Dray (7 page)

Chapter 11

Dray

Tank’s Gym had always been the one place where I could leave behind all the shit and turmoil in my life. It was the place where I always felt I belonged, and there had rarely been a day when I hadn’t looked forward to being there. But, like everything else in my life, even that seemed to be turning to crap. I couldn’t blame Tank for getting tired of it all and wanting to retire, but nothing was going to be the same without him.

Tank’s stepson, Josh, had taken over managing the gym so he could semi-retire. Surprisingly, Tank had taken up golf to fill his spare time. Those of us who were regulars had had some good times teasing him about his sudden old man turn in life. He, of course, took pleasure in reminding us that we’d basically paid for his membership dues at the golf club. He’d definitely done well in the past ten years, and he was a guy who deserved it. Unfortunately, his stepson, who was a few years older than me, was a complete asshole. I’d put up with him because he was Tank’s stepson, but now that he was in charge of things, he made my fists curl every time he crossed my path. And he had the same reaction whenever he saw me coming through the doors. Today was no different.

Tank’s Gym was inside a massive, cement-floored warehouse, so air conditioning had always been too expensive. Fans were set up in a few of the small windows, but they stood too high in the walls to do much except push hot bursts of air across the ceiling. On a sweltering August day like today, the inside temperature could reach a hundred plus. Sweat practically dripped down the porous gray walls as if the building itself had gone through a heavy workout.

“Hey, Warner, if you’re going to spar with an injury, you’re going to need to sign a waiver,” Josh said.

“Not sparring today.” I shot the words toward him without looking his way and walked over to the jump ropes. I picked up a rope and started my training session. I always started with the jump ropes to get my heart rate up and my muscles pumped. I was ten minutes into my cardio workout when Josh walked over. He was a butt ugly guy with a sharp nose and close set eyes, but he was definitely tough. He was in the heavyweight division so we’d never met in the cage, but I was sure that I could take him just because he irritated me so badly.

I kept my rope going. Sweat was dripping in my eyes. It usually took a lot for me to lose my pace or trip the rope. “What do you want?” I snarled between breaths.

He motioned toward my hand. “Is it broken?”

“Nope,” I lied.

“You plannin’ on fighting next weekend?”

“You know I am. Plan on winning too.”

“I’m going to need a doctor’s release before you can fight.”

The rope caught under my foot. I sucked in hot stale air as I scowled at him. “Your dad wouldn’t have asked for one. He knows I won’t go in if I can’t win. You ask him and I’m sure he’ll tell you I can fight.”

His nostrils sucked in making his nose even longer and sharper. “I’m in charge now. If it’s not broken then why aren’t you sparring today?”

I tossed the rope into a pile with the others and wiped my forehead with the back of my forearm. “Because I’m doing cardio and strength. Or do I have to clear my personal workout schedule with you too?”

“Just keeping track of things, is all.”

“Great, I’ll let you know the next time I’m going to wipe my ass then you can keep track of that too.” He flinched as I walked past him.

With him watching me so closely, I would have to avoid the weights. It would be too damn obvious if I only picked up kettlebells with one hand. I walked over to the rubber tubing hanging from the bars. I dropped the elastic band down around my waist to do some core strengthening. I decided to ignore the idiot, but I could feel his beady eyes on me from across the gym floor as if he had nothing to do all day except watch me.

I stacked some steps for box jumps and four sets let me know that I’d been taking it way too easy on myself these past two weeks. My hamstrings were on fire and my calves were starting to feel like jelly. I went to the heavy bags to practice my spinning back-kick. It was a move I needed to work on. I would need to rely more on my leg moves than my jabs and uppercuts.

Kicking the shit out of the heavy bag might not have been much for the bag but it actually helped my mood. My legs were shaking with fatigue as I kicked the bag again and again. I stopped to regain my footing and catch my breath. Then I yelled out and swung around. The chain holding the bag moved back and forth like a pendulum.

Josh walked toward me. I had to resist the urge to swing my foot into his face.

“Woolf needs a sparring partner,” he said as if I had no option except to spar with him.

I reached for the towel I’d hung on the weight machine and wiped my face. “Good for him. I’ll call my grandma and see if she’s available. She’s a good match for Woolf, only she moves faster.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know what you just said. It should make for a great sparring match between you two.” He looked down at my hand. “Get your hands wrapped, and he’ll meet you in the warm-up ring.”

