By Degrees (14 page)

“We have a possible civil suit I need input on.
 
A settlement offer’s been made.
 
Two people from the press are claiming Tarin hurt them when he grabbed their cameras and trashed them a few weeks ago.
 
They’ve made a demand and they’re threatening to sue for damages.”

“I know you’re busy, but is there any chance I could come in to see you soon to discuss all his outstanding legal issues?”

“Sure.
 
How’s tomorrow look for you?”

“One o’clock works.”

“I’ll make a space for you.
 
See you then.
 
In the meantime…”

“In the meantime, just put anyone off who calls about Tarin.
 
He’s unreachable for the immediate future.
 
We’ll come up with a plan when I see you.”

“Great.
 
I’ve heard good things about you, Ms. Barnes.
 
Glad to have you on board.”

“Call me Scarlett,” I say, finally warming to him.
 
He doesn’t sound like the man-eater I know some of his kind to be.

“Good.
 
And you can call me Nick.
 
Gotta go, see you soon.
 
Bye.”

“Bye.”
 
I give the phone back to Tarin after shutting it off.
 
“We’ll go see him tomorrow together.”

Tarin’s brought his anger down a notch or two, but it’s not gone entirely.
 
He wipes his upper lip off with the back of his hand.
 
“I’m not paying them jack shit.
 
They came after me and hit me in the face with a camera.
 
I was just defending myself.”

I put my hand on his shoulder but quickly pull it away when the heat coming through his shirt surprises me.
 
I can smell him too, so I take a step back to clear my head.
 
Talking while under the influence of Tarin would be a bad idea.
 
“Don’t worry about it now.
 
I’m not into rewarding the bad behavior of paparazzi.
 
It just encourages their bullshit.”

Tarin smiles for the first time since he flirted with me about the drugs in his pants. It’s a slow movement across his face, transforming the dark clouds that had gathered there into rays of sunshine.
 
He truly is a beautiful specimen of a man … if you like that type, which I don’t really.
 
Not anymore.

“I like you,” he says, before taking a careless swig of his juice.

His words make my heart do a flip. The look on his face probably means nothing to him, but it makes my ears burn anyway.
 
I feel like I’m developing some kind of schoolgirl crush on him and that just won’t do.
 
Not at
all
.

I press my lips together.
 
“You shouldn’t.
 
I’m about to bring you pain in the worst kind of way.
 
Liking me will only confuse you.
 
Better just stick to the hate for a little while longer.”

He’s still smiling when the juice bottle moves away from his lips.
 
It distracts me temporarily from what we were talking about.
 
I like how his eye-teeth look sharp and one of them kind of overlaps the tooth next to it.
 
His face is unique, handsome in a dangerous kind of way.
 
He’s careless and it shows everywhere, even with the way he wears his hair and how he looks around at the people nearby.
 
He’s got the world at his feet and he knows it.

This is the closest I’ve been to him, and I can see his imperfections.
 
I list them mentally so I can tally up all the reasons why he’s really not all that good-looking and definitely
 
not someone I should be paying any of
that
kind attention to.

His nose has been broken before and not perfectly set.
 
His lips are full but his mouth too easily twists into a smirk.
 
He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and the almost-black beard growing in is sparse and patchy.
 
Both of his ears are pierced with a couple holes each, but there are no earrings there.
 
His eyes are a dark green, so dark they’ve always seemed brown to me until now.
 
He’s about two months overdue for a haircut, but the unkempt look goes alarmingly well with the rest of his careless attitude.
 
Ugh.
 
I hate him for being attractive even while being ugly.

“Sounds like a challenge,” he says, pushing himself off the counter to stand more squarely in front of me.

“Nope. More like a warning.”

“I don’t scare easy.
 
I thought you knew about my reputation.”

My heart is hammering behind my ribs, making it very likely he can see it moving my shirt ever so slightly.
 
I step to the side, brushing off the silly flirting he’s trying to play at, acting like it’s all just a big joke to me, like I do this kind of thing all the time.

“Oh, I heard all right.”
 
I grab his orange juice and hold it up as I move towards Ricky and Scott at the entrance to the kitchen, walking backwards.
 
“If you have any more of these, might want to grab a couple.”
 
I spin around and leave them all standing there, taking off at a fast clip down the hallway.

Yes, I’m running away like a total chicken-shit, but it’s better than getting caught up in a game that I cannot win.
 
Tarin has me at a distinct disadvantage.
 
He’s full of himself and has nothing to lose in his mind, so it makes him bold, fearless.
 
I, on the other hand, doubt myself almost every second of the day where men are concerned, and for the last two years, I’ve had no heart left to break.
 
I’m
the one with nothing left to lose, and I’m full of fear that I’ll never have anything worthwhile in my life ever again.

Chapter Thirteen

I GREET THE OWNER OF Charlie’s Gym warmly.
 
He and I go way back.
 
I practically grew up in this neighborhood, and Charlie and my dad were friends for years before my father passed away.

“Sweet Mary, look at you,” he says, giving me a hug and then holding me out so he can see me better.
 
“All grown up.
 
Where does the time go?”

I chuck him in the shoulder, unable to hide my smile.
 
“You say that every time you see me, Charlie.”

“I only have memories of you as a little girl, that’s why.
 
Short term memory’s shot all to hell.”
 
He shifts his gaze over to the others.
 
“Who’ve you got with you this time?”

I follow his gaze.
 
Ricky looks only a little uncomfortable with the fact that we’re in a boxing gym that saw its best days about thirty years ago.
 
