Chapter Seven
When Laurel descended the metal steps to the gym on Saturday night, the smell left her dizzy. Enjoyably so.
She found Flynn still dressed in street clothes, talking to the same young ref from the week before, demonstrating some combinations in the air between them. She walked over, waved as she caught Flynn’s eye. He gave the kid a clap on the shoulder and he and Laurel were left alone.
“Hey there, sub shop girl. You’re early. It’s barely seven-thirty.”
“Both my buses came really quick.” Technically true, though more accurately she’d left early, wanting the pre-fight time to hang out with Flynn, to see how he changed from the start of the evening to the end. And to be seen with him.
“Well, make yourself useful,” he said. “Come on.”
He led her to a metal rack loaded with free weights, grabbing one in each hand and nodding to indicate she should do the same. She selected a smaller pair, fifteen pounds apiece, and followed Flynn, shuffling behind him into a side room cluttered with workout equipment. They steadily emptied the rack of dumbbells then carried it to the room, shutting and locking the door.
“They should really just put wheels on that thing.”
“Want to get the beer station set up?” He pointed to the folding table leaning against the far wall, plastic bags of Solo cups and a keg sitting beside it.
Laurel got busy, pleased to be a part of the evening, a part of the gym. Part of some secret, shady club, so much more interesting than her own life lately. Once done, she wandered to where Flynn was chatting with another fighter, a stocky guy already dressed in shorts.
“I can’t lift the keg by myself,” she said and offered a little wave to the other man.
“Laurel, Jared, Jared, Laurel,” Flynn said, and they shook hands before Flynn walked to the beer table with her, hefting the keg while Laurel basked in the glow of having been introduced, of being someone worth introducing.
“That closet’s full of folding chairs,” Flynn said, nodding to a corner. “You want to stack about twenty of them against that bare wall?”
“I don’t see you doing much work for this boxing co-op,” she teased.
His brows rose. “The minute you start gettin’ punched in the face for everybody’s entertainment, I’ll quit bossin’ you around.”
She stepped close. “I like when you boss me around.”
He smirked. “Then you just keep up the bitching and you’ll get what you like.”
She headed to the closet so he wouldn’t see how broad her grin grew. By the time she finished arranging chairs Flynn had disappeared and come back changed, same T-shirt but wearing track pants again, and running shoes. People were trickling in, boxers warming up. Flynn grabbed two chairs and carried them to his little corner. He and Laurel sat side by side in comfortable silence, watching as everyone’s excitement primed.
“Which is better,” she asked, “Friday or Saturday?”
“Saturday. More folks come, and that’s the night when the virgins—the first-timers—get to step in. Friday night’s just for regulars, and newcomers only get to watch. The energy’s way better on Saturdays. Fresh blood.”
She laughed. “How old were you when you first fought?”
“Here?” He squinted into the middle distance, thinking. “Maybe twenty-four.”
“What about the first time you ever fought somebody else, anywhere?”
He frowned. “Shit, I dunno. When I was six?”
“Wow, aggro much?”
“You ever been in a fight?” he asked.
“Not a real one… But I did get detention for kicking Shelly Walker in the butt with my muddy boot when I was in sixth grade.”
Flynn laughed. “What’d she do to deserve it?”
“I think she badmouthed Joey McIntyre or something. I was a hardcore New Kids fan.”
He snorted. “I hope it was worth it.”
“Oh yes. Nobody puts Joey Mac down and gets away with it.”
“You’re a passionate woman, sub shop girl. Your parents give you hell for it?”
Laurel worked hard to keep her smile from drooping too noticeably. “Nah, they didn’t care.” She was relieved when the fights kicked off. Two guys in their twenties climbed into the ring, one tall, one not so much, both pretty slender and ropey.
“Are either of these guys newcomers?” she asked Flynn.
“Guy in the red shorts is a virgin. He’ll win though.”
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“Because the other guy’s scared.”
“He doesn’t look scared.”
“Watch how much he swallows and blinks,” Flynn said, “and how tight he’s got his shoulders.”
She studied the man a moment. “Huh. Okay, yeah, I see it.”
“Plus he didn’t even warm up. When a young guy doesn’t warm up, it’s because he’s already decided he’s going to lose, so he doesn’t try. Like if he tries and loses, it’s worse than just saying ‘fuck it’ and pretending he doesn’t care what happens. Fuckin’ pathetic.”
“Do you hate quitters as much as you hate impatient people?”
Flynn smiled. “I try to hate everybody equally.”
