Down and Out(5)

Broad, tattooed shoulders relax as the opponent looks behind him, frowning as his eyes meet mine. He turns and walks to the edge of the ring, his chest heaving. Black and gray sleeves of tattoos, with splashes of color here and there, cover both of his arms and his back. His chest and stomach are bare, except for the sheen of sweat dripping down the tightest abs I’ve ever seen in person.
I thought bodies this perfect were a myth. Or at least heavily photoshopped.
Blinking, I bring my eyes back to his face, which—unfortunately for me—is just as exceptional as the rest of him. I haven’t regretted my decision to swear off men until right this second.
Vibrant green eyes stare back at me under dark brows, pulled tight as he studies me. He leans against the rope, bringing one of his gauze-wrapped hands up to take out his mouth guard. “You lost, sweetheart?”
The nickname immediately drops him down a peg in my book. It’s not a term of endearment, it’s demeaning and sexist. At least it has been every time I’ve heard it.
But as he watches me, waiting for my response, his eyes remain firmly on my face. Not once does he peruse me in a way that makes me uncomfortable, so I start to relax. I think he’s just highlighting how out of place I am.
And I am. This isn’t L.A. Fitness; this is a man’s gym. It’s old-school and outdated, and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here, because it’s obvious I don’t stand a chance. But I still have to try.
My nerves are a jumbled mess as I say, “I’m looking for the manager.”
He eyes me for several more seconds, then nods to a door towards the back labeled Office. “Wait in there.”
“Thank you.” I drop my head as I walk around the ring, feeling everyone’s eyes on me.
It turns out the office matches the gym’s décor—rundown and a little grimy. I settle into the cracked leather chair opposite the desk to wait for the manager. Five minutes later, my eyes widen as Mr. Tattooed & Beautiful comes in. They’re glued to him as he walks around the desk and sits before me.
In the small, still-functioning part of my brain, it occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t be this disappointed he’s wearing a shirt now, but I can’t help it. That little flare of “Aw, shucks,” still pops up.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
Based on how this place looks, I kind of expected an older gentleman with a cigar sticking out of his mouth, who curses like a sailor but deep down has a heart of gold. Or, you know, something to that effect.
My back straightens. I won’t let this throw me off. “I’m here about the help wanted sign.”
He cracks a smile and stands. “Thanks for coming in, but—”
“Wait.” I stand so fast my chair skids back. “Just hear me out. Please.”
He stares me down, doing that silent assessment thing before sitting back down. “Why do you want to work in a gym?”
I’ve lost count of all the places I’ve applied to. Retail jobs, waitressing—none of them even called me back for so much as an interview. Apparently high school dropouts aren’t in high demand for legit establishments. Go figure.
I try to play it cool, and let out a soft laugh. “Free gym membership?”
He does not find this as amusing as I’d hoped.
Sighing, I say, “Okay, so I’ve never worked in a gym before, but I’m a quick learner and a hard worker. You won’t be disappointed.”
He leans back in his chair, looking none too impressed.
“I really need this job,” I murmur, glancing down at the floor. “Please just give me a chance.”
It goes against everything in me to ask for help. I learned long ago not to depend on anyone for anything. It saves you the disappointment and heartache you’ll inevitably wind up with in the end.
But I’m at the end of my rope. It’s either ask for help or get used to earning money with my clothes off, and it’s a no-brainer. Swallowing my pride for five minutes is a drop in the bucket compared to the shame I’d drown in otherwise.
When I look back up, he’s frowning as he looks me over. He really has this brooding, smoldering thing down. It’s very unnerving. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.” It almost sounds like a question.
I don’t look that young, do I?
His hard eyes bore into mine. “You got a place to stay?”
Heat explodes across my face. I’ve only been homeless for a week, after my meager savings dried up and my roommate was forced to kick me out, but is it that obvious I’m sleeping in my car?
My hands brush over the soft denim of my worn shorts to tug at the bottom of my gray t-shirt. I can’t remember the last time I bought new clothes. Everything’s always been second-hand to save on money.
Embarrassment burns through me as I realize my clothes are kind of wrinkly. Sitting in a car all day will do that to them, I guess, but at least they’re clean, damn it.
A flood of defensiveness takes over, turning my embarrassment to anger. “Of course.” My tone’s a little too curt, and I try to rein it in by schooling my features. I probably shouldn’t glare daggers at the guy I’m trying to get a job from.
He nods once, pursing his lips as he looks me over. “This job pays minimum wage and requires a lot of heavy lifting. You sure you’re up for that?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation before the word leaves my mouth. I’m stronger than I look, and minimum wage? That’s seven dollars and some change more than I currently make per hour, which is a big fat zero, so hell yeah, I’ll take it.