Tarin’s nodding his head in appreciation, most of his attention fixed on the ring near the center of the big space.
 
It warms me to think he likes Charlie’s place despite its shabby parts.
 
Hopefully, the rough-edged clientele who’ll be showing up later won’t scare him off.
 

I put my hand on Charlie’s shoulder and hold out my other towards my crew.
 
“You know Scott, of course.”
 
I remind him because it’s not a joke that his short term memory is gone.
 
He never remembers Scott.
 
Too many punches to the head as a youth has taken its toll on his brain matter.

“Nice to meet you, young man.”

Scott shakes his hand, scowling. “Come on, Charlie, you know you remember me.
 
I’ve been here hundreds of times now.”

“Nope,” Charlie says matter-of-factly, “never seen you in my life.”
 
He turns his gaze to Ricky.
 
“Who’s this big guy?
 
My next project?”

“No.
 
He’s just here for the fun.
 
Your project is Tarin.”
 
I nod my head in his direction.

Charlie shakes Ricky’s hand first and then eyes Tarin up and down.
 
“He’s pretty skinny.”

“Yes.”
 
I try to hide my smile at the frown on Tarin’s face.
 
He’s finally paying attention to what we’re talking about.

“He looks soft,” Charlie continues.

“He most definitely does,” I say, having a very difficult time not laughing my butt off.

“Hey, now!”
 
Tarin puts his right arm up and flexes his muscle.
 
It’s lean but small, and when he looks at it, he frowns again.
 
“Oh, shit.
 
What happened to all my muscles?”

“They went up in smoke,” says Ricky.
 
He looks instantly chagrined when Tarin cuts him with a sharp look.

Charlie ignores their banter.
 
“If we’re gonna do this, you gotta get him to eat.
 
I mean
eat
. None-a that La Jolla froo froo garbage.
 
Real food.
 
Meat and potatoes with two desserts minimum.
 
Six meals a day.”

“Trust me, I plan on it,” I say.
 
“So you think you can do it?”

Charlie chews on something, maybe his cud or his tongue, I don’t know.
 
I don’t
want
to know. Charlie doesn’t invest much of his income in dental care.

I know the expression on Charlie’s face well; he’s considering Tarin, his physique, his structure, his overall look.
 
He’s taking his measure.
 
Charlie’s trained more middle weight champions than anyone else in the state.
 
If he can’t get Tarin in fighting shape, no one can.

Tarin stands up straighter, his shoulders going back.
 
I’m not even sure he’s aware of the fact that he’s trying to give Charlie his best, but he is, and that makes me very happy.
 
Charlie’s routines are not like going to the local workout gym and pushing a few plates up and down on a machine.
 
Tarin’s going to need a lot of motivation for this to work.
 
I find that bringing men to a badass place like this is almost good enough to spark that flame.
 
The rest has to come from hope, lying somewhere inside the man.
 
I pray he hasn’t lost all of his.

“Where you from?” Charlie asks Tarin, as if that matters in his calculations.

“Chicago.”

“You do drugs?”

“Sometimes.”

“Gotta stop that.
 
No drugs, no alcohol, no smokes.”

“I heard.”

“Hearing and doing are two different things.
 
Don’t waste my time.
 
You willing to quit, cold turkey?”

Tarin shrugs.
 
“Sure.
 
I’m no addict.”

“Good.”
 
Charlie looks at me.
 
“I’ll give him a shot.
 
Just one.
 
He messes up, I’m done. I’m too old to play games.
 
I got people banging on my door all day to train them, but I say no to everyone.
 
Everyone but you.”
 
He sighs as he puts his rough hand on my cheek.
 
“I never could say no to you.”

I hug him to me.
 
“You’re not old.
 
And I’m glad you can’t say no to me.
 
Never say no to me, Charlie.”
 
When my dad passed on, Charlie took up the space that was suddenly there.
 
I think I did the same for him when he lost his best friend.

He pats me on the back, his voice going soft.
 
“Easy now, chickie.
 
I have a gym to run here.
 
No tears allowed.”

I back up and smile.
 
“Tears?
 
Who’s got time for tears?”

He grins back.
 
“That’s my girl.
 
You ready to throw a few?”

I nod and then look at Tarin.
 
“Oh, yeah.
 
I’m ready.”
 
A thrill goes up my spine when I see the look on Tarin’s face.
 
First he’s confused, then intrigued.
 
His expression reveals the exact moment he fully realizes what’s about to happen.
 
Challenge accepted.
 
Yeah, baby.

Charlie helps Tarin and I get into our gear, all the while giving a safety and rules briefing.
 
I’ve heard it a thousand times if I’ve heard it once.

“…And remember … when I call the match over, it’s over.
 
You throw one more punch after I ring-a-ding and you’re banned for a week, you hear me? This isn’t one-a them MMA cage matches.”
 
He’s grumbling again, never having gotten over the idea that boxing could turn into something so brutal.
 
He’s an interesting man, born and raised to fight but believing in a very strict and finite set of rules of engagement.
 
He doesn’t like change much.
 
I’m convinced his memory loss is a self-induced refusal to acknowledge that the world has changed into something he’s not comfortable with.

Tarin’s holding up his gloves and looking at them through his face pads. “These things are pretty big.”
 
He looks at me with concern. “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.
 
I’ll just give you like half-punches or something.”

Charlie snickers.
 
“I don’t recommend it.”

“But she’s a chick,” Tarin explains, as if Charlie doesn’t understand.
 
“I was raised not to hit chicks.”