Mason
“Mister”—Sylvia Thomas, the Community Youth Center Director, studies a slip of paper she has pinned to a clipboard—“Mahoney?” She squints up at me through magnified glasses that make her eyes look bulbous.
“Yeah, call me Mason.”
“Mr. Mason . . .” She scribbles what I assume to be my modified name on a sticker nametag and then slaps it to my chest. “Great, follow me, and I’ll show you where you’ll be working today.”
The Community Youth Center doesn’t look anything like I thought it would. It’s sleek and modern, and judging by the smell of fresh paint and new floors, I’d say it’s recently had a major facelift. We move through a series of hallways before we come to a big open gym. As tired as I am from having to drag my ass out of bed this morning, the scent of rubber mats, sweat, and the sounds of human exertion perk me right up.
“How long have you guys been at this location, Mrs. Thomas?” I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of squeaking sneakers and kids’ voices.
She smiles back at me, pride shining in her eyes. “We’ve been here for nearly thirty years; although, you’d never guess it by looking at it. The place was a wreck until Mr. and Mrs. Slade funded the complete remodel.”
Ah, Jonah and Raven. That explains it.
The gym is filled with kids of all different ages: some as high as my thigh and others that could stand with me almost eye-to-eye. They’re grouped off according to activity. A dozen are playing volleyball, and fewer are on a half basketball court. There’s a group running sprints, some doing tumbling on a large mat, and others simply sitting on the bleachers, watching.
“The children are allowed to pick whatever it is they’re interested in. Most days they’re happy to hop around from class to class, but we do have those who choose not to participate.” Her face twists in disappointment. “This is where you’ll be.”
The large section that’s sanctioned off for MMA is top of the line. It’s padded for safety, and a small pile of gloves, hit pads, and kickboxing bags is set up in the corner.
She hands me a slip of paper. “Here’s the sign-up sheet for today.” She waves over a group from the bleachers. A few kids amble over, dragging their feet with cautious expressions. “You guys are in for a treat today. This is Mr. Mason, and he’s a professional fighter with the UFL.”
I nod to the kids and take in their wide eyes.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. Thomas grins and walks away, but turns back, snapping her fingers. “Oh, I forgot! If you need anything, you can ask Trix.”
My expression falls and my jaw goes slack. Did she say Trix? No. I must’ve imagined . . . I follow her pointing finger to a group of girls who are lined up and seem to be working through some sort of dance routine.
“She’s our veteran volunteer. Been here longer than anyone. Any questions you have, she’ll have the answer.”
And sure enough, the stripper-phone-crusher from last night comes into view. Her tiny white shorts, tan legs, and blousy tank top are conservative compared to what she had on last night. Her long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s grinning big, clapping out a count while encouraging the young girls she’s teaching.
“Have fun.”
“Great, okay.” My eyes are fixed on Trix as my mind tries to make sense of what I’m seeing.
An exotic dancer who volunteers to teach kids?
She must feel my eyes on her because she stops clapping and searches me out. Her body goes rigid when she sees me no more than ten yards away, staring. A tiny grin pulls at her lips, and her eyebrows dip in confusion.
“Mr. Mason, can you teach me how to kick someone’s butt?”
I rip my eyes from Trix and focus on the kid, who appears to be around eight years old, staring up at me. His shirt is two sizes too big, and I can see his mismatched socks through the holes in his shoes.
“What’s your name, kid?”
He flashes a mouthful of crooked and missing teeth. “Denny.”
I cross my arms at my chest. “Alright, Denny, whose butt needs kicking?”
He shifts on his feet and studies the blue mat below them. “My stepdad. He’s always tellin’ me what to do.” He wipes his nose along the length of his little forearm.
My chest tightens, and I squat down to meet Denny’s eyes. “Not sure it’s a good idea to go after your stepdad, bud, but I’ll tell you what.” I nod to his feet. “Take your shoes off, and we’ll work through some moves so that, if and only if you’re in a position to defend yourself or someone you love, you can take down a man five times your size.”
His eyes grow even bigger. “Really?”
“Really.” I push to standing and ruffle his hair. “All of you take off your shoes and socks and meet me at the kickboxing bags.”
