Dances with Monsters

by D. C. Ruins

  "Give it up, kid," a voice said behind her, accompanied by two other voices snickering. "You'll never be that good, and he would never waste his time even trying to make you halfway decent."

  Drew resisted the instinctive urge to jerk her head over her shoulder in the direction of the voice. Instead, she glanced to the side slightly, mostly catching the side of her hood. Whoever had spoken must have seen her slight movement, because he continued on.

  "I see you in here all the time at these bags, never talkin' to nobody, actin' like you're better than everyone, when really you're just a skinny little prick who's just wastin' his time."

  There was a pause. Drew wasn't about to say anything; she listened, her body tensing as her heart rate accelerated and her stomach clenched with fear and anxiety.

  Too close, she thought frantically, her fists balling involuntarily. He's too close.

  She heard the sound of one rubber-soled shoe impacting against the ground, closer to her direction, and that was all it took. She darted forward around the punching bag and ran straight past the ring, remembering at least to keep her head down as her heart slammed into her throat. She heard a few murmurs of surprise from those gathered around the ring to watch Heath and his opponent but paid them no mind.

  "Hey," a voice called behind her, and she knew it was his. Heath's. "Hey, Carnevale! Hey, kid!"

  For the second time in as many weeks, she ignored him and flew out the front doors of the gym, running as fast as she could, not stopping until she was seated safely on the subway train back home, clutching herself to prevent the tremors of anxiety from taking her over the edge into a full blow seizure of fear.

  Chapter Three

  "Dude, I don't know," Rex insisted. He sat across from Heath in the office at the gym, and Heath was going over some bookkeeping. It was late at night, he was tired, he was at the end of his patience, and the numbers weren't adding up.

  "Well, there's at least twelve people who didn't pay by the fifth, and today's the twenty-eighth," Heath said, bringing his fingers up to his temples. He recalled the good old days where he could just pummel the shit out of a bag or some poor fuck's face in the ring and not have to worry about shit like this. Then he remembered what his paychecks looked like these days and gritted his teeth. "We're getting ready to bill again for next month and they haven't paid. Didn't you mark off who paid and who didn't on the list?"

  Rex slowly shook his head. "I just collected," he replied.

  "We gotta find a better way to do this," Heath muttered, more to himself as he looked through the pile of documents on his desk. He sighed and chewed at his toothpick as he frowned absently toward the eagle, globe and anchor paperweight on his desk, his eyes lighting across the "Semper Fi" scrawled on the base of the weight. Currently, there were three hundred twenty-seven people at the gym; the flat rate for a monthly membership was $35. Private lessons and training were an extra fee on top of that, but payment for those services was expected to be rendered at the time the service was performed. Based on his calculations, he was $420 short for monthly membership fees. A drop in the bucket compared to what they had in the bank, but money was money and every little bit helped.

  "So what do you want me to do?" Rex continued.

  Heath was about to reply when sudden loud shouting pierced the air from the gym; his head snapped toward the door. Shit. He was used to fights breaking out in the gym despite the sign on the door and the wording in the contracts; with all that testosterone flying around, all the guys thinking they were bigger, badder and tougher than the next, it tended to happen. It reminded him of his days as a Marine. Between basic, random orders and deployments, it was the same thing—all that testosterone in the air caught up to the guys and exploded; Heath had been involved in a few brawls in those environments himself. Nowadays, Heath was almost always the one to break them up, and it was always a pain in the ass. But rules were rules, and he was the "boss" as it were, so it was up to him to keep order in the facility and maintain an aura of peace and calm. If they wanted to take it in the ring, that was fine by him. Anything else, and that shit had to stop.

  "You figure it out," Heath replied, pushing away from the desk. "And I expect you to come up with a better tracking system. You can't just take cash, man, it doesn't work like that." Another shout echoed in the gym.

  "Better go handle that," Rex said, stacking some papers together.

  Heath stopped in his tracks and stared at him incredulously. "You better handle that!" he snapped, stabbing his toothpick in Rex's direction before shoving it back between his teeth, using his tongue to shuffle it around to the other side of his mouth as he headed out of the office into the gym.

