Chapter 2
Tiernan
“Iknow I don’t have a lot of work experience but I promise you, I’m a fast learner.” Arlo says, meeting my gaze for a moment before he looks away. Skittish.
“No references?”
“I forgot to bring them with me. Uh, I can get them if you need them.” He shifts in his chair, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.
I don’t need them. I’d decided to hire this kid by the time he gave me his name. He needs this job. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. Even worn it myself a few times when times were hard.
I already see his story. The careworn clothes. The hair in need of a cut. The fading green and yellow bruises on his wrists and under his collarbone.
I fucking hate bullies.
The dark circles underneath cautious eyes. The exhaustion he’s unable to hide.
He looks young. Maybe early twenties, if that. Pretty green eyes framed by long lashes. Tousled, light brown hair. He’s too thin. Can’t be more than a buck fifty soaking wet. It’s the kind of thin that needs a few hearty meals. Diesel’s gonna love that. Food’s his love language.
“Job’s full time. Gym opens at ten and stays open ’til ten p.m. Let’s start with noon ’til eight p.m. for now and we’ll see how it goes. Gym’s open seven days a week but I’ll only need you for five. Plus Friday nights. It’s Open Spar Night and I could use the extra help.”
I look up from his job application and catch him watching me, eyes soft and wary.
“I can do that.” Oh, so polite, in that soft-spoken voice of his.
“It’s not much. You’re a glorified gopher until you prove yourself.” I warn him more sternly than necessary. My sister’s always telling me I’ve got resting asshole face. She’s probably right.
“I promise I won’t let you down.” His response is so earnest. Not timid, just contained, cautious. Someone who doesn’t know when the shoe will drop, but knows it always does.
“Good. Let’s go take a look around.”
The tour takes only half an hour. My gym isn’t that big, but I hit the highlights: the locker room, the classroom, storage, the break room, and now the main gym.
He was eyeing the casserole Diesel brought in for lunch.
I could practically see him salivating. I mention the guys are always bringing in food to share.
If it’s on the counter, anyone’s welcome to it. He won’t starve on my watch.
I hand him a bottled water I grabbed from the mini fridge in my office. He shakes his head, but I just stare him down.
“Drink.”
His chin comes up, but I hold his gaze. Calm and steady until he takes a sip.
“Water’s free. Bring in your own bottle and fill it up from the cooler. Everyone does.”
He gives me a quick nod.
The thud of bodies on mats and the rhythm of gloves hitting the bag as we enter the main gym grounds me. Tank is on the weights with Saint spotting, and two of the regulars are working the heavy bag. It looks as if Diesel and Anvil are sparring.
I gesture toward the cage in the center of the gym.
It’s our newest piece of equipment. I finally talked Suerte’s sponsor into giving us a discount, and they threw in two new mats.
It’s right in the middle, front and center for exhibitions.
I moved the boxing ring closer to the back wall, next to the cardio machines.
Having the mats between the two gives everyone plenty of space to practice.
“Is that a boxing ring?” Arlo asks.
“It is. We work on grappling in the cage, and striking in the ring.” I turn to watch his eyes dart around the gym, taking it all in.
“A couple of my guys are working on their grappling. Wanna watch?”
He nods eagerly, following me until we’re at the edge of the mat surrounding the octagon. The smell of stale sweat, feet, and cleaning products doesn’t faze me, but Arlo wrinkles his nose. I keep my amusement to myself. He’ll adjust.
“Rule number one here is no street shoes on the mats.” I point to the shoe cubby against the wall. “You can keep your shoes there.”
Leading him over to the shoe cubby, I easily slip out of my slides. He’s already stowing away his worn Converse before I can grab mine off the floor. I like his enthusiasm.
I walk him through the basics of MMA sparring.
“This is grappling. Diesel’s the guy with the red shorts.” I point. “The guy in the blue is Anvil. He’s a pro, but Diesel’s almost ready to make the jump, so they’re working on his takedowns.” Anvil has Diesel on the mat, showing him a reversal technique.
Sergei “Anvil” Zaitsev is a hothead and a grumpy asshole, but when it comes to grappling, he has some real skill. I wonder how Diesel talked him into this. Knowing Diesel, there was food involved. Anvil has a hard-on for Diesel’s chicken enchiladas. D takes full advantage whenever he can.
I don’t have my bleacher seats pulled down from the wall, so we have to stand next to the octagon netting.
Not too close. I’m big on safety. Arlo is standing close enough that I can smell the clean scent of soap and skin.
It’s not something I should notice, especially as his boss, who’s twelve years his senior.
I focus on my fighters. D still isn’t planting his right foot correctly.
“D. Set your base.” I have to shout to be heard, so I almost miss Arlo’s flinch. My chest tightens. I don’t like that. Not one damn bit.