by JD Hawkins
And the crazy thing is, I mean it.
6
Frankie
I only teach a handful of classes over the next two weeks and let Jim use the space for a few of his women’s self-defense workshops, preferring to do more house visits, where my clients can’t turn into no-shows. Still, Connor turns up at the studio for every single one of them. So do some parents of the kids from the Girls and Boys Club class I taught, which means I don’t have to cancel any of my classes for lack of students. And I know it’s because of Connor.
It isn’t easy having him there, though. I’ve travelled a lot and studied with some great teachers, but I still haven’t found an exercise that stops you from being attracted to incredibly gorgeous men, particularly when they show you the kind of focus and attention Connor does. And I’m still not sure if his enthusiasm for the classes is just a ruse to try and get into my yoga pants—but if it is, he’s doing a pretty good impression of someone who gives a shit.
I’m not complaining. And it turns out I’m not the only one who’s distracted by Connor. One of my regulars named Candice can’t take her eyes off him, waiting for him to pick a spot and then rolling out her yoga mat right behind him. Pretty soon she starts bringing a friend, and by the fourth lesson where Connor makes an appearance it’s turned into two friends. John, an overweight programmer who always comes fifteen minutes late—and even then only because his wife insists he get off his ass—suddenly turns into my most loyal student. Arriving early and leaving late so that he can share a few words with Connor about his fighting, and making more eyes at him during the classes than Candice even.
Once Connor’s attendance is on lock, I’m up to six or seven committed students. All regulars I can trust to come each time. It's not enough to resurrect a business, but it’s a great start.
“On your knees…then come on down so you’re sitting on your heels…we’re going to finish off with child’s pose, a recovery position. Put your palms on the mat and lean forward, arms stretching out in front of you, forehead to the mat. As comfortable and as relaxed as you can—head down, John—don’t push too far, just a gentle extending of your back. That’s it…”
When the class ends, everybody gets up and starts rolling up their mats and conversing quietly with each other. Connor and I catch eyes for a second and I suddenly feel twice as tense as I did at the start of the yoga session, before John steps up to him and distracts him with his usual fanboy exuberance.
That’s when I notice David Smalling lurking in the corner—my landlord, though I’m sure he moonlights as a torturer. This can’t be good news; with him it never is. I quickly nod to a couple of the students and then move toward him.
“Let’s go to the office,” I say discreetly, leading him there.
I don’t know much about David, and I’ve tried to keep it that way since I started renting the studio from him. He’s shaped like an eggplant, colored like an orange about to go bad, and has the kind of sickly shine that can only come from twenty four hour perspiration. I should have known he wouldn’t be compatible with a fitness studio the first time I saw him. As if proud of his balding pate and doughy neckline, he wears the kind of Hawaiian shirts that could blind a small child, a gold chain even a gangster would think is crass prominently displayed between the mounds of his manboobs.
“You’re looking very good, Frankie,” he says as he eyes me up and down, in a wheezing voice so vulgar I can almost smell it.
“I’m going to make the payment next week, Mr. Smalling. I’m just waiting for some funds to clear.”
His beady eyes roll up from my chest to my eyes.
“Only six weeks late this time. I guess I should consider it an improvement,” he says sarcastically.
“I know,” I sigh, swallowing mountains of pride to make myself look as apologetic as possible. “But as you can see, business is picking up.” I point toward the open door where some of the students are still chattering as they amble out of the studio. “I’ll catch up, I promise.”
A low humming sound emanates from him, though I’m not sure whether it’s a disapproving growl or just trapped air escaping his body.
“I’ve had another offer, Frankie. Fourth one this year. Nightclub owner. Willing to offer me twenty percent more than you’re paying now once he gets his place up and running.”
“We have a lease that’s legally binding,” I remind him as sweetly as possible. “At least give me until it ends.”
“Leases are there to protect landlords, Frankie,” David smiles with casual cruelty. “Besides, you’ve fallen behind far enough that I’m perfectly within my rights to withdraw.”
“Mr. Smalling, please. I—”
“You do realize,” David utters, stepping closer with his shuffling feet, one finger trailing along the edge of my desk, “that the only reason I allow you to get away with as much as you do is that I like you. Don’t you, Frankie? I mean we’re friends, right?”
I clench my jaw.
“Only,” he continues, “I often get the impression that you aren’t very fond of me. Is that true?”
The only thing stopping me from hitting him is the sheer repelling force of putting any part of my body anywhere nearer to his.
Before I can even say anything, however, Connor’s silhouette fills the doorway.
“Hey, Frankie. I was wondering where you were.”
“Do you mind?” David calls back, over his shoulder.
“Whoa, is that shirt glow in the dark?” Connor says, stepping inside.
I try not to smile watching David’s smarmy grin melt off his face as he turns and takes in the imposing mountain that is Connor’s flawless, pro fighter stature. My landlord immediately loses any conviction in his face, stepping backward. As if seeing his polar opposite and being terrified by it.
“We were just talking business,” David says meekly.
“Oh,” Connor says, glancing from me to David, “am I interrupting something?”