  The blowing fans and the recently fixed air conditioning immediately raised goosebumps on his bare arms. He only wore a black TapouT T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and baggy gray sweats, the laces of his shoes untied as he shuffled out toward the small cluster of bodies near the punching bags. He couldn't see what was going on; it didn't look like anyone was throwing any punches, at least not yet. He didn't want to get involved unless physical violence actually occurred. When it came to words, they were all grown men; let them handle their own hurt feelings. He had a zero-tolerance attitude when it came to violence towards each other outside the ring; he hated bullies.

  The group of guys had their backs to him, so he leaned inconspicuously against a corner post of the ring in the middle of the room, flipping his baseball cap around so it sat loosely on his head with the brim flipped to the back. He folded his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his biceps as he cocked his head, trying to listen to what they were saying. From what he could tell, it was Mikey, Charlie and Jimmy. He couldn't remember their last names but each of them had sparred with him at least once, sometimes twice.

  "You always walk around in here like you got a little fuckin' attitude problem or something!" Jimmy was yelling, his voice heavily East Coast.

  "Yeah, you think you're better than us or somethin'?" Charlie shouted.

  "Charlie, chill," Mikey laughed. His accent was distinctly Bostonian. "He probably has this attitude walkin' around here 'cause all his body mass is in his dick and it's bigger than yours."

  "Shut the fuck up, Mikey," Jimmy shot back, before turning back to the object of his wrath, which was concealed from Heath's view by his and his pals' huge, overdeveloped forms. "Listen, you little fuck, this is a family atmosphere in here and we're all supposed to get along. You're throwin' all kinds of negative vibes and shit around in the air and stirrin' things up. And I personally don't like the way you fuckin' think you're too good to speak to anyone in here!" His hand flew out in a push, and Heath straightened up when he heard a little answering grunt.

  "He's too good to talk to you now, Mike," Charlie laughed.

  Heath instantly knew who was on the receiving end of the abuse. That poor kid, that Carnevale. He knew this was at least the second time he'd gotten picked on, probably by these same three assholes. He remembered a few weeks ago seeing the kid actually flee from the gym. Heath had tried calling out after him, but Carnevale just kept running. He hated to see it and hated even more he hadn't been able to do anything about it, having not seen who it was that had harassed him in the first place. And he'd tried to approach Carnevale a couple different times since it had happened, only to have the kid turn his back and quickly walk away. Now, though, was his chance to redeem himself and make sure these fuckers left the little kid alone.

  He took one step toward the group when he suddenly saw a small hard fist fly out, knocking Mikey right in the face. Mikey's head snapped back sharply as he shouted in pain. Heath was amazed at the sight of blood gushing from his nose. The kid's head was down, chin tucked, his fists up next to his face in a tight guard. His eyes were shielded by the brim of his Yankees cap. He was tense, probably waiting to see who would make the next move.

  "Now, that wasn't very fuckin' nice!" Jimmy bellowed, stepping closer. Heath broke into a shagging run, but it wasn't q
uite fast enough. He heard a ripping sound pierce the air and came to an abrupt stop. For a moment, he stared, unsure exactly what to make of what he was seeing.

  Jimmy had grabbed the front of the kid's shirt, no doubt intending to haul him in close to deck him, and the kid had immediately pulled—jerked—away. The exertion of two hard forces in opposite directions took their toll on the only thing connecting them—the kid's T-shirt. With a rip, it tore right down the middle, and Heath's confused mind swirled as everyone, including the kid, froze.

  Under the tatters of a torn T-shirt, Heath saw a flash of smooth, soft-looking, naturally tanned skin, the abdomen flat and softly muscled, not hard with ridges like a man's. Like a woman's. His eyes rose to just above the exposed stomach, seeing layers of tightly wrapped duct tape over what appeared to be a black sports bra.

