Stephanie
“You sure you want to go in there?” Bryan asks for about the twentieth time in the last ten minutes.
Of course, now that we’re standing outside Reyes Boxing, I don’t blame him for asking.
The place is a total dive. Concrete, corrugated steel roof, rust everywhere, and a parking lot that looks like it needed a repaving a decade ago. I don’t even think hobos would shelter here even in the middle of a storm.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
I’m not, really, to be honest. Even less sure now that I’m actually looking at the place.
“You know, we can go back to my dojo and I can show you some moves.”
“It’s ok, Bryan. We’re here, we might as well go inside and check it out.”
“It’d be no trouble. Really. I’m here to help, Stef.”
“Let’s just take a look, alright?”
I shut the door and he gets out alongside me. I pause a second, grimacing.
I think I just stepped in gum.
At least, I hope it was gum. The possibility of what else it could be is more than a little disturbing. Working as a nurse in an ER has taught me there are plenty of disgusting, sticky, viscous substances out there. And this parking lot looks like a magnet for them.
Bryan sees my disturbed expression and he must think I’m wavering, because, for the umpteenth time today, he tries to change my mind.
“I’ve been here before, you know. It was a while back. There’s no one here but a bunch of wannabe tough guys with no technique. They’re like gorillas. A proper black belt would wipe the floor with any of them.”
I roll my eyes at him. I can’t help it. He’s my best friend in town — my only friend, actually — but when it comes to this sort of thing, about me learning to protect myself, he’s oddly defensive.
“I don’t want to go to your dojo, ok? It’s weird being around all those kids.”
“You can be a warrior at any age,” he interjects.
“Eight year olds are not frightening. I asked around and everyone says Reyes Boxing is the real deal. Besides, I doubt it would be around this long if they weren’t doing something right.”
Even though it’s disgusting, it just has that look. Like it’s a place that’s meant for fighting. Dirty, rusty, mean.
I get to the door and hesitate. Do I really want to do this? Is this really the right thing to do in my situation?
Maybe I should just call the cops. Have them get me out of the hell that I’ve been living through these last six months.
Or maybe I should just run.
My dad and I can set fire to the shop, our house, and just disappear. I’m sure we’d be safe once we got far enough south. Antarctica should do it.
But I put both of those ideas down about as quickly as they come up. If I do any of those things, it’s just as likely that I’ll wind up in jail along with the people who’ve been ruining my life. Or I’ll wind up dead.
Some homecoming this has turned out to be.
I heave a sigh and push on the door, carefully placing my hand to avoid the blood and dirt and grease that seem to be just caked all over the thing.
I think the meat locker in Rocky was a more sanitary place to work out.
Inside, it’s like a whole different world.
It’s clean.
The concrete floor isn’t cracked. There’s a spotless, clutter-free desk up front manned by a woman who looks like she eats nails for breakfast each morning and has turned this lobby into her monument to order.
“Can I help you?” she says, in a way that seems like she’s asking herself that question, too.
Can anyone here really help me?
Granted, I don’t really look like I belong here at all. I don’t have any tattoos, or scars, or that crazy glint in my eyes that says hurting people excites me in a way that isn’t healthy at all.
“Yes, I’d like to see about taking some boxing lessons.”
My voice quivers a little.
This woman — Ana Maria, according to the nametag on her shirt — is just looking at me like we’re in some pre-fight staredown. I am seriously confused. What did I do?
She blinks a second, then opens a drawer in her desk and takes out a thick manila folder. Out of it, she pulls a stack of papers and separates them into two piles.
“You and your friend there will need to fill out these release forms. Initial each section, then sign at the end.”
Bryan and I move closer to the desk and she hands each of us a pen.
I start in on the forms, but only get to the second paragraph of house rules before I have to stop.
I show her the form where I’ve underlined a section.
“Um, Ana Maria, why does it say here: ‘I will only use the punching bags for their intended purpose and will not ride, climb, cut open, or molest them in any way’?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Something happened about a year ago. They just call it ‘the incident’. It was before I started here.”
Bryan tugs and my sleeve and leans in to mumble in my ear. “We can just go hit up my dojo if you don’t want to deal with these ridiculous forms.”
“No, I want to do this, ok?” I snap back, then return to filling out the forms.
I initial the punching bag molestation section and show Ana Maria another part. “And this one?”
“Also part of ‘the incident’,” she says.
“Really? Aerial kicks off the ropes of the boxing ring?”
She nods. “Yep. It was a whole thing.”
“Is this place really a boxing gym?”
“Reyes Boxing is the best boxing gym in this part of California. Now, finish those forms and I’ll give you the rest of your things.”
I finish signing and hand them over to her and she slides them into a file folder where I’m sure they’ll never be looked at again. Then she takes out a set of keys from the top drawer of her desk.
“This is for your locker. Number’s printed on the side,” she says, handing me a key. “Ladies locker room is inside to the left. Men’s is inside to the right.”
Ana Maria turns to Bryan. “And this is for you,” she says, handing him a different set of locker keys.
“I’ll catch you inside, Stef,” he says to me. “See if you can find an open heavy bag, and we’ll start with some warm-up drills.”
“You box?” Ana Maria says, arching an eyebrow.
She doesn’t sound impressed.
Bryan nods, and as I turn away and head off to go change, I hear him say: “Among many things. I’m the top programmer for IdentaLock, too. Programming and fighting both take a lot of discipline. Fortunately for me, I have plenty.”
I shove open the door to the women’s locker room and find my locker. I start to change, I’ve got my shirt halfway up over my head and then stop dead in my tracks.
What is a man like that doing here?
What is a man doing in here at all?
To say that he’s handsome doesn’t cut it. He’s handsome, sure, but in the rugged kind of way that says that he’s at home in a boxing gym and he’s spent more than a little bit of time in the ring. I’ve had my eyes glued to him for two startled seconds and even I can see fighting’s a part of his life.
Jagged edges mark his smile, which just drips with cockiness and confidence. Tattoos decorate him, one circling his forearm like some kind of gauntlet, another wraps his bicep, dark lines conforming to the power adorning his upper arms. Some kind of writing peeks out from the opening of his shirt, letters written in some elaborate, flowing script.
There’s something about him, the way he moves, the way he holds himself, that’s like danger coiled and ready and just waiting for an excuse to unfurl.
But, handsome or not, this is the women’s locker room and he is staring right at me like all he’s waiting for is me to just say ‘yes’ and he’ll devour me. And even though part of me wants to blush at having a hot guy nearly strip me down with his piercing green eyes, the greater part of me is just confused as hell that there’s a man waiting for me in here at all.
So I do the smart thing and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“What the hell are you doing here?”