“No,” I say adamantly, glaring at David.
David tries to shoot me an equally challenging stare but the commanding presence of Connor has him rattled so badly that I can tell by his body language it’s all he can do to keep from bolting.
“You need me more than I need you, Frankie. Remember that,” he says, before finally turning to leave so quickly that he almost stumbles into a filing cabinet.
“Fuck,” Connor says, watching him leave. “What was that all about? Who is that guy?” He turns back toward me. “Hey! Frankie, what’s wrong?”
I’m trembling with anger and the fear of losing my studio, the feeling of being trapped coursing through my body like poison. I put a hand to my eyes and try to halt the hot tears building up.
“Frankie…” Connor says, putting a giant, firm palm on my shoulder. It’s a light touch, as if he doesn’t want to push some boundary, but it still settles me. As if drawing away the darkness inside of me, compressing the wound that David reopened.
“It’s nothing,” I say, looking up and smiling to shake it off.
“Who was that chump?”
“My landlord,” I say. Connor looks at me, waiting for more information. “I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, what did you want to speak to me about?”
“Um, yeah…John just told me you had a dog.”
I chuckle lightly. “Yeah, I do. Lucy. She’s a Lab. Why?”
Connor smiles at the name. “I have a rescue pitbull named Tyson. The thing is, I was going to take him to the beach later on, toss a few sticks, get his ears wet. He’s real sweet, loves playing with other dogs, and I was thinking he might like some company.”
I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. “Would he now?”
“Yeah. I think he’d really, genuinely appreciate it. He gets lonely sometimes, is the thing. And if my boy needs some socializing, who am I to stand in his way?”
I look down at my feet, still smiling, and try to think. Ten seconds ago I was angry as fuck and about to spend the entire
evening hating on a landlord who’s trying to screw me every way he can. Now I’ve got a beautiful man who beats guys up for a living offering me a long walk on the beach with his dog. Sometimes I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something, and most of the time I wonder what the hell it’s trying to say.
I turn my eyes up toward Connor’s eager expression.
“I think Lucy might enjoy that too.”
* * *
We take my car to the beach, and the scariest thing is that it’s not scary at all. Connor sits, filling out the passenger seat, leaning back on the head rest and gazing out of the window. I don’t feel the need to make idle conversation, don’t feel the need to fill the silence; I feel comfortable, relaxed—and that’s the part that kinda freaks me out.
Even the dogs seem extra mellow with each other. Tyson is just as sweet-natured as Connor said he was, and the pitbull pants in the back seat in anticipation, while mild-mannered Lucy curiously gazes at him.
“This is the spot he likes,” Connor says, point out an empty part of the beach up ahead. I take the turn and park along the shoulder of PCH, both of the dogs starting to hop a little in the back as we get outside and let them scramble out of the car.
Both of them take off at a trot down the sand and leave us alone, Tyson going up to the start of the beach, standing nobly and glancing back as if anxious for us to catch up. Lucy moseys toward him, ahead of us.
“Tyson’s so relaxed for a pitbull,” I say, walking beside Connor.
“It’s a myth that pitbulls are naturally aggressive. They just tend to attract a certain type of owner.”
I look up at him, shielding my eyes from a setting sun to see the glint in his eyes.
“You’re not that type?”
“I try not to be,” he smiles. “The only fighter in our house is me.”
“What happened to his ear?”
We reach the sand and both the dogs take it as license to start running toward the shore, kicking up sand and yipping gleefully, occasionally changing direction on each other.
“He was a fighting dog. And a vicious son-of-a-bitch too. They were going to put him down. The day I went to the shelter to see what they had, the vet asked me for help. They found him wandering somewhere and brought him in, but he was so dangerous it took two of them and me to get him down on the table. The needle was this close,” Connor says, holding his fingers an inch apart, “and I told the vet I’d take him.”
“Because he was so violent?”
Connor shrugs like he’s a lawyer making a case for his client.
“He was just doing the only thing he knew; didn’t know how to stop a second and enjoy himself. He’s better now. He plays hard, naps hard. Loves the dog park, too.”
“Looks like you did a great job with him,” I say, as we watch the two dogs jump in and out of the waves, as I try to imagine Tyson as anything other than exactly the way he is now—sweet, loyal, and playful when he isn’t out cold snoring on his doggie bed.
“It wasn’t easy,” Connor smiles, stopping to lift up one leg of his cotton shorts, revealing a raised red scar from old tooth marks. “He did this after the first week. And this,” he says, lifting his shirt to show two deep ridges among the lines of his lats, “a week later. Then a month later, that,” he says, pointing to another set of tooth marks on the underside of his arm.
“Whoa,” I say, breathlessly, “that looks pretty rough.” I look up at Connor. “You stuck with him even after all that?”
He shrugs like it’s a silly question.
“Of course. I mean, I had to. What was I gonna do? Kill him? I had to believe he could change. And I was right. Now we’re a pack,” Connor says, suddenly sticking two fingers in his mouth and whistling. Tyson immediately spins around, and Connor grabs a stick beside him, whipping it around and throwing it far enough to go almost out of sight.
