “Who?”

  He grinned his cheesy grin. “Good friend of mine.” He chuckled. “Now pick out some fuckin’ shoes.”

  Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t, but for some reason, I felt like he believed in me. I wasn’t the type of person that lacked self-esteem or needed praise to feel like I was accomplishing my goals in life, but feeling like he had faith in my ability to box was reassuring.

  I did as he asked and picked out some new shoes, a pair of training gloves, and some glove wraps. After jumping rope and spending some time on the speed bag, we climbed into an empty ring. I felt guilty for thinking Ripp was a big meathead when we met. Dressed in shorts, a wife beater, boxing shoes, and with the mitts on his hands, he looked like a trainer, not a gym rat.

  “I just want to see your form. No need to try and impress me, just react to what I tell ya. Ready?”

  I nodded.

  He held the mitts in front of his chest. It had been years since I’d trained, but when I was sixteen, I had more talent than most of the people at the gym, regardless of their age, sex, or experience. No one needed to tell me, I could see it for myself. My trainer reminded me of it daily, nonetheless.

  “Right jab.”

  I thrust my right hand into the mitt.

  “Again.”

  I hit it again.

  “Two more.”

  I jabbed again, twice.

  He grinned and nodded.

  “Right. Again. Left hook.”

  I jabbed the mitt twice, and swung a left into Ripp’s left mitt. With each command he gave, I followed with the instructed punch. His commands came quicker. So did my reaction.

  “Left, right.”

  “Left, right, left, left. Left, left. Right.”

  “Hook to the body.”

  “Hook to the head.”

  “Left. Again. Again. Two more. Again. Again,” he barked. “Right hand. Another. Left, Right. Left. Left. Hook the body. Hook the head.”

  After the last punch, he lowered the mitts and stood up straight. “You ain’t been in a gym since you was sixteen?”

  I shook my head.

  His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not, I swear. I mean, I’ve always worked out, but I haven’t been to a gym and trained.”

  “Who trained you when you were a kid?”

  “An old man at the gym. Freddy Lewis,” I said. “He died right after my sixteenth birthday.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone of voice convincing me he meant every word he said. “That’s when you quit trainin’?”

  That was when everything in my life changed, but all of that didn’t matter much. I didn’t really want to talk about it, so I simply shrugged.

  He straightened his stance and locked eyes with me. “I ain’t here for the fame or the money,” he said. “I’m here because fightin’ is part of who I am. I’ve tried to walk away from it more than once, but I can’t. As far as bein’ a trainer goes, I sure ain’t the best, but I can train you to be your best. You ain’t no amateur, Jaz. Not even close. I can see that already. So, you gonna let me train ya?”

  I nodded eagerly.

  “You wanna spar with someone? Just some light stuff? I’d like to see your form.”

  I raised my gloves and tapped them together. “I’m ready.”

  “Loosen up,” he said. “Lemme see what I can come up with.”

  He ducked under the ropes, stomped across the gym, and disappeared into the crowd of people. A few minutes later, he returned. Fitted with gloves and carrying headgear, he grinned his cheesy grin and stepped into the ring.

  “Ain’t got a girl for you to spar with and none of the men want to step in with ya.” He said. “Let’s get this headgear on ya and you can spar with me.”

  I seemed foolish for him not to wear headgear. But, like everyone else, he believed a girl couldn’t threaten a man.

  He was wrong.

  “You’re not going to wear head gear?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry. You ain’t gonna hurt me. Only been down once, and that came from the heavyweight Champion of the World.”

  “No shit?”

  He pressed the headgear over my head. “No shit.”

  Impressive.

  Easily standing eight inches taller than me, he bent his knees, lowered his shoulders, and raised his gloves. We made eye contact.

  He nodded. “Bring it.”

  He threw a few slow jabs in my direction, pulling his punches before they made contact. With my chin tucked and my gloves protecting my face, I bobbed from side-to-side, easily avoiding each punch.

  His speed and intensity increased.

  I continued to escape most of his attempts with head movements alone, blocking a few of the more powerful punches with my gloves. His efforts were slight and short, and I had yet to even throw a single punch at him.

  He leaned back slightly. “I want all you got, okay?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  I tapped my gloves against his. “Tell me when.”

  He nodded.

  From what I had seen, he typically held his left hand a few inches lower than h
is right. I lowered my right glove, giving him a reason to extend his left arm. When he did, I threw a right jab past his lowered left glove and toward his chin.

  The punch connected well. I knew it didn’t hurt him, but he was clearly shocked. When he reacted to being hit, I threw a quick – but powerless – left hook to his ribs. As he lowered his right elbow in reaction to the punch, I threw a right-left combo at his head, connecting both punches.

  Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?

  He said he wanted it all, and I intended to give it to him.

  He pushed me off and raised his gloves. I unleashed a barrage of punches into his exposed ribs, causing him to lower his hands again. When they came down, I pounded him with a hard right cross.

  The punch made him stumble.

  Surprised?

  I tucked my elbows to my sides, lowered my chin, and stepped toward him, bringing a left hook followed by a right uppercut with me. Both punches connected hard, and in response, he signaled for me to stop. A gravelly voice from beside us caused me to shift my focus to the side of the ring.

  “What in the name of God almighty is going on here?”

  “Light sparrin’,” Ripp responded.

  An older man – roughly seventy by my guess – stood outside the ring with his arms folded in front of his chest. He glanced at me, looked at Ripp, and shook his head. “Don’t look light to me,” he growled. “Looks to me like she was whippin’ your ass.”

  “This is Jaz, Old Man. I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna train her,” Ripp said.

  I raised my gloves and nodded my head toward the old man. He made eye contact and held my gaze for a moment. Then, he turned toward Ripp and glared. Ripp tossed his hands in the air, and the old man walked away without speaking.

  “Is he mad?” I asked.

  “He ain’t mad, he’s just old.”

  “Is he the one who owns the place?”

  “No. Just kind of runs it. His name’s Kelsey. He’s always in a bad fuckin’ mood. But, he trained the current Heavyweight Champion, so I guess he can be however he wants.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”