Authors: JJ Knight
“Your trainer here?” Buster asks him.
“He arrives in a few days. I just wanted to get the lay of the land.”
Buster claps him on the back. “We’re glad to have you, boy. I remember when your dad would work out here.”
“Yeah, well, glad we could circle back around.” Colt’s about to turn back to the plastic, then he stops. “Give her something to strengthen her up.”
Buster crosses his arms over his chest. “You think she’s got something?”
Colt’s hazel eyes gloss over me, and I shiver.
“Yeah, I do.” Then he disappears through the doorway.
Buster stares me up and down. He runs a roughed-up hand along his shiny head. “You look like a ten-pound kettle bell will knock you over.”
I bite my lip. I don’t know what a kettle bell is. I picture a teapot with a clapper. I am so out of my element. “I can clean stuff.” I glance around. “I can help in here.”
He sniffs, and I’m reminded of the pawn shop owner from that morning. That already feels like a lifetime ago.
“Pay’s ten an hour since the minimum is going up anyway. I guess since you’re one of Colt’s, I’ll give you as many hours as you want. It’s about to get real busy once the world gets wind that he’s training here.”
I nod.
“Come back tomorrow at eight,” he says. “I’ll show you around.”
He walks back over to the workers, and I stand there a minute, dumbfounded.
I have a job.
Chapter 4
Buster’s outside the next morning, sticking the Help Wanted sign back on the window. I guess he’ll be hiring someone else too. This makes me feel better. I won’t be the only new employee.
He nods at me and opens the door. He towers over me, but he’s friendly in a teddy-bear way. “All right, Jo, let’s go over some things.”
We’re back in the lemony front room. I still half expect Grandma to show up with her rag and spray can. I wish she could.
Buster rubs his bald head. “I’ve got equipment coming in daily and no place to put it yet.” He points behind the front counter. “There’s a stack of boxes with sandbag weights in that corner. Open ’em up and organize the bags by size along one of the walls of the main room.”
He leads me to the doorway of the weight room and points. “Over there.”
I peer inside. Colt is in one corner, squatting with a bar on his shoulders. The discs on both ends are enormous and stacked deep. His thighs bulge as he prepares to stand. His eyes are squeezed shut in concentration, or pain. Or both.
Buster clears his throat. “So it’s like that? I reckon you better keep it on the down low in the gym.”
I straighten. “I’m sorry?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Buster looks disgusted. “I figured Colt would bring on his girls. But if all you’re doing is mooning over him all day, you’re not going to be much use to me.”
Oh, God. “I’m sorry. I was just—”
“I know what you are
just
.” He swears under his breath. “Move on and get those weights. Colt wants you beefed up. We’ll get you beefed up.” He stalks through the weight room and past the plastic into the new addition where we met yesterday.
I turn back around and head to the boxes. My face is on fire. He thinks I’m one of “Colt’s girls.” I don’t know what sort of girl Colt normally brings on, but I’m guessing they aren’t just to move weights around.
With a quick jerk I tear open the top box. Soft round discs filled with sand are layered inside. They say eight pounds. I lift one. Not bad, so I take four.
I cross back into the weight room, making sure I don’t look Colt’s way. His girls. Whatever. I’m grateful for the job, but not that grateful.
The wall Buster directed me to is thankfully on the opposite side of the room.
A girl sits on a red padded bench near the wall. Her elbow is propped on her knee, and she’s working a little hand weight like there’s no tomorrow. A half dozen guys are working out on Colt’s side.
I bend down to stack the eights in a nice neat pile. It’s going to be the prettiest, most organized row of sandbags ever made. I’ve spent twenty years not looking at men. I need to get back to my own personal
status Jo
, as Zero likes to call it. He doesn’t ask why I don’t date, don’t trust men. And I don’t ever say. I left all that behind three years ago, and it hasn’t caught up to me yet.
I head back for a load of ten-pound bags and take three. Not bad. I can do this.
The next box starts with fourteens. My arms are a little shaky, so I just take two. The gym has quieted down. Colt is still somewhere on the other side, lifting with a random guy.
I stagger a little by the time I’m up to the twenties. The two boxes on bottom are bigger. I have a bad feeling about how far up they are going to go. I picture Buster’s snide look. It’s a test. I won’t fail.
