All In

by JD Hawkins

  “Lie down on the mat, flat on your back,” I instruct him.

  Connor obliges and I kneel down beside him, on the back of my heels, his torso laid out in front of me like a well-prepared meal.

  “Ok,” I go on, “now close your eyes and just relax.”

  As soon as he does I steal the moment, studying the perfectly-toned shape of his legs beneath his shorts, the faint outline of his torso where his shirt hugs it, the impossibly big biceps. Sleek and powerful at rest, but hinting at so much potency, capable of so much vigor and intensity…

  “Should I do the breathing thing?” Connor says, opening his eyes so quickly I almost shriek.

  “No! No, that’s fine. Just relax,” I say, sounding way too nervous. There’s no point denying it; being professional is the last thing on my mind right now.

  Connor nods and shuffles a little as he settles comfortably again. I try to remember what I was saying, try to remember how to grab my thoughts like the wheel of a speeding car and steer them away from the urge to throw myself on top of him. I take a deep, steadying breath, but the smell of his shower gel mixing with his dark pheromones is almost getting me high in his presence.

  “So…um…body scanning,” I say, speaking to fill the heavy silence. “Yeah. It’s basically just a really good way to feel every part of your body. It can be really great for sleeping, meditation, relieving post-workout stress, recognizing potential physical issues. It’s one of the key things to use in your practice when trying to unify your mind and body.”

  “Ok, hit me with it,” Connor says, shuffling his shoulders again. “I’m ready.”

  “What I want you to do is focus on your feet to start, on the sensations and feelings there. First the left foot, then the right.” I look and see his toes flinch a little in accordance with my words. “Now try and tense up each foot, curl the toes as tight as you can, make them as tense as possible, and hold it for a few seconds…then release, completely empty it of that tension. Again, left, then the right.”

  That’s when I notice it. At first I’m not sure, but I study it enough to be almost certain now. Connor’s cock, a bulge in his light grey cotton shorts that runs a little way down his left leg. Is that really his cock? I feel my mouth run dry and my hands get clammy, and I lick my lips like I’m almost dying of thirst.

  “Ah…when you’ve…now that you’ve done that, mentally move up to your calves and knees now. Focus on them, feel those sensations, where any tension or tightness is…” It’s definitely his cock. And it’s definitely getting bigger. The gentle bulge that could easily be mistaken for a fold in his shorts is now the thickness of a banana, pushing against the fabric. “And um….tense them up—each one, that is. Left then right. Then you…uh…hold it. Then release it. Ok…good.”

  My God it’s fucking huge. And it’s growing, getting harder with each word that I say. I go red, glad that he can’t see my face with his eyes closed, but there’s no mistaking it now, pressing up so tightly against the taut fabric that I can make out the shape of its head. It’s just a matter of which breaks first: Connor’s shorts, or my urge to touch him…

  “And now…now…” I say, throat so dry I take a few seconds to clear it. “Tense your…um…ass and thighs. Ah, I mean glutes. Same as before, tighten and then release. Focus…sensation…etcetera…”

  Surely he must realize his cock is growing like an unfurled vault pole. Is he too relaxed to notice? Is he embarrassed? Is he waiting for me to do something? It would be so easy to just reach out and take him, I think, checking that his eyes are closed as I struggle to keep my hand from moving over him. To wrap my fingers around that hardness and feel all of Connor’s power within the palm of my hand. To unleash it from those shorts and feel the weight of it in my hand, in my mouth, pressing up against me…

  I clear my throat, struggling to focus. “Um, Connor…?”

  “Shit!” His eyes fly open. “I’m really sorry, Frankie!” He jolts upright, shifting so suddenly that he inadvertently moves his cock right into my hovering hand.

  His face blank with shock, he looks down at his crotch, where my palm is awkwardly pressed against what I think is the underside of his cock. Then, again slowly, he moves his eyes up to gauge my expression, which I assume is as blank as his. We stay like that a while, frozen on the brink of something, neither of us able to decide whether or not to make the first move, and whether or not that move will be away from or directly into whatever we’ve found ourselves in.

