by Kent, Julia
People stop to stare as I pass through the weight room. I try to look nonchalant and capable. But my arms are screaming. As I near the doorway, a random muscle flat out refuses to hold. The top of the ladder tips and scrapes along the concrete floor with a screech.
I try to set it down easy, but the other arm gives in and it crashes down. The weight room goes quiet, the clink of metal stopping.
“Sorry,” I mumble. My gaze stays straight ahead on the front door. I don’t want to know if anybody is looking at me. I shake out my arms and pick the ladder up again. I will do this if it kills me.
Buster cuts in front of me to open the outside door. His face is a mask. I have no idea if he’s impressed or trying not to laugh.
I lay the ladder on the sidewalk, my arms trembling. I begin to doubt if I can handle the job. First Colt. Then the sheer physical labor.
But I don’t have a choice. I suck in a breath and steady myself to fetch the banner.
When I head back in, I see an unfamiliar girl inside. Her back is to me. She’s leaning against the entrance to the weight room, talking to someone on the other side of the wall. Her manner is easy, almost seductive, her bent elbow up near her head. She’s showing lots of skin between a black athletic bra and low-slung shorts rolled down at the band.
I head into the hall for the banner. Even if my high school years had gone differently, I could never have been one of those flirty girls. I liked loose jeans and sweatshirts. To disappear.
The only time I’ve ever worn makeup was my eighth-grade class play. I was too old to cry when they stuck me in a dress. I played one of the ladies-in-waiting for Queen Isabella, ready to direct Christopher Columbus on his journey to the New World. But the color on my eyes was purplish blue, like a bruise. No one listened to my argument that Cover Girl didn’t exist in 1492. I rubbed it off before the curtain closed.
When I come back down the hall with the banner, the girl turns around to look at me. Her blonde hair is too perfect for a gym. Her own makeup is expertly applied. When she moves, I can see Colt on the other side of the door. She’s been talking to him the whole time. But now that she’s looking away, he’s staring at her cleavage.
I wash cold and dash through the front door. The banner smacks against the sidewalk when I drop it.
I feel completely sick. It’s stupid, the whole thing. I have no chance with someone like Colt. I have a dumb crush. I’m years behind where I ought to be, twelve instead of twenty. I’m gooey-eyed over the first hotshot who looks at me. I blast with anger at how foolish I’ve been.
The hurricane starts to rise inside. I bend down and grip the ladder so tight that I can feel the metal cutting into my skin. The air is cool, so I try to focus on bringing down the burn. A muscle ticks in my jaw. The ladder goes up easily now, the adrenaline rush driving every movement.
I realize I have nothing to cut the twine with, but I’m not going inside. I run my hand along the edge of the ladder until I find a rough spot.
It only takes a few seconds of rubbing the line against the metal before it snaps. My attention is razor-sharp. Banner. Hole. String. Lift. Tie.
The end of the banner slides into place. But it’s no help for my mood. Colt stares at me with determined eyes. It’s hard to imagine anyone this intense being a failure at anything. I wonder what his father wants him to do, how unreasonable he’s been.
But it got him here. To me.
I shift the ladder easily. The hurricane always makes me feel strong. My daddy was the one who named it. The first one that I remember happened when I was five years old. He and I were on a playground. Some boy threw sand in my eye. Daddy said I became the wind. The dirt whirled around me, and the boy backed away, covering his face.
Daddy snatched me up. He held me tight against him. Just the memory of it calms me. I lift the center of the banner and thread twine through. Colt is looking away in the image beneath my hands. I wonder who his opponent was in the shot. What he was thinking.
I string it up. I’m lost and I know it. It’s the first time I’ve actually looked at someone and thought he might be for me. That instead of being in trouble, I might be safe with him.
But it’s impossible. Life is always impossible.
Chapter Seven
By the end of the day, the new banner has done its recruiting magic. Buster has signed up at least ten new people. Weights were a mess all day, and I was the only one around to keep them straight. Hopefully he’ll hire more help soon.