I think about all the crap bosses I’ve had over the years. There was Minnie, the head waitress at a diner where I got my first job clearing tables. She used to yell she was going to “box my ears” if I didn’t hustle. I was seventeen and scared to death of her. I was a real mouse in that job, scurrying around, afraid of everything.
That was one of the jobs I had to quit over a hurricane moment. It had been an ordinary shift. I left out the back and a bunch of cook staff was in the alley, smoking. They got to saying things about me. “Girl, I want your ass.” They went on, but I had to block it out so I wouldn’t blow.
When I cut through them, somebody grabbed my shoulders from behind. That’s the trigger. Always has been.
I don’t remember what all I did, but I do know I made two of them bleed out the nose. I never went back, not even for my last paycheck.
My back is screaming. I drop the weight on the floor. The sand doesn’t make much of a sound, just a light thud.
Buster moves to the doorway, arms crossed on his chest, as I open the next box. Thirty pounds each. I have to bend to pull the first one out, and for a moment, I don’t think I can lift it.
But the boss is watching, so I do, heaving it up against my belly. Sweat is starting to form across my forehead. No hoodie tomorrow, that’s for sure.
I pass in front of Buster without looking at him. It’s not so bad walking with the thirty braced on my stomach. I bend at the knees to set it down. I’m getting it.
When I cross back through, he’s gone. I grab another thirty and head back inside. Colt has moved, and he’s talking to the girl with the hand weights. I feel a zing of jealousy that almost stops me in my tracks. What the hell was that? I just met the man yesterday. I drop the sandbag and whirl around.
When I get back to the front room, Buster tosses me a T-shirt. “You have to be broiling in that hoodie.”
I catch the shirt. It’s dark blue with the Buster’s Gym logo on the front. “Thanks.”
“It’s yours. Just don’t get arrested in it.”
I stand there for a minute. I’m not sure where I’m supposed to change. “I don’t really know my way around,” I finally say.
“Right.” He waves me behind the counter, and I’m relieved to have a break from hauling sandbags. We go down the little hallway.
“Back here’s the office.” He opens the door to basically a closet with a desk in it, covered in papers. “Right here’s a clipboard to mark your hours.”
We go back in the hall. “This door is a bathroom. The girls use it.” He thumbs toward it. “You can put the shirt on in there.”
He steps back to let me by. “The men’s locker room is on the other side.”
I tense up. I hope he isn’t going to ask me to go in there while people are around.
Maybe he notices, because he says, “I’ve got a cleaning lady who handles it. She comes five nights a week.” He turns around to leave. “We’ll figure you out as we go along.”
“Thank you.” I turn the handle of the bathroom door. Compared to my other jobs, this one feels like a dream.
The bathroom’s tiny. Just a sink and a toilet in the open space. In one corner, four plastic cubes are stacked, open ends out. One has a towel and a brush in it. They probably belong to that girl out there.
I lock the door and strip off the hoodie. Beneath it I have an athletic bra, the only kind I own. It’s wide and gray, and looks like what that girl lifting weights is wearing, but she’s showing hers. I can’t imagine walking around with my belly exposed.
I turn to the mirror. My hair is a disaster. Tendrils are stuck to my flushed face. I snatch up a paper towel and wet it down. The cool against my neck is a blessed relief.
I shouldn’t dawdle. I pick up the shirt. I know before I even get it pulled down that it’s miles too tight. A groan escapes my throat as I assess the fit in the mirror. Even with the athletic bra, you can’t help but look at my chest. The barbell across the front lands square on my boobs.
Maybe I can ask for a bigger size. I fold up my hoodie and place it in one of the cubes.
Nobody’s in the hall when I come out. The front room is empty. I poke my head in the weight room to see if Buster is there. Only the girl remains. I’m not sure if I’m feeling disappointment or relief that Colt is gone.
I turn back to the front room, plucking at the shirt. I don’t know where Buster got it. I wonder if I can find them myself.
There’s another door in the hall. The handle is tight, but I manage to jerk it open.
Bingo. It’s a storage room.
