Authors: JJ Knight
I think to check my pocket for my money. God, what if it flew out during the fight? But it’s there. I sigh in relief.
I can’t wait to tell Zero about Golden Boy. Maybe I can sit by the window until he comes out. Zero and I can make guesses about who he is. Where he’s from. What he’s doing in this part of town.
I imagine for a blissful second that Golden Boy will see me in the window. He’ll walk over, and we’ll have dinner like an ordinary couple. For a few minutes, I am as happy as a kid, like nothing bad has ever happened to me.
I turn to the blacked-out windows that read “Buster’s Gym.” I’ve always assumed it was a dump. The location is terrible. The wood facade is banged up and dirty. But somehow it’s good enough for Golden Boy.
Then I notice something. There’s a paper sign flapping in the corner of the window. I can’t read it because it’s taped in the middle and the wind has made it fold together.
I glance around to see if anyone is looking and walk over to it. When I spread it flat against the glass, I see the two most beautiful words ever written in the English language.
Help Wanted.
Chapter 2
Nobody’s looking, so I pull the sign down and tuck it into my front pocket.
I’m too chicken to go in yet. I want the job, but I need a pep talk.
I cross the street to the cafe. It’s late morning on a weekday, so the place is quiet. Zero is sitting on a stool, filing his nails. Even when he’s in boy clothes, he is so much prettier than me.
His face pops up when the door jingles. He sees it’s me, and a big smile spreads across his face. Zero is more than a best friend, really. He’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
“Jo, Jo, JO!” he says, each version of my name becoming more of a squeal. He always acts like my arrival is the highlight of his life. He’s pretty much the only person who does.
He doesn’t keep his drag act a secret, but he dresses like a typical boy at work. “Gender normative,” he likes to say. “Otherwise the men won’t tip, and the women want to tell me their life stories.”
Today he’s in jeans, cross-trainers, and a button-down shirt in cool blue. At first glance, you wouldn’t notice a thing. But looking closer, Zero has tells. Perfect nails, buffed and clean, ready to apply the glitter daggers he adores. Smooth caramel skin, too smooth. He did a million laser treatments.
His black hair is snipped to perfection, a clean cut that flattens well under his wig cap. I think it’s the eyebrows that give him away, though. Dramatically arched and plucked, like he’s fresh out of a beauty parlor.
He takes in my hoodie and jeans. “Doing the angry east-side look today?” He pats the seat next to him.
I perch on the green vinyl stool. The place is quiet, just two old men drinking coffee in the corner. The Help Wanted sign crackles as I spread it out on the counter.
“Where is this from?” he asks.
“The gym across the street.”
Zero looks out the window. “Huh. What you going to do there?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t gone in yet.”
He encircles my bicep with long fingers. Zero hates his hands, as they are large and manly. Despite the bulk of my sweatshirt, he can still reach all the way around. “How are you going to lift those weights and stack them up?” He lets go. “You know that’s what they’re going to have you do.”
“I thought I’d be sweeping floors. Picking up towels.” I know I should frown in distaste, but I can’t stop grinning.
Zero narrows his eyes at me. “You are way too happy to be talking about working with greasy, sweat-covered men.” He spins my stool so I face him. “What is going on?”
“I met this ... guy.”
Zero touches his cheek like he’s been slapped. “And you didn’t punch him? Or run?”
“Not this one.”
“I’ve known you what—three years?” Zero raises his perfect eyebrows like he doesn’t know the answer to that question.
I humor him. “Yep.”
“And you’ve liked how many boys?”
“You would be the only one.”
“And I’m easy.” He turns and smacks his hand on the counter. “Jerry, serve up two milkshakes, chocolate. We’re celebrating.”
The thought of food makes my head swim. I didn’t have breakfast. Or probably dinner last night.
“I’m going to bulge in my sequins tonight, but it’s worth it.” Zero presses his hands against his belly. He has the tiniest roll that bothers him. Just not enough to give up sugar. “So tell me about this boy.”
“He rides a motorcycle.”
“Dangerous. I love it.”
I pick at my jeans. “He works out at the gym.”
“Aha. Now I see the interest in the job.”
“Something about him … reminds me of my dad.”
