Tooth and Nail (4 page)

And he was watching me.

Not only was he watching me, he wasn’t bothering to be covert. But he wasn’t flirty or cute, and he wasn’t at all creepy. He looked at me like he recognized me.

No, he looked at me like he recognized something
in
me, something that was also in him.

I couldn’t break our mutual gaze. I felt like I was drowning in it, my insides turning faster and faster until I was lightheaded. He seemed to exist in his own dimension, one that only I could see, and the cars and buses and people around me faded into silence and stillness.

I wondered how many steps it was between him and myself, and envisioned darting across the street and pressing into his chest.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, as a suited man barged into my left side. I tripped over my gym bag, still on the ground, and put out a forearm, landing flat but uninjured. The man who had crashed into me stepped over me and kept walking without looking back, but rather switching his cell phone to his other ear.

I snapped my head up and waited for a taxi to pass across my vision, and when it did, the lamppost stood alone.

Hoisting myself to my feet, I shook my head—not from my crash-landing but from the sparkly fog that had enveloped me for who-knew-how-long. What was that? Who was that? Who was I?

My still-sore mouth twinged and I put a hand to my jaw before widening my eyes. Teeth. The dream. Oh, this could not be it, could it? A warning not to cheat on Avery? No. Ridiculous. I didn’t even know that guy.

But he knew me
.

No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. I was obviously delirious from pain. Or the contractors knocked some laughing gas loose in the dentist’s office, causing me to visualize a hot man across the street, as well as fantasize about having him.

Much more logical. Because I hadn’t even glanced at another man since Avery. Well, sure I had, but only to come to the conclusion that not one would measure up to my man.

I zipped up my duffel, snatched it up in one hand, and walked resolutely down K Street. I would keep walking until I arrived at my haven, my second home, and could pound out my unexpected and unwelcome frustration.

>=<

After my strange street encounter and the shock of sexuality, I was grateful to take refuge at Smiley’s Gym.

The door slammed behind me and my eyes watered once again with the reverse adjustment from bright sunlight to dim, sweaty cave. I closed my eyes for a moment to allow seamless assimilation of the rest of me.

Like I said, this was my haven, but certainly not for any kind of sanctuary-like silence. The auditory ambience of Smiley’s was multi-layered: Over the top were men shouting, cheering, slapping their palms against the mat in the ring as if the two boxers currently sparring were actually duking it out for a world championship. The second layer was the dull, solid thud-thud of gloves on one or more of the heavy bags, and the relentless cadence of the several small speed bags. Underneath it all was a breathing hum, proof that Smiley’s was alive with ambition and pride and pain, punctuated by an occasional strong, huffing exhale when a punch was thrown—or taken.

Smiley had run this place for decades—no one knew exactly how many, but an educated guess could be made by the years etched on his face, and by the yellowing and faded photos of local heroes on the walls. On the rare occasion that he actually did smile at any of us, the irony of his longtime nickname showed through the gaps where several teeth used to be.

Teeth again.

A determined weight barreled into my right side, making my eyes pop open. I stepped away from the shove, and my assailant stumbled through his own momentum, straightening up at the last minute.

“Mat,” I said, putting a hand on his bare shoulder to steady his wobbling, “it’s sad that the only way you think you can throw me down is with a dirty hit. And you can’t even do that.”

“Well, what are you doin’, sleepin’ standin’ up?” Mat asked, dodging my verbal jab and returning with his own. “Maybe you too busy at night bouncin’ the mattress to get sleep.” He grinned.

“Maybe that’s all you think about ’cause you’re not getting any.” I pinched his smooth cheek.

Mat smacked my hand away. “I’m ignorin’ that, ’cause it’s so wrong, it’s funny.”

Cuban-American, baby-faced and barely out of high school, Mat had the nerve of men twice his size and his age. Mat was not his real name. I didn’t think any of us knew what that was. Since the first day he strutted in here about eight months prior, challenging all comers and going facedown on the mat inside of thirty seconds, he’d been known as Mat. He’d since redeemed himself a bit with hard work, but his more-than-healthy ego never ceased.