  Charlie reached out and slapped the brim of the hat from the bottom, pushing it off the kid's head as his hood fell off. The hat fell to the floor as a long, dark brown ponytail fell past the kid's shoulders. Heath's mouth fell open. What he had perceived to be a skinny teenage boy was actually a slender young woman. One who had an athletic body, but who was rather curvy too; he could see that even with the duct tape. Her T-shirt was torn open past her hip, and he could see where her waist narrowed above her low-slung sweatpants before softly curving out in a shape that was uniquely, utterly feminine.

  "It's a bitch!" Charlie shouted. "A fuckin' girl! What the fuck!"

  "Damn, she looks good, though," Jimmy snickered.

  Her shocked, warm brown eyes met Heath's for just a moment before she tried to whirl around to flee. Mikey's hand, bloody from holding his nose, shot out and gripped her upper arm. An upper arm that Heath had previously written off as the skinny limb of a boy, but that he could now see was the softly curving arm of a woman, light with defined triceps and biceps. Her eyes flashed like a caged animal and she jerked uselessly in Mikey's iron grip as Heath snapped out of it.

  "Now, now," Mikey was hissing at her. "That's not very fuckin' nice o' you! Snuff me then leave? I don't think so, Princess…not now. Damn, you do look fuckin' good! Charlie wasn't lyin'…"

  He jumped almost a foot in the air when Heath's hand slammed heavily down on his shoulder.

  "Let her go," he said through gritted teeth.

  "Heath, man, it's a fuckin' chick sneakin' around here!" Mikey said, as though by way of explanation.

  "I don't give a fucking rat's ass," Heath hissed back, tightening his fingers around Mikey's shoulder. "I said, let her fucking go!"

  Mikey released his hold on the girl and she stumbled back, her eyes still wide with fear.

  "All three of you pricks, get your shit and leave!" Heath bellowed, shoving Mikey away once the girl was free.

  "Aw, come on, man," Jimmy said. "We weren't gonna do nothin' to her—"

  "Bullshit," Heath growled. "I don't give a fuck if you were gonna take her dancing. Get the fuck out and don't let me see you back at this gym again!"

  "You gonna kick us out over a bitch?" Mikey said incredulously. "Did you know about this or somethin'?"

  Heath took two steps before he was nose to nose with Mikey. The other man cowered slightly and winced, feeling the anger and violence radiating off Heath.

  "If I gotta tell you fucks to get out of my gym one more time, I'm not gonna be askin' so politely next time," he said in a low voice, his blue eyes, dark with menace, boring into Mikey's. "Now—get the fuck out of my goddamn gym!"

  Thankfully, they didn't need to be told again. They grabbed their shit and all but ran out of Carter's, without one backward look to either Heath or to the girl, who had sunk to the floor and was staring after them, her brown eyes still huge with fear and shock.

  Heath shifted his weight awkwardly as he glanced at her. After a moment, he took a hesitant step in her direction.

  "Miss, you okay?" he murmured quietly, not wanting to further freak her out. She continued to stare past him as though he hadn't spoken to her. "Miss?"

  Finally her eyes shifted to him, but even as they locked gazes, he could tell she was still staring right through him, her eyes wide and glassy. He took in the features of her face. She could be any conceivable age between twenty-one and thirty; her face was unlined and soft, youthful-looking, but her eyes held a pool of knowing, of experience, of life events she'd seen that no one should. Her skin was smooth, creamy, olive, with high, rounded cheekbones and a sensual mouth, pouty with pillow-like pink lips. Dark, silky brows arched away from her large, almond-shaped eyes. She would have been beautiful, Heath noted, if she didn't have a look of such intense fear on her face.

  He slowly crouched down until he was eye-level with her. Her eyes began to sharpen, coming into focus on him as she blinked rapidly, long, thick dark eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks like the beating of butterfly wings.

  "Miss?" he tried again in the same quiet tone. He extended a hand toward her.

  Her eyes lit on his hand, and widened. She sucked in a breath and recoiled from him violently.

  "Don't touch me!" she said hoarsely, and Heath quickly backed up, lifting his hands in the air.

  "Okay, okay," he said, calm and quiet. "Sorry. You're all right."