“I told you I’m not sparring today, and I especially don’t spar with Woolf. He’s all elbows and no brains. I don’t know what the hell your problem is—”

Josh stepped closer and flinched when I moved toward him rather than take the steps back that he seemed to have expected. His eyes sank even deeper into his thick skull as he leaned toward me. “I don’t like you, Warner, because you’re a cocky, dangerous, hard ass.”

“Thanks. That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.”

His long, crooked nose twitched like a bird beak as he looked down at my hand. “And you’re a fucking liar. I’ve been watching you. You aren’t using that hand, which means it’s broken. So you’re not going to fight next week.”

In anger, I clenched both my hands into fists and then sucked in a breath when I realized too late that making a fist would hurt like fucking hell. I swallowed back the pain. “Holy shit, you really don’t want me there next week. Why? I’m not even competing for the same purse as you.” Then it dawned on me. “Wait a minute, you’ve already promised the money to your scrawny, weasel-faced friend, Max, haven’t you? You know he couldn’t take me out even if he stepped into the cage dressed in a suit of armor. You’re trying to rig the fights.”

He laughed harshly. I’d hit a nerve and he was going to try and blow it off, but it was all pretty damn clear to me now.

“You prove to me that your hand isn’t broken by stepping in the ring with Woolf or you show up next Saturday with a doctor’s release.”

My jaw tightened as I watched him skulk back toward his office. I lifted my hand and stared at it. Scotlyn had done a great job wrapping it. Aside from squeezing it into fist, it hadn’t bothered me much all day, but it still had a long way until it was healed. I briefly wondered how easy it would be to fake a doctor’s release. Woolf was a welterweight like me, but he had lead feet and he tended to rely more on his elbows than anything else. More than once, I’d seen him crack an opponent’s jaw or nose with his elbow, and it was never clean. An elbow coming straight down instead of at an angle was dangerous and usually got a competitor disqualified, but that never seemed to stop Woolf. He always managed to get in a few dirty blows without getting caught.

“I’ll spar with Woolf,” I called across the room.

Josh stopped at the office door.

“But I fight on Saturday— no questions asked.”

Josh wheeled around. His thick bottom lip dropped to his chin proving to me that he’d been certain I wouldn’t take him up on his deal. His attention went to my hand again. Surprise was replaced by a flicker of victory. The asshole obviously figured this sparring session would put me out of commission for awhile, but he didn’t know me well, not like his dad knew me. He didn’t know that I could push the notion of pain out of my head like other people could take off a hat. Besides, Woolf was such a clod in the cage, I could take him out with one hand tied behind my back. Which was basically what I planned to do.

Woolf was prancing around the practice ring smacking his fist into his palm with all the enthusiasm of an idiot, which he was.

I walked back to my locker and pulled out my training gloves. I glanced back over my shoulder half-expecting Josh to have followed me into the locker room to get a view of my naked hand. Now, if he wanted to see my twisted knuckles, he was welcome to it. We’d made a deal, and I figured even if I showed up with a neck brace and a leg cast, he was going to have to let me fight.

I unwrapped Scotlyn’s handiwork. The knuckles were out of alignment, but I’d been in worse shape. Pulling on the training glove was another story. I held my breath and slid my fingers inside. The glove pushed the fingers into the positions that they were supposed to be in naturally, but there wasn’t anything too natural about my hand at the moment.

There were two other welterweight competitors standing around the gym floor with nothing much to do. I made a point of inclining my head toward both of them as Josh watched me walk out of the locker room. He looked disappointed that I’d managed to pull on a glove.

Woolf smiled down at me from the ring with teeth that were nearly as gray as the walls of the gym. I’d left my mouth guard in my locker. As far as I was concerned, the asshole in the ring wasn’t going to get in one solid hit before I took him out.

I stared hard at Josh as I brushed past him. “Thought Woolf had no one to match up to out here.”

Josh shrugged.

I climbed up onto the mat, and Woolf danced around for a few seconds.

