by Zahra Girard
And as much as I want to do something about it, I can’t.
For the life of me, I can’t go forward. I can’t go home.
While that man’s there, it’s not my home.
I am weak.
I am alone.
I turn around and I drive without thinking.
Eventually, I pull into that little tumble-down building in the bad part of town with the faded “Reyes Boxing” sign out front.
I grab my gym bag, still sitting in the back seat where I threw it yesterday.
I march past Ana Maria without saying a word. In the cramped quarters that pass for the women’s locker room, I change.
I tape up my wrists, binding my hand into a fist, gritting my teeth against the pain.
My heart is thudding.
Every time I shut my eyes, I see his face.
He’s in my home right now.
He’s pushing my father closer to the inevitable. Someday soon, just like he and his thugs tell me every time they see me, he’s going to come for me. Money won’t be enough to satisfy them. Kicking and screaming, they’re going to take me and rip the humanity out of me and turn me into some quaking shell of myself.
I slip the gloves on my hands. I tighten the straps.
I may not know what I’m doing, but I’m going to learn.
I might not be able to win, but I’m sure as hell going to make them pay.
Chapter Seven
Luca
“That girl from yesterday’s here again. Without the Luchadore this time,” Jose says as he pokes his head into the office.
I sit up straight at my desk.
This is a welcome distraction.
Not that I haven’t been thinking about her already.
“You sure?”
He grins. “You think anyone could forget a chica like that?”
I roll my chair to the two-way mirror.
Sure enough, there she is. My eyes are drawn to her right away. And not just for good reasons. Each punch she throws makes me grit my teeth.
Her body might be gorgeous, but her form is fucking terrible.
I don’t care if she’s bouncing, her boxing style is an abomination.
I get up and head out onto the floor.
The only redeeming thing about watching her duke it out with the punching bag are the sexy little grunts she makes each time she throws a punch.
Every bit of strength she has is going into every single punch, and even though she’s hardly doing shit to move the bag, she sounds like she wants to rip it from the chain and beat it into the floor like she’s the Hulk.
If she keeps this up, a hurt wrist is going to be the least of her problems.
“Ease up a bit, tiger,” I call out as I start jogging towards her.
She hardly slows a tick, and it’s not until I’m next to her and actually put a restraining hand on her shoulder that she even slows down.
“Don’t call me tiger,” she says between punches.
The face she makes when she says that is beyond adorable. I can’t let it go.
“Fine, champ. Take it easy or you’re going to blow your wrist out.”
She whirls on me. Her eyes light up in a way that’s fierce and sexy. “What do you want? And don’t call me champ.”
I grin back at her. If a bad nickname gets this kind of reaction out of her, I know exactly what I need to do.
“For starters, I don’t want you to get hurt in my gym again, ok chief?” I say.
“Don’t call me chief. I’m not here to joke around, alright?”
She turns back around and returns to thwacking the punching bag with a vengeance.
I take a second to watch because — goddamn — she looks fantastic from this angle. Just like she does from every other angle.
But I can only watch so much. It physically hurts me to see how bad she is at punching.
I put my hand on her shoulder again.
“Alright, killer, here’s the second thing I want: if you’re going to do this, I want to see you do it right. Pay attention.”
She steps aside and I move in.
Light, easy, smooth. I fire off a jab and my fist glides forward, sending the bag shaking. Then I follow with a jab and a cross. Then a jab-cross-hook combination.
I build it up.
This is real technique.
And it looks fucking good.
The bag shudders and rocks against the chain but I’ve hardly got my heart pumping.
I breathe in, cast a look back over my shoulder at the beauty behind me — her eyes are wide, like she wants to soak it all in — and I exhale as I rip another combination into the bag.
Jab—jab—cross—uppercut—hook.
Then, some more.
Again and again I sink my knuckles into the heavy bag, feeling the force of my fist ripple into the seventy pounds of leather and sand.
Every inch of me moves in unison — my shoulders, my hips, my breath — each one of them powering my bare-knuckle punch.
This is easy shit.
This is basic.
But it’s still a thing of fucking beauty when it’s done right and I am fucking killing it.
I pause.
I look back and grin at her.
“See?”
Eyes wide, lips set, hands at her hips, she looks ready.
That’s what real hunger looks like.
Teaching her is going to be a fucking treat.
“First: don’t call me ‘killer’,” she says. “Second: teach me.”
Those words make me smile the second they pass her lips: teach me. Even though I’d rather she be saying them to me while we’re in bed, with her hips raised high and her innocent eyes shining at me, begging me to teach her just how much fun filthy fucking sex can be..
I get in close and take her gloved hands in mine.
“First rule: you keep your wrist straight. Always. I don’t care if you’re falling sideways or trying to do some fucking kung fu shit. You keep your wrist straight, or you’ll be the one who’s hurting when your punch lands.”
