Alex
“So, this is where you run off to when you’re in a hurry to leave the office?” Chase stands at the front counter of the gym, trying to decide whether to go with black hand wraps or yellow. I quit shadow boxing and walk up to him. Jake tosses me a white, cotton towel from behind the counter. I use the corner to wipe the sweat from my forehead then sling it over my shoulder.
“Talk shit all you want. At least I’m running.” I pat his rock-hard stomach and throw him a wink. True to form, Chase lifts his shirt, revealing a hard-earned, chiseled set of abs. He’s a gym rat but definitely not a cardio guy. One look at his biceps, and it’s obvious most of his time is spent on free weights.
“Pppssshh. The only cardio I do is between the sheets. Which you’d probably get a lot more of if you weren’t so broody.”
“Broody? I’m not broody.” Fucking dick. Who says “broody” anyway?
He runs his hands across the top of my head, ruffling my hair. “Please. You’ve got that whole -I’m incredibly handsome and fit with a great job, but my heart’s been broken so stay away, ladies- vibe,” he says in a high-pitched voice, then gives my curls a tug. “And what’s up with this?”
“Back off. Chicks dig the curls. You heard the girl at the bar.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him, and he shoots me a one-finger salute.
“Oh, I guess they dig these too?” he asks, motioning his hands up and down the length of my arms, regarding my tattoos.
“If you had a few, you might get more cardio.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. You up for a challenge?”
A challenge? This could be interesting. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“Me and you. One-on-one. I win- you lose the curls. You win- I get a tattoo.”
One-on-one? He wants to spar? Does he have any idea who he’s up against? I got into the martial arts circuit when I was nine years old. I’ve been teaching kickboxing classes for the past eight years. He can’t even decide on hand wraps. And he wants to go one-on-one? I hold out my hand for us to shake on it. “Just a little heads up- The needle only hurts in the beginning.”
He bumps my shoulder and we both start laughing. I have a feeling my curls are safe for now.
Basketball. That sneaky mother fucker meant basketball. I should have known better than to think he’d make it easy. I just figured he was bluffing about not knowing anything about boxing. I haven’t played basketball since college, and even then I wasn’t very good.
Our shoes squeak and squeal against the hardwood floor of the rec center he rented. Our audience of six cheers us on as they watch the ball switch from his hands to mine, then again as it swishes through the net. We agreed to go to 21, trying not to make it too easy. Chase makes two 3-pointers right off the bat, leaving me a lot of ground to cover. After the first few shots, I lose my shirt, tossing it to the side of the court. Malone grabs it, feigning fandom as he waves it around in the air as if he’s claimed a rare prize.
Since the day I started working at Beckford, Wright, and McCoy, I’ve always thought that was just his name. It wasn’t until recently that I found out that, like me, Malone goes by his last name. Although, his reasons don’t involve having an overbearing father with the same name, a father that I refuse to be anything like. He goes by his last name because his first name is Leslie, which I’m currently mouthing at him in exaggeration. “I love you, Leslie,” I silently profess. He brings my shirt to his face and pretends to cry, a loud, obnoxious sound. Then, he pulls the sweaty material over his bald head.
“I’m never taking it off,” he yells. I laugh to myself. For a bunch of lawyers, these guys are serious dumbasses.
Just for show, I snatch the ball from Chase and take a 3-foot vertical to land a slam dunk. Then I lick my index finger and draw an imaginary tick mark in the air. Two more points for me.
“What is it now? 19-19?” I say to my opponent as the ball bounces out of bounds.
Chase rests his hands on his knees while he catches his breath. I grab the ball from Riley, another one of our senior associates who came to watch, and start to dribble. Chase comes out of nowhere, steals the ball, then does a 360 and dunks. So, not only does he have to beat me, but he’s got to make a production of the whole thing.
I run my hands through my curls, now flat and drenched in sweat, for the last time.
My hands clench the arms of the chair as the sound of clippers buzzing rings in my ears. The barber asked if I wanted to face away from the mirror. I said no. I’ll watch.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had ridiculously boyish hair, curly and chaotic. It’s always been a part of my identity. It’s helped define me, set me apart, and I wasn’t kidding when I told Chase the chicks dig it. It was like a magnet for their fingertips, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it. The last woman to run her fingers through my hair was a beautiful blonde who orders nonfat lattes without giving her name and runs from monsters in the night. I wonder what she’ll think of me now. That’s assuming I ever see her again.
I’ve been to the coffee shop where we first met, at least a dozen times over the past three weeks, hoping to find her, with her mouth poised in that sexy little “o” as she blows softly through the tiny hole in her lid. She’s never there. I run eight blocks off my normal path around my neighborhood, thinking I might bump into her. There has to be a reason she was in Brickell that night. Maybe it’s the same reason she was in a coffee shop that day. I was meant to find her. I have to see her again. I won’t stop until I do.
I’ve never used my job title to get special favors. I’ve never used it to gain access to places or things I wouldn’t otherwise be able to. But I have come within inches of walking into that hospital and demanding her files on more than one occasion. I tell myself I just want to check on her, to follow up, to make sure she’s okay. That’s a lie. What I really want is to hold her again, to see her smile, hear her voice. I want to tell her she never has to be hurt like that again. She can defend herself. I can show her how. All she has to do is let me.
I run my hand over the top of my head before I even look at the pile on the floor at my feet. The soft fuzz grazes my palm, but falls right back into place as my hand moves past. Unruly strands don’t get tangled in my fingers, stopping me halfway through. It feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. I haven’t looked up yet. I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the new me. Why the fuck did I let Chase talk me into this?
The barber pulls apart the velcro holding the apron around my neck, then shakes the extra hair onto the floor. I stand, cutting eyes at Chase, who is speechless for the first time in his life I’m sure. “Damn, dude. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a badass,” he teases with a smirk.
I turn to face the man in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. My tattoos spill from the tight sleeves of my black, v-neck tee-shirt, continuing all the way down both arms. Black athletic shorts hang loose on my hips. I narrow my eyes at the reflection. The boyish charm is gone, replaced by an intimidating man. I like this new man, the one who can call your bullshit with just a look. The minute I smile, the boy returns. The dimples are still there. The smile still warms my eyes. And I decide I like this man, too.