“What are you trying to do, Woolf, bore me into tapping out?” He came at with me with a right jab, which I easily avoided, and I threw back an upper cut with my good hand. His ugly gray teeth snapped against each other, and he stumbled back two steps. “Guess you should have put in your mouth guard. Although those teeth aren’t really worth protecting.”

Before he got his bearings, I swung out three leg kicks in quick succession. He threw back a hammerfist and nailed me on the shoulder, but the impact wasn’t even enough to throw me off balance. I spun around and landed a solid fist to his face. Blood spurted from his nose as he flew back against the ropes.

I glanced at Josh and held my hands up in question. “I could shoot in and end this right now. What the fuck am I doing in here?”

Josh’s face tightened with anger. “Come on, Woolf, I got you a sparring partner. Now fight, you fucking candy apple.”

Spit and blood sprayed from Woolf’s mouth as he roared in for a takedown. He grabbed me square on. I pushed down on his shoulders and sprawled both my legs back. He slammed down against the mat with a grunt. Forgetting my hand, I threw a flurry of punches at him. I sucked in a breath and yanked back my hand. Now I was pissed. I hooked a heel around his leg and locked his knee into a position that looked about as twisted as the knuckles I’d just slid into my glove. He held his breath and his face turned red. Seconds later, his hand smacked the floor. I released his leg and jumped to my feet.

Josh’s snarl made him look even uglier than normal.

“Looking forward to the fights.” A pissed off silence and some groans of pain followed me as I climbed out of the ring and walked back to the lockers. I leaned my good hand against the front of the locker and dropped my head down, holding my breath and clenching my jaw until the pain passed. When I was finally able to catch my breath, I debated whether or not to yank the glove off in one swift movement like a bandage or to peel it off like a stubborn orange peel. I opted for the quick flash of agony. I sucked in a breath and pulled the glove off. An explosion of pain shot through me. I pressed the hand against my stomach and crouched down into a ball hoping that would somehow help. Josh’s raspy, droning voice drifted into the locker room. I stood up and held onto the metal door for support.

I’d lost my focus out there, and for several mindless seconds, I’d forgotten about my hand and pummeled Woolf with it. I wrapped it clumsily and grabbed my stuff. Josh stepped into the locker room. I pushed past him without another word. The asshole’s plan to rig the welterweight fight might just have worked after all.

Chapter 12

Cassie

Only a few people bothered to look up from their work as I stepped off the elevator. I’d been in the building for all of two minutes, and I already felt out of place. I’d worn my favorite colorful, long skirt and expensive short boots, both of which I considered to be pretty darn conservative for my taste, but compared to the other women shuffling around the floor in shiny leather pumps and crisply tailored suits, I looked as if I’d just stepped off a Volkswagen bus at Woodstock. Fortunately, I’d opted again for my glasses instead of the contacts. They would at least make me look somewhat serious and businesslike.

I floated through the maze of Plexiglas cubicles and fake potted plants toward my new boss’s office. I’d only spoken with him twice over Skype, but I’d come with high recommendations from the photo editors at International Weekly where I’d spent my internship. The internship had been far beyond anything I could have imagined. In three short months, I’d traveled every continent but Antarctica. I’d spent a great deal of time in remote villages where humanitarian and medical aid was greatly needed and openly appreciated. It had opened my eyes to a world of despair and human suffering that I’d always known existed but that had always been easier to push out of my mind. Now I had a portfolio of photos that would always remind me of the hardships that existed all over the world. Human emotion was what I seemed to be able to capture the easiest. My relationship with Dray and my friendship with Scotlyn may have had something to do with fostering my talent. They were two people who would often drift into an emotional display of hurt and anguish without even realizing they were showing it. After I’d finished the internship, I’d hoped that my career would eventually continue on the same path, showing the world what others must endure and hoping that it would somehow bring light to the darkest places on the planet. But I’d received such an amazing offer from New York, it had been too good to pass up. For now, it seemed like a good place to start.
Pulse
was a magazine that focused more on urban trends and art, and I looked forward to being a part of it. I desperately needed the money and the experience. Eventually, I would pursue my real interests.

Mr. Evans, my new boss, looked taller and thinner and considerably less contorted than he’d looked on Skype. I was pleased to learn that he didn’t actually have a flat as Frankenstein head or a long, stretched chin. He had just a touch of gray on each sideburn and wore a sleek black suit that looked custom tailored. “Cassie, you’re late.”

