Dances with Monsters

Chapter One


The kid had been coming to the gym every night religiously for three months.

Every single night, usually around nine-thirty p.m., he would hurry into the gym, hurry to the bag, the one that was furthest away from the bustle of the gym, and get to work. He kept his head down, only focused on his task at hand, and when he was through, he wiped the bag down, pulled off his wraps, and was out the door.

He was a skinny kid, always drowning in his baggy clothes. He was short, a little pipsqueak at probably five-four, maybe five-five on a good day. Probably in his late teens, if Heath Riley was going to harbor a guess; he was small enough to suggest even younger, but there was a self-assured air about his movements that could only come with age. Rex said he remembered the kid from when he came to join, looked like a skinny baby-faced ése, he said.

He was definitely quiet; he never asked to work out or spar with Heath like everyone else did. In fact, he never sparred with anyone. He came, worked out on the bags and the weights, and went home.

Some nights he showed up earlier, around seven, but usually it was later in the evening, after nine, and he always worked out for an hour and a half at least and left. Sometimes he was even still there when Heath finished running the gym and actually locked up at night at eleven. Heath just never had the heart to interrupt him; poor kid was probably getting picked on at school and came to the gym after he did his homework or chores or whatever it was that kids in school did at night. He never talked to the kid other than to wait for him to finish up and unlock the front door so the kid could leave. The kid never talked to him, never looked at him; just came and went.

No one—Heath, Rex, or Jameson, the new guy—was really sure what the kid's name was; they didn't keep strong tabs on the clients—they didn't have to. Even with the super-influx of new business thanks to Heath's sudden and reluctant rise to fame, everyone pretty much knew each other or were quick to get to know each other. At least, all the guys spoke to each other on some level or another. This kid never talked to anyone and would shut down and back off if anyone tried to talk to him. Heath had seen Rex try to start a conversation with him, to see if he'd wanted to get trained or spar or something. The kid had literally dropped his head and turned his back on Rex, walking away even as Rex had been talking.

At first, Heath figured it really didn't matter if the kid wanted to talk or not, wanted to spar or not. He paid his $35 every month without fail. But then, he started hearing more and more about the skinny little weirdo in the corner with the bags who never spoke to anyone, and curiosity got the best of him. Going through all the records and applications of the guys in the gym, Heath deduced the kid had to be Drew Carnevale; it was the only name he didn't really recognize and couldn't immediately put a face with mentally.

Not that he'd have been able to do that—see the kid's face—anyway. The kid, Drew, always came dressed in a hoodie in some shady of gray, black or blue with the sleeves cut off, over an oversized T-shirt with sleeves that billowed down to his skinny elbows, baggy sweatpants to match the hoodie, and Nike Jordans. The large hoods on the sweatshirts he wore were always pulled up and there was always the brim of a baseball hat sticking out from under the hood, pulled down low over his face. So low, Heath didn't understand how he was able to do his bag work. He also wasn't able to understand how it was possible for the kid to work out in so many heavy layers; fifteen minutes into his own workouts and Heath was in his gym shorts and nothing else.

But despite the kid's anti-social, completely withdrawn behavior, he was a silent, skinny little beast on the bags; he moved with accuracy, precision and was lightning fast. And Heath didn't have to be on the receiving end of those punches to know they were brutal. For a skinny twig, the kid seemed to have some brute strength and skill. So much so, Heath wondered if he couldn't be profitable in some way.

He had planned to ask the kid one night if he ever seriously contemplated real training and real competing for a real purse. But as he stood by the door, leaning against the frame languidly with his hands in his pockets, waiting for Drew to finish up, the kid breezed past him, a pair of large white headphones over his hood, approximately where his ears were.

"Hey, kid," he called. "Carnevale!"

The kid just kept right on walking, heading in the general direction of the train station.

Heath shook his head and locked up his gym before heading back to the office and packing up his stuff. His gym. Heath had to chuckle a little. Who'd have thought that angry Heath Riley, discharged ex-Marine, albeit honorably, MMA star and notorious for the emotional battle against his own brother at Ultimate Warrior would be a business owner? And flourishing, to boot?