Chapter 8 Lucy
Lucy
Contrary to popular belief, Los Angeles does in fact have seasons: sunny, cloudy, hot, really hot, and the occasional rainy.
The temperature varies only between a ten-degree window, but there are seasons.
Sometimes, you get all in the same day. For instance, this morning there’s a little bit of overcast over West Hollywood, but by eleven a.m. it will be bright and sunny.
I park on Melrose—thank you, free Sunday parking—and pull my gym bag onto my lap.
When I get out of the car, I adjust my bicycle shorts and tug on the sleeves of my oversize crewneck sweater.
I give my high ponytail a little yank to tighten it, and that’s when I see Marsh walking from the opposite end of the street, the view of the Fairfax flea market starting to get situated behind him.
I didn’t think it was possible for him to not be dressed up like he’s posing for a Ralph Lauren photoshoot but here he is, wearing running shoes, basketball shorts, and a gray crewneck similar to mine.
He doesn’t have his glasses on, and my curiosities have been put to rest. Marshall Oakley looks equally attractive with his glasses on and off.
I gesture my hand up to his face. “Okay, contacts.”
He lets out a breath. “Yeah, definitely not going to box with glasses on.”
“You look good,” I say and then instantly regret my lack of creativity. But I’m kind of distracted by the gold flecks in his eyes. Are those real?
“Is this the Clark Kent effect?” he asks. “Do I look that much better without glasses?”
“No, I love the glasses!”
“No, you don’t,” he says.
“I do!” I insist. “I’ve just never seen you without them.”
“Well, believe it or not”—Marsh’s eyes flash—“sometimes I can pull off looking like a normal human.”
There’s a different energy about him this morning; it’s like he’s not that guy from The Journal I’ve been spending time with. He’s not Marshall Oakley—he just feels like Marsh.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” I say and then guide him toward the entrance of my boxing studio that sits in the middle of a hidden alleyway.
“I sure am.” He follows.
The boxing studio looks like an old garage but with sleek crimson floors, about fifteen bags all around, and a raised ring off to the left.
It’s my happy place. I’m not religious, but I imagine the time I spend here punching a bag is how it feels going to church.
There’s a sense of calmness and connecting with oneself, or perhaps something higher, that happens within these walls.
The first class of the day doesn’t start until nine a.m., so I make sure that I find a window where Marsh and I can just do our own thing and get to know each other.
“Ay, Lucy!” Eddie calls out from behind the desk. He’s currently wearing a black matching sweat set with the hood down to reveal his bald head.
“Hey!” I