Willing Victim: Remastered Page 8

  “What are you, like a hundred and twenty?”

  One-thirty-two, but Laurel nodded.

  “Featherweight, depending on who’s running the fight. Why? You wanna learn?”

  “Ha—no, thank you. I can’t even stand to get into arguments with my roommates over the dishes. Confrontation gives me hives.” She realized with disappointment that they were nearly at her building.

  “Coulda fooled me,” Flynn said. “You sure came on strong in that sub shop.”

  She shrugged. “You don’t scare me.”

  He pulled up to the curb and leaned over, close. “Never?”

  “Well, sometimes. But only in a good way.”

  He grinned indulgently then pecked a hard kiss on her temple. He sat back with a little mmf. “You smell like something. What is that?”

  “Something bad?”

  “Hell no. Something awesome.”

  “Beats me. Probably some sex pheromone.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Well, I got to get to work. Come by this Saturday. You can ice my bruises.”

  She rolled her eyes at him and unstrapped her seat belt. “I’ll see you later.”

  When she crept through the front door of her apartment, Laurel was surprised to be greeted by Anne’s round, expectant face.

  “What are you doing up?” Laurel asked, looking to the microwave clock.

  “What are you doing, just getting home?” Anne grinned, blue eyes full of gleeful suspicion. She was by far Laurel’s favorite of her two roommates. Christie had morphed into some mutant Ally McBeal wannabe since discovering her brand-new life-long dream of going to law school.

  “I was…out,” Laurel offered, dropping her bag on the counter.

  “Who with?”

  “Just a guy.”

  “You’ve got sex hair,” Anne said, doing her mischievous little thumb-biting thing, practically glowing with triumph.

  “I’ve got messy hair,” Laurel corrected, mussing it further with her hands. “That’s all. And me and my messy hair need a shower.”

  “You smell like…” Anne came in close for a whiff. “Like the nastiest cocktail ever invented.”

  “It’s Bactine.” She hoped that wasn’t what Flynn had smelled in the car.

  “Are you boning a he-nurse?”

  Laurel pushed her shoes off, resigned to the grilling she frankly owed her friend after months of romantic flatlining. “It’s nothing to get excited about. It’s nothing serious or anything.” She ignored Anne’s skeptical eyebrow. “And what are you doing up so early?”

  “The smoke alarm went off again. Four fifty-two in the frigging morning. You might’ve got away with your little midnight rendezvous if I hadn’t barged in there to see if you were on fire. You want coffee?”

  “God yes.”

  Anne pulled the canister out of the fridge. “So let me guess. It was so bad you caught the T as soon as it started running? I hate those mornings.”

  Laurel was tempted to run with the proffered excuse and be done with the conversation, but she wasn’t much on lying. “No, he gave me a lift. He just works really early.”

  “How was the sex?”

  “Who said I had sex?”

  Another accusing eyebrow.

  “Fine. The sex was great, actually. He’s just not, you know, boyfriend material.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Depending on whose criteria you’re going by, a lot. But I think he’s all right. He’s just not in the market for that. It’s not an exclusive thing.”

  Anne filled the pot and flipped the coffeemaker on. “Sounds sordid.”

  “It is, actually, and that’s exactly how I want things to be right now.”

  “I like this new liberated Laurel. You working today?”

  Laurel nodded then yawned. “Not ’til one.”

  “Job searching this morning?”

  “Sadly,” she fibbed. She wasn’t above a fib. She’d been blaming her delay in diving back into the engineering pool on the crappy state of the economy, but really the mere idea of it made her sick to her stomach. “Not getting my hopes up though.” She wandered to the fridge, read Christie’s latest passive-aggressive Post-It then rolled her eyes at Anne. “We’re labeling our butter now?”

  “She must be boning up on dairy liabilities.” Anne’s ability to shrug off other people’s psychoses was her most admirable trait. She set two mugs on the counter and Laurel stood the half and half carton beside them. They both crossed their arms and stared at the burbling coffeemaker.

  “So can you tell me anything about your mysterious new conquest?” Anne asked.

  “He’s tall.”

  “Okay.”

  “And he’s from here,” Laurel said. “And he’s kind of a meathead.”

  “Wow, sounds savory.”

  Laurel nodded. “He’s gawt a wicked heavy accent.”

  Anne pulled the pot out before it was done brewing, drops of coffee hitting the burner with a sizzle, another offense Christie would surely want to make note of. “Pissah.”

  “Yes indeed.” Laurel grinned as she poured cream into her cup and earned herself a nudge in the ribs.

  “Look at you, Little Miss Smiley. I’d like to meet the guy who made you do that for the first time in, like, a whole year.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  They took their coffees into the living room and Anne switched on the TV, scanning through her roster of recorded shows. “Is six a.m. too early to watch The Bachelor and mock all the giggly, desperate women?”

  “Go for it. Though I bet it’d work better as a drinking game,” Laurel said. “One shot for the flirty arm touch. Chug if they strip and bum-rush the pool.”

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

  Laurel stared at the screen, laughed at Anne’s comments but felt another pang jolt 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, swoop down from my shadowy perch 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 bodily 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 having a meltdown 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.”

  “You’re way less of a spaz than her,” Anne said. “I so hope he ditches her 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 to pick out the sound of her ring over the television. She abandoned her mug to jog to the kitchen counter. The last name she’d have expected blinked on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, sub shop girl.”

  Sh
e moved to the far side of the room, 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 switched her phone off and aimed a goofy smile at the kitchen 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. It looks like a rouge factory exploded on your face.”

  “Stupid traitorous complexion.”

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

  Laurel pointed her eyes at the screen, as stony as she could manage. “Shut. Your butt.”

  “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 an Easter ham.

  “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.”

  7

  When Laurel descended the metal steps to the gym on Saturday night, the smell left 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 indicate she should do the same. She selected a smaller pair, fifteen pounds apiece, and followed Flynn, shuffling behind him into a side room cluttered with workout equipment. They steadily 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.”

  “Want to 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 got busy, 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. Once done, 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 little 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 while Laurel basked in the glow of having been introduced, of being someone worth introducing.

  “That closet’s full of folding chairs,” Flynn said, nodding 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. “The minute you start gettin’ punched in the face for everybody’s entertainment, I’ll quit bossin’ you around.”

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

  He smirked. “Then 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 T-shirt but wearing track pants again, and 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 real one… But I did get detention for kicking Shelly Walker in the butt with my muddy boot when I was in sixth grade.”

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

  “I think she badmouthed Joey McIntyre or something. I was a hardcore New Kids fan.”

  He snorted. “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 not so much, 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. “Huh. Okay, yeah, I see it.”

  “Plus he didn’t even warm up. When a young guy 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. Fuckin’ pathetic.”

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

  Flynn smiled. “I try to 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 crept toward 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 winding 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, 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, talkin’ 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?”

  “This place isn’t much on rules.” Flynn tugged on his gloves. “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 chokin’ on something.”

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

  Flynn met the remark with a 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 before wandering 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. With 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.