by JD Hawkins
“You need some help?”
“No. It’s pretty simple…I just keep hoping that if I run the numbers over and over again a hundred grand is gonna appear out of nowhere.”
Jim laughs, though it’s through a sad expression.
“The kids’ class I did yesterday went great,” he says, full of innocent hope. “I really think we’ll get some new sign-ups this week.”
I shoot him a pursed smile and cross my fingers.
“Don’t stay up too late, Frankie. See you Wednesday.”
“Thanks, Jim. See you.”
I hear the entrance door open, shut, and then turn back to the screen. The truth is that every time I stare at the tangled mass of red and black numbers I start thinking about Connor. I’ve spent the past hour trying to calculate how much money the studio could save by selling the vending machine or seeing if I could increase revenue by switching to monthly membership charges instead of my current pay-by-class model, but all I’ve really managed to accomplish is getting myself utterly lost in a repeating memory of the moment Connor emerged from the water like some oceanic God, water falling from his broad shoulders and thick arms in slow motion, like it was desperate not to let go.
I call to mind each perfect part of his body and study it with the intensity of a crime scene. The deep grooves of his pelvis, the tightness of his washboard abs, the hard roundness of his ass…I try not to get excited for the next time I’ll see him, try not to think about all the things I want to do that body, as if it’s a theme park with a bunch of rides I want to take. I try, but I fail, and might be the first person ever to experience a throbbing clit and hard nipples while sitting in front of a spreadsheet.
The sound of the door opening stops me from drifting off again.
“Did you forget your phone again?” I call out, without moving from the desk.
When there’s no answer for a full three seconds, I push my chair back to look through the doorway.
“Oh!” I say, noticing that it’s not Jim and immediately getting up to go to the reception desk. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
The girl standing on the other side of the desk is gorgeous, the dictionary definition of it. Lush black hair perfectly framing a cat-like face, with dense green eyes and a delicate, pointed nose. She’s skinny, barely any muscle definition in her bare arms, though they’re covered in enough tattoos to make them eye-catching nonetheless.
“That’s alright,” she says, through dark red lipstick.
I look her up and down discreetly, trying to figure out what she might want. She seems confident; she would have to be to wear what she is: a torn black halter top that hangs over her breasts so loosely you can see their shape from the side, a pair of jeans so low you can tell how carefully she shaves.
“The next yoga class is in…” I check the clock on the wall, “about an hour and half. First class is free. Unless you’re interested in something else?”
She grins, and something inside me recoils at how cold it is. “You’re Frankie, right?”
I look at her again, trying to remember her face, trying to grab onto the thought in the back of my head that something’s wrong.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you—”
“Tara,” she says, smiling and offering her hand. I take it slowly after a second’s hesitation, staring at it as if checking to make sure her palm’s empty. She notices my discomfort and chuckles a little breezily. “I guess Connor told you all about me.”
“Ah…not really,” I lie.
She raises a carefully plucked eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you I was a conniving, lying, cheating whore? A puppy-murdering witch? Lucifer himself?”
I laugh a little reticently, but I don’t answer. My silence is answer enough for her, and she looks down, still smiling, but deep sadness evident behind even that much mascara.
“I get it,” she says, unable to keep the smile anymore. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
She turns and starts to walk away.
“Wait. What did you want?” I ask, my confusion—and the feeling that this woman knows something I don’t—getting the better of me.
She stops and looks back at me, rolling her lips as if plucking up courage.
“I…just wanted to talk to you. That’s all.”
I search her face for some sign I shouldn’t give her what she wants, but she’s either genuinely troubled, or an incredible actress.
“Come through to the office,” I say, nodding toward the doorway.
She comes through the door timidly, head down, a meek smile offered in my direction as gratitude. I gesture for her to sit on the chair while I lean against a cabinet beside the door, expectant and deeply curious.
I fold my arms. “So what do you want to talk to me about?” I say, the note of a challenge in my question.
Tara’s a bundle of nerves, brushing her hair out of her eyes nervously and rubbing her neck with trembling hands. Her eyes are pinned to the floor, only flickering upward briefly, as if to check that I’m still there.
“I need you to promise me something first…” she says finally, her words rushed, as if enabled only by a gust of quick courage. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell Connor I spoke to you.” Her eyes move up and fix themselves on mine. “He’d kill me if he found out.”
I watch her intently, trying to find some sense in what’s going on. I try to think about Connor, about what he’d think of his ex-girlfriend coming to see me like this.
“Please,” she urges, a fragile quaver in her voice.
“Ok,” I say softly. “I won’t tell.”
“Thank you,” she says, sniffing a little and blinking. I move from where I’m standing to pull out some tissues from the box I keep on the desk and hand them to her. She nods gratefully and forces a smile onto her sniffling face. “I’m sorry. It’s just kind of difficult for me to do this.”
“You know, there’s not really anything going on between me and Connor,” I say, trying to ease her back from whatever pain she’s experiencing. “I mean, barely.”
She nods again and looks up through red eyes. “I know. That’s why I wanted to tell you this now, before you’re in too deep.”
I lean up against the desk and fold my arms again.
