by Maya Cross
"Sorry," she said. If what I'd guessed about her boyfriend was right, she was probably freaking out about having some giant scary dude manhandle her. I uncurled my fingers and stepped away, and some of the tension bled from her muscles. God, I was a dick.
"Better. Now, there's several different types of punches." I moved back around in front of her, raised my fists and unleashed several quick blows against the bag. "When you punch with your front fist, that's called a jab. It doesn't look like much, but it's your most versatile weapon. It's fast, it disorients people and it sets up your big hits."
I switched to a combo using both fists. "Now this is your most basic combo. Left, right. A single good right can end most fights, but you need the jab to make it effective. The technique is also different. Contrary to what most people believe, a lot of punches aren't just about the arms. They're whole body actions. See how my legs spring up and my hips twist as I attack? That's where all the power comes from. You don't need to swing wildly. Just punch straight and fast and your body will do the work."
She tried to mimic me. It was better technically than before, but she clearly wasn't putting in maximum effort. "This is stupid," she said. "I've never been in a fight in my life. I've never had any reason, and I don't see that changing."
That was interesting. Maybe I was wrong about her boyfriend after all. But it didn't change anything. "This isn't about whether you'll use it or not. Quite frankly, it'll make me very happy if you never have to. This is me trying to help the only way I know how. Maybe it won't work for you, but you promised you'd try."
She considered this for several seconds, then her jaw tightened and she gave a brief nod. "Okay."
"Just practice that one-two combo. Left right. If you want to mix it up a little, throw in some extra jabs." I demonstrated, left, left, right. "The other thing to focus on is your footwork. Circle the bag, stay moving, stay light on your feet. In a real fight, it makes you harder to deal with, and in here it makes the workout that little bit better."
She turned to the bag once more, a hint of determination in her eyes now. Again, she started timidly, but as she slipped into a rhythm, she gradually began to throw more and more energy into each punch. Soon, she was hitting with everything she had.
"Good," I said. I could almost feel the anger fueling her movements now, and if she was anything like me, it felt really good. I've never found any activity that is nearly as cathartic as hitting something. I wondered what she was picturing as she did it. Everyone pictures something. Maybe a shrink would say that wasn't the healthiest way to deal with the situation, but I never had much time for men in white coats. I was just glad she was doing something.
Chapter Ten
Grace
If you've never experienced true addiction before, it's impossible for you to really understand the pain of trying to quit. I used to think such poor self-control was just a sign of weakness, that you were making a choice to drink or smoke or eat, in spite of the consequences, but there's so much more to it than that. An addiction is a living thing. It's insidious, it's powerful, and it will do anything to ensure it is fed. It hijacks your body and whispers in your ear, and it knows exactly what to say to snake its way past your guard.
I nearly broke a hundred times, in those first few days. Drinking had become like scratching an itch, an almost subconscious gesture. My mind would wander somewhere dark, and before I knew it, my hands would be searching for a bottle. It would have been so easy to give in, to just sink back below the surface and let nature take its course. That's what it felt like to me, inevitable. Several times I made it as far as reaching for a bottle, but whenever I raised it to my lips, I found myself thinking of Logan. For some inexplicable reason he had faith in me, and strangely, that gave me faith in myself. Maybe I felt like I owed it to him, I don't know. He'd put himself out there for me, and I didn't want to let him down.
I'd been skeptical, but to his credit the exercise was definitely helping. Working myself to the bone at the gym took some of the edge off at night. I still felt that yearning on the back of my tongue when I walked in to my empty place — I hated how big it seemed now, how hollow — but once I showered and forced myself to go straight to bed, I usually found I could drift off.
Of course it had its downsides, too. When I dragged myself from my sheets each morning, my body complained loudly. My workouts were calling a lot of my long-dormant muscles into action, and they weren't shy about voicing their displeasure. The first morning I could barely walk, although it got progressively better each day and, soon enough, I actually found myself taking a kind of perverse pleasure in those aches and twinges. It was a healthy pain, almost like a badge of honor. It was a symbol of the fact that I was taking charge. I'd spent months marinating in self-loathing and helplessness, unable to muster the energy to fight back, but finally I felt a flicker of hope. I was doing something, being proactive. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
It had been a long time since I hadn't dreaded waking up. My usual mornings were a montage of aspirin, regret and self-pity, typically chased with vodka. But after a few days following Logan's regimen, I actually lay in my bed feeling vaguely human. I'm not going to lie and say everything was peachy, but I didn't loathe the idea of getting up either, which was a notable improvement.
But first I had to get through today. It was my first day off since going dry, which meant it would be the toughest one yet. If I could stay dry until tomorrow with no distractions, it would be a big milestone, but it wasn't going to be easy.
After a light breakfast of fruit and hand-made granola, I suited up and headed for the gym. It was reasonably early, but I knew I wouldn't be alone — sometimes it seemed like Logan lived in that place. Regardless of what time I made my daily visit he was there, working the bags or off in the corner lifting some absurdly laden barbell. I didn't understand how his body survived that sort of punishment. An hour a day was enough to nearly break me, and he was doing that many times over. He was mind bogglingly fit.