  It’s me who finally does it, curling my fingers around the thick shape, carefully adjusting my hand to explore the perfect, full girth of it.

  Connor’s eyes glaze a little with satisfaction at my touch, but not enough that he can’t fix them on me and say seriously, “Are you sure we should do this?”

  “Fuck no,” I whisper, squeezing gently. “I’ve never been more unsure of anything in my life. Are you?”

  Connor shakes his head, lips parted a little at the soft pleasure of the stroke.

  “I can think of a million reasons we shouldn’t,” he says, his broad palm moving up my thigh to rest on my waist. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

  “Me too,” I say, our faces moving so close our foreheads touch, panting out breaths with almost as much ferocity as a kiss.

  “I just got out of a messy relationship…”

  “And I don’t want to get into one…”

  “I’ve got a big fight coming up real soon…”

  Connor’s strong hands slip around my naked midriff.

  “I’ve got a failing business that’s going to leave me with nothing…”

  My fingers push into his hair.

  “I don’t wanna fuck up and ruin all the good you’re doing for me…”

  “I don’t wanna fuck up and find out how bad you could be for me…”

  Our lips infinitely close, my hand creeping inside his shorts, his own pulling me toward him—this is really happening, I have no regrets, and I feel like I’ve never wanted anything more—and that’s when we hear the scream from the doorway.

  “Frankie!”

  “Jaime!” I scream back, leaping up to my feet. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

  “That’s not surprising,” she says wryly, voice tightly-bound in disapproval and shock.

  I feel myself flushing. “I was just…giving a lesson.”

  “Looked like you were giving a lot more than that,” Jaime shoots back.

  Connor stands up and clears his throat as he glances between us, wisely deciding to avoid getting in between two sisters.

  “I guess I should get going,” Connor says, in a half-question. I nod conclusively and he moves to the entrance to grab his bag and slip into his shoes. “The name’s Connor,” he says to Jaime, holding out his hand. “Nice meeting you again. You look as cheerful and effervescent as the last time I saw you.”

  Jaime looks at his hand like he just offered her a decapitated head, then rolls her disgusted eyes up toward his face with the kind of monumental, dismissive disdain last seen in a Victorian boarding school somewhere. I see a flash of annoyance cross Connor’s face, the urge to give my sister just as much as he’s getting, but first he looks back to me, and instead of encouraging him I wave him a gesture of ‘just let it be.’ He nods and then walks out, my heart sinking with every footfall.

  Even once he’s gone, Jaime’s frustration doesn’t give an inch.

  “You can’t just come in here and interrupt my classes,” I say, grabbing at the yoga mats and rolling them up.

  “You call that a class? In what, exactly? Porn-acting 101? Is sticking your hand down a student’s pants one of the services you provide now?”

  “Leave it alone, Jaime.”

  “How many students do you do that sort of thing with?”

  I turn around and glare red fire at my sister.

  “What did you just say?” I shout, insulted to the core and on the brink of slapping her.

  “Actually, no,” Jaime says softl
y, as if dismissing the idea only because she’s thought of it, and not that it’s terrible. “If you were doing that sort of thing your business would be doing a hell of a lot better.”

  I’m feeling very un-zen. I take a breath and try to keep my voice even. “Get out of my studio, Jaime. Now.”

  “Though it explains a lot,” Jaime continues, ignoring me to talk to herself out loud. “I mean, how can you properly run a business when you’re running around with overgrown, steroid-pumped thugs you meet on the street?”

  It takes all of my training, reading, and practicing to calm myself down from the point at which I’d walk up to Jaime and kick her ass, back from the point at which I’d swear at her, back from the point at which I’d shout and make myself look bad.

  “Connor is a student of mine. A particularly hot student of mine. And yes, we both wish to fuck each other. As consenting adults we will fuck each other. The only person who has anything to be ashamed of in this scenario is you, for being immature enough to think we’re still little girls, and that you can stick your nose into my personal life and tell me how to run my business.”

  “Which business?” Jaime snarls. “This constantly-empty studio? Or your empty-headed boy toy?”

  “Both.”

  Jaime’s face tightens. “In case you forgot, Frankie, I do your bookkeeping.”

  “Did my bookkeeping,” I respond. “I do my own now.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t take an interest still.”

  I squint at her. “What are you talking about?”

  Jaime fishes around in her purse and pulls out a sheet of papers.

  “You said you gave frequent classes,” Jaime accuses, waving the papers as she does, “you didn’t say that meant only two a day—and that your average class size is three people. Your colleague gives self-defense classes to five people once every two weeks. Frankie! You have a gigantic studio that employs two people—including you—who work a grand total of sixty hours a month! That’s how much I work in a week! A slow week!”

  I stand there, staring at her in deep horror. So many layers of anger and amazement clouding my mind that I can barely pick just one to start from.

  “Where did you learn all that?”

  “I have contacts…and I talked to David,” Jaime says, as casually as telling me where she got her dress from. “I know you don’t like me doing that kind of thing, but I only did it because I care. Now, I spoke with Scott—so you’ve got him to thank—”

  “You went to your husband about this?” I interrupt, but Jaime carries on like all I did was cough.

  “—and personally I think it’ll just delay the inevitable, but he insisted we support your dream just a little bit longer, give you one last chance.” Jaime digs around in her purse again and pulls out a thick, brown envelope.

  I stand and watch as she holds it out to me proudly, suppressing so many feelings I’m almost numb.

  “There’s enough there to cover your back rent and past due utilities,” Jaime says confidently, “and enough to keep your studio going for the next couple of months—if you’re frugal. Though I warn you, it’s the only time I’ll do this. We’re giving you a chance, but it’s up to you to turn it into something lasting.”

  “I don’t want it,” I say, glaring at the envelope, my voice low and steady.

  “What do you mean you don’t want it?” Jaime says, laughing. “Take it.”

  “No.”

  Jaime’s laugh disappears. “Take it, Frankie. We can talk about you paying it back later. I know you will.” She holds the envelope again, waving it around a bit.

  I look at Jaime and wonder how much of a kick she gets out of this.

  “Here,” Jaime says, finally tossing the envelope onto the space between us on the studio floor. “I suppose it’s too much to expect a thank you.”

  I watch her spin on her heel and march out of the studio. When she’s gone, I look down at the envelope, a tiny bag of green paper that could change so much for me, a turning point. A way out of the inevitable failure I live day to day, a key that could unlock my dream of the studio getting successful.

  With a little time I could try some new ideas I’ve had, get the website updated, invest in some advertising, maybe look for a few new instructors who already have a following of their own. If I really wanted to make it I could even take Connor up on his offer. Get a mention from him, or even some of the fighters. He’s already been good for business. All I have to do is accept this charity, admit I couldn’t do it on my own, that I needed my big sister to swoop in and rescue me from certain failure, and move forward. No big deal.

  I stride toward the envelope, pick it up, and keep on striding—already certain of what I’m going to do with it. I carry on straight out of the studio area, through the reception, out of the entrance and toward Jaime’s car.

  I march up to the passenger side, yank open the door, and whip the envelope onto the seat as Jaime stares at me in shock.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I insist. “I don’t want your money, your business advice, or your thoughts on who I choose to fuck.”

  I slam the door shut before she can answer, and as I march back toward my studio I feel a sense of victory, of winning a fight. Defeat is not an option. I just need to work harder, do whatever it takes to succeed.

  Maybe Connor’s rubbing on off me as much as I am on him.

  9

  Connor

  On lunch the next day, while sitting at the side of the gym watching a couple of the other guys spar as I pick rabbit food out of Tupperware, my phone rings. It’s Frankie, and it’s the first time since I met her that she’s calling me.

  I watch the phone for a second, the events of last night rushing back to me like a mental low-blow. The way her sister talked to me—shit, the way her sister talked to her. It made it really hit home, the fact that to me, Frankie’s a gorgeous woman I find irresistible on every level, but at the same time she’s still got her own real-life shit to deal with. It made me realize how little I know her, how much we’re still strangers to each other. Most of all, though, it seemed like a lot of drama, and that’s the last thing I need right now when I’m so close to realizing my career potential.

  “Hey,” I say, answering cautiously.

  “Connor?”

  At the sound of her voice, I’m undone. “Yeah. It’s me. Are you ok?”

  The words come out soft, like no time has passed at all since last night. I hear her let out a nervous laugh.

  “Sure…look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night—”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. Nothing to be sorry for. What was that all about, anyway?”

  “What was what about? Us? Or my sister?” Frankie says, and I can hear her half-sarcastic smile in the words.

  “I think I have a pretty good idea what was happening between us,” I say, equally knowing. “But your sister seemed…”

  “I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

  I should give her a break, I realize. Whatever is going on between Frankie and me, it’s casual—and it’s going to stay that way. No need to impose myself on her family issues. And though my impulse is to fix the problem, to swoop in and save the day, Frankie probably wouldn’t want my help anyway. I have to respect that. “Ok, let’s not talk about it. That’s fine by me.”

  There’s a pause, the kind of pause that’s become common between us, though without the eye contact it feels a little more nervy.

  “Do you wanna do something?” Frankie asks. “Like, hang out?”

  “Now?” I say, looking over at Butch, standing and watching the fighters with his hands behind his back.

  “Yeah. Or whenever you’re free today.”

  “Um…sure. I have some time. What did you have in mind?”

  She laughs nervously, and I realize how on edge she must be to have called me out of the blue like this. “I actually don’t know. I’m up for anything, though.”

  “Beer? Coffee? The beach?” />
  “Ah…” Frankie moans uncertainly on the other end of the line. “I don’t know. I just need to get away a little bit. Go somewhere new. See something. Surprise me.”

  I let out a laugh.

  “You at the studio now?”

  “Yeah. I just got done teaching a class.”

  I grin. “I’ll pick you up in twenty. I know just the place.”

  * * *

  You can tell the story of a man in the vehicles he’s had. The BMX bikes I used to ride with other kids in the neighborhood, like a pack of wild animals looking for a fight, a game, a little excitement. The patched-up Chevy pickup I used when I was making cash laboring, when I was just getting started as a fighter, the truck beat up and unwanted, but still capable of lugging around a ton of hundred pound bags of cement like it was nothing. The Yamaha dirt bike I bought with my first big win, a loud little monster I used to tear up the desert with, burn up all the appetite for danger that even fighting couldn’t satisfy.

  And for the past few years, a Triumph Scrambler, matte black finish, leather seat, twelve-hundred cc. Powerful as fuck, but composed with it. A sleek animal of a bike that’s comfortable tearing into the road with angry hunger as much as it is purring along with the noble authority of a king.

  I pull up outside Frankie’s gym and rev the engine a little to get her attention, and when she appears through the glass doors I hold up the spare helmet. She’s laughing with surprise when she comes out to meet me, her eyes scanning either me or the bike with tentative excitement.

  “I should have guessed you had a motorcycle,” she smiles.

  I shrug. “It’s a stereotype—does that make it any less awesome?”

  She takes the helmet slowly, nervously.

  “Where are we going? I didn’t how to dress. I’m still in workout clothes.”

  I look her up and down, lithe legs in calf-length yoga pants, tight tank suppressing her tits from their full glory.

  “There are girls in three thousand dollar evening dresses who don’t look as good as you do in workout clothes. Besides, we might get a little wet and dirty where we’re going.”