by Mia Sosa
Everyone else is sitting cross-legged or draped across the large mats in different areas of the room. Well, this is a motley crew if ever there was one, and although I can’t pinpoint why, it feels absolutely 100 percent right to be a part of it.
I count only one other woman. Blonde, statuesque, and sporting a physique that screams “female professional wrestler,” she sits up when she sees me and gives me a shy wave. We shall be friends, I declare in my head—once I suss out whether she’s “good people,” that is.
Next to her, a wiry guy with pale skin and bloodshot eyes picks at his sneaker laces. He doesn’t look a day over eighteen. That one’s going to get hurt. He’s going to sleep through the program and miss all the safety warnings. In the farthest corner from where I’m standing, two men around my age—one white, the other black—stare at the black man’s phone, the muted sound of conversation coming from it suggesting they’re watching a video. Now, these guys fit the vision of stuntmen I had in my head: good-looking and brawny.
Kurt and Anthony enter the room, both taking matching long strides that bring them to the center of the space. The students all shuffle to their feet as though our superior officers have arrived, and for some reason, they gather behind me like we’re about to break out into the dueling dance sequence in Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” video.
“Welcome, everyone,” Kurt says. “Thank you for trusting us with your safety and your careers. My name’s Kurt Magnus, and I’ll be one of two instructors during this six-week training course.” He points to Anthony. “And this is Anthony Castillo, my lead instructor and right-hand man. Want to say a few words?”
Anthony nods at us in greeting, and then places his hands behind his back. He has yet to look at me, but I can’t help scoping him out. The drill sergeant demeanor, the way his cargo pants stretch snugly against the tops of his thighs, the way his pecs are visible underneath his T-shirt, it’s all a bit too much. I hate my new friend.
“I won’t lie, this is going to be intense,” he says, his expression serious. “Your mental and physical strength will be tested, mostly because you’ll be relying on them if you’re ever fortunate enough to find yourself on a production set.”
Finally, he acknowledges me with a quick scan from my head to my sneaker-clad feet. “If at any point you decide the course is too challenging, though, just let us know. There’s no shame in realizing this isn’t for you.”
Oh, is that a dig directed at me? It’s a timely reminder that in this class, he’s not my friend. And from now on, I’ll address him as Mr. Castillo in here.
Mr. Castillo—shit, I can’t do it in my head, though. Thinking of him that way is too weird. Anthony continues to recite his opening spiel. “The course will cover a number of dynamic stunts that make up a stunt person’s bag of skills: high falls, the air ram, ratchet work, combat, martial arts, stair falls, climbing, and more. We’ll go over each skill in detail, and you’ll be gaining hands-on experience performing each of them. Sometimes we’ll work in groups, other times in teams or one-on-one. It all depends on how you do and the skill in question.”
Kurt taps Anthony on the arm. “Why don’t we get in a round of introductions before we go further.”
Anthony shakes his head as though the notion of introducing ourselves never occurred to him. “Oh, sure. Let’s do that.”
We fan out in a semicircle so we can see each other, and then Anthony points at the human wall of graffiti. “Why don’t we start with you.”
“My name’s Dexter,” my tattooed classmate says in the raspiest voice I’ve ever heard. “When I’m not doing this, I’m a school custodian.”
Dammit. I was hoping his name was Richard or Bartholomew, but no luck. He’s a serial killer, for sure. “Dexter, any chance you knit?” I ask.
He smiles, displaying an entire bottom row of gold teeth and an upper row of white teeth that are frighteningly perfect. “No, but I can make you a friendship bracelet.”
“Seriously?”
He points at his wrist, and yes, what I thought was a bunch of rags tied around it is a set of friendship bracelets. “My favorite colors are blue and gray,” I tell him. “I’ll expect my bracelet next week.”
Dexter gives me a toothy smile. “Consider it done.”
“Are you two finished?” Anthony asks, his expression stern.