That morning when I walked in he was on the mats grappling with another man. They were both shirtless and coated in sweat. To the casual observer, it almost looked like they might be making love rather than fighting. Logan had tried to explain the intricacies of some of the close-quarter moves, but that stuff was well beyond me. It looked so much more complicated than simply hitting someone. Besides, the thought of having his body wrapped around mine like that set off all sorts of unwanted reactions in me, so I told him I just wanted to stick to the simple stuff.
His opponent was big, probably his equal in terms of pound-for-pound muscle, but Logan seemed to have the upper hand. He had the other man pinned to the floor, locked in some elaborate knot of limbs I couldn't even begin to decipher. With a groan, the other man tapped the mat twice and Logan released him.
"Fucking armbar again," the other man said.
"You leave it open, I'm going to take it," replied Logan with a shrug.
"Good morning, Sunshine," he said, hopping lightly to his feet and turning to face me. Somehow, no matter where he was looking, he always knew when I entered a room. I'd taken to actively sneaking in, just to see if I could get past his guard, but so far it hadn't worked. I was actually beginning to wonder if that joke about ninja training was really a joke at all.
"Morning." I tried my best to look nonplussed, but some of my annoyance must have leaked through because a grin lit his face.
Even after spending days here in his company, the sight of that chiseled body still took my breath away. I kept telling myself that it was simple biology, something I could acknowledge and then ignore, but that didn't stop the inevitable surge of guilt.
Tony shot me a glare, then sighed. "I'm going for a piss. Take two."
"I don't think he likes me very much," I said, when he was out of earshot.
"Don't take it personally. He doesn't like anyone very much. 'Tolerate' is about as good as it gets with Tony."
"Doesn't that frustrate you? He's your train
er. You spend eight hours a day with the guy."
"Exactly, and I want him to work me until I drop. If he liked me, he'd go easy. As it stands, he has no problem pushing me until I puke."
I shook my head, thinking back to our talk about Charlie. "You have a lot of messed up relationships."
He chuckled. "I guess I do." He clapped his hands. "Okay, well you may as well get started. Same as yesterday. Warm up, cardio, then hit the bags. You know the drill; five two minute rounds with one minute breaks. And after that I'm going to show you some kicks."
"No worries."
"If you need anything just give me a yell."
"I'm a big girl. I'll be fine."
He returned to his sparring, while I headed for the cardio machines and did my best to ignore him. If only it were so easy. Despite my best intentions, I found my eyes constantly drifting back toward him. There was something so primal about watching Logan fight, like I was witnessing the epitome of the male form doing exactly what nature intended. I was both excited and a little horrified at the thought of seeing him unleash all that power against an actual opponent.
I spent forty minutes on my aerobic workout, switching between several machines to keep things fresh, before Logan beckoned me to the bags. For the most part, he left me alone to do my own thing, but at the end of every session he taught me something new that I could then use the following day. Those little interactions were a stronger test of my resolve than any actual exercise.
He hadn't touched me again since that first day when he'd corrected my stance. If anything, he seemed intent on keeping his distance, which was probably a good thing, since I was fairly sure I'd explode if he didn't, but the memory of it was still burned into my mind, brighter than the sun. Part of me longed for him to do it again, and another part wanted to run away whenever he was near. There had been nothing inappropriate about that contact, but it had felt that way nonetheless. Illicit and sensual. He'd said he wasn't interested, but I didn't know how that could be true. Was this really so one-sided? Was I simply imagining the tension between us? That thought made me feel like an idiot, getting all hot and bothered while he was just trying to do a good thing.
He ran me through a new combo, one that involved my legs as well as my hands. He seemed more downbeat than before, and soon enough I discovered why.
"No work today, right?" he asked, as I was getting ready to start.
"Nope."
His mouth turned down a fraction. "So what's your plan?"
I shrugged. "Cook lunch, read, try to stay out of trouble."
"Is Joy working?"
"Yep."
He didn't seem pleased by that. "Well, if you get bored later you can always come back and hang out here. I've been hitting it pretty hard lately. I could probably use a break."
This was how we talked about the situation now, in code. "Bored," "stay out of trouble," we both knew what these words meant, but this made them more palatable.
"I bet Tony would love that," I replied. "I'll be okay. I have to be alone eventually, Logan."
He hesitated for a few seconds before nodding heavily. "I know. You're right."
I threw myself into the workout with even more gusto than usual. Logan's concern shook me a little. Maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn't ready for this. But what else could I do? I couldn't spend my life being babysat.
By the time I wrapped up, Tony had disappeared. It was just Logan and I alone in the room. He came over as I was getting ready to leave, his face once again laced with mischief. "You know, as of this morning, I'm officially out of cookies."
"I'm sorry for your loss," I replied.
He nodded in mock solemnity. "It's tragic really. I can't imagine where I'll get any more."