I steered Mat toward a heavy bag, and slipped into the bathroom to change from jeans, short black boots and T-shirt to sports bra, black tank and gray sweat shorts. I eyed my reflection in the streaky mirror before pulling my short hair into a baby ponytail at the back of my head. I re-emerged, sat in a creaky metal folding chair, and began to wrap my hands, winding around my wrist and across my palm and between my thumb and forefinger. I opened and closed the hand, then went to work on the other one, glancing around the gym as I did.

The usual suspects were there. Sometimes I wondered whether they ever left. I lifted my chin and nodded to Shirley, who was jumping rope in the corner. He crisscrossed the rope in acknowledgment, and did a quick double-jump before reassuming the rhythm. Shirley was a nice guy. Really nice. Any time you asked for a favor—a ride to the bus stop in the rain, a dime to round out your money for the drink machine—he responded, “Surely,” his white smile striking in his dark, chiseled face. It was a good thing the girly moniker didn’t bother him, because he’d be real intimidating otherwise. This gallant gentleman was our current local amateur heavyweight champ.

Not-Rocky sat just outside the ropes of one of the two center rings, swigging a Gatorade and sweating off his sparring round. He hopped down and sidled over to me while I tugged on my gloves, and took over my seat after I slid to the floor for sixty knuckle pushups. “Yo, Brickhouse.”

Once I brought Avery in to meet the crew and see the place, and when we left, he said, “Brickhouse? You’re not—insulted by that?”

“Of course I am,” I said. “That’s what makes it stick.” I never told him that after that day, my gang referred to Avery as The Suit. That’s how I knew they approved of him.

Under the eye of Not-Rocky, I finished my pushups and rolled onto my back. He crouched in front of me and grasped my ankles for my sit-ups. “You want to go when you’re ready?” he asked.

I considered, but on my next sit-up, I noticed a bit of fresh blood clotting on his chin. Between that and the perspiration still rolling down his jaw, I guessed he was done for the day. I wouldn’t have suggested to him, though, or to any of the guys for that matter, that they ever take it easy. This gym was filled with competitors, and they’d knock themselves unconscious to prove their worth. I had competed a little myself, a few years ago, but eventually decided that putting my facial bones at risk every day wouldn’t jibe with my career ambition. I boxed now because it was in me, and I didn’t think it would ever not be. And, I suspected of myself, I boxed to keep my memories of my father from permanent escape.

But Not-Rocky and the others, they still did it for dreams.

“I’ll take a pass today,” I said with tact, feeling my stomach muscles tighten and contract with each lift of my torso.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

Not-Rocky abruptly turned and I looked over his shoulder, following his gaze to the other side of the gym.

Within these walls, punching and yelling was expected—but there came rare moments when the athletic crossed into emotional, when aggressive became violent. Maybe it was strange that it didn’t happen more, what with the testosterone levels and competing bravados, but when it did happen, we all went on high alert, ready to defend, to fight for real.

But no one would have wanted to be the one to hurt a kid. And that was who was causing this commotion.

“I said, back the
fuck
off!” he screamed again at a boxer easily twice his age and many, many pounds heavier. I raised my brows, marveling at his reckless stupidity.

The kid was Trey Sawyer, a skinny, freckled boy barely into his teens with a myopic squint and uncooperative brown curls. A boy I wouldn’t have been surprised to see amassing Boy Scout badges or mathletes trophies. A boy from whose mouth I was damn surprised to hear the word “fuck” emerge. Smiley had taken him in a couple of weeks ago, and he came in after school. Trey couldn’t punch a fixed target three feet in front of him, but no one gave him a hard time. He’d been quickly identified as one of Smiley’s charity cases: someone he was asked to keep busy or straighten out.

Back when I was his charity case, Smiley did both. I’d mouthed off and I’d acted out, but I’d learned my place, and I’d learned it was a place I wanted to be.

Looked like it was Trey’s turn.

His shouts were louder in the new silence around him. “I don’t need this!” He put his gloved fists on the bigger fighter’s chest, and shoved with all his violent might.

Jackrabbit, the recipient of the shove, put one foot back, the only indication he’d been touched at all. He didn’t move from his spot—a calm stone wall. He caught Smiley’s eye while Trey stood there breathing heavily, his twiggy arms weighed down with his gloves.

“Dumb kid,” Not-Rocky murmured.

I didn’t disagree. But something didn’t feel right.

