bet.” He tries to look annoyed, but his eyes crinkle with a smile.
My whole body goes hot. I don’t feel anxious at all now. It’s like we survived our first fight yesterday and now we can act natural around each other.
I crouch into one of his fighting poses. “You’re like this,” I say. I move into another position. “And this.”
He laughs out loud, his chin in the air. “I can totally see it.” He leans against the window. “So what will it take for me to convince you to drop it down the sewer drain?” His voice has gone all low and sexy.
His eyes are on me, giving me his full attention. I seize up then, completely losing my easy humor. “M—might be expensive, since it’ll probably cost me the job you got me.”
My stumble changes something in him. I can feel the shift like a sudden weather change.
Colt stands back up, as if shaking himself free of whatever he’d been thinking. “That’s all right,” he says. His voice is hard now, cold. “I can always tear it down myself.”
He heads for the door.
“Colt?” I say, but my voice is puny.
He waves his hand next to his head at me like he doesn’t want to hear any more. The black door closes behind him.
I’m not sure how I’ve messed up, why he has gotten mad at me. He’s so hard to figure out. I pretend to examine the hooks a few more minutes, enough time for him to get in the locker room. Then I head back in.
Buster tosses me a coil of twine. “Need help with the ladder?”
I shake my head and cross through the weight room. The cigar man is back with another boxer, taking up the corner punching bag. There aren’t any girls this morning, just men of every age, some spotting each other. Nobody talks or smiles. They seem serious about their workouts.
I pass through the plastic-covered hole to search for the ladder. The crew isn’t there yet, but the place is swept up. A big rectangle is chalked off in the center.
I spot the ladder. It’s enormous, at least ten feet. Just getting the legs pushed together takes effort. I feel pathetic compared to all the people I’ll be walking past.
I tuck the rope into my pocket and lift the ladder in the center. It’s aluminum, so it’s not unreasonably heavy. Still, I’m sore from yesterday. I poke the plastic curtain with the end, hoping nobody’s in the way.
People stop to stare as I pass through the weight room. I try to look nonchalant and capable. But my arms are screaming. As I near the doorway, a random muscle flat out refuses to hold. The top of the ladder tips and scrapes along the concrete floor with a screech.
I try to set it down easy, but the other arm gives in and it crashes down. The weight room goes quiet, the clink of metal stopping.
“Sorry,” I mumble. My gaze stays straight ahead on the front door. I don’t want to know if anybody is looking at me. I shake out my arms and pick the ladder up again. I will do this if it kills me.
Buster cuts in front of me to open the outside door. His face is a mask. I have no idea if he’s impressed or trying not to laugh.
I lay the ladder on the sidewalk, my arms trembling. I begin to doubt if I can handle the job. First Colt. Then the sheer physical labor.
But I don’t have a choice. I suck in a breath and steady myself to fetch the banner.
When I head back in, I see an unfamiliar girl inside. Her back is to me. She’s leaning against the entrance to the weight room, talking to someone on the other side of the wall. Her manner is easy, almost seductive, her bent elbow up near her head. She’s showing lots of skin between a black athletic bra and low-slung shorts rolled down at the band.
I head into the hall for the banner. Even if my high school years had gone differently, I could never have been one of those flirty girls. I liked loose jeans and sweatshirts. To disappear.
The only time I’ve ever worn makeup was my eighth-grade class play. I was too old to cry when they stuck me in a dress. I played one of the
My whole body goes hot. I don’t feel anxious at all now. It’s like we survived our first fight yesterday and now we can act natural around each other.
I crouch into one of his fighting poses. “You’re like this,” I say. I move into another position. “And this.”
He laughs out loud, his chin in the air. “I can totally see it.” He leans against the window. “So what will it take for me to convince you to drop it down the sewer drain?” His voice has gone all low and sexy.
His eyes are on me, giving me his full attention. I seize up then, completely losing my easy humor. “M—might be expensive, since it’ll probably cost me the job you got me.”
My stumble changes something in him. I can feel the shift like a sudden weather change.
Colt stands back up, as if shaking himself free of whatever he’d been thinking. “That’s all right,” he says. His voice is hard now, cold. “I can always tear it down myself.”
He heads for the door.
“Colt?” I say, but my voice is puny.
He waves his hand next to his head at me like he doesn’t want to hear any more. The black door closes behind him.
I’m not sure how I’ve messed up, why he has gotten mad at me. He’s so hard to figure out. I pretend to examine the hooks a few more minutes, enough time for him to get in the locker room. Then I head back in.
Buster tosses me a coil of twine. “Need help with the ladder?”
I shake my head and cross through the weight room. The cigar man is back with another boxer, taking up the corner punching bag. There aren’t any girls this morning, just men of every age, some spotting each other. Nobody talks or smiles. They seem serious about their workouts.
I pass through the plastic-covered hole to search for the ladder. The crew isn’t there yet, but the place is swept up. A big rectangle is chalked off in the center.
I spot the ladder. It’s enormous, at least ten feet. Just getting the legs pushed together takes effort. I feel pathetic compared to all the people I’ll be walking past.
I tuck the rope into my pocket and lift the ladder in the center. It’s aluminum, so it’s not unreasonably heavy. Still, I’m sore from yesterday. I poke the plastic curtain with the end, hoping nobody’s in the way.
People stop to stare as I pass through the weight room. I try to look nonchalant and capable. But my arms are screaming. As I near the doorway, a random muscle flat out refuses to hold. The top of the ladder tips and scrapes along the concrete floor with a screech.
I try to set it down easy, but the other arm gives in and it crashes down. The weight room goes quiet, the clink of metal stopping.
“Sorry,” I mumble. My gaze stays straight ahead on the front door. I don’t want to know if anybody is looking at me. I shake out my arms and pick the ladder up again. I will do this if it kills me.
Buster cuts in front of me to open the outside door. His face is a mask. I have no idea if he’s impressed or trying not to laugh.
I lay the ladder on the sidewalk, my arms trembling. I begin to doubt if I can handle the job. First Colt. Then the sheer physical labor.
But I don’t have a choice. I suck in a breath and steady myself to fetch the banner.
When I head back in, I see an unfamiliar girl inside. Her back is to me. She’s leaning against the entrance to the weight room, talking to someone on the other side of the wall. Her manner is easy, almost seductive, her bent elbow up near her head. She’s showing lots of skin between a black athletic bra and low-slung shorts rolled down at the band.
I head into the hall for the banner. Even if my high school years had gone differently, I could never have been one of those flirty girls. I liked loose jeans and sweatshirts. To disappear.
The only time I’ve ever worn makeup was my eighth-grade class play. I was too old to cry when they stuck me in a dress. I played one of the
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