Spice

by Jenna Jameson

  They touched gloves, and the kid lunged with a wild haymaker. Sean veered and danced away, shooting McManus a “really?” look. McManus’s snort sounded a lot like a laugh. The kid, who was more muscle than brains, put his head down and charged. Sean swatted him in the side of the head, lazily like a mother bear disciplining her cub.

  “Hands up, Meat,” Sean growled at the kid.

  The kid threw a jab. Sean’s brain clicked into analysis mode. Time slowed down as he watched the jab unfold: Shoulder flexion. Inward rotation of the arm at the glenohumeral joint. Slight horizontal adduction at the shoulder. Elbow extension. Wrist flexion. Pronation as the kid’s foot rolled inward. Sean’s body registered the impact of the punch, but he shrugged it off. Encouraged, the kid threw another jab. Sean leaned to avoid it and let a right cross fly into the kid’s face. The kid staggered back, shaking his head from the tag.

  “Is this a tea party?” McManus shouted. “Knock his head off.”

  Not sure who he was talking to, Sean kept in close and exchanged a few more blows with the kid, who had some raw power, but no control.

  “It’s like watching Swan fucking Lake. Come on, ladies, before I get out the tutus.”

  Sean landed another punch that rocked the kid’s head back. The kid recovered and sent a flurry of jabs into Sean’s sides. While mostly blocking them with his elbows, Sean still grunted at the impact. The kid was aggressive and hungry, but would need a lot more work on tactics. The only punch in his arsenal seemed to be the jab.

  Swinging into a brutal upper cut that went mostly unchecked, Sean showed the kid how to follow through with a relentless series of blows, peppering the kid’s weak defense. Losing himself in rhythm, Sean’s mind finally cleared and hit a peaceful zone where without any incriminating thoughts. No guilt, just the sheer drive of adrenaline.

  “That’s enough,” McManus called, ending the match.

  Sean had trapped the kid in the corner. Backing off, Sean nodded at him. “Not bad, kid. You can take a pummeling, that’s for sure.”

  The kid gulped air, his hands on his knees. “Thanks.”

  “Brody, my grandmother could have done better than that,” McManus snarled.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Sean said in a low voice. “His granny’s a tough broad.”

  Brody choked on a laugh.

  “Hit the showers, kid.” The disgust dripping from McManus’s voice could sand blast the graffiti off the gym’s doors. “And you,” he turned his bile-infested gaze to Sean, “could actually make a career out of this if you didn’t have your goddamned head in the clouds.”

  One of the guys helped him out of his gloves. Sean spat his mouthguard into his own palm. “I do this for exercise.”

  “Bullshit,” McManus snorted. “You could do that P-90 crap for that. You love this. You crave the sweat and the blood. You’re just too much of a pussy to come out from behind that computer screen and train like a real man.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s it. You hit it right on the head.”

  “Come on, O’Malley. Fighting is in your blood. Your dad was going to go all the way.”

  “Yeah,” Sean sighed. “He coulda been a contendah.” The reference to Marlon Brando’s famous line in On the Waterfront was lost on McManus, however.

  “Yeah,” McManus sighed back. “He just took a bad knock.”

  The concussion had convinced Sean’s dad that boxing wasn’t how he wanted to earn a living. But he never lost his love for the sport, going so far as to sign Sean up for the Junior Olympics. But Sean wasn’t ever that good. Maybe it was his concentration, like McManus said. His sister could have done it. If his father had ever allowed her to box. Once Mary Katherine set her mind on something, it was as good as done.

  And just like that, she was back in his thoughts, haunting him from the grave as sure as she was a bean sidhe.

  “So tell me about the sweetheart you brought in here.” McManus followed him into the locker room and picked up dirty towels, muttering about the pigs who didn’t clean up after themselves.

  Sean stripped off his clothes and got into the shower before answering.

  “She’s a girl I’m interested in,” he said, finally deciding on the truth. And that was the hell of it. Sean liked everything about her and he wanted to know more.