She nods. All business. “Fine. What’s next?”
I get in front her and put my hands on her legs, guiding them until she’s standing in something that looks close to a respectable fighting stance.
“This is how you stand. When you throw a punch, you’re going to put everything into it: your hips, your ass, your shoulders, your core. All of it. Got it?”
I move to stand behind her, her plump ass just inches from me, covered in some hardly-there yoga pants, begging for me to smack it, grab it, fuck it. I put my hands on her hips like we’re dancing.
My mind goes back to those words she uttered just a minute ago: teach me.
I love my job.
“Power is mass times acceleration, right? It’s basic fucking math. So, you’re going to use your hips, your shoulders, your abs, all of your mass, to rotate and accelerate your fist into your opponents face.”
My hands pat each body part as I call it out: her hips, her legs, her sides, her shoulders. Then, I use my hands to guide her in some slow-mo rotation so she can feel what it feels like.
“Got it, sport?”
She nods, again. “I do. But one more thing: sport? Really?”
I grin at her. “Show me then, slugger.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes, sighs, then steps forward and belts the bag like it’s owed her money for years.
It’s not a great punch — the bag barely moves compared to what I know she could do. But it’s better than before.
At least now she doesn’t look like she’s going to snap her wrist.
She takes a step back and looks at me for approval. “How was that?”
“You can do better. Do it again, slugger.”
“Fine. But, seriously, don’t call me slugger. This isn’t some kids t-ball league.”
There’s an edge to her voice. And I don’t blame her, “slugger” is a terrible nickname. Maybe she’s had enough.
“Alright
, bella.”
She doesn’t protest that one. She just blushes a little and gets back to work.
I grin.
It takes more than an hour, and when we’re done she’s sweaty, her cheeks are flushed in a distractingly-sexy way, and I’m nearly out of nicknames for her.
Most people, they’d think drilling the same couple punches for an hour is crazy, but this fundamental stuff is important. If you don’t have the basics down, you’re no better than some piss-drunk barfighter.
Besides, there are other benefits: like staying up close and personal with Stephanie while she sweats and grunts and rotates every bit of her white-hot body.
“That’s enough for today,” I say, once I’m sure she’s got the motions down.
She gives me a look — like is that it — and puts her hands on her hips. “I can keep going. Show me some more stuff. Teach me to fight.”
I love that she wants to learn. I love the fire that’s inside her. But somehow I force myself to shake my head.
“Not a good idea,” I say.
And not just because I’ve got so much blood pumping to my cock that, if I try and actually exert myself, I’m one-hundred-percent certain I’ll pass out.
“Why’s that?”
“Look, you’re punching right. Decent, even. Right now. But this is something that you have to drill into your body till you do it without even thinking. And that takes time.”
Her full lips part and I know she’s going to protest but I cut her off.
“Come back tomorrow. Same time, or, hell, whenever you have an hour free. We’ll run some more drills. But we are going to do this right. That means it’s going to take a while.”
Most students accept what I tell them. Even the hard-headed ones. Because anyone who’s spent some time at this gym’s heard the rumors about me and they see my sunken knuckles and my scars, and they know I will fuck them seven ways from Sunday if they give me lip.
Not Stephanie.
Instead, she gets this look in her eyes like she’s got a gun to her head and just heard the hammer cock. “Teach me some more. Please,” she says.
Behind that fire in her eyes, there’s fear.
I know that look.
Hell, I caused that look in plenty of men.
“What’s wrong?”
A shake of the head sends her tied-up hair bobbing. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just teach me some more. Please.”
There’s a thousand other things I know I should be doing.
Hell, Ana Maria’s standing on the other side of the gym right now, staring at me, and I know that means there’s other work to do. Probably something involving a mop or leaky plumbing or any number of other fun things.
But I can’t just walk away from her.
I know I’m no good for her; I’m the kind of guy who breaks things, not fixes them. But I need to know what’s got this woman so afraid that she is so desperate to learn how to cave someone’s face in.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I try and sound concerned, caring, but I know I’m not any good at it and it probably comes off sounding like I’m mocking her. Concern is not one of those attitudes I’ve had much practice at.
She hesitates, then nods. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. Look, I should get back to work anyways.”
Somehow, her dismissal doesn’t do a damn thing for my disbelief. I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong with Stephanie in a dark and painful way.
And just the thought of someone hurting her makes me want to bust heads.
I need to find out more.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight
Stephanie
Each step through the concrete hallway from the locker rooms to the parking lot at Reyes boxing makes my body tense.
The further I get, the less safe I feel.
A minute ago, I felt strong.
There was something in front of me that I could hit. There was someone standing behind me who knew what they were doing. There was someone behind me who was teaching me how to protect myself.