I bite the inside of my cheek before I respond. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Castillo.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow, and so do mine. What I wouldn’t do for the power to ricochet bullets off my chest and at his head. Spoilsport.
“Would you like to go next?” he asks me.
I curtsy and give him a wide smile. “Oh, sure, I’m Eva. I’m new to LA, and I’m a fitness instructor.”
“A black belt in tae kwon do, too,” Anthony adds.
I grimace at him. “Yeah. That. But it’s been a while.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.
Oh snap, is someone getting sassy with me? I gesture like a cat scratching at him. “Meow.”
I catch his smile before he spins around to hide it.
Turning to the other woman in the class, he says, “And you?”
“I’m Megan. I’m a public school teacher.”
Whoa. I was way off.
“Also a lesbian,” Megan adds.
Anthony steps forward. “You don’t need to give us that much detail about your personal life—”
“With these two in the class,” she says, pointing at the burly guys joined at the hip, “yes, I do.”
I love her. It’s that simple. And I’m relieved I won’t be the only woman or black person in the class. I mean, it’s not a position I’m unfamiliar with, but being “the only one” in a group setting can be exhausting and uncomfortable. Given that the class will already tax me physically and mentally, I’d prefer not to add that particular headache to the mix.
We continue going around the room. Thin guy is Wills, black brawny guy (Frick) is Damian, and white brawny guy (Frack) is Brett. Frick and Frack are in love with themselves and also nurturing a bromance. Wills is in a goth phase, I think.
Anthony circles the group as he speaks. “We have several assistants you’ll meet soon. They’ll work with you on specific stretches geared toward the skills you’re learning. They’ll also help us with simulation exercises. Before we get to anything else, though, we need to adjust your expectations.”
“You might want to sit down for this,” Kurt says. “Today’s all about giving you an overview and showing you the equipment.”
We drop onto the mats, Dexter taking the spot closest to me. Megan gives him a sharp look, as though he’s displaced her as my new buddy, and given that he makes friendship bracelets, it’s safe to say he has.
Anthony’s pacing now, his long stride taking him across the room quickly. “Stunt performing is not an easy profession. It’s not for thrill seekers, daredevils or risk takers. In fact, those types of people are exactly who we don’t want to train. It’s a dangerous business, and there are safer ways to make a living. Speaking of pay, it’s not guaranteed. Yes, you can make a quick thousand for a day’s work, but it isn’t steady income, and when it’s really good pay, they’re probably asking you to literally set yourself on fire.”
So why does he do it? Does he truly love it, or was this what he fell into because he was looking to do more? Each time I see him, he piques my curiosity. Also, I have zero interest in setting myself on fire.
“Let’s talk about attire,” he continues. “Everyone should wear long pants. Otherwise, those cuts and scrapes will take a toll on your knees and legs. No jeans, though. And your shirts should be comfortable but not too loose. We don’t want your clothing to snag on anything and trip you up. No jewelry, either. And sneakers are a must. Any questions on that?”
“Are tennis shoes okay?” I ask.
“Tennis shoes are good, too.”
Finally, he cracks a smile, and an annoying flutter—strikingly similar to the one I fe
lt when he said he wholeheartedly enjoyed my company after the festival—dances across my belly. Maybe I need to get that checked out, but otherwise I have no concerns about how we’re interacting. I’m already handling Anthony—just as I said I would. Not sure what Tori was so worried about.
Chapter Fifteen
Anthony
“So, what do you think of this group?” Kurt asks at the end of our first session.
The new trainees are standing around getting to know one another, while Kurt and I talk in the corner of the warehouse. “Feeling good about the different skill sets they bring to the table.” I point my chin in Damian and Brett’s direction. “We’re going to need to separate those two middle schoolers, though.”
Kurt laughs. “I have no doubt you’ll keep them in line.” Then he slaps me on the back. “I’m going to head out. You’ll lock up?”
“Of course.”