“And yet you’re still fighting?”
Connor looks at me and laughs. “Dogs can be more intelligent than us in some ways,” he says, suddenly looking at me with an intensity that sends shivers down my back, “and we can be more animal than them.”
I look away and try to resist the urge to smooth my hair.
“You wanna sit here for a bit?” I say. “It’s a great view.”
He nods so we settle down onto the warm sand, Connor’s legs stretched out and his arms propped up behind him. I cross my legs—anyone would think he’s the one who gives lessons in relaxation.
“So you still don’t want to tell me about that guy earlier?” he asks casually.
I lazily draw a circle in the sand.
“There’s nothing to tell. He’s my landlord, and I’m behind on the rent. That’s about it.”
“He’s a landlord?” Connor says, incredulously. “And he still can’t afford to wear better shirts than that?”
“You should see the pink one he has—it’s like a magic eye picture. Only if you stare long enough, instead of a secret message I think you can see manboobs.”
Connor laughs.
“That medallion’s cool though.”
“You serious?” I say, leaning away from him to look at him in mock-horror.
“Hey, Halloween’s around the corner. I’m just fielding ideas.”
“Well if you wanna go as a complete asshole, then he’s a good place to start.”
Connor laughs again, only this time he looks at me even after it fades, his eyes narrowing like he’s noticed something.
“What?” I say, feeling both self-conscious and serene under his commanding gaze.
“You’re pretty funny when you wanna be, you know that?”
I look down and laugh while shaking my head before returning my eyes to him.
“What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Funny for a woman?’”
Connor leans back to give the full force of his angled jawline smile.
“Hey, just cause I make a living beating guys up and having a big ego doesn’t mean I haven’t read Naomi Wolf. Give me some credit.”
I smile and lean toward him.
“Sorry.”
“I just meant,” he continues, “you’re funny for someone who’s so chilled out. Usually people who get all zen and spiritual are too ‘at peace’ to crack jokes.”
“Well…” I trail off. “I’m not as ‘at peace’ as someone with my job should be, probably.”
“Is the studio really in danger?”
I smile sadly. “No more danger than when it started. Most small businesses struggle in the beginning. The question is if they can make it through the struggle before they collapse.”
Even though I’m drawing hashes in the sand I can feel Connor’s eyes studying me, trying to decipher more than I’m saying.
“You know,” he says, sitting up to match my pose, “I could get you some more business. The stuff you’re teaching is really helping me out, and I know a few fighters who could benefit from—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I don’t want to put that on you.”
“Maybe I could give a shout out next time I do an interview. I do a lot of them, and there are loads of—”
“No. Forget it.”
A confused expression crosses his face. “Why?”
“Because…I don’t want my business to succeed just because I know somebody famous,” I say, shaking my head, “or almost famous. I need to make my business work myself, for my own sake. Otherwise, what happens when you’re gone?”
“What makes you think I’d leave?” He’s quiet for a moment, and I don’t answer. “There’s no shame in calling in a little help if you can. This is L.A. You think I’d be where I am if I had to do it alone? Come on, don’t be so proud.”
I laugh.
“What?” Connor asks.
“You sound just like my sister.”
“The girl at Woodland’s?”
I flick my head around to look at him head on.
“How did you know she was my sister?”
Connor smiles. “The eyes. Yo
u’ve got the same eyes. Unmistakable.”
I look away bashfully.
“Yeah, well that’s about the only thing we have in common.”
“How so?”
“Well, where do I start? She’s an incredibly successful accountant, married to a millionaire, has several beautiful houses all over America, and her greatest concern is which car to drive to work. She thinks that women should be attentive, hardworking, and that spirituality starts and stops in the candle section of Bergdorf’s. Meanwhile, I’m very well-studied in various yoga practices, meditation techniques, and other such useless skills. I run a studio that—on a good day—half a dozen people visit. I spend two hours a day meditating in my tiny apartment, do charity work for fun, and still manage to end every day worried halfway out of my skull.”
Connor grins. “Sounds like your typical sitcom.”
“If by that you mean it’s repetitive, unfunny, and has been going on for way too long—then yeah.”
“I don’t get it though. You seem close with your sister. If she’s doing so well, why doesn’t she just help you out?”
I turn to look at Connor, but before I can answer he does.
“I get it. You’re too proud.”
I sigh and glare at him.
“It’s not being overly proud to want to achieve something yourself. Why do you fight? Is it for the money?” Connor shakes his head. “The fame? The glory? The women?”
“No.”
“It’s the achievement, right? And if somebody else beat the other guy up for you, but you got the credit, the ‘win’—would that be enough?”
Connor looks out toward the dogs, both laying in the low tide, then back at me.
“You’re right.”
I turn away, but I know he’s still looking at me. Still watching me, admiring me. It should feel weird. It should make me uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. I just pretend not to notice.
“Anyway,” I say, keeping my eyes on the dogs, “that’s enough about me. I still know barely anything about you.”
“What’s there to say?”