I’m starving, so I go across the street to the cafe. Zero is waiting on a table full of gray-haired ladies. He sees me and points to a booth in the far corner. I know he’s going to sneak me some food. It’s our code.
I squeeze up against the window, so I’m not easy to see. Zero shows up with a glass of water. “You look like you’ve had a long day,” he says. “How was Golden Boy?”
I shrug. I could never explain the hot and cold way Colt was acting.
Zero looks as put together as always. Mint-green shirt, pressed jeans, snappy shoes. He’s too classy for the cafe. I know if he ever gets a regular showgirl gig, he’ll quit in a heartbeat.
“I’ll bring something by in a minute,” he says. “You probably need some carbs after working that job all day.”
He takes off again. I’ve been to a couple of his shows, when he puts me on the guest list. I never sit at a table. One drink is an hour’s pay. But there’s a rail off to the side. I like it there, kind of hidden. I can see the show onstage. But I can also watch the next performer line up, nervous, pacing. It’s a world like nothing I’ve ever known.
Zero’s stage name is Miss Zerobia. I don’t even know his actual legal name. Every ID I’ve seen him pull out says Zerobia Kincaid. Maybe he’s changed it. Some things I don’t ask about.
But when he’s performing, he’s someone else. Beautiful. Powerful. The competition is always a lip-sync, although I know Zero can sing. He has amazing costumes. Hand-sequined gowns. Flapper dresses. Body suits that match his deep skin tone perfectly.
He’s bold and brilliant. If two people could be pure opposites, that would be us, Zero and me. I should be the one they call Zero.
I look out the window. The door to the gym opens and out comes Colt.
He isn’t in sweats anymore. He’s really dressed up. Black dress pants. Sharp white shirt. His shoes shine bright enough to blind me in the eye.
Zero slides a plate across the table with a scraping sound. “That must be Golden Boy,” he says. “Is he the ‘Gunner’ on the sign?”
I nod, unable to tear my gaze away. Colt straps a bag to his bike. Then he turns back to the door.
The blonde girl who was talking to Colt in the doorway that morning comes out, hair sleek like a Hollywood starlet. Zero lets out a low whistle. “Now that’s a dress.”
I know he’s admiring the beadwork. It’s arranged to look like flames in orange on red. It hugs her body like a glove. She stops in front of Colt’s motorcycle with a haughty flash of anger.
I think Zero might sit next to me to gawk, but he keeps standing, pretending to wipe down the table. “No way is she getting on a bike in that dress,” he says.
The girl stands there for a moment, hip cocked out. Colt laughs. He waves and a black Mercedes pulls up. He opens a door for the girl.
“Now that’s more like it,” Zero says.
Colt and the girl look like they could be in a movie. He’s dashing and acting like such a gentleman. Her dress is like fire, glittering and bright. Everything about her demands attention. She clearly needs an audience of men to notice each curve of her body. She wants to be displayed and admired. She probably lives to make girls like me feel ugly and plain.
I force myself to stop looking then and drag the plate closer.
“There’s a dude coming out of the car to ride the bike for him,” Zero says. “Damn. What a life.”
Finally he looks down at me. “You all right?”
I’ve gone cold inside despite the burn in my face. Z
ero knows I was fixing myself up that first day for this man. I will never look like that girl. I’m humiliated. I shrug and lift the top piece of bread to check the contents of the sandwich Zero’s brought.
“It’s a randomwich,” he says.
I spot tomatoes, bacon, cheese, and a smear of chicken salad. Randomwich is our thing. Zero often makes me a sandwich put together with leftover bits he can sneak from the hawkeyed cook. Even when we’re at one of our apartments, we like to make them out of leftover anything.
“Somebody ordered turkey bacon and Mr. Meat in there made the real deal.” Zero starts wiping the table close by, as if we’re not talking. His boss must be around. “I saved the rejected pig.” He moves over to clean the booth next to mine, looking out the window. “There they go.”