My gaze immediately falls on Eva, who’s talking with her entire body—animated as usual and using her mouth, hands, and eyes to convey what she wants to say. Before I can glance away and act like I’m scanning the group, she spots me staring at her and gestures for me to join them.
The trainees disperse as I walk over, like I’m a school principal clearing the halls of loitering students.
“What’s up?” I ask when I reach her.
She clasps her hands in front of her and makes a pleading motion, her face contorted in fake agony. “Would you mind giving me a ride home? I don’t think I can brave the Metro bus after the trauma of this evening’s commute. Please?”
Begging isn’t necessary, not when we live so close to each other. I’ll even take her home after each class if that’s what she wants. “Sure, let me grab my stuff from the office. I’ll be ready in a few.”
She collapses onto a side chair and closes her eyes. “I’ll wait here.”
“Can’t hang?”
She opens one eye. “On the contrary, my stamina is legendary.”
I’m tempted to say, So’s mine, but as of today she’s a trainee, and I should lay off the sexual innuendo for the foreseeable future. Problem is, Eva and I appear to have taken an AP course in Sexual Innuendo as a Second Language—and we both aced it. Instead, I adopt the safest approach and pretend not to hear her.
After grabbing my bag and shutting down my computer, I return to find Eva still lounging where I left her. “Ready?”
She sits up and pats her cheeks. “Ready.”
Outside, the pavement is wet, and the air is pungent with the typical city scents after a warm day and a recent rain shower—hot asphalt, roasting coffee, and weed. It’s a welcome change from the dust that fills my nostrils when I’m in the warehouse all day. The truck’s parked a few feet away from the entrance, and after I unlock it, we silently climb into the cab and fasten our seat belts.
“Do you get Sirius XM in here?”
“Yeah.”
“May I?” she asks, pointing at the radio dial.
“Do you promise to use your privileges responsibly?”
She smirks at me, already pressing a few buttons, and after scrolling through a few stations, she lands on “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire. “Now that’s the only version I recognize.”
I purse my lips, unsure what she means. “There’s another version?”
“Taylor Swift tried it,” she says, her face flat and unamused.
“Oh, that’s unfortunate.”
“You know the song?” she says, surprise in her voice.
Spanish Harlem was and still is largely a mix of African Americans, Latinx people, and Italians, with smaller African and Caribbean immigrant populations thrown in, too. “I grew up in New York. I probably heard this song at least once a year.”
“I did, too,” she says with a wistful smile. Abruptly, she pulls out her phone. “Give me a sec. I’m just going to jump online and order takeout from Grubhub so it can be delivered when I get home. I didn’t eat before class, and I’m starving.” She places an index finger over her mouth. “Shhh, don’t tell Tori, but I found a place that makes fried catfish and hush puppies almost as good as the ones my grandmother made. This app is going to be a lifesaver.”
“Hang on,” I say. “Before you do that, let me check something.”
She ate every grain of rice in her meal at the Puerto Rico Loves Cali Festival, so I know she enjoyed it. And if she thought that was good, she needs to experience Pop’s food. I send him a quick text to make sure it’s okay:
Me: Hey, Pop. Would you mind if I invited a friend to have dinner with us?
My phone starts ringing immediately. He refuses to answer texts. “Antonio, no problem. Bring him by whenever. We have plenty of food. I made piononos.”
I hold the phone away from my mouth as I speak to Eva. “Interested in a Puerto Rican home-cooked meal?”
Her eyes go wide and she nods repeatedly. “Yes. What kind of question is that?” She looks down at herself and cringes. “I’m not dressed for dinner, though.”
“It’s okay,” I mouth to her. To him, I say, “All right, Papi. We’ll be there in less than a half hour. See you soon.”
I turn on the ignition and place the car in Drive. “Get ready to meet my father.”
She claps her hands repeatedly, her bright eyes sparkling. “I can’t wait.”
And I can’t wait to see what Papi thinks of her. Knowing Eva, she’ll have a new admirer within an hour. Right now, though, I’m interested in finding out if she has any qualms about training. “So, what did you think of your first session?”