I had to admit, I enjoyed seeing Logan so relaxed. The more time we spent together, the more I was able to read him. When he was out in public, even if it was just a quiet afternoon in the bar, he always carried this tension with him. It was subtle — hunched shoulders, ever-darting eyes — but noticeable, like just the act of socializing caused him immense stress. But he seemed more at ease when we were just one on one. He smiled, he joked and he was genuinely good company.
I sighed dramatically. "Perhaps a good natured friend will come to the rescue."
"Perhaps," he said with a grin. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yes sir," I replied. "Sergeant Thomas out."
The workout had performed its magic. I walked out into the Vegas sun feeling surprisingly alert. I'd never been one for heavy exercise before, and it still baffled me that working so hard could make you feel so energetic, but it did. That buzz made all my muscle aches worthwhile.
Before I'd made it halfway down the block, my phone buzzed.
Logan:
Remember. You're stronger than this.
The message brought a smile to my face. That little show of faith was exactly what I needed.
The apartment was sweltering when I returned, and it would take a while for the air conditioner to cut through the heat, so I ate lunch on the balcony in the breeze, catching up on the day's gossip on my iPad. I did my best to ignore the fact that I had no plans left for the rest of the day, but my empty afternoon loomed in my mind nonetheless.
As I headed back inside to clean up, I found my eyes wandering to the cabinet by the front door. When I made the decision to go dry once more, I did another dramatic purging of my liquor, pouring almost all of it down the sink. Almost all.
I licked my lips. There was a lump building in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Logan was right. I was stronger than this.
I turned, headed purposefully toward the kitchen and began unloading ingredients from the cupboard. He wanted more cookies, but he didn't specify what sort, and I had a few ideas that needed a guinea pig.
*****
Getting over the hurdle of that day off felt like a big achievement. I spent the afternoon baking all manner of sugary treats, then caught up on some much needed sofa and TIVO time. I won't say that the urge to pour just one drink didn't flare up from time to time, but I managed to ignore it.
Soon enough, I was back behind the bar. As you might expect, Saturday nights were always a notch above the others at Charlie's. The place was never full to bursting, like a lot of the swankier places on the Strip, but it did a good imitation as the weekend rolled around. To be honest, now that I'd settled in, I actually enjoyed the atmosphere of those nights. The job itself may have been fairly menial, but the pace and energy of it was invigorating. As usual, I slipped into a kind of trance-like rhythm and just let the night flow around me.
"Grace?"
It took a moment for me to pick my name out from the roar of the crowd. I scanned the row of faces lined up along the bar until I spotted one that looked vaguely familiar.
I stepped closer. "Can I help you?"
"Wow, it is you. What a coincidence." He stared expectantly for a few seconds. "You don't remember me?"
I thought back. Everyone I knew here was a friend of Tom's and, aside from the occasional token drop in shortly after he died, I hadn't seen any of them in months, but after a few seconds, I came up with a name.
"Jared," I said.
He smiled. "Got it." We'd only met a handful of times. He wasn't really a friend of Tom's so much as just a floating acquaintance in their extended circle, one of those all too common Vegas hustlers who can never quite define where they make their money. He'd always given me a bad vibe. His darting eyes and narrow features reminded me of a weasel, and I got the impression he was only hanging around Tom's group because he viewed them as potential marks. But according to Tom he was good company, and he was tight with some of the other guys, so they let him stay.
He looked worse now than when I'd last seen him. Sunken cheeks, pale skin, bones poking out everywhere. As he fidgeted with his arm, I caught sight of several track marks just below the elbow; puckered little punctures that spoke of more than just the occasional dabble with a needle. Just what I needed.
I
considered simply having Logan throw him out, but depending on whether he was actually high right now or not, that could get messy very quickly. Besides, he hadn't actually done anything wrong yet, so instead I threw up my best "tolerant bartender" smile and prayed he'd leave quickly. "Good to see you again. Can I get you a drink?"
"Sure. Coors, thanks." He threw one arm down on the bar. "You know, this is really convenient running into you. Been out of town for a few months, taking care of some stuff back in Denver, you know? Just got back yesterday. Was planning on coming to check in on Tommy boy when I had a moment."
My hands faltered on the beer tap. I thought that when it came to Tom's death the grapevine had done its work, but apparently some people had slipped through the cracks. My chest tightened and I closed my eyes. This wasn't a conversation I wanted to have, not here, not now, but it seemed like I didn't have a choice. The alternative was to have this junkie show up at my place in a couple of days' time, looking for Tom, and I wouldn't have the benefit of Logan and a room full of people for protection then.
"Tom's dead," I said, a little more harshly than I was intending.
His eyes widened. "Seriously?"
I nodded.
"Shit. I'm real sorry. I mean...shit."
I drew a few ragged breaths. I wanted to cry. It was stupid, just saying those words shouldn't have had that kind of effect on me, but it did. Apart from Joy, I realized I hadn't told anyone about Tom's death since the day it happened. I'd considered calling my parents a few times, but I wasn't exactly on the best terms with them. It had been over a year since we'd talked, and even if they would hear me out, I couldn't stomach the idea of giving them an excuse to say "I told you so."