  McManus grunted. “She should have stayed for the fight.”

  “That would be showing off.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. It gets the ladies excited to see their men all sweated up after beating up on other guys. What’s the word for it? Primal. Yeah.”

  “Christ, McManus, have you been reading Cosmo?” Sean shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the nearby shelf to dry his hair.

  “I don’t even know what that is,” McManus sniffed. “I do know you need a haircut. You look like my sister, Ann.”

  Sean didn’t wince at the word sister, but it still hit like a kidney shot.

  “Sorry,” McManus said when Sean took another towel and wrapped that one around his waist. “If you throw that on the fucking floor, I’ll make you eat it.” McManus stomped over to the hamper and dumped the armful of towels into it.

  Sean was tempted, but didn’t feel like antagonizing him today. He finished drying off and balled it up. He shot it over McManus’s head for a three-point shot into the hamper.

  As Sean was getting dressed, McManus lingered, disinfecting the hot tub and exhaling long suffering sighs. “How’s it goin’ kid, really? You haven’t been yourself.”

  Waving away McManus’s concern, Sean said, “I’m all right.” He tucked his shirt into his jeans and buckled his belt.

  “Give yourself some time to grieve. Three months isn’t a long time.”

  It could have been yesterday.

  “I thought you went a little crazy during the first few weeks.”

  I did.

  “But you’re strong, kid,” He slapped him on the back. “You snapped back. I’m glad you’ve got a girl to take your mind off things.”

  “It’s not like that, not yet.” Sean finger combed his hair and went to find his jacket.

  McManus grunted. “Don’t fuck it up. She’s a looker.” McManus followed him out of the locker room, shutting the lights off behind him.

  Oh, he was going to fuck it up all right. The question was if he was going to get hurt in the process, too. He had a feeling it was going to get really complicated, real soon.

  Chapter Four

  A stripper and a boxer? Sounds fantastic. Get him into bed,” Sarah said.

  Liz covered the mouthpiece of the phone and checked to make sure Jonathan wasn’t in earshot. He was playing in his room and, from the sound of it, too engrossed in his cars to be paying attention to her conversation.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Liz said in a lowered voice.

  “Get out!” Sarah screeched, and Liz had to take the phone away from her ear. “We’ve got to meet him. Have him come to the FATE meeting on Monday night.”

  “No. Not yet. I want everyone to meet him outside of FATE first,” Liz said.

  “Look, if you don’t trust him, cut him off. Your instincts are good.”

  That was the problem; Sean O’Malley made all her senses go so wild, she wasn’t sure about anything anymore. She blamed it on lust rearing its ugly head after so many years of abstinence.

  “It’s not that. I’m just being cautious. For Jonathan’s sake, too.”

  “Well, I guess I can see that,” Sarah said. “Take as long as you want on your date, Saturday. I don’t mind if Jonathan sleeps over with us.” Her husky giggle was full of mischief.

  “Not yet,” Liz said. “Soon, though. Just not this weekend.”

  “If you change your mind . . .” Sarah trailed off.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  They talked about a few more things before getting off the phone. Christopher had thrown his binkie at Cole when he wouldn’t pick him up out of the crib. Then he vaulted
out on his own. The two-year-old was running around, causing havoc in his wake. Sarah sounded content—no, better than that, she was happy. Marriage and motherhood definitely agreed with her. Cole smoothed over all her rough spots, polished her up so she shone like the diamond she was. With a wistful smile, Liz slipped the phone into her pocket.

  Cinderella.

  “Just a fairy tale. A Grimm one.” Liz chuckled to herself. It was too bad no one was around to appreciate her humor. Jonathan usually just shook his head and said she was weird. She straightened her suit jacket, wincing at the awkward fit. Even when the seamstress took in darts across the chest, it still didn’t hang right. But she couldn’t afford a new one and this one was silk and didn’t show the use like her other business clothes. With her curly hair in a bun, Liz pulled a few strands down so she didn’t look so severe. Easing her feet into a pair of Payless patent leather shoes, Liz figured she looked as academic and professional as she got.