He was right about the match. The spectators made a noisy show of heckling the young fighters but the newcomer earned an easy victory and scattered, half-assed applause. The crowd multiplied as the clock crept toward nine and Flynn stood, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on top of his gym bag. Laurel gave his prep routine her full attention, ignoring the action in the ring.
She watched him winding tape around his palms and wrists. “You have no clue how manly you are, do you?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her but didn’t reply.
“Are you up next?” she asked.
“Yup.” He tossed a few punches in the air, stretched his arms and back and jogged in place.
“Who are you fighting?”
He peered around the relative darkness, still jogging. “Not sure. Never sure until you step in there. You turn up and they give you a few slots, don’t tell you who you’re up against.”
“Is there anyone you’re afraid to fight?”
Flynn stopped jogging and gave her a supremely patronizing look. “You want me to find you a dull blade so you can just hack my nuts off?”
“No, just curious. You’re not afraid of anybody?”
“Like I’d tell you if I was.” He waved an arm around the basement. “You might as well open up a vein in a tank full of sharks, talkin’ about fear around these guys.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He shrugged and Laurel sensed she’d made a faux pas, touched a nerve if not insulted him outright. She bit her lip, feeling stupid.
“Don’t look like that,” Flynn said. “You’re still getting your brains fucked out when we leave here, kiddo.”
She blushed and grinned down at her hands. She jumped as Flynn surprised her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to standing. He took her face in his cotton-wrapped hands and claimed her mouth in a deep, territorial kiss. He broke away looking mean. In the ring, the ref called a winner.
“You’re up,” she said.
He nodded and grabbed his gloves from the ground, ripping apart the Velcro straps that linked them together.
“Aren’t you supposed to wear a mouth guard?”
“This place isn’t much on rules.” Flynn tugged on his gloves. “That’s why I like it.”
She frowned. “That’s just stupid. You could get your teeth knocked out.”
He gave his neck a stretch that popped something audibly. “I hate those things. They make me feel like I’m chokin’ on something.”
“Guess I’ll never get you into a ball gag, huh?”
Flynn met the remark with a sneer. “Keep that snark up and you’ll get yourself punished, missy.”
She offered a sarcastic quaking-in-my-boots pantomime and he punched her gently on the shoulder before wandering to ringside. Laurel studied his back muscles and triceps and tried to guess if he got nervous before he boxed. She suspected not.
The ref shouted over the din. “Next fight!”
The crowd murmured, air crackling with anticipation. With bloodlust.
From the other side of the ring, Flynn’s opponent approached. They climbed up and over the ropes at the same time and Laurel felt her stomach fold in on itself.
The other man wasn’t as tall as Flynn but probably weighed a few pounds more, some of it muscle, some straight bulk. He looked about twenty-five, with bleached blond hair and dark roots and sharp, closely spaced eyes that lent him a weasely quality. They tapped gloves and backed into opposite corners. Flynn’s posture changed, shoulders hunching, feet shifting restlessly.
The ref whacked the bell with a wrench and the match was on. Flynn straightened up, dropping his guard and acting casual as the two fighters circled. The other man looked punchy and eager and took the offensive for the round, coming fast at Flynn a few times and threatening some jabs. Flynn kept himself relaxed, pulling his head back from the strikes but leaving his guard largely open. After a minute of this the crowd got impatient, as did the blond guy. The second he made a real rush, Flynn got serious. He snapped his fists up, tucked his chin low. Unlike when he’d fought the big black guy the week before, he didn’t take any hits on purpose. He dodged and blocked until the bell rang to end the round, not having thrown a single punch of his own.
Laurel met him at his corner with water.
“Thanks.” He downed half of it and handed the cup back.
“You gonna do something soon?”
“When I’m good and ready.” He offered a smug grin that heated Laurel’s insides like liquor.
The next round was much the same as the first. Flynn continued to hold back, his inactivity pissing the blond guy off as the seconds wore on—Laurel could see from the twitch of the man’s jaw that he was getting tweaked. Toward the end of the three minutes he lost his cool. He came at Flynn with his whole body, a torrent of powerful but graceless punches. Flynn blocked a couple and took a hard hook to the neck and jab to the nose, then came back with a combination that pummeled the blond guy’s chest and temple with two wet thwacks. The guy dropped to his knees for a short count, finding his feet seconds before the bell rang. Flynn knocked his gloved hands together, aiming a look at his opponent that Laurel couldn’t make out. The ref rang the bell again and both men retired grudgingly to their corners.
