to blow up sooner or later.”
“So, I guess the wedding’s off?” It’s a fair thing to ask, given that we were so hot and heavy a few minutes ago.
“Jo, don’t ask questions.”
Back to being a jerk. Fine.
I don’t have anything else to say. We sit again for a while. I spot my ponytail holder on the floor. I shiver, thinking about when Colt took my hair down, before the photographer arrived. I reach for it and tie my hair back up. This gives me the feeling that I control something.
The accordion door between the practice ring and the weight room slams open. Brittany is back, and her face is red with anger.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?” She holds up her phone. “I’ve gotten twenty messages in the past two minutes!”
I glance at Colt. “That was fast.”
He shrugs. “Gossip travels at the speed of Twitter.”
I notice with some satisfaction that her cheek is bruising where I socked her. Though I probably look worse.
Brittany stands in front of me, blonde hair falling in perfect waves. She’s still in workout clothes, and her bare foot taps the floor anxiously. “I had no idea you would move so fast.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to Colt or to me.
“Brittany, it was my fault,” Colt says. “I should have known they would hang around.”
“She’s out of here,” Brittany says. “I’ve already called Geoffrey. He’s speaking to Buster now.”
“Who’s Geoffrey?” I ask.
Colt stares at Brittany with a look so cold that I shiver. “That was underhanded.”
“I had to,” Brittany says.
“Bringing in my father was not part of the deal.” Colt is angry now. His jaw tightens.
So, Geoffrey is his father, the former heavyweight champion known to most people as The Cure McClure. He’s the reason Colt is training at this rathole in the middle of one of the poorest sections of LA. Getting back to their roots. He hopes mixing with street fighters will end Colt’s losing streak.
Brittany starts pacing. “The reporters are STILL out there. The whole nasty pack of them. I’ve called the cops, your security team, and rounded up some of the regulars here to go sweep them out.”
Colt glances at me. “We can’t have them following her. She doesn’t have security.”
“It’s being taken care of,” Brittany says. “Without your damn help.”
Buster, my boss, pokes his head through the doorway. “Jo? Can I talk to you?”
I feel like I’m reeling. I look at Colt, but he’s still glaring at Brittany.
I stand up to face whatever’s ahead. Colt reaches out to stop me.
Brittany crosses her arms in front of her belly, vindicated. “Don’t get in the way of this,” she says to Colt.
This sounds pretty bad. I shake Colt off and walk to the door. I don’t look back.
“Come with me a minute,” Buster says.
I’ve only worked at Buster’s Gym for a few weeks, but it’s already familiar. The smell of lemon cleaner and vinyl. The cold of the concrete floor. It’s like home.
The weight room is chaos. Probably everyone left their stations to watch the press conference, then again to scare off the photographers. The floor is littered with barbells and plates.
I have a feeling it’s no longer my job to straighten them up.
We take our time cutting through to the front room and back to Buster’s office. I go in ahead of him, and he closes the door.
There’s no chair for me, only the sagging seat behind his desk. He sits in it, his elbows on the pile of loose paper in front of him.
“I have to let you go,” he says.
I don’t say anything as he pulls a cracking leather binder from a drawer. Inside are pages of checks. He glances over at the clipboard where I note my hours. He scribbles on a check and rips it out.
I’m not too proud or too foolish to refuse it. I was barely paying rent before I landed this job.
“That’s all your hours, plus a little extra.” He sighs. “I had a feeling hiring a girl was a bad idea.” He rubs his eyes like
“So, I guess the wedding’s off?” It’s a fair thing to ask, given that we were so hot and heavy a few minutes ago.
“Jo, don’t ask questions.”
Back to being a jerk. Fine.
I don’t have anything else to say. We sit again for a while. I spot my ponytail holder on the floor. I shiver, thinking about when Colt took my hair down, before the photographer arrived. I reach for it and tie my hair back up. This gives me the feeling that I control something.
The accordion door between the practice ring and the weight room slams open. Brittany is back, and her face is red with anger.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?” She holds up her phone. “I’ve gotten twenty messages in the past two minutes!”
I glance at Colt. “That was fast.”
He shrugs. “Gossip travels at the speed of Twitter.”
I notice with some satisfaction that her cheek is bruising where I socked her. Though I probably look worse.
Brittany stands in front of me, blonde hair falling in perfect waves. She’s still in workout clothes, and her bare foot taps the floor anxiously. “I had no idea you would move so fast.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to Colt or to me.
“Brittany, it was my fault,” Colt says. “I should have known they would hang around.”
“She’s out of here,” Brittany says. “I’ve already called Geoffrey. He’s speaking to Buster now.”
“Who’s Geoffrey?” I ask.
Colt stares at Brittany with a look so cold that I shiver. “That was underhanded.”
“I had to,” Brittany says.
“Bringing in my father was not part of the deal.” Colt is angry now. His jaw tightens.
So, Geoffrey is his father, the former heavyweight champion known to most people as The Cure McClure. He’s the reason Colt is training at this rathole in the middle of one of the poorest sections of LA. Getting back to their roots. He hopes mixing with street fighters will end Colt’s losing streak.
Brittany starts pacing. “The reporters are STILL out there. The whole nasty pack of them. I’ve called the cops, your security team, and rounded up some of the regulars here to go sweep them out.”
Colt glances at me. “We can’t have them following her. She doesn’t have security.”
“It’s being taken care of,” Brittany says. “Without your damn help.”
Buster, my boss, pokes his head through the doorway. “Jo? Can I talk to you?”
I feel like I’m reeling. I look at Colt, but he’s still glaring at Brittany.
I stand up to face whatever’s ahead. Colt reaches out to stop me.
Brittany crosses her arms in front of her belly, vindicated. “Don’t get in the way of this,” she says to Colt.
This sounds pretty bad. I shake Colt off and walk to the door. I don’t look back.
“Come with me a minute,” Buster says.
I’ve only worked at Buster’s Gym for a few weeks, but it’s already familiar. The smell of lemon cleaner and vinyl. The cold of the concrete floor. It’s like home.
The weight room is chaos. Probably everyone left their stations to watch the press conference, then again to scare off the photographers. The floor is littered with barbells and plates.
I have a feeling it’s no longer my job to straighten them up.
We take our time cutting through to the front room and back to Buster’s office. I go in ahead of him, and he closes the door.
There’s no chair for me, only the sagging seat behind his desk. He sits in it, his elbows on the pile of loose paper in front of him.
“I have to let you go,” he says.
I don’t say anything as he pulls a cracking leather binder from a drawer. Inside are pages of checks. He glances over at the clipboard where I note my hours. He scribbles on a check and rips it out.
I’m not too proud or too foolish to refuse it. I was barely paying rent before I landed this job.
“That’s all your hours, plus a little extra.” He sighs. “I had a feeling hiring a girl was a bad idea.” He rubs his eyes like
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