Zero sobers. “A daddy thing. Interesting. I’m guessing that’s what makes it work.”
Jerry pushes two tall glasses at us. They’re frosty and cold, and a cherry balances on top of the swirl of chocolate.
I take a long drink, the combo of sweet and cold making me want to swoon. This crappy day keeps improving. “He pulled me out of this swarm of jerkoffs.”
Zero pauses, his mouth inches from the straw. “What are you talking about? Did somebody come after you?”
“It was outside the pawn shop. Nothing happened.”
“You were at a pawn shop?” He clutches at my wrist. “Don’t tell me you sold Grandmama’s necklace.”
I should have kept my mouth shut. “Zero, I had to.”
“I TOLD you to ask me for money. I TOLD you not to sell that.” He whips around to face the counter, like he can’t look at me. “Where is it? I’m going to go get it.”
“I’ll buy it back.” I point to the sign. “First paycheck.”
He takes a long pull on his shake, frowning. “You don’t know you’re going to get that job. You don’t know what it pays. You don’t know anything.”
“I do. I can feel it.” And I do. It’s a tingle, like something has changed. Like the world is saying,
Rock bottom is over, baby. You just made it.
Zero glances at me sideways. “You do seem like a different girl.” He turns back to me. “I tell you what. March over there with all this magic on your face. Get that job.” He reaches over to smooth back my hair. “But let me fix this mess first. You might see The Man.”
“Not before I drink this!” I pick up the cold glass and clink it against his. “To employment.”
He nods. “To better days for Jo Jo.”
Chapter 3
Unlike the pawn shop, there is no reflection in the dark door of the gym. The glass is all painted black. I have no idea what’s in there.
But I do know my hair is what Zero called “athletically fabulous.” He’s devised some loose, low ponytail with tendrils around my face.
I’m about to open the door when it pushes wide. I jump back, and the biggest man who’s ever been two feet from me stops dead.
“Sorry, miss,” he says. His voice is so teddy-bear soft that my panic slips away.
He’s monstrous, filling the whole doorframe. His shoulders are wide enough that I could fit my apartment between them.
He holds the door open for me like I’m a princess rather than a pauper. I nod my thanks and scoot inside.
It’s dim, but the smell is so familiar that it’s like stepping into my past. It’s lemony, like the spray polish my grandma would use on the furniture in her house when I was a kid. The floors are shiny, and everything seems freshly scrubbed.
It’s like Grandma’s been here. Like she prepared it just for me.
I glance at the ceiling, as though she might be watching. Then I steady myself with a deep breath. To the right is a small counter. Nobody’s behind it. I’m in a front room, but it opens into a bigger one filled with benches and weights. The clang of metal filters through the doorway.
There’s a hallway behind the counter with a couple small doors. Could be offices. Could be a locker room. I can’t imagine walking in on a bunch of half-naked men. I’d probably collapse into a puddle of mortified shock.
It’s why I live alone. I’m private. I want everyone else to be private too. Guys who work out here are probably a bunch of strutters.
This is suddenly very obviously a super-bad idea.
I whip around to leave when I crash into a solid mass of naked chest. My legs are already melting into that puddle I predicted when a pair of seriously tricked-out arms catch me. I look up.
It’s Golden Boy.
I realize I haven’t breathed for a few seconds too long and suck in a great gulp of air. I’m crushed against the heat of his skin, and he doesn’t smell anything like Grandma’s house. Woodsy. Like pine needles and sunshine.
“We meet again.” His words rumble through me. I think I hear him more with my body than my ears.
I try to find my voice, but it’s buried somewhere beneath the air I’m sucking in. The moment’s about to end. I can feel him pulling away. It’s like peeling a Band-Aid off too slow.
He lets go. “Did you need me for something?”
I step back and the Help Wanted sign flutters to the floor. He bends over to pick it up. I see down his naked back. Wide shoulders taper to the waist of his blue workout shorts. An intricate tattoo curls across his skin. I can’t breathe.
He straightens and hands the paper back. “You going to take a job here?”
I’m willing my voice to work. “Maybe,” I manage to say.
“Let me call Buster over.”
“Buster?”
He grins at me. “It’s Buster’s Gym.”
“You know him?”
He sighs. “Apparently I’m his new project.”