  He backed up several more paces and kept his hands in the air as she scrambled to her feet, gasping, clutching her tattered T-shirt to her body as she fumbled to zip up her sweatshirt. She turned to grab her hat from the floor, and he caught a flash of her eyes, filling with tears as she bit her lip, her face crumpling. Her expression made his heart wrench, made him feel like shit. It was common knowledge that women didn't come here, but there was no rule against it, certainly; in fact, he'd hoped that everyone would come to the gym, men and women alike, and learn something. He was big into women learning how to defend themselves and had even discussed with Carter the possibility of hosting a women's self-defense course.

  Now, the only woman that had ever come to the gym, had not only felt it necessary to disguise herself, but had ended up getting assaulted anyway. He felt like a total asshole, even though he'd tried to intervene on her behalf. Why would she ever want to come back now? Why would any woman want to come here? And, for fuck's sake, now he might have to deal with the cops should this woman decide to complain. He definitely didn't need those problems.

  She moved past him in a flash, even as he turned after her. "Hey," he called. "I'm really sorry about that. Let me help you out—can I call someone for you?"

  "You can go to hell!" she threw over her shoulder before she shoved through the doors and hurried into the night.

  "What the hell was that?" Rex asked, slightly out of breath from running out of the office. "Who the hell was that?"

  "That was the kid, the skinny kid, Carnevale," Heath said. "Except he's really a she, and she just got assaulted on our property by Mikey, Jimmy and Charlie."

  "What?" Rex demanded. "Where are they now?"

  "Kicked 'em the fuck out," Heath replied. "You think I'd keep 'em around?"

  "What about her?" Rex said, jerking his chin in the direction that the woman had gone. "What if she tells the cops or something?"

  "Thought about that," Heath replied. "I'm more concerned with the fact that she's too scared to ever come back here now. I feel like fuckin' shit, man. This shit should never have happened, not on my watch. That ain't the kind of place I want to run."

  "Think her name's really Drew Carnevale?" Rex asked.

  "Shit, who knows?" Heath said. "She felt the need to dress up like a dude; she probably would have used a fake name."

  "Carnevale," Rex repeated aloud, muttering it again to himself. "Carnevale."

  "What?" Heath demanded.

  "Nah, it just sounds familiar for some reason," Rex mused, rubbing his chin. He snapped his fingers. "That's it. Café Carneval, over on Liberty Avenue. Italian family place, it's like a coffee shop and a bakery. My girl took me there one day."

  "Think it's her place?" Heath asked doubtfully.

  "Maybe her family's or somethin'.
Not that I know how many Carnevales are in Pittsburgh."

  "Hmm," Heath said, folding his arms. "Who knows." He shook his head. "Poor kid."

  ***

  Carnevale, Drew, whoever she was, didn't show up the next day. Or the day after that, or the day after that. It bothered Heath more than he could stand. One reason was because he didn't like the idea of anyone getting assaulted at his gym—he hated bullies, and it just churned his guts to know that it had happened under his watch.

  Another reason was because he couldn't get over the absolute fear in her eyes. It was evident in every line of her. Nobody deserved to be scared like that, especially not a woman. Especially not her, when she'd never done anything to anyone at the gym, had just minded her own business. It pissed him off every time he thought about it and he wished he didn't have the self-restraint and control he did now; he would have loved to have been able to rearrange those three assholes' fucking faces.

  A whole week had passed since the incident. Apparently, she hadn't decided to call the police. No one came knocking, and no one was talking about it. That was because the only other person who'd been around was Rex, and Heath had given him strict orders not to speak of it to anyone. Every day, he hoped to see her, to know that she felt safe in coming back to the gym, but apparently she was done with it. He knew he should have cut his losses, hoped to do better next time, but he just couldn't let it go.

  He let another week pass. One day, when he determined that Carnevale was never coming back, he did something completely out of character. He hopped on the internet and looked up Café Carnevale, noting its address, and told Rex to hold the fort down for a little bit while he left to run an errand.

  ***

  Drew was in the kitchen, making more whipped cream for the small refrigerators under the espresso machines. She was making two batches—one batch of vanilla and one batch of caramel. They would go into the air-pressured canisters to be piped on hot lattes and other espresso beverages.