  For a moment, she allowed herself to pretend she was back in LA. In 2002, she had offers from every major porn studio. She could choose her leading man, her wardrobe, and even her co-stars. Liz had a platinum American Express with no limit and used it until the mag stripe wore off. She could still remember the account number—not that it worked anymore.

  She’d let Steve drive them around in whatever convertible he was borrowing this week. They’d go shopping and buy stuff they didn’t need. A Rolex for him. A diamond Movado for her. They’d mug for the cameras. Pose with their fans. Liz remembered this one bikini she wore; it had stars that pasted over her nipples and a sequined skirt. She didn’t even bother with underwear. Steve wore a ridiculous banana hammock. They almost got arrested for indecent exposure and lewd acts in public. So they took their lewd acts back to the studio and got paid even more money. Liz stared at her closet, not even one quarter of the size it used to be. Steve’s ranch style house in Pasadena had been three times the size of this apartment. And you didn’t have to walk up five flights of stairs to get into the place. She could have still been there. Could have still worked for a while longer before the cancer hit.

  Liz shook her head clear of the “what if”s. Even if she could go back and do things differently, she wouldn’t. Her life with Jonathan was worth more than all the money in the world.

  Walking the few steps to her son’s room, she leaned against his door frame to watch him play. Someday, they’d move to a bigger place so he wouldn’t have to be so cramped. He had his Hot Wheels lined up to drag race across the floor. Snoopy and Sponge Bob were the referees calling the match. He concentrated so fiercely on his toys, she was able to just look at him. He was outgrowing his shirt and the hem on his pants had frayed.

  Shit. I just bought those.

  For the hundredth time, Liz considered canceling her meeting today. It would take too much time away from him. Time she could spend picking up more design jobs.

  No. It’s time to start taking my own advice.

  “Jonathan, get your shoes on. We’re going,” Liz called.

  He continued to play.

  “One,” Liz started to count.

  “Okay, okay.” Jonathan scrambled to his feet and darted past her into the living room to get his sneakers.

  She never got to three. Liz often wondered what he thought would happen if she ever did. Would the planet explode? Wouldn’t he be disappointed to learn that he’d only lose a few privileges? But for now, the counting kept him on track. He wouldn’t ever have to worry about being spanked because she could never raise a hand to him. It would kill her to see him cringing away from her in anticipation of a blow. Liz was a firm believer in talking about things and explaining consequences. Thankfully, she had the patience for it—well, most days, anyway. There were some days when she rolled out the old “because I said so.” She remembered cringing from her father’s raised hand. He never actually hit her—but she made damn sure she got out of that house and away from his temper the day she turned eighteen.

  Jonathan allowed her to hold his hand when they walked down to the subway station, but once they were on the train, he yanked it away.

  “I’m a big kid,” he told her.

  And as much as she was in denial about it, he was getting there. Nine years. Liz held on to the pole as the train hurtled down the tracks. When he was a few months old, she just wanted him to get a little older so she wouldn’t have to worry about him being so helpless. Don’t wish it away, she had read on the Internet. You’ll blink and he’ll be all grown up and you’ll regret not savoring the moments.

  There was no savoring. She had been terrified. Terrified of failing and being homeless. Terrified that SIDS would claim him. Liz didn’t sleep peacefully for the first three years of his life. And the next three, she was too busy worrying about putting food on the table than worrying about him growing up and ceasing to be the sweet little toddler who got into everything. But these last three years, if she could have put the brakes on life, she would have. Some days, she wanted a slow motion button so she could watch him explore his world. There were days when she could see her grandfather in him and some days she could see a hint of his father—but that was mostly when he was throwing a tantrum. Steve had been a pouter, too. The last time she heard from that asshole was when she told him she was leaving porn because she was pregnant. He told her to get an abortion and then come out to this rad pool party at some D-list star’s house.

