Tooth and Nail Read Online Free PDF

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