Trix
“And that is exactly why I love coming on Sundays.” Alize, one of the teenage girls I’ve been teaching dance to for the last few months, points over her shoulder.
I don’t even have to ask who she’s talking about. I saw him earlier with Sylvia.
“That’s what I’m sayin’. What’s up with the man candy? Every Sunday it’s a different hottie.” Isabella has one hand cocked on her curvy hip, eyes focused on Mason as he works on some punching with a handful of boys.
“I think imma need some fighting lessons, girls. Shiiit.”
I muffle a laugh. “Alright, alright, that’s enough.” I wave for them to come in for a huddle. “Desi, if you use that language around Sylvia, she’ll make you run laps.”
“Miss Trixy, you know I save my best bombs just for you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I say sarcastically.
The kind of kids who show up here at the Community Youth Center are rougher than most. I’m not naïve enough to think that anything I do will change the path of their lives. I just want to give them a safe place to be themselves without judgment. God knows they’ll get enough of that outside these walls. I’ve seen what they’re capable of when they’re not being forced into a mold, when they’re given choices and their individuality is encouraged. It’s nothing short of a miracle.
“Let’s take a break, and then we’ll come back and work through the routine from the start.” We all put our hands in the middle of a huddle and yell “break.”
They move to the bleachers to grab water, but I head over to Mason. I thought we ended on okay terms last night. It seems ridiculous to be in the same room and not say hello.
“Aww, shit. Miss Trixy’s gonna make her move,” Desi yells, and the rest of the girls dissolve into giggles.
I laugh and scurry to avoid them so they won’t see the pink in my cheeks. My heart pounds a little harder the closer I get, and I convince myself it’s the girls watching me rather than Mason who my body is reacting to.
“Good job, Den!” Mason’s deep voice carries across the space between us. “Keep your hands up. Jab. Left-left-right. Good!”
I stop at the edge of the mat, not wanting to interrupt. He’s on his knees, oval pads strapped to his hands, barefoot. His simple white T-shirt and blue, knee-length exercise shorts add a sexy casualness to his shaggy blond hair. My eyes trace down the rippling muscles of his wide back as it flexes and releases while absorbing Denny’s blows.
“Yeah, bud, you got this! In ten years, you’ll be takin’ my job.”
Spurred on by Mason’s words, Denny’s face tightens in concentration, shiny with sweat, as he grunts through every punch. One and then the other, he fires his tiny fists into the pads until he drops his arms, panting.
“Alright, who’s next?” Mason rocks back to the balls of his feet and pushes to standing with a fluidity I’ve never seen on a man of his size. He turns and his eyes catch mine. They register surprise then cautious curiosity. “Trix.”
“Mason, hey.” I step onto the blue mats and cross to him. “I noticed you over here and wanted to say hi.”
He hands the pads he was holding up for Denny to Leon. “Hey, man, you mind holding these for the next guy?” Leon nods excitedly and slips on the pads. After a quick instruction from Mason, he goes down on his knees to take punches.
Mason turns his attention back to me, his towering frame seeming so much bigger now, maybe because I’m not wearing my heels.
“I’m glad you came over. I have to say”—he casts his gaze around quickly—“I didn’t take you for the volunteering type,” he whispers.
I shrug. “Eh . . . condition of my parole. It was this or pick up trash on the side of the freeway.”
His smile fades. “Parole? Really?”
“No.”
He grips his chest and shakes his head, a low chuckle rumbling from his wide chest. “Damn, I was gonna say . . . You’re full of surprises.”
I survey the gym and shrug. “I like the kids, and you know I like to dance so . . .”
“You’re training the next generation of strippers, huh?” He immediately cringes. “Sorry, that was supposed to be a joke.”
I wave him off. “Yeah, I got that. Funny.” An awkward silence builds between us, and my eyes dart everywhere to avoid getting lost in his square jaw and full lips. “So you’re one of the UFL guys. I’ve seen a few of them come through here. Cool thing you guys are doing.”
“Wish I could say I came here by choice, but our boss is a demanding ass and forces us.”
His statement stabs me with a sliver of disappointment, but I’m not completely sure why. “Give it a chance. You’ll learn to love it.”