She’s distracted by the passing scenery, but I can see the corner of a smile in her profile. “As challenging as I think it’s going to be, I’m looking forward to it. Kind of feels like we’re a bunch of adults on a playground. And I think I’m going to learn some stuff that’s useful outside of stunt work. Like how to land after jumping off a platform.”
“I don’t mean to scare you, but it won’t be all fun and games. And you should expect some bumps and bruises before we’re done.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Bumps and bruises don’t scare me.”
Not a shock at all. I suspect when she sidelined me in the studio last week, she didn’t give a single thought to what would happen next. I could have responded instinctually. Knocked her to the ground and hurt her by mistake. But she just reacted, potentially placing her body in harm’s way, fearless in her effort to protect herself and kick my ass. “Does anything scare you?”
“Spiders,” she says stressing the word with a hiss. “You?”
“Snakes,” I say, doing the same.
She cringes, wrinkling her nose in a way I shouldn’t find so cute. “Oh no. Dexter’s tattoos must be terrifying for you.”
“I can handle pictures of them. Real snakes are the problem. But let’s get back to the class. You feeling good about the people in it?”
They’ll be working together, simulating combat among other things, so it helps if they get along. Each boot camp’s success depends on the group’s compatibility. I’ve never asked a trainee these questions before, but then again, I’ve never trained someone who I’ve slept or danced with before, either. Eva’s in her own category—even if it’s not in our best interests for her to lay claim to that distinction.
“Megan’s a sweetie,” she says, smiling, “and I think I’m already in love with Dexter.”
“What about Brett and Damian?”
“Frick and Frack, you mean.” Her gaze is pensive as she considers the question. “The jury’s still out on them, but I’ll tell you my verdict after I get to know them a little better. So far no alarms are going off.”
A Michael Jackson song comes on and she gets lost in the music, lifting her arms in the air and swinging her torso from side to side, her voice loud enough to drown out MJ’s. “‘Human Nature’ is one of my favorite Michael Jackson songs.”
“‘Man in the Mirror’ is mine.”
She drops her arms and draws back. “You keep surpris
ing me.”
“What? You thought I only listened to salsa and merengue?”
Covering her mouth to hide her grin, she says, “And Coldplay.” Looking out the window again, she says, “You know, I used to tell my mother a man could never be my soul mate unless he loved MJ as much as I do.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t love him at all.”
She whips her head in my direction and meets my gaze, trying valiantly to fight the smile tugging at her lips. After a few seconds, she breaks her silence, laughter in her voice when she says, “You’re such a jerk. And you’re right, that is a good thing.”
We’re so easy together, you’d think we’ve known each other for much longer than we have. I enjoy spending time with her. Enjoy her, period. She’s the kind of woman I’d love to know like the back of my hand. The person I could share inside jokes with because her brain works a lot like mine does. And if I find myself thinking about her when I’m in bed from time to time, well, I’ll shut it down as best I can. I’m not going there with her—not again. Never mind that I get an uncomfortable ache in my chest when I think about her going there with someone else.
Chapter Sixteen
The quickest way to my heart? Crack my chest open, duh. Okay, okay, food works, too.
Eva
I’m experiencing neighborhood envy. “But really, how many bakeries and cafés does one community need?”
Anthony smiles as he turns his truck onto a two-way street. “You’re one to talk. Your neighborhood’s known for a surplus of them, too. In Atwater, though, you don’t have to be a card-carrying member of the cool crowd like you do in Silver Lake. At least not yet.”
“Let’s not get snarky about my neighborhood, okay. It’s too soon for me to get into a turf war. Besides, no one’s denying Atwater’s appeal. I even thought about living here. Unluckily for me, there aren’t many apartment complexes, and I wasn’t comfortable renting a home by myself. When things go bump in the night, I need to know I can run across the hall and bang on a neighbor’s door.”