“Connor’s a great guy,” she says, with the air of an announcement, “or at least, one side of him is. I’ll bet he’s sweet to you. Kind, and caring. Probably listens to you, shows a sensitive side. Yeah. He was like that with me at the start, too. Back when he still wanted something from me.”
“What did Connor want from you?”
She smiles sadly at the memory. “I don’t know how much he told you about me—probably nothing but how bad I am. My dad was a boxer. I’ve been around fighters all my life, working in gyms—I’m well-connected. Connor used me to get himself plugged-in, make good contacts, get himself in with the best trainers. Then when he had that...” she trails off into more sobs. I give her a fresh tissue and after she spends half a minute wiping runny mascara from under her eyes and blowing, she picks up the thread. “Then he didn’t care enough about me to pretend anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you seen the Connor on TV? Radio? The one who talks about breaking people, about how he ‘deserves’ all this stuff, about how nobody can touch him?”
“The alpha male,” I say, nodding.
“Right,” Tara says through quivering lips. “You know why they call him that? It’s because he’s ruthless. Because he puts himself before anyone else. He’s arrogant enough to think he can treat people like shit, and a good enough fighter to get away with it. Alpha males don’t care about people, they don’t listen to people. They take what they want, fuck who they want, and if you try to stop them you get crushed.”
Now I’m the one who has to look away, her words a little too close to the ones that came out of Connor’s own mouth:
I know who I am, I know what I want, and I know how to g
et it.
“I don’t get it,” I say suddenly. “Connor wanted something from you—what would he want from me?”
Tara looks up at me as if in admiration, her green eyes alive and focused.
“You’re pretty. Very pretty. You’ve got your own business,” she says, waving at the walls of the office as if inspired by them. “Connor wants you for the same reason he kept me around after he got what he wanted. As a trophy. A symbol of his own power. I was the hot girl at the gym, the one all the fighters would flirt with. The daughter of a great boxer. I could have had my pick of them, so for Connor to possess me the way he did was a sign of how much better he was than everyone else. You know how men are; they want the fastest cars, the most expensive watch—and the most desired girl.”
I let out a long sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “I doubt anyone would call me—”
“I tried to break up with him a bunch of times,” she interrupts, “but…well, let’s just say he wasn’t very open to the idea. But then as soon as the UFC called, I wasn’t good enough anymore.” She looks down at her tattooed arms, torn top. “I guess I’m too ‘trashy’ for the world-dominating celebrity that Connor’s planning to be.” She looks at me with regret. “I bet he thinks you’re just the upgrade he needs.”
“This is so much to take in,” I say, moving across the room and wriggling my arms to relieve some of the tension.
“Look, I know it’s hard to believe me,” Tara says. “I mean, it’s so much easier to make the woman a bad guy, right? To paint me as some manic, jealous ex-girlfriend. Make me out to be a manipulative, gold-digging bitch. Those are common stories, but you never hear stories about the cocky, egomaniacal boyfriend. Nobody wants to hear about what it’s really like to get involved with an alpha male.
“I’m no angel, ok? I admit that. I did a lot of things I regret. I made a lot of mistakes, too. I won’t sit here and pretend everything Connor tells you about me is a complete lie.” Tara pauses for a second. “And maybe that’s why I wanted to tell you all of this. As some weird way of doing some good to make up for it.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I say, nodding appreciatively, but with enough finality to let Tara know I’m gonna have to think about it. “It took courage for you to come here.”
She takes the hint, rising from the chair and walking over to me, putting her hands against my arms in a gesture of warm friendship. “I hope it works out for you—whatever you decide,” she says, hugging me briefly before leaving me alone in the office.
I stand for a full ten minutes, thoughts sprinting to catch up with the words I just heard, my mind doing all kinds of gymnastics to make sense of what just happened. I haven’t felt like this since I was in India and somebody told me I was eating steamed hornets after I’d already half-cleared the plate.
Before Tara walked in here I was just as confused, but it was the nice kind of confusion, the kind where you don’t know where you’re going, but you’re excited to see what’s there. Now I feel like I’ve just looked around and found myself in a gigantic mess, and I can’t find the way out.
I don’t want to believe Tara. I can’t believe her. Connor and I have connected too well, understood each other too intimately, in even the short amount of time we’ve spent together. There was always a sense of uncertainty there, a sense of ambiguity about whether whatever was happening between us could actually ever work beyond a casual thing—but Tara’s visit has just blown that crack of doubt open into a chasm of worry.
I shut the laptop screen and lock up the studio so I can go take a walk to Woodland Shakes, since there’s no way I can just sit here and focus on monthly budgets now that my head is filled with questions. It’s Connor’s word against Tara’s—the irresistible bad boy I barely know because he’s as reluctant with his past as he’s forward with his body, against his crazy ex-girlfriend who’s either Meryl Streep-level convincing or genuinely burnt from her experience with him.
I think of an old proverb I heard in India: When deeds speak, words are nothing. Maybe it’s time I took a step back and let Connor’s actions speak for themselves.
11
Connor
“The dressing room’s this way, Mr. Anderson,” a chirpy girl with perky tits says as I swagger into the hall, followed by a camera crew, Matt, and Butch. “The press conference won’t be too long.”