I refuse to look, and Zero goes to check on his tables. It’s late. I’ve probably put in ten hours. That’s more money than I’ve ever made in one day. But the hard work means my hands are shaking so much that the tomatoes keep slipping out of the bread. Still, I eat. My body won’t let me stop.
Zero’s boss, a big butterball of a man, steps behind the cash register and pulls money from it, stuffing it in a bag. I scoot to the farthest corner until I can’t see him, which means he can’t see me.
In a minute, the door jingles, and I see him head out onto the street. Within seconds, Zero is back and slides into the booth opposite me. “All clear. So tell me what happened today.”
I shrug. My stomach is rebelling now, but I’ve gotten most of the food down already. “That blonde girl came. She obviously knows him.”
“She seems kinda familiar.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. He starts typing, saying the words aloud. “Gunner fighter girlfriend.”
I don’t want to know anything. I prop my chin on my hand and watch the banner fluttering on the building across the street. One side is slightly lower than the other. I’ll fix it tomorrow.
“Okay, here she is. Brittany ‘The Bombshell’ Baines. She’s a fighter too.”
Now I want to throw up.
“Huh. Looks like lover boy canceled a title fight a couple months ago,” Zero says. “The promoters were pissed.”
I sit up. “Really? Does it say why?”
“He lost a bunch of fights leading up to it. I guess he figured he’d get pummeled.”
That doesn’t sound right. “He seems in good shape.”
Zero scrolls through more screens. “I’m guessing fighting might be a lot like anything else. Once you lose your heart for it, you can’t win.”
I stare at Colt’s images on the banner. He seems so fierce. I have to wonder what got to him.
“Uh-oh,” Zero says.
“What?”
He turns the phone around. It’s a video of a fight. I squint at the screen. It’s Colt, definitely, pinned to the floor of a ring by a dark-haired man. A ref comes over and waves his arms. The other guy gets up, but Colt doesn’t for a minute. I think he’s hurt, and my heart is in my throat. But then he stands up. The camera zooms in on his hangdog expression. I know that look. I live with it every day. Defeat.
The video cuts out but the next one loads automatically. Colt is standing opposite some other guy now. This guy is shaved bald. It starts out all right, Colt throwing some kicks. But within a minute, the other guy is all over Colt.
I lean to the left and the right, trying to make Colt move. But he’s frozen. The other guy rears back, and I know it’s going to be bad. When the glove connects with Colt’s jaw, I turn the phone around. “I can’t watch this.”
Zero takes the phone back. “Let’s check on his woman. See what you’re up against.”
My stomach turns over with nausea. I don’t want to know anything about her.
“Huh,” Zero says.
I tell myself I don’t care. I push tomatoes around on my plate.
“Oh, really?” he says next.
I can’t stand it. “What?”
He shows me the phone. “Lover girl is terrible.”
I glance at the fight. Brittany is crouched before a fierce-looking woman with short black hair. Brittany dodges a few kicks, but her main strategy is to keep backing up. The other girl gets annoyed and finally jumps her. Brittany is pinned and the match is called within seconds.
“That’s about the way they all go,” Zero says. “She’s only won four of her twenty matches. I’m surprised she can even get bookings.”
I shrug. “No telling how it works. Maybe they like to see people smash her pretty face.”
Zero sets down the phone. “Quite a world you’ve walked into.”
“It’s just a job,” I say.
“Josefina Jones,” he says, and I wince at the name. “I have known you for three years. And I’ve never seen you look more magical than you have in the last two days.”
“I’m not so magical now, am I?”
He taps his finger on the table. “Now see? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re so low because you’ve been so up.” He runs a dishcloth over the table absently. “Ah, the pendulum of love.”
I smack his hand. “Don’t talk to me about love. It’s just a silly crush.”
His dark eyes meet mine with a knowing look. “Whatever you say, Baby Jo. Whatever makes you feel better.”
Zero has never been so ridiculous. I twist the end of my ponytail around my finger. Colt stares back at me from the banner. I just met him. I don’t know anything about him.