I was in control. It was like, if I could just learn enough, maybe, I could protect myself. I could be brave. At least a little bit.
Now? I’m by myself again. And as bad as things were yesterday, I know today is going to be worse.
On the way out of the gym, I pass by a couple cops at the front desk, hovering over Ana Maria. For a second, I think about tell them my problem and then shove that idea away because I know that’d just be making things worse.
I take my time getting back to the shop. I drive around back roads and down side streets and circle the block at least a dozen time.
When I pull into the parking lot at the store I know I was right about how today’s going to turn out.
It’s broad daylight and Yuri’s there. Waiting for me.
Waiting with a smile that has nothing right or good about it.
He’s leaning back against the drivers side door of a black moving van, smoking a cigarette and staring right into me as I get out of my car.
I’m fresh meat to this predator. He knows it, I know it.
That’ll change, some day. I’ll make it happen, whatever it takes.
He flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel, and trails behind me as I get out of my car.
I don’t answer Sabrina when she asks me how I’m doing.
I just keep walking, with Yuri as my shadow.
I’m almost glad the shop’s empty. I don’t want anyone around to see what’s going to happen. I don’t want anyone raising a fuss because I know Yuri’s the type to get violent.
We go right into my office and I shut the door behind me.
“My little bitch is in a whole mess of trouble.”
I’m not surprised.
“What do you want, Yuri?”
“It’s not what I want. If it was, I’d fuck you bloody and use your tears for lube. This is about what he wants. Vladimir had a chat with your father this morning. He decided that we’re going to make use of some of your space.”
Every few words, he takes a step closer to me and I take a step backward.
I’m against the wall and he is right in my face and I can smell what he ate for breakfast this morning.
“If this is about being short on the payment, I can talk to some of my friend and I can come up with the difference.”
He shakes his head and puts one of his grubby fingers on my lips, then presses harder, trying to jam it right into my mouth.
The creep probably wants me to suck on it.
I hold my jaw shut.
“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing you can say. The decision’s already been made. You’re going to clear out some space in your back stockroom, and we’re going to keep a few things here. Then, at some later point, someone will come along to pick them up and you’ll hand them over. Got it?”
I force myself to nod. I can’t open my mouth to talk, because the second I do, he’ll be at me again.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Now.”
He drags me out of my office, through the back of the store, to our stock room.
Our stock room isn’t big. It doesn’t need to be. There’s a few racks of steel shelving for extras on our hot sellers, and another few racks for some extra lumber and the few in-house power tools we use to cut wood for special orders. A roll-up door leads out onto our small concrete loading bay.
“Open the door. I’m going to bring the van around. You clear a couple shelves.”
The work goes by quickly, and I’m halfway done by the time Yuri’s even got the van in our loading dock.
He watches me, smile on his face, as I move box after box.
Once the shelves are clear, he opens the van, and jerks his head towards a few bulky-looking crates sitting on the floor of the van.
“Get to work, princess. Bring them in.”
He doesn’t lift a finger whil
e I break my back unloading the van.
“Be careful with those,” he says. “That’s valuable stuff you got there. Worth more than your pathetic little life.”
Every time I bend to pick up a new crate, he cracks me on the ass and tells me to work harder. Every time I grunt to heft one of the crates onto the shelf, he tells me how sexy I sound and how he hopes I’ll make those same noises when he fucks me.
If I falter, he reminds me of what will happen to me if I drop a box.
When I’m done, I feel less than human.
I’m just a thing for them to use.
“You can go now,” I say.
I turn my head down.
Hot tears are burning at the corners of my eyes, but I’m not going to let him see them.
He chuckles.
“Until next time, sweetheart,” he says, leering at me.
I can feel him eye-fucking me.
I stay like that, frozen, until I hear his van start up and drive away.
As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I turn and leave, slamming the door behind me and storming into my office.
Chapter Nine
Luca
“Sweetheart, is your boss Jose around? Go get him for us, will ya?”
My ears perk up and I pause outside the Men’s locker room.
Is this why she called me up here? For these two clowns?
“Mr. Reyes is busy, you’ll have to wait.”
Her voice is straight deadpan.
Anyone with sense would know they’re just a mis-step away from a very bad time.
Fat, heavy fingers beat an irritating rhythm on the front desk. It sounds like someone playing the drums with a set of sausages. A grating, brash voice speaks up.
“Maybe you didn’t understand my partner. This is important. You know, things could get pretty bad around here if we don’t speak to Mr. Reyes right now. He should be expecting us.”
I keep listening, waiting to hear the sound of snapping bones and cries for mercy once Ana Maria’s decided she’s had enough of these two assholes.
“One second, sir. I’ll try the office.”
There’s a pause, and then: “Sir, he’s not picking up. Have a seat, please?”