“’Bout time,” Laurel said as she gave him his water.
“You can’t rush a symphony like this.”
She shook her head at his grand tone, pretending to disapprove. Flynn crossed his arms on the rope and gazed down at her, so casual they might’ve been waiting on a subway platform.
You are some fucked-up kind of magical, she thought.
Flynn handed the cup back and donned his glove as the bell sounded to signal the third round. He didn’t waste the final three minutes. Laurel wondered if he had some philosophy to prove…that a good fighter only needed one round to lay another man out. Or maybe this was a big fuck-you to his opponent, letting him know he didn’t think the guy deserved a full fight’s effort. At any rate, he didn’t need the final three minutes. He needed just over two, when a terrifying right hook snapped the blond guy’s head to the side, left him staggering a few paces until he toppled, legs buckling.
The normally surly crowd offered the most enthusiastic applause Laurel had heard yet. She clapped awkwardly with the cup in one hand, eyes on the fallen man. He blinked groggily after a half a minute but didn’t make it to standing before the ref called the fight and thrust Flynn’s arm into the air. Flynn helped his opponent to his feet, rewarded with a sour look as the man yanked his arm away. They exchanged a couple words Laurel didn’t catch. Flynn ducked between the ropes and hopped heavily to the concrete floor.
“Well done,” she said, handing him the last of the water.
He raised the cup in a weary toast and drained it. They walked to the corner together and he let her blot his sweat-beaded forehead with the towel.
“Do you ever lose?” she asked.
“Not a lot, but sometimes. Few times a year, sure. I’ve been doing this since I was twelve, so I’m pretty good.” He touched his fingers to a clot of blood at one nostril, opening the flow and frowning at his red fingertips.
“Oh gross,” Laurel said, wincing. “And twelve? Really? Is that even legal? Well, I guess if karate’s legal…”
“That kid over there?” He pointed at the teenaged ref. “That used to be me. So fucking eager and hardly anybody around small enough to fight. My sister’s ex, Robbie, he managed a gym in Southie way back then. He let me hang around because he was so nuts about her, and she thought it’d keep me out of trouble.”
Laurel stared at the kid, feet at the edge of the ring, hands wrapped around the top rope, antsy as hell. “Did you ever want to fight professionally?”
“Nah. I’m too territorial to ever leave this neighborhood to go on the circuit.”
“Really?”
“I think so. Why, you plannin’ on marrying me and dragging my ass down to Providence to make babies?”
Laurel’s mouth fell open and she felt her cheeks burn. Flynn laughed at her shock and gave her a clap on the shoulder. “You’re too easy to freak out, kiddo.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. It’s cute.” He stared into the basement’s dim chaos. “Think you’d never been flirted with before.”
“Not about marriage. Not by a man who’s actively bleeding.” She scowled at him and dabbed at his nose with the towel.
“Yeah, well, it’s cute that that scares you when all the other shit I’ve done to you doesn’t. Makes my heart all fluttery.” He smirked at her. “Mrs. Laurel Flynn. Nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Part of her was flattered he wasn’t afraid to tease her about something so serious, but mostly she felt insulted. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she and Flynn wouldn’t ever go beyond regular fuckbuddies, but the fact that he could snark about marriage stung… Not that she’d been bookmarking dresses online or anything. But a bottle of conditioner to keep in his shower, maybe, some tiny symbol of her significance…? Idiot.
But she shrugged off her angst, determined to enjoy herself. So what if Flynn didn’t belong only to her? She could always ask him not to mention that he had another lover if it kept hurting.
She didn’t want it to hurt though. She wanted to not give a shit, to be as well-adjusted and relaxed about their arrangement as he was.
Laurel went through all the same motions for the rest of the evening’s matches, joking with Flynn, fetching his water when he was in the ring, clapping when he inevitably won his second and third fights, inventorying his fresh injuries. The bitterness faded and she found herself excited and happy again, happy just to be here, miles outside her comfort zone but seeming to belong somehow, among all these sweaty, battered ruffians and bloodlusting voyeurs, permanence and significance be damned.
Flynn changed back into his street clothes around twelve thirty and they left, the back door closing behind them and choking off the din of other men’s violence.
They walked to Flynn’s building without speaking and he punched the floor buttons for two and five. He made his usual stop to knock on his sister’s door then returned, a hardness to his expression.
“You okay?” Laurel asked.
“Second we get in that apartment,” Flynn muttered, “it’s on.”
“What’s on?”
The growl in his voice was all the answer she needed. “You fuckin’ know.”