I opened my mouth to explain.

“I know public transportation can be a challenge, but you’ll get used to it.” He walked past me and motioned me to follow. “We’re just about to hand out assignments. It’ll give you a chance to introduce yourself.” He looked back with a slightly puzzled expression. “I don’t remember those glasses when we spoke on Skype.” I nearly had to run to keep up with his long strides.

I pushed them up higher on my nose. “My contacts were bothering me after the flight. Hope that’s all right.”

His laugh bounced off the pale orange walls. “As long as you can take pictures like the ones I saw in your portfolio, I don’t care if you have horns and fangs.” He stopped without warning, and I nearly smacked into him. “This is your cubicle if you want to put down your things. Then it’s the second door on the right.” A computer sat upon a plain, gray desk. The chair looked expensive and comfortable. I leaned down and shoved my purse into the bottom desk drawer and then hurried down the hall to the meeting.

I’d never been in a board room or in a meeting. At Freefall, Nix would come out of the backroom and lean over the counter to discuss anything of relevance. The room was already filled with a loud, boisterous group of people. They paid little attention to their boss as he walked in with the new girl.

Mr. Evans poured me a cup of coffee and offered me a muffin from a basket, which I declined. I sat in the only empty chair and looked around, now wishing I’d opted for the muffin so I would have something to occupy my hands, mouth and attention.

“You must be the new photographer,” a slim twenty-something guy said from across the table. Even though we were inside and it was still late summer, he wore a plaid scarf draped loosely around his neck and a black fitted jacket that appeared as if it’d been made to look vintage. His lower half was below the table on the opposite side, but I would bet a year’s salary that he was wearing skinny jeans to go with the jacket. I was just glad to see someone dressed in obscure fashion like me. “I’m Dash. I’m a photographer too. We’ll probably be paired up for awhile while you get your bearings. Not that you look like someone who doesn’t have bearings. I’m sounding like an idiot, so I’ll shut up. Love your work, by the way. I saw some of your portfolio.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’m looking forward to working here.”

A woman leaned over Dash and picked up the other half of his muffin. “You’re the one who took the banana nut one.”

Dash lifted his brow at her. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

She lifted it and squinted at the muffin. Her lashes were extra long, fake, possibly, and if not, then someone had been blessed by the eyelash fairy. The woman pursed her lips. “You must have eaten the half with my name on it.” She held out a long, slim hand with silvery, pink fingernails. “I’m Jolene. I’m a journalist.”

Dash lifted his brow again. “Or so you say.”

Jolene draped her arm around Dash’s shoulder. “Oh, Dashwood, if it makes you feel better to insult my writing skills so you can feel better about your own talents then go right ahead.” She smiled at me. “We are actually best friends. Call me Jo, by the way.”

Her mention of being best friends sent an ugly pang of homesickness through me. Loneliness had draped its cold hand around me almost the second I’d landed in New York. I’d left behind all my friends and most especially my best friend. One short afternoon with Dray had sparked every old feeling and every emotion.

“So, you’re from Los Angeles?” Dash’s question had gone right past me at first. They both stared over at me for a response.

“Oh, yes, sorry. I’m afraid I’m still feeling a little out of it because of the time zone switch.”

Jolene plucked up the tiniest crumb from the top of the muffin and pushed it past her heavy layer of red lipstick. The sharp angles and bones of her shoulders and cheekbones made it clear that that half muffin would be the only treat she would allow herself for the day. And the way she picked at it made it clear that most of it would be thrown out. “I spent several of my teen years living in California with my dad. I think you’ll find New York a lot like Los Angeles. Lots of crazy people with no time to stop and smell the proverbial roses. But our buildings are taller and closer together, and there are more people on the sidewalks and less people in cars. Oh, and there will be a considerable lack of palm trees.”

Mr. Evans lifted up a hand. “All right, listen up. First of all, we have a new person on staff, and I know you guys will make her feel welcome. This is Cassie.” He motioned for me to stand. Suddenly, I felt like I was the new kid in class, an experience I’d suffered through a lot during my childhood. I stood and waved quickly and then plunked back down just as I had done in third grade and fifth grade and a few more grades that I could no longer remember.

