Page 4

Tina

W hen we arrive at the gym, the fighters are already in the ring. I’m a complete fish out of water here, gawking at all the people as Gramps leads me to the first available seats on the bottom row of the bleachers. Visions of being splattered with blood make me gag a little. “Isn’t there someplace further away? Like… out of the splash zone?”

“Don’t be silly, Fanny. This is perfect.”

I think I’d rather be called just about anything besides my middle name. “I don’t know how Grandma went through life being referred to as a butt.”

He actually looks surprised, like he didn’t once make the connection. That’s love for ya. “What are you talking about? It’s a cute name.” Over the loudspeaker, the referee introduces the fighters, stealing his attention away from me.

Something I learned pretty quickly is that three minutes lasts a lifetime when you’re holding your breath. Just as I’m thinking this, Dustin gets punched in the ribs so hard it knocks him off balance. I gasp, clinging to Gramps’s forearm, expecting the worst, then I notice Dustin’s grin. He’s absolutely loving this, I realize as I watch him steady himself and dance around again. “He’s crazy.”

“Crazy good, you mean.” Gramps jumps to his feet like a man ten years younger, cheering Dustin on.

There’s a lot of Dustin on display, making it hard to concentrate on the whole fight and not just my boss. Damn , he filled out nicely. I’m used to the teen version—a little sloppy, like he was always in a hurry to get where he was going. Seeing him the other day at Lemmy, dressed in a tailored shirt and slacks with his thick hair combed neatly, was impressive. But this version of Dustin, brutal, primal, and dripping with sweat, is something else. Unreal. Like an artist’s rendering of the perfect male form.

His chest heaves from his efforts. I place a hand over mine, surprised to find it in sync, like I’m right there with him for every hit and every punch.

A bell dings and both men move to opposite corners of the ring. I sag in relief, like I’m the one fighting for something. Gramps takes pity on me and points at the kids selling drinks by the entrance. I jump at the chance to walk off some of this unexpected adrenaline pumping through my veins.

The teenage girls are so busy talking about what they would do to Dustin if given the chance, they don’t notice me at first. My face burns at some of their creative suggestions. I clear my throat, and they giggle at being caught.

I’m turning with two water bottles in hand when I bump into a solid chest. My apology gets stuck in my throat when I look up and come face to face with Aldo, the man who holds my financial survival in his hands. He smells like beer and there’s a mustard stain on his shirt.

“Hello, Miss James.” His grip on my arm is firm, but I tug once and he releases me instantly.

“Aldo.” I shouldn’t be surprised to see him here. There’s probably a lot of gamblers at an event like this. Loan sharks are like ambulance chasers, waiting for people’s luck to run out. I should walk away but I’ve always been a nervous talker, and words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I got a new job.”

One side of his mouth curls in one of those “aren’t you precious?” sort of smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m vaguely aware of the bell ringing again as I stand here faced with the mess I’ve made of my life. I clear my throat. “My payments should be on time from now on.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I’d hate the alternative for you.” What? He winks like he didn’t just threaten me before walking away.

My brows are so low my forehead starts to ache. What kind of person gets pleasure out of someone else’s struggles? God, how I wish I could go back and talk some sense into past me. Why did I think borrowing money from a loan shark was a good idea? Because you were sinking in unpaid bills. Oh, right.

For a while there, it seemed like the perfect solution. The bill collectors stopped calling and the past-due letters stopped arriving. It was a relief for all of two months, until my waitress job couldn’t handle the inflated new payments. Again, Christian’s job seemed like divine intervention.

I make it to my seat in a daze, but come back to myself when the sound of fists hitting flesh sinks in. I don’t know how I can tell the difference, but I pick out Dustin’s grunts. They sound… obscene. The gym becomes unbearably hot. Heat travels from my face to between my legs and the giggling girls’ suggestions come back to me in full force. My sweater is suffocating, and I fan my face, wishing I’d worn the damn T-shirt after all.

Neither of the fighters are holding back now. There are no smirks, no teasing. They go at it hard, like they know the end for one of them is near. If I had it to spare, my money would be on Dustin. He fights like he has no limit, like he could go all night.

That line of thinking does not help the heat situation. God, what kind of stamina must he have to do this? Nope. Not going there.

I do let my mind wonder what it feels like to hit someone, though. I make a fist, picturing it connecting with Aldo’s smug face. It would be tough for him to wink with swollen eyes.

I’ve never been a violent person, but watching Dustin beat the crud out of some stranger is doing weird things to me. My skin is alive, humming and feverish. I’m busy puzzling out my reaction when, quick as lightning, Dustin strikes, delivering a solid hit into his opponent’s face. Like his treatment of me at the office, the crunch of cartilage and gush of blood should disgust me, but I’m in awe and a little turned on. Okay, a lot turned on.

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd as we all watch the other guy teeter. It’s like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room and the sheer number of people holding their breath as we wait is impressive. Once Dustin’s opponent is splayed on the mat like a bloody and bruised snow angel, everyone (me included) jumps to their feet, shouting so loud I’m surprised the roof doesn’t blow off.

The referee makes his way to the center of the ring, lifting Dustin’s arm in the air.

As if he knew where I was the whole time, Dustin’s gaze zeroes in on me.

I’d almost convinced myself that I had imagined the loathing I’d seen the other day, but here it is again, for the whole room to see. I try to be civil and smile, but it feels wrong on my face, like I’m out of practice. Dustin takes me in with one sweep, looking less than pleased with what he’s seeing.

Gramps leans close to my ear. “You should’ve worn the T-shirt.”