Protect & Serve(113)

“No! Go see him! You have to go talk to him, Bria.”

“I can’t.”

“But you have to,” she pleaded. “What if he was really interested in you? We were just talking about this. It’s the perfect chance to do something that will take your mind off of Kevin.”

“I don’t know, I’m not the kind of girl who chases after guys like that. It’s not really my style.”

“What is your style,” she asked, pointedly.

“I have to go to work,” I sighed. “See you later?”

“Of course,” she said. “But you better at least think about it.”





8





Luke





Whack! Whack! Thump!

I swear, the sound of gloved hands destroying a 100 pound punching bag was enough to jack my testosterone through the roof.

“Let’s go, Luke. One-two, one-two-three. Throw your combinations!” Jimmy barked. “Push hard! You’re almost done.”

I unloaded two more left hands and a high kick that let off a window-shaking thud.

“That’s the way to do it, Kid!” Jimmy was in his late fifties and had been training boxers his whole life. He brought me into his gym when I was a kid and taught me everything he knew about the fight business. When I hit it big, I flew him out to Atlas City and gave him a job as my top striking coach. He loved every minute out here.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I said, swiping a bead of sweat from the end of my nose. “No matter how big I get, it doesn’t stop you from torturing me in the gym.”

‘That’s right, Kid. That’s why you’re gonna beat Simmons, too. Not only are you the most skilled, but you’re gonna be in the best shape.”

“Not to mention the best looking, too, right?”

“Shit, Luke, you might wanna ask one of these young gals runnin’ around here that question, not me.” He wrapped the nylon string around his stopwatch then clapped a big hand on my back. “But, yeah, I bet your face wouldn’t look too bad on a Wheaties box one day.”

Jimmy rolled his shoulders the way all old boxers do, and made off for the locker room. I surveyed my gym to see just who was left.

Other than a pair of new guys working on grappling techniques in the corner, there were only a handful of girls hanging around the entrance. That’s where they always waited at the end of the day. They just wanted a chance to take a shot at me as I walked out.

It was the usual mix. Some tall and leggy, others short and stacked. They all seemed to have some sort of blond or colored streaks in their hair. I guess creativity is at a bit of a premium these days…

On the way to the showers, one of the shorter girls called out to me. “Hey Luke, you need any help soaping things up in the shower?” They all giggled.

I stopped to eyeball her. She was about 5’1” with dark, loosely curled hair that almost reached her ass. It was thick, shiny hair that seemed almost silky. She wore that all-to-familiar pouty expression on her face.

“How about we go back there together?” she suggested.

“Not today, ladies, sorry.”

They all booed and whined at me in that playful and immature way those kinds of girls do.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t you like us,” one said.

Another one yelled, “My friend and I could go back there and give you a massage.” She poked her hip out to bump another girl forward.

“Yeah,” said the friend. “She could get your back and I could take care of the front.”

They all exploded in laughter. I didn’t break stride. Instead, I beamed a confident smile and slipped into the locker room.

My gym bag was vibrating.

Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.

Shit, I bet it’s that promoter again.

I snatched my phone from the side pocket. Don Buting. Yep, one slimy promoter coming up.

“Yeah?” I answered, indignantly.

“Luke, it’s Don. How ya doing man?”

“Wondering why you’re calling me Don,” I said. “You know my rate. Unless you’re ready to write a check we don’t have any business to discuss.”

“Easy, easy,” he said. I could almost imagine him holding his hands out in the over-exaggerated way that he had. “I think I have something that might work for you.”

“I’m listening,” I said. My thumb danced around the ‘end’ button.

“Simmons is willing to give you the majority of the gate. He said you can take the thirty-five percent and he’ll get fifteen. He wants to make this thing happen.”

“And my contract purse?” I asked.

“I can do a million. That’s what you want right?”

“It’s a million-five, now,” I said. “That’s the tax you’re going to pay for disrespecting me last week.”