Jolene seemed to be reading my thoughts. She raised her hand. “Ooh, ooh, Mr. Evans can I show the new girl where the restrooms and library are?”

There was a small round of laughter, but Mr. Evans just shook his head. “Your new assignments have been sent to your email.” Instantly everyone pulled out their phones to check. I hadn’t even considered bringing a phone to a meeting, so I was out of luck.

Dash lifted his phone toward me. “It looks like we’re going to an art show.”

Jolene’s thin shoulders drooped as she rubbed her thumb across the screen of her phone. “Me too, darn it.”

“If you have any problem with your assignment,” Mr. Evans called over the din of voices, “you can drop me a note in my ‘I don’t give a crap about your complaint’ box, and we’ll talk about it as you’re packing up your cubicle.” He found his joke quite humorous, but from the bland expressions around the table, it was obvious that the same joke came at the end of every meeting.

***

When you’re in the heart of Los Angeles, the rush of people and traffic can be overwhelming, but Wilshire Boulevard suddenly seemed rather desolate and tame compared to the streets of New York. Just like in L.A., the people all seemed to be on edge, but in California, being on edge usually meant you were pissed off. Here on the east coast, people seemed to thrive on it as if stress energized them.

Dash, Jolene and I had climbed into the backseat of the company van with our cameras and notebooks. The burly driver navigated the clogged maze of cars and taxis with the speed and ease of someone who had driven in traffic his whole life.

Jolene had slid her wafer thin form into the window seat. Her long fingernails clacked the screen of her phone in a frenzy as she sent text after text to someone. Occasionally, a return text would make her smile and blush.

Dash had added a black fedora to his ensemble. He yawned in boredom just as he caught one of Jolene’s reactions. He perked up from his slouch. “Let me guess— you’re talking to Rex.”

Jolene smiled but never looked up from her phone. “Oh yeah, and he’s being particularly creative this morning.” Dash leaned forward and reached across me. “Let me see. I haven’t seen a good, raunchy sex text since Grant and I broke up.”

Jolene pressed her phone to her chest. “Forget it. It’s for my eyes only—” she glanced at her phone again, “and some other parts too.” She sent back a quick text and tucked her phone into her purse. Jolene turned to me. “Rex is a god, a fucking god.” She scrunched up her brow. “Is there a mythological god for great sex?”

“If there is¸” Dash spoke up, “my junior high teacher skipped that chapter of Ancient Greece.”

“Well, if there is one, then Rex is that god.” She leaned conspiratorially close to me and lowered her voice. “One night I had five orgasms in a row. At least I think it was five, I was so damn delirious after number three—”

Dash rolled his eyes beneath the brim of his fedora. “You don’t need to whisper, Jo. It doesn’t make it sound any more believable.”

Jolene inclined her head toward Dash. “He’s just pissed because he hasn’t had any sex in three months.”

“Three months and four days,” Dash said. “It’s just going to shrivel up and die.”

“That’s a pretty visual.” Jolene twisted in her seat and turned her full attention to me. “What about you, Cassie? Anyone special in your life? I’ll bet you like the quiet, artsy type.”

The heavy, cold feeling of homesickness pulled at my heart. I stared down at the camera in my lap. “No one special at the moment.” Then I thought of her description of
my type
, and I couldn’t help but smile. She seemed to realize she’d hit a nerve and relaxed back against the seat.

I watched the buildings and people coast by. We’d turned into a neighborhood where the rundown buildings were a blur of rotting plaster and hazy windows. The walls had a layer of graffiti that was so thick, it looked nearly three dimensional. Some of it was primitive, angry almost, as if someone had just run a massive can of spray paint in every direction, but some of it was true art. One wall was cluttered with a chaotic mural of everything from a beer can to a dog holding his own leash, and, in the midst of it all, a serene, thoughtful face peered out from the graffiti with a watchful stare. The large dark eyes of the painting seemed to follow the van as we coasted along at a snail’s pace to the next traffic light.

Several blocks later, I spotted another face painted in the center of a graffiti filled wall. It was the same face, but this time it wore a slightly mysterious smile.

I looked over at Dash, who obviously having driven along these streets before, seemed to have no interest in any scenery and least of all graffiti covered walls.