I can’t find any sort of light, so I have to open the door wide. It’s chaos inside, a tangle of bands, weights, and balls. High on the walls are a couple posters of boxing matches, curled and yellowing. One of the men looks familiar, so I step a little closer. Sure enough, The Cure McClure, Colt’s father, is posing on one of them. The poster is black and white except for his bright red gloves. The match was 1983. I don’t know where The Cure was in his career then, or if Colt had even been born yet. Probably not. He doesn’t look over thirty.
It can’t be easy having a father so famous. I suddenly wonder if Colt has been successful at all. I don’t have a clue what MMA entails, how different it is from boxing. I wonder if going that direction was a good choice for Colt or if he is just defying his dad.
I glance around, but I don’t see any T-shirts or boxes that might hold them. They have to be in the office.
The gym is pretty quiet as I tiptoe over to Buster’s door. I stand beside it, trying to listen inside. I’m about to knock when I hear Colt’s voice.
And he’s yelling.
Chapter 5
I can’t imagine how intimidating Colt must be when he’s pissed off. I lean closer to the door of Buster’s office.
Colt’s voice makes the wood vibrate. “Don’t do me any favors, Buster. I’m not exactly here by choice.”
“Colt, I’m the one stuck in the awkward position.”
“Then say no. Tell him to shove it.”
“We’ve already started construction.”
“This is his idiot ego, not mine.”
“Your dad has a lot of pull around here.”
“Not with me.”
The door handle starts to turn, so I bolt back to the front counter. My back is to the hallway as Colt storms out, but I can hear his angry footsteps. He doesn’t pause but crosses to the other side and through a door that I assume is the men’s locker room.
Thankfully he didn’t see this stupid shirt on me. Maybe Buster will come out now, and I can ask him for another one. I’ve spent three years avoiding attention and now every inch of me is screaming, “Look at these!”
I take my time breaking apart the boxes I’ve emptied and stacking them against the wall. But Buster never appears. After the argument, I’m not sure I want to knock on his door to talk about my shirt problem.
I might as well finish this work. I’m down to the last package. I know those are going to be big, heavy weights. I sigh and open the last box. Forty pounds. Damn. I grasp the edge of the disc, bending over the box.
“Hey, bend your knees first.” The girl from the weight room comes up. “You’re going to hurt your back.”
She squats down. “Lift with your legs to let it rest on your chest.”
I hold on to the bag and roll it into my body. With the bulk of the weight lying against me, it’s much easier to manage. “Thanks,” I say.
“You’re going to hurt tomorrow if you’re not used to lifting.” She pulls the next forty out. “I’ll take this one.”
She leads the way to the weight room, her high ponytail swinging.
We dump the forties at the end of the line of sandbags. She stretches out a hand. “I’m Lani. I’m kinda new here.”
I shake it. “Jo. I just started.”
“Glad to see more girls around.” She heads back to the doorway. “I was about to head out, but do you want help with those?”
I don’t think Buster would like me asking his customers to do my work. “I’ve got it. Thanks for the tip.”
She nods and turns away. The room is empty for the moment, so I feel comfortable looking around. The weights are scattered everywhere. I pick up the smaller dumbbells and arrange them on a set of shelves.
Buster is back in the doorway when I look up. “A self-starter,” he says. “I like that.” He glances at my shirt. “Good fit. I’ll dig out another tomorrow so you’ll have a couple.”
I groan inside. So I will have to wear this every day. I can’t bring myself to thank him.
“I’ve still got a few more sandbags to stack,” I say.
He nods. “After that you can head out. I’ll have a list of tasks for you for tomorrow. Come back around eight.”
“Okay.” I head up to the front. It’s eerily quiet now throughout the building.
I peer into the last box. Only three to go, all fifties.
“I can do this,” I mumble, arranging my legs the way Lani told me to.
“Do what?”
I recognize the voice, the sexy rumble I felt in my chest yesterday.
I pop up and whip around. Colt stands by the front door, freshly showered, his hair damp. His eyes rove over my tight shirt, and my face grows hot.
“Just moving weights.” I gesture lamely toward the box.
He nods. He’s wearing jeans and a jacket like when I met him. His eyes sparkle with green and brown. “That’ll strengthen you up in a hurry.”
“If it doesn’t kill me first.”
He walks over. I know how upset he was a few minutes ago, but you can’t see it now.