Just My Type(27)

“It’s really peaceful being in here at night,” I tell him in between punches.

Baker shifts from one knee to the other as he continues to hold the bag for me, a small wince of pain taking over his features for a second. I don’t even pause between punches. He’s a big boy. If he’s in pain and wants to sit down, he’ll say something.

“It’s weird seeing this place so empty and quiet, but it’s nice,” I start speaking again, pulling my eyes away from his to concentrate on my hits and get him talking.

“That’s one of the reasons I bought this building with the loft upstairs,” Baker tells me. “This job can get a little frustrating sometimes. But then I come down here from my loft after hours, when the lights have been dimmed even more, like they are now. It’s empty and peaceful. It helps me think. Helps me remember why I’m doing this.”

“I’m not going to compliment you,” I quickly tell him as I continue to jab at the bag half-heartedly.

“Didn’t expect you to.” Baker smiles. “Your turn. I’m assuming you’re a single mom; otherwise, naughty, naughty, picturing me naked.”

I put a little more effort into my next punch, but it still falls flat.

Even when he’s annoying, he makes me want to laugh.

“I’m assuming,” he continues, “that you’re a single mom because of all the shit you’ve gone through, the shit you’ve gotten past, and the shit you’re trying to forget, and be happy. Tell me about the shit.”

Nope, I will absolutely not get all aflutter just because he remembered every single word of the vomit that spewed from my mouth the other day.

“That’s not how this works. You’re not interviewing me,” I remind him, taking a break to shake out my arms.

“I’m not just going to sit here for hours and hours talking about myself this entire time. I have never bored a woman to sleep, and I’m not going to start now,” he informs me. “This is going to be an equal show-and-tell time, so I can feel comfortable enough with you to share my deepest, darkest secrets. Now, tell me about your shit. And keep punching.”

Narrowing my eyes at him, I get back into the fighter’s stance.

“Talk about boring someone to sleep,” I mutter, pulling my arm back and smacking the bag again. “It’s pathetic shit. Asshole husband of almost ten years moves happy wife from her happy small town life and everyone she loves, to a big city she hates.”

Bouncing on the balls of my feet a little, I stretch out my neck before throwing another punch, this one landing with the first, solid thwack since I started.

“Three months after he moves his wife to this city she hates, while she’s been busy turning herself into a meek and mild little showpiece who’s only brought out to make him look good at dinner parties, he pulls the rug out from under her and fucking leaves,” I growl, another loud thwack echoing around the room. “And that selfish piece of shit knew what he was doing when he moved us here. Knew I’d be stuck here, knew I’d be alone, and he didn’t give a fuck.”

My punches are flying faster and harder, and now I’m alternating between my right and left arm.

“And he feels sorry for me.”

Thwack-thwack

“And he looks at me with pity every goddamn time he picks up our son.”

Thwack-thwack

“Because I miss home. And I still hate this city. And I’m so fucking tired of not being happy here.”

Thwack-thwack

“Son of a—” Thwack “—bitch!” Thwack “I haven’t had sex in over a year and a half!” I scream.

Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack

“That is some bullshit right there, and I—”

The heavy bag is suddenly moved out of my reach, and my last punch does nothing but fly through the air. And then Baker is right in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders and squatting down so we’re eye-level, while I pant and try to catch my breath.

“Jesus Christ, scrappy,” Baker mutters with a low chuckle. “You feel better now?”

“That was amazing,” I wheeze, pressing one of my wrapped hands over my racing heart, really hoping I don’t have a heart attack when I feel so good. “You’re an excellent teacher. Don’t let that go to your head. You’re definitely not the best. But you’re not the worst, either.”

I should be freaking out right now that I just spewed all of that in front of Baker, but I’m not. Telling him I’m a mom didn’t work; maybe him hearing how pathetic I am will do the trick.

God, I really don’t want it to do the trick. What is wrong with me?

Baker stands back up to his full height, and I follow his eyes up as he goes. His hands are still hot and heavy on my shoulders, and he gives them a gentle squeeze.

“That was all you. I just gave you the proper technique and something to be pissed at.”

“I was pissed at you,” I remind him.

“But were you really?” He smirks.

He goddamn smirks.

“Well, this was a lovely first interview. I’ll type everything up and send it to you later this evening,” I speak in a formal voice, shrugging his hands off my shoulders, and holding my hand out between us for him to shake.

Like a fucking professional.