Willing Victim (9 page)

Anne hit play. “Like they’d get their hair wet.”

Laurel stared at the screen, laughed at Anne’s comments but felt another weird pang upset her insides. “Would you say this show makes something incredibly complex—you know, relationships—into something mind-numbingly vapid? Or does it make something actually rather simple into a big fucking circus?”

“Both. That’s why I love it.”

“I couldn’t stand competing for a man like that,” Laurel murmured. “I don’t have the right…programming for it. Like to fight like that. Some people get an adrenaline rush and they’re like
foosh,
give me somebody to beat down. I just, like, curl up into a ball and want to hide.”

“I’m somewhere in the middle,” Anne said. “I’m like a ninja. I’ll, like, come out of my shadowy hiding space and beat you down, bitches. You won’t even see me.”

“The guy…”

Anne’s head turned a fraction. “What about the guy?”

“He’s a fighter,” Laurel said. “Like, a boxer.”

Anne swiveled her whole body to face Laurel, almost comically impressed. “Oh shit, that is
sexy.
Is he all, you know?” She mimed some Hulk Hoganish flexing, a funny look for a heavy girl.

Laurel nodded.

“Well done you.”

Laurel watched a blonde woman have a breakdown on the TV, confessing her never-ending but tragic love for the show’s sole male to the camera, to millions of viewers. “Like I said, it’s not anything. I mean, look at that chick. Even if it was an option with this guy, I’m just not up for all that. All that messiness.” She waved her hand at the on-screen meltdown.

“You’re way less of a spaz than her,” Anne said. “I so hope she goes next. Or actually, no. What am I saying—where’s the fun in that?”

Laurel took a sip of her coffee. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. This one’s not exactly the guy you’d bring home for Christmas.”

“Ah. Jewish?” Anne teased, then jerked her head around. “Is that you?”

“What?”

“Is that your phone?”

Laurel strained and picked out the sound of her ring over the television. She set her cup down and jogged to the kitchen counter. The last name she’d have expected blinked on the phone’s screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sub shop girl.”

She walked to the far side of the room to lean on the sink, keeping her voice low. “Hey. I thought you didn’t do calling.”

“I assumed you were beyond the potential freak-out stage. Was I wrong?”

“I guess not. What’s up?”

“I’m at the Dunkies by my site and I figured out what you smell like.”

Laurel made a noise only she heard, a little laugh caught in her nose. “Oh. What’s that?”

“That gooey stuff inside a Boston crème donut. That’s what you smell like. Now I’ll get a hard-on every time I eat one.”

She snorted. “Did you just call to sexually harass me?”

“I’m allowed now, ain’t I?”

“Go to work, Flynn. Go…go drink some decaf.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Laurel heard a smile in his voice before he hung up.

She flipped her phone closed and aimed a goofy smile at the sink, composing her face before heading back to the living room.

Anne batted her eyelashes demurely as Laurel flopped onto the couch. “That was him, wasn’t it? Your mister he’s-not-anything.”

“So what?”

“So you are so doomed, Laurel. You look like you just put on a whole tub of rouge.”

“Stupid traitorous complexion.”

“I think it’s cute. I think you like him,” Anne teased.

Laurel pointed her eyes at the screen, as stony as she could manage. “Shut your face, please.”

“Oh man, you have it bad. I bet his arms are like…” Anne cupped her hands as if she were trying to grab hold of something big.

“Silence, please? I’m trying to watch this documentary.” Laurel nodded at
The Bachelor.
“I believe one of the females is about to present to the alpha.”

“Fine,” Anne sighed. “Be that way. But don’t think for a second you’re any good at hiding that shit-eating grin.”

“I am cool as a cucumber,” Laurel said loftily.

“Bitch, you are fucking doomed.”

* * * * *

When Laurel descended the metal steps to the gym on Saturday night, the smell made her dizzy. Enjoyably so. She found Flynn still dressed in street clothes, talking to the same young ref from the week before, demonstrating some combinations in the air between them. She walked over, waved as she caught Flynn’s eye. He gave the kid a clap on the shoulder and he and Laurel were left alone.

“Hey there, sub shop girl. You’re early. It’s barely seven-thirty.”

“Both my buses came really quick.” Technically true, though more accurately she’d left early, wanting the pre-fight time to hang out with Flynn, to see how he changed from the start of the evening to the end. And to be seen with him.

