Dances with Monsters(9)

The blowing fans and the recently fixed air conditioning immediately raised goosebumps on his bare arms. He only wore a black TapouT T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and baggy gray sweats, the laces of his shoes untied as he shuffled out toward the small cluster of bodies near the punching bags. He couldn't see what was going on; it didn't look like anyone was throwing any punches, at least not yet. He didn't want to get involved unless physical violence actually occurred. When it came to words, they were all grown men; let them handle their own hurt feelings. He had a zero-tolerance attitude when it came to violence towards each other outside the ring; he hated bullies.

The group of guys had their backs to him, so he leaned inconspicuously against a corner post of the ring in the middle of the room, flipping his baseball cap around so it sat loosely on his head with the brim flipped to the back. He folded his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his biceps as he cocked his head, trying to listen to what they were saying. From what he could tell, it was Mikey, Charlie and Jimmy. He couldn't remember their last names but each of them had sparred with him at least once, sometimes twice.

"You always walk around in here like you got a little fuckin' attitude problem or something!" Jimmy was yelling, his voice heavily East Coast.

"Yeah, you think you're better than us or somethin'?" Charlie shouted.

"Charlie, chill," Mikey laughed. His accent was distinctly Bostonian. "He probably has this attitude walkin' around here 'cause all his body mass is in his dick and it's bigger than yours."

"Shut the fuck up, Mikey," Jimmy shot back, before turning back to the object of his wrath, which was concealed from Heath's view by his and his pals' huge, overdeveloped forms. "Listen, you little fuck, this is a family atmosphere in here and we're all supposed to get along. You're throwin' all kinds of negative vibes and shit around in the air and stirrin' things up. And I personally don't like the way you fuckin' think you're too good to speak to anyone in here!" His hand flew out in a push, and Heath straightened up when he heard a little answering grunt.

"He's too good to talk to you now, Mike," Charlie laughed.

Heath instantly knew who was on the receiving end of the abuse. That poor kid, that Carnevale. He knew this was at least the second time he'd gotten picked on, probably by these same three assholes. He remembered a few weeks ago seeing the kid actually flee from the gym. Heath had tried calling out after him, but Carnevale just kept running. He hated to see it and hated even more he hadn't been able to do anything about it, having not seen who it was that had harassed him in the first place. And he'd tried to approach Carnevale a couple different times since it had happened, only to have the kid turn his back and quickly walk away. Now, though, was his chance to redeem himself and make sure these fuckers left the little kid alone.

He took one step toward the group when he suddenly saw a small hard fist fly out, knocking Mikey right in the face. Mikey's head snapped back sharply as he shouted in pain. Heath was amazed at the sight of blood gushing from his nose. The kid's head was down, chin tucked, his fists up next to his face in a tight guard. His eyes were shielded by the brim of his Yankees cap. He was tense, probably waiting to see who would make the next move.

"Now, that wasn't very fuckin' nice!" Jimmy bellowed, stepping closer. Heath broke into a shagging run, but it wasn't quite fast enough. He heard a ripping sound pierce the air and came to an abrupt stop. For a moment, he stared, unsure exactly what to make of what he was seeing.

Jimmy had grabbed the front of the kid's shirt, no doubt intending to haul him in close to deck him, and the kid had immediately pulled—jerked—away. The exertion of two hard forces in opposite directions took their toll on the only thing connecting them—the kid's T-shirt. With a rip, it tore right down the middle, and Heath's confused mind swirled as everyone, including the kid, froze.

Under the tatters of a torn T-shirt, Heath saw a flash of smooth, soft-looking, naturally tanned skin, the abdomen flat and softly muscled, not hard with ridges like a man's. Like a woman's. His eyes rose to just above the exposed stomach, seeing layers of tightly wrapped duct tape over what appeared to be a black sports bra.

Charlie reached out and slapped the brim of the hat from the bottom, pushing it off the kid's head as his hood fell off. The hat fell to the floor as a long, dark brown ponytail fell past the kid's shoulders. Heath's mouth fell open. What he had perceived to be a skinny teenage boy was actually a slender young woman. One who had an athletic body, but who was rather curvy too; he could see that even with the duct tape. Her T-shirt was torn open past her hip, and he could see where her waist narrowed above her low-slung sweatpants before softly curving out in a shape that was uniquely, utterly feminine.