“I can see that.” His face goes serious, and he moves in close. “Listen. I wanted to talk to you about last night, but you took off so fast. About my phone—”
“Oh, yeah”—my cheeks heat—“I feel really bad about that.”
“Don’t. I shouldn’t have blown up at you the way I did. I had just come from . . . You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He meets my eyes. “It was uncool and I’m sorry.”
“No biggie, really.” I turn to look over my shoulder at my girls, who are all staring with open mouths. “Listen, do you want to have lunch with us later?”
“Lunch?” He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t even think to bring anything.”
“That’s okay. I’ll share mine.”
He squints one eye. “Really? You’d do that?”
I lean in, and he meets me halfway, the organic scent of his skin, like cedar and honey, swirls and scrambles my senses.
I take in a deep breath and whisper, “I’m an exotic dancer, not a monster.”
Mason
I put in my hours and am technically free to leave, but instead, I’m sitting in the grass under a tree with Denny and a couple of the older boys I was working with along with Trix and three teenage girls. A slight breeze takes the edge off the Vegas summer heat, and the ground beneath us is cool enough to make the temperature comfortable.
Trix sits with her back against the tree’s trunk, her toned legs stretched out in front of her, as she digs through an insulated lunch box. I’m close to her feet, legs out, palms to the grass behind me.
“Mr. Mason said I could fight for the UFL when I grow up, Miss Trixy.” Denny digs into a brown paper bag lunch the Community Youth Center provided.
Grinning, Trix tosses me a silver juice pouch. “I don’t doubt that, Den. You’re pretty spectacular.”
The kid pulls all the food from the bag while the older kids huddle on the opposite side of the tree. “Yeah.” He chews on a bite of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “Mr. Mason said I’m a natural.”
Her eyes on the boy, her expression softens before she aims her smile at me. “I saw your moves,” she says, but doesn’t take her eyes from mine. “I think Mr. Mason’s right.” She hands me a little bag filled with carrots and rips a sandwich in half. “Here. It’s just turkey and mustard. I hope that’s okay.”
I take her proffered food, feeling like a total dick, but also not wanting to offend her by rejecting it. “Are you sure? I can wait until I leave to eat.”
“I always bring extra. The Center gives them lunch, but the older kids need more food than they provide so . . .” She pulls out three more bags of carrots and tosses them to the teenagers, who thank her. She takes a bite of her sandwich and nods. “Go ahead.”
I pop the slim yellow straw into the juice pouch and take a sip. I can’t explain what it is about these kids. I can tell just by lookin’ in their eyes that they’ve lived more life than those twice their age and most of it probably not good. Working with them for only a few hours has me feeling like absolute dog shit about my earlier attitude. Our boss is a demanding ass and forces us. God, Trix must think I’m a shallow idiot.
“Wait!” Denny holds up his hand. “We forgot to pray!”
Trix smiles and puts down her sandwich. “Right, good thinking, Den.”
Denny snags my hand and Trix’s then waits impatiently, staring between my other hand and hers. “Mr. Mason, we need to make a circle.”
Trix and I link hands, and her tiny fingers feel so soft and warm against my palm. I try not to imagine what those hands would feel like against my bare chest or wrapped around my—no, sick bastard! We’re about to pray for shit’s sake!
“Close your eyes and bow your head,” Denny commands.
I dip my chin and peek over at Trix, who is doing the same with a huge smile on her face. She pops one eye open and then rolls her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing. I squeeze her hand and fight the urge to follow suit.
“Ahem . . . Dear God, thank you for the sun and for our food. Thank you for bringing us Mr. Mason so he can teach me how to fight. And thank you for Miss Trixy, who teaches us how to pray. Amen.” Denny drops our hands and dives back into his lunch in a way that makes me wonder when the last time he ate was.
“That was a kick-butt prayer, Den.” Trix throws back a gulp of her water.
She teaches them how to pray. I study the woman at my side and mull over all I know about her.
She strips in a titty bar and doesn’t bat an eyelash at illegal drugs. She volunteers with at-risk kids and teaches them to pray.
Something doesn’t add up.