  She moved to New York instead.

  “Why can’t I stay home with Mrs. Ritter?” Jonathan whined. “This is boring.”

  “Life is not always excitement and fun. Get used to it.” Liz smiled.

  Swinging his legs, Jonathan stuck his lower lip out and grumbled, “Where are we going?”

  Butterflies fluttered in her tummy. They were going to chase down a dream. Ever since starting FATE, she had wanted to become a therapist. Graphic design paid the bills, but it didn’t make her heart sing. However, to get a license to practice therapy in the state of New York, you needed a Master’s degree and a thousand or so hours of monitored counseling.

  She never even finished her undergrad degree in English literature at UCLA. There was never any time or need. Now, she wasn’t even sure if those old credits would transfer. Becoming a licensed mental health worker just wasn’t in the near future—not unless she had some tuition help to get her undergraduate degree in psychology first. Financial aid was one thing, but free tuition was even better. Well, it wasn’t really free. She had applied for a scholarship structured like a work study program. It paid in tuition remission instead of a paycheck. She was one of the finalists. If the professor liked her and she got it, Liz would be able to work and take classes while Jonathan was in school. Baby steps. But at least it was forward motion.

  “We’re going to go see someone who might help Mommy go to school,” Liz said.

  “Why do you want to go back to school? School is boring.” Jonathan looked at her as if she just told him she decided to give up vegetarianism and eat hamburger raw.

  “Because it’s fun to learn new things.” Damn that Common Core curriculum. He’d never had a problem with his attitude about going to school before they rolled it out. “And when you learn new things, you can go on new adventures.”

  He seemed to consider it. “What kind of adventures? Like Disney World?”

  “No, but maybe we can go back again and, this time, take Sarah and Cole and baby Christopher with us.”

  “Sarah and Cole?” he said, brightening. “Cool. Are they going to give us another vacation?”

  “No,” Liz said. “And don’t you ever ask them to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there are a lot of families that they can help who haven’t gone to Disney yet. We had our turn.”

  “It was fun,” he said. “My favorite part was the teacup ride.”

  Liz got so dizzy on that one, the nausea reminded her of the chemo. Shuddering, she said, “I liked the water flume.”

  “So when can we
go back?”

  Liz swallowed hard. “When we can afford it.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t ask Sarah and Cole. They have lots of money.”

  He’s just a child. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

  She gripped the pole until she was white knuckled and finally felt she could speak in a calm tone. Shame still poured over her in waves. “Sarah and Cole work very hard for their money.”

  “Cole doesn’t. He ’herited it.”

  “Cole works very hard.” Liz heard the bite in her voice and reined it back when Jonathan’s eyes widened. “You earn your own way in this world, baby. Don’t expect someone to give you something. If you want it badly enough, you make it your priority and you work hard to get it.”

  “I’m not a baby,” he said, sulkily.

  Was that all he heard?

  Liz sighed.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, sweetie, I’m not.” Liz was mad at herself. Stupid cancer. All of her savings gone in a year. Stupid expensive surgery. Rotten insurance companies. No. Wrong. Not stupid chemo—that and the radiation were the reasons she was still here, arguing with a nine-year-old about accepting handouts from friends. Blame the cancer, not the cure.

  “Can I get a toy today?” Jonathan had moved on while she was fretting about her medical woes.

  “No,” she said automatically.

  “What if I’m good?”

  “You’re supposed to be good and not get rewarded for it. You don’t get a treat for doing what you’re supposed to.”

  “Are we there yet?” He groaned like he was very put out by the situation.

  “Is the train still moving?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Then what do you think?” She smiled at him so he knew she wasn’t upset.

  “How much farther?”

  “Two more stops. And if you wait patiently, I’ll give you my phone to play with while I’m in my meeting. And then it’s pizza time.”