But I want to know.
Especially about what happened to him to make him cancel the biggest fight of his career.
Chapter Eight
The next day Buster hires a fighter wannabe to help with the growing numbers who are starting to sign up to work out with Colt McClure. The new guy and I mostly work around each other. He likes to mingle with the clients and talk shop. I take the tasks where I can be alone.
I try not to look at the door all the time, wondering where Colt is. But I do think about the things I might say to him. I shouldn’t. He’s obviously got that girlfriend. But it’s not like I’m trying to be his new girl. It’s just talking.
I like the job he’s gotten me. I should be grateful. And it’s fair to tell him I’m grateful. But when I admit it to myself, I know I definitely like the gym better when Colt is around. He has an energy that makes everyone work harder. Especially me.
I take over hanging the equipment in the new addition. I’ve learned about speed bags and double ends and body snatchers. After my careful organization, some of the trainers move there even though the remodel isn’t done. I spend so much time going up and down a step ladder adjusting the chains to the right height for various fighters that my legs ache at the end of each day.
One afternoon I hear a cheer from the weight room and figure Colt must be back.
The plastic between the rooms has come down now that the dust is gone. I sneak up to the opening, staying close to the wall.
Colt is smiling, high-fiving people he passes. When the uproar settles, he starts moving weights to a bench press. People fall over themselves to help.
They are all waved away by a barrel-chested man in fancy windbreaker warm-ups that read “COLT THE GUNNER” on the back. He must be the trainer Colt talked about. He bends over Colt during the lifts, shouting at him like it’s a big show. Pretty much the whole room has stopped to watch. I guess it doesn’t matter that he’s been losing. He’s still a big hero to them.
Buster oversees it all, his arms crossed in front. I know that stance by now. He’s annoyed. Seems like he’d be thrilled with all the business. Maybe he liked it quiet.
He glances at the doorway and spots me. His eyebrows lift, so I scoot back into the addition. It’s pretty much cleared out now that Colt is the main attraction. Lani is there, though, punching a speed bag in the back.
“I’m guessing the star has returned,” she says when I get close.
I’m aiming to unbox a new set of hand weights to keep in this room, but I stop. “Yeah. Everyone’s acting
like they’ve never seen anyone bench-press before.”
She laughs. “Can you help me lower this?”
I drag the step ladder over and lower the speed bag with its heavy bounce pad. She’s watching me like she needs to ask me something. I grow uncomfortable. I’m not good with girl talk.
“Did he really get you the job?” she asks.
I shrug. “Sort of.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not really.”
She starts a steady rhythm of light punches. She must practice a lot, as most of the people who try the speed bag make it bounce all over the place. I’m already able to separate the fighters from the beginners.
Her eyes are on the bag, but she says, “Seems odd he’d want you working here if he didn’t know you.”
I wonder where she’s gotten her information. Nobody was in the room with us when Colt talked to Buster. But she was here lifting. Maybe she was spying. Big fighters probably get watched. My hackles rise.
“I guess he’s just nice that way,” I say.
Lani laughs. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m just nosy.” She gives the bag a hearty punch and stops her pattern. “How you holding up after all that weight moving?”
“I can lift my arms again.” I tear open a box, hoping to end the conversation.
But she walks up to me. “Most people take a job at a gym to start working out for free.”
“I’m getting enough just hauling stuff around.”
She heads back to the line of bags, and I sigh in relief. Nobody’s ever curious about me.
The workers who’ve been assembling the practice ring wander back into the room. The base is already together. They’ve moved on to putting up the poles. Colt was right, though. They aren’t doing a boxing ring, for sure. It isn’t a rectangle, but a hexagon.
Colt will be fighting in here. I remember the smash to his face on the video and shudder. The thought that he might be right there taking hits a few feet away from me gives me a chill.
The new weights area in the back of the addition is coming together. I feel a tiny sense of pride that most of it has been organized by me.