The Song of David(15)

“Henry?” Amelie had obviously heard his approach and subsequent halt. “Henry, this is David . . . um David, I forgot to ask your last name.” She didn’t wait for me to supply it before she added enthusiastically, the way a mother does with a child. “He’s a real live fighter, Henry! I thought you might like to say hello.”

Henry stayed frozen at the top of the stairs. I waved.

“Hi Henry. I’m David Taggert. But you can call me Tag,” I offered. The boy seemed more nervous than impressed.

“Tag?” Amelie squeaked in alarm, turning toward me slightly. “Oh, my gosh. I didn’t realize . . . I mean, you’re Tag Taggert. You said your name was David! I just thought you were a bouncer at the bar who fought in his spare time! Like Lou! Oh, my gosh. You’re my boss!” Amelie put her hands up to her cheeks and I tried not to laugh as she breathed in and out, clearly a little embarrassed by her earlier informality.

“Boxing became a legal sport in 1901!” Henry blurted.

“He’s not a boxer, Henry,” Amelie recovered quickly. “He’s an MMA fighter, right Mr. Taggert?”

So now I was Mr. Taggert. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help myself.

“It’s kickboxing, wrestling, judo, grappling. It’s a little of everything,” I agreed, still chuckling.

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Henry said, and folded his arms even tighter.

“You like Mohammed Ali, huh?” I asked.

“The Greatest, The People’s Champion, The Louisville Lip,” Henry rattled out before turning and fleeing down the hall. A door banged closed, muting the radio, and leaving me and Amelie alone in the foyer once again.

“The next time he sees you, he’ll know everything about you, your record, and everything about mixed martial arts. Henry has a phenomenal brain, but he’s not great at small talk,” Amelie said softly. She bit at her lower lip like she wanted to say more and then stiffened her back as if deciding against it.

I guessed it went a little deeper than not being great at small talk, but I said nothing.

“I didn’t know who you were. I feel stupid now,” she offered timidly.

“Why?”

“I treated you the way I treat Lou.”

“What? Like a friend?”

“I flirted with you.”

“Well, that’s happened to me before. I think I can deal.”

Her nose wrinkled and her brows curled. “Are you smiling?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Okay. Well, that’s good. I will try to be more professional in the future.” With that she held her hand out in my general direction, obviously wanting to shake hands in a “professional” manner.

I clasped it briefly, fighting the urge to laugh again. She was funny, especially because she wasn’t trying to be.

“If you think Henry would like it, bring him by the gym. It’s two doors south of the bar, same side of the street. I have a whole team of fighters. Lou works out with us sometimes too. We spar and train from about ten to four most days. I can show him a few things, introduce him to the guys.”

“Really?” she squeaked, and she squeezed my hand tightly, bringing her other hand up to envelope it between her two smaller ones. “I’ll ask him. I actually think he might like that. He’s really shy, and he doesn’t like it when people touch him, but maybe he could just watch.”

“I wasn’t going to ask him to get in the octagon,” I said wryly.

“Are you smiling again?” It was a strange sensation to think I could wear whatever expression I wished, and she would be totally unaware. I could make fun of her, roll my eyes, grimace, stick out my tongue. And she would never know.

“Yes. I guess I am.”

“I thought so.” Amelie smiled too, but her face was tilted away from me, her eyes fixed on nothing, almost excluding me. Her teeth were white and straight behind smiling pink lips, scrubbed free of the red lipstick she’d worn in the cage the night before. In fact, her face was completely devoid of make-up, and here under the bright lights of the chandelier, where I could really see her, she was young and lovely with her dark hair tucked behind her ears. The way she didn’t make eye contact felt strangely coy, as if she were playing hard to get, though I knew better. She wasn’t playing that game. She couldn’t.

I released her hand and stepped back, my hand reaching for the door. She tilted her head toward the sound of me moving away. I knew she was the one at a disadvantage technically, but damned if I didn’t feel like I was the butt of a private joke, the way her eyes never drank me in.