“Well make yourself useful,” he said. “Come on.”

He led her to a metal rack loaded with free weights, grabbing one in each hand and nodding to say she should do the same. She selected a smaller pair, fifteen pounds apiece, and followed Flynn, shuffling behind him into a side room filled with workout equipment. They slowly emptied the rack of dumbbells then carried it to the room, shutting and locking the door.

“They should really just put wheels on that thing,” she said.

“Where’s the fun in that? Now why don’t you get the beer station set up?” He pointed to the folding table leaning against the far wall, plastic bags of Solo cups and a keg sitting beside it.

Laurel did as she was told, pleased to be a part of the evening, a part of the gym. Part of some secret, shady club, so much more interesting than her own life lately. She wandered to where Flynn was chatting with another fighter, a stocky guy already dressed in shorts.

“I can’t lift the keg by myself,” she said and offered a small wave to the other man.

“Laurel, Jared, Jared, Laurel,” Flynn said, and they shook hands before Flynn walked to the beer table with her, hefting the keg by himself while Laurel basked in the glow of having been introduced, of being someone worth introducing.

“That closet’s full of folding chairs,” Flynn said, nodded to a corner. “You want to stack about twenty of them against that bare wall?”

“I don’t see you doing much work for this boxing co-op,” she teased.

His brows rose, smug. “The minute you start getting punched in the face for everybody’s entertainment, I’ll quit bossing you around.”

She stepped close. “I like when you boss me around.”

He smirked. “Well you just keep up the bitching and you’ll get what you like.”

She headed to the closet so he wouldn’t see how broad her grin grew. By the time she finished arranging chairs Flynn had disappeared and come back changed, same tee shirt but wearing track pants again, running shoes. People were trickling in, boxers warming up. Flynn grabbed two chairs and carried them to his little corner. He and Laurel sat side by side in comfortable silence, watching as everyone’s excitement primed.

“Which is better,” she asked, “Friday or Saturday?”

“Saturday. More folks come, and that’s the night when the virgins—the first-timers—get to step in. Friday night’s just for regulars, and newcomers only get to watch. The energy’s way better on Saturdays. Fresh blood.”

She laughed. “How old were you when you first fought?”

“Here?” He squinted into the middle distance, thinking. “Maybe twenty-four.”

“What about the first time you ever fought somebody else, anywhere?”

He frowned. “Shit, I dunno. When I was six?”

“Wow, aggro much?”

“You ever been in a fight?” he asked.

“Not a proper fight… I got detention for kicking Shelly Walker in the butt with my muddy boot when I was in fourth grade.”

Flynn laughed. “What’d she do to deserve it?”

She smiled down at her hands. “I think she badmouthed Joey McIntyre or something. I was a
hardcore
New Kids fan.”

Flynn made an amused, judging face. “I hope it was worth it.”

“Oh yes. Nobody puts Joey Mac down and gets away with it.”

“You’re a passionate woman, sub shop girl. Your parents give you hell for it?”

Laurel worked hard to keep her smile from drooping too noticeably. “Nah, they didn’t care.” She was relieved when the fights kicked off. Two guys in their twenties climbed into the ring, one tall, one short, both pretty slender and ropey.

“Are either of these guys newcomers?” she asked Flynn.

“Guy in the red shorts is a virgin. He’ll win though.”

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“Because the other guy’s scared.”

“He doesn’t look scared.”

“Watch how much he swallows and blinks,” Flynn said, “and how tight he’s got his shoulders.”

She studied the man a moment and nodded.

“Plus he didn’t even warm up. When a young guy shows up and doesn’t warm up, it’s because he’s already decided he’s going to lose, so he doesn’t try. Like if he tries and loses, it’s worse than just saying ‘fuck it’ and pretending he doesn’t care what happens. Fucking pathetic.”

“Do you hate quitters as much as you hate impatient people?”

Flynn smiled. “I try and hate everybody equally.”

He was right about the match. The spectators made a noisy show of heckling the young fighters but the newcomer earned an easy victory and scattered, half-assed applause. The crowd multiplied as the clock neared nine and Flynn stood, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on top of his gym bag. Laurel gave his prep routine her full attention, ignoring the action in the ring.