I don’t know what he means. I hang on to the paper like a lifeline while he steps up to the doorway of the weight room. When his arms are down, the tattoo on his back matches up seamlessly with one encircling his bicep.
His legs are tan and hairy and lean. His calf muscle bulges as he pivots, looking around. I’ve never inspected a man as closely as this. I’ve never wanted to.
“He must be in the addition,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you back.”
“Are—are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He waves me forward. “Buster is hiring several new people with the expansion. It’s my fault.”
Again I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I follow him. Inside the weight room, a half-dozen men and a couple girls are grunting and straining with barbells and stretchy bands. I keep my eyes on the concrete floor, cracked but shiny. The place is clean at least. I wonder if it will be my job to keep it that way. Maybe I can work after-hours, when nobody’s around.
In the far corner, a man punches at a big red bag while a tiny older guy holds it. “Give it more, give it more,” the guy says, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. “What sort of pussy are you?”
One of the girls slams a gigantic weight to the ground. “Stop with the pussy bullshit.”
The old guy waves her off. “Right, fine, sorry.”
The girl is placated and rolls another giant wheel from a rack.
I’ve never been any place like this before.
A sheet of plastic covers a gaping hole in the back wall. Golden Boy lifts a corner and peers through. “Buster back here?” he calls out.
He turns back to me. I kinda wish he’d put on a shirt, and kinda don’t. I’m all off balance. This isn’t how I pictured this going at all.
He ducks under the plastic and holds it up for me. Two acts of chivalry in ten minutes. Boys here are nice, not threatening. It’s like I’m in another world.
The new room is a disaster. Plaster falls from the walls. The floor is covered in dust and scattered lumber. Two men in overalls are talking to a bald guy in a shirt that reads “Buster’s Gym” on the back. I’m assuming that’s Buster himself.
I stand beside Golden Boy, still holding the sign. I’d shove it in my pocket, but now I think they will need it again. Plus he knows I have it.
“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Golden Boy says.
“What are they doing?”
“Building a practice ring.”
“For boxing?”
“Technically it’ll be an MMA cage.”
I don’t know what that is. I’m pretty sure I am too ignorant for the job. But if it’s just cleaning floors, I can do that. I’m not proud. Pride got me in all the trouble before.
I try not to stare at his chest. His eyes are up
there
. But he’s looking out over the mess. He can’t see my wandering gaze, so I linger.
His words start to penetrate as I tear myself away from his pectorals. “Wait,” I say. “How is this your fault?”
Golden Boy huffs, like it’s an annoyance. “I’m here by order of my father. He’s like a king to these people. They are expanding to accommodate me.”
“Should I know your father?”
He looks down at me, amused. “I guess we were never really introduced.” He smacks his fist against his chest in an imitation of Tarzan. “I’m Colt McClure. My dad is—”
“The Cure McClure,” I finish. I watch enough television to know that. “Boxing champion.”
“That’s him.”
I don’t remember anything about a son. “So, you box too, then?”
He looks amused. “I’m UFC. Big disappointment to Pops.” He glances over, sees my confusion. “UFC is the big promotion company for MMA.” He smiles, finally realizing I know nothing. “Mixed martial arts. It’s a fighting style.”
“But not boxing. He wanted you to box.”
“Dads always want their sons to take over the family business.”
I picture a glove smashing into Colt’s perfect face and wince.
“That’s how I feel about it too.”
“How are you a disappointment?”
He laughs. “I keep losing.”
The men turn around and notice us standing there.
“Buster, I’ve got someone for you,” Colt says.
Buster spreads his arms wide like he’s reuniting with an old friend. “Colt ‘Gunner’ McClure! You’re darkening my door finally.”
The two men embrace, Buster’s shiny head barely grazing Colt’s chin. “We’re getting your ring built. Your dad was very precise.”
“I bet.” Colt gestures to me. “I know you’re having to hire on some help. This here is—” We both realize that I haven’t told him my name.
“Jo Jones,” I cut in.
Buster finally takes a good look at me. “What you got in mind for this girl?”
Colt shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll figure out something.” He turns back to me. “I leave you in very competent hands.”
I realize he’s taking off and panic shoots through my chest.