The driver cussed at a taxi that cut him off and then he turned the corner sharply. And there it was again— the face. “Jolene,” I pointed out the window, “I keep seeing these really expertly drawn faces staring out from the middle of all the graffiti on the buildings.”

She didn’t need to look out the window to know what I was talking about. “Where’s Walter.” Jolene and Dash answered together.

My mouth dropped open in confusion. “Uh, I don’t know. Where is he?”

Dash laughed. “No. That’s the nickname of the man who painted those spectral face images you see popping out of the graffiti. He is a homeless guy named Walter. He’s been living on the streets since, shit, the eighties, I think. Anyhow, you’ll see his face all over the place. According to Walter, God placed him in charge of keeping an eye on the streets of New York. So he decided—”

“To draw himself along all the streets,” I finished for him.

“Well, not every street, but the ones where the—,” Dash lifted his fingers in air quotes, “—street art is tolerated.”

Jolene fussed with an errant thread hanging from the hem of her skirt. “In other words, you won’t see old Walter’s face lurking around Park Avenue.” She pulled the string, and it seemed to have no end or reasonable breaking point. “Shit,” she mumbled, “I hate it when the loose thread is one that seems to be holding the whole damn skirt together.”

Dash and I laughed.

She finally snapped it free and smoothed the fabric that had bunched slightly from her hasty tailoring maneuver.

“His art is amazing,” I said. “What a great story that would make if we’re doing a piece on urban art.” I glanced at Dash and then over at Jolene. “Right?”

“Of course,” Dash answered. “But the owner of the magazine prefers to cater to a more cultured set. True talent is trumped by what the in-crowd thinks is worth looking at. And gritty street life masterpieces are not considered
worth
it. At least not for the intellectual elite, extra emphasis on
elite
.” Dash leaned over and put his arm around my shoulder. “So wash those altruistic thoughts from your mind, Cassie. We’re here to cover mundane stories about the upper crust of New York, and poor old Walter does not fit into that mold . . .at all.”

***

My cubicle felt a bit industrial and sterile, but I was sure it would be more comfy once I added some personal touches to it. My computer was fast though, and I easily uploaded the photos I’d taken at the art show. They were as unimpressive as I expected them to be, considering the starched and staid subject matter. The cocktails, which had been served in very cool, long green fluted glasses, were the highlight of the photo shoot. Elegantly dressed men and women standing for thirty minutes in front of a painting trying to decide why it was ‘simply inspirational’ had not made much of an impact on me or my camera lens.

Dash knocked on the side of my cubicle, and the entire wall shook. “Oh, you’ve already uploaded your pictures.” I kept scrolling through the photos as he peered over my shoulder at my monitor. He wore a distinctive cologne that reminded me of furniture polish, and the potency of the fragrance hadn’t diminished since the morning.

He sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid to even look. What a boring assignment. Jolene is in her office right now chewing her long, fake nails trying to get something down on the keyboard.” His finger pointed at the monitor. “Look, some emotion actually broke through that woman’s Botox. She looks upset about the painting.”

I glanced up at Dash. “I was watching her for awhile. I think she just had gas, and she was freaking out about trying to control it. But I thought her expression was worth the photo even if it was just a suppressed fart.”

Dash’s laughter shook the cubicle. “I love you already, Cassie. You’ll have to come out barhopping with Jo and me this weekend. You’ll be a great addition. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve been a part of a trio.” He winked at me and left.

My first set of pictures for the magazine, and I couldn’t have felt more deflated. I reached into my purse for my keys. During my internship, I’d been given a tiny camera the size of a flash drive to fit on my keychain. It was supposed to be used as a backup camera in the possible scenario of our equipment being confiscated. Considering some of the remote, dangerous locations we’d traveled through, it had always seemed like a distinct possibility. It had all been very James Bondish. The nearly invisible camera had made me feel stealthy like a spy out on a mission to shoot subversive photos, but today, it had come in handy as a means to capture the images of New York that I thought worthy.

For the trip back to the magazine offices, I’d slid into the window seat. When the van was stopped in traffic, I’d taken several surreptitious pictures of Walter. I uploaded the pictures and was surprised to see that I’d managed to get some decent shots from the van. The camera was tiny, but it was shockingly good.