She watched him wind tape around his palms and wrists. “You have no clue how manly you are, do you?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her but didn’t reply.

“Are you up next?” she asked.

“Yup.” He tossed a few punches in the air in front of his face, stretched his arms and back and jogged in place.

“Who are you fighting?”

He peered around the relative darkness, still jogging. “Not sure. Never sure until you step in there. You turn up and they give you a few slots, don’t tell you who you’re up against.”

“Is there anyone you’re afraid to fight?”

Flynn stopped jogging and gave her a supremely patronizing look. “You want me to find you a dull blade so you can just hack my nuts off?”

“No, just curious. You’re not afraid of anybody?”

“Like I’d tell you if I was.” He waved an arm around the basement. “You might as well open up a vein in a tank full of sharks, talking about fear around these guys.”

“Oh sorry.”

He shrugged and Laurel sensed she’d made a faux pas, touched a nerve if not insulted him outright. She bit her lip, feeling stupid.

“Don’t look like that,” Flynn said. “You’re still getting your brains fucked out when we leave here, kiddo.”

She blushed and grinned down at her hands. She jumped as Flynn surprised her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to standing. He took her face in his cotton-wrapped hands and claimed her mouth in a deep, territorial kiss. He broke away looking mean. In the ring, the ref called a winner.

“You’re up,” she said.

He nodded and grabbed his gloves from the ground, ripping apart the Velcro straps that linked them together.

“Aren’t you supposed to wear a mouth guard?” Laurel asked.

“This place isn’t much on rules.” Flynn tugged his gloves on. “That’s why I like it.”

She frowned. “That’s just stupid. You could get your teeth knocked out.”

He gave his neck a stretch that popped something audibly. “I hate those things. They make me feel like I’m choking on something.”

“Guess I’ll never get you into a ball gag, huh?” she asked.

Flynn met the remark with a withering sneer. “Keep that snark up and you’ll get yourself punished, missy.”

She offered a sarcastic quaking-in-my-boots pantomime and he punched her gently on the shoulder then wandered to ringside. Laurel studied his back muscles and triceps and tried to guess if he got nervous before he boxed. She suspected not.

The ref shouted over the din. “Next fight!”

The crowd murmured, air crackling with anticipation. Bloodlust. From the other side of the ring, Flynn’s opponent approached. They climbed up and over the ropes at the same time and Laurel felt her stomach fold in on itself with sudden nerves.

The other man wasn’t as tall as Flynn but probably weighed a few pounds more, some of it muscle, some straight bulk. He looked about twenty-five, with bleached blond hair and dark roots and sharp, closely spaced eyes that lent him a weasely quality. They tapped gloves and backed into opposite corners. Flynn’s posture changed, shoulders hunching, feet shifting restlessly.

The ref whacked the bell with a wrench and the match was on. Flynn straightened up, dropping his guard and acting casual as the two fighters circled. The other man looked punchy and eager and took the offensive for the round, coming fast at Flynn a few times and threatening some jabs. Flynn kept himself relaxed, pulling his head back from the strikes but leaving his guard largely open. After a minute of this the crowd got impatient, as did the blond guy. The second he made a real rush, Flynn got serious. He snapped his guard up and hunched his shoulders, upped his footwork. Unlike when he’d fought the big black guy the week before, he didn’t take any punches on purpose. He dodged and blocked until the bell rang to end the round, not having thrown a single punch of his own. Laurel met him in his corner with water.

“Thanks, kiddo.” He downed half of it and handed the cup back.

“You gonna do something soon?”

“When I’m good and ready.” He offered a smug grin that heated Laurel’s insides like liquor.

The next round was much the same as the first. Flynn continued to hold back, his inactivity pissing the blond guy off as the seconds wore on—Laurel could see in the set of the man’s jaw that he was getting tweaked. Toward the end of the three minutes he lost his cool. He came at Flynn with his whole body, a torrent of powerful but graceless punches. Flynn blocked a couple and took a hard hook to the neck and jab to the nose, then came back with a combination that landed on the blond guy’s chest and temple with two wet thwacks. The guy dropped to his knees for a short count, finding his feet seconds before the bell rang. Flynn knocked his gloved hands together, aiming a look at his opponent that Laurel couldn’t make out. The ref rang the bell again and both men retired grudgingly to their corners.