No one moved. Trey, maybe sensing he’d gone just far enough, quieted, but his eyes were wildfire.

Smiley moved slowly but deliberately between Trey and Jackrabbit, and his back was to Not-Rocky and me. An innocent, non-boxing bystander might see the delicate skin of the back of Smiley’s neck, or the thinned, nearly transparent hair that barely whispered against his head, and assume him to be anyone weaker than he was.

Before he said a word, I caught the irony that though not one fighter in here would want to be the one taking heat, they all wanted to hear someone else taking it.

“You done?” Smiley asked.

“It’s my turn!” Trey yelled. “This is my time. There’s fifteen minutes left in my lesson and this
asshole
interrupted!”

“Hey, punk, this in’t no private school,” Jackrabbit said.

“Pipe down.” Smiley’s tone was mild. He glanced at the big guy before fixing his gaze once more on Trey. “He was letting me know I had a phone call. Jack, go take a number.”

The boxer scowled at Trey a moment before walking away to Smiley’s office, muttering, “I’m the damn secretary now?”

“He had no right!” Trey yelled again. “This is my time!”

“This is my gym,” Smiley said, advancing, and though far less imposing than any of the rest of us, he slowly backed Trey into the wall. “And,” Smiley added, “I make the decisions. I run the show. That means I’m interruptible, even if you were actually paying me for this lesson.”

Trey screwed up his face again and took a deep breath but Smiley continued. “You heard me. Your brother helped me out a few years ago and you’re the way I decided to repay the favor. But I can decide against you at any time. So change your attitude.”

“But—“

“
Change
it. Something inside you got to get out? I give you plenty of outlet here. There’s no reason for this bullshit. I’m on your side, but I’d just as well not be. I got enough guys to take care of. I don’t got to waste my free time. Lesson over. Now get the hell outta here. Come back when you’re interested in learning something.”

Smiley walked away and Trey glared after him.

The captive audience scattered, and the noise and sweating resumed.

“Well,” I said.

Not-Rocky chuckled. “Idiot kid.”

“We’ve been there,” I reminded him. “Some more recently than others.” I kept my eyes on Trey though, and watched him flatten out. He remained upright, leaning against the wall, but the nasty, hungry thing inside him had perished. He gazed straight ahead at nothing and nodded once or twice, as if now being coached by an invisible mentor. His eyes were familiar. Eerily familiar, dead eyes.

“Sure you don’t want to go?” Not-Rocky asked me, and I peeled my stare off Trey to focus on my buddy.

“Nah, thanks. Just the bag for me today. Let off a little steam.”

“What steam do you got to let off? Didn’t you quit working?”

“No. I took a leave of absence.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s not ‘whatever,’ it’s temporary.” I sat up for the last time and reached into my bag, pulling out a Band-Aid and a bacterial wipe. “Sit still,” I told him. I cleaned the cut on his chin and smoothed the bandage over it.

“Thanks,” he said. “I was just giving you a hard time and everything. It’s nice you’re here during the day now, not like when you used to be working and we only saw you on weekends.”

We grinned at each other, and I almost regretted covertly sticking the pink Hello Kitty Band-Aid on his chin. Almost.

We stood and he punched my upper arm. I retaliated with a light backhand bop to his stomach, then headed to the one available heavy bag.

I walked past Trey and he pushed himself off the wall. His dead stare landed on me, and in the fraction of the second it takes to recognize someone you’d rather not see, his eyes filled with hate and fear.

Hate and fear, aimed at me.

But before I could form another thought, he’d pushed past me and stalked out the front door.

Creepy. Weird. Sort of sad. I turned my attention to the bag.

A heavy bag might be practice for a real bout, but in truth, it was a challenge in itself. It became
the
person in your imagination. The one you just had to beat so you could feel right. You always connected, but who you were hitting, and where, and why, was individual to the moment.

I bounced up and down lightly on my toes, concentrating on keeping my shoulders relaxed. My weakness was my tendency to stiffen my upper body too much, which slowed and hardened my motion, draining my intensity.

Fluidity. I was floating in water. I was water.

I started with some jabs, circling the bag in one direction, then the other, working both arms. Then, still bouncing, I rolled my neck from side to side. Relax, relax, then the one-two punch.