“I don’t mind. I only like to finish quick in the ring,” I say, the crew laughing a little, the girl blushing.
I feel larger than life, smarter, stronger, and more charismatic than everything around me. The way the crew hang on my every word and motion doesn’t give me any hint otherwise. Occasionally I catch sight of Butch scowling, between the throng of people trying to catch a glimpse of my greatness, but it’s not for long.
We all move into a small room where even more cameras are placed all around and people start buzzing around me like I just kicked a bee hive.
“No, no!” Butch croaks loudly, waving his arms. “We’ve already got one camera crew following us, the rest of you can get out.”
They ignore him in the bustle until Matt helps him start pushing them all away.
“We just want a quick interview before he goes out,” pleads a goateed guy who looks about as trustworthy as…well, a journalist.
“He’s doing a fucking press conference in two minutes,” Butch exclaims as he shoves the last man out of the door. “How much do you think he has to say? He’s not Martin Luther King for Christ’s sake.”
Matt smacks me on the shoulder and pumps his fist at me. “Keep it cool, Connor.”
“I’m cool,” I say, laughing at how Matt seems more edgy than me. “It’s just a fucking press conference. I could go out there and blow raspberries for twenty minutes and they’d love me.”
Butch turns away from the door and stalks up to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t go crazy, Connor. Keep your head cool. This is just business.”
I smile and pull Butch’s hand away. “Relax, old man. I’m not running for President. I’m just gonna crack a few jokes, make a few panties wet, sell the fight a little bit. Besides, I got no beef with Gregg.”
“You’ll be respectful?” Butch says hopefully, though his downturned lips add a dollop of skepticism. “You won’t go acting the big shot?”
“Of course I’m gonna act the big shot,” I say, causing Butch to sigh deeply. “But don’t worry, I won’t push it too far.”
A knock on the door stops Butch from saying anything else. It opens and an alert-looking guy sticks his head into the room.
“Showtime,” he says, before pushing the door wide open and beckoning us forward.
I jump up, throw a few shadow punches, and start walking. I don’t need anybody to show me the way; I can already hear the roar of the journalists and fans as my opponent Gregg steps out onto the stage. Heat prickles down my neck, and adrenaline starts flooding into my veins the same way I get pumped during workouts. I roll my neck and step out into sight, into the roars and cheers of adulating people, arms raised sails to catch all that love, that respect, that acknowledgement that this is where I belong.
Beyond the flashing cameras in the front, the fans behind start chanting my name. It’s a beautiful sound, better than the music of a speed bag being hit in perfect rhythm, the sound of a woman on the verge of coming, an opponent being counted out. I move into it and feel the grandeur envelop me. Taking my seat in front of the mic like a king taking his throne, a tiger claiming his kill—like an alpha male.
To my left is Danny Grey, one of the UFC’s PR guys conduct the proceedings, and to his left—Gregg Hendrix, humble in a black track suit, drawn hood over his namesake-style afro. I let myself enjoy the moment a little, bathing in the scene that I imagined ever since I first started fighting, while Danny waffles on some introductions, quiets the crowd, and gets the first question in.
“Connor,” a woman in the second row says, and there’s whoop in the back as soon as she says the name that makes me smile
, “I know you’re confident, but now that it’s so close, and your first fight, and the fact that so many people are saying you’re the favorite—do you feel any pressure at all?”
“No,” I say instantly, waiting a little to let the laughs ripple around the room. “I’ve never felt more comfortable in my life, to be honest with you. Nothing can stop me at this point—not even myself. I feel like a runaway freight train, a fucking hurricane that’s coming to UFC city to clean it up. It’s my destiny. The gods want it, the girls want it, the fans want it, the UFC needs it. It’s been crying out for someone like me.”
After some more excited whoops, Danny calls out for a question from someone else.
“This is for Connor,” a dark-haired female journalist says, and I hear Gregg blow through his lips with disdain, “you and Gregg trained together before—do you think that changes the dynamics of the fight a little?”
I grin. “We trained a long time ago, and we’re both very different fighters now. But we go way back, and I always say it, I have a lot of respect for him so—”
“I don’t have no respect for him, though,” Hendrix says quickly into the mic.
“Excuse me?” I say, staring at him across the panel.
Hendrix leans forward into the mic, his eyes on mine. “I said I don’t have no respect for you, dog.” He turns to look out at the journalist as the crowd vibe becomes a strange mixture of shocked silences and anxious mutterings. “I’ve been in the UFC for six years—eighteen fights. I’ve had the belt two times. Connor? No fights. No belts. Nothing. He’s an unknown. A nobody. I don’t need to respect shit about somebody like that. And I think it’s bullshit everybody’s talking about him like he’s already won something.”
The crowd reacts, livening up like schoolkids who smell a playground scuffle.
“’Cause I’m the fucking moneyfight!” I snarl into the mic, my eyes keenly focused on the man leaning back in his chair. “You should be kissing my fucking feet right now for the opportunity to share a press conference with me—let alone get in the ring with me! You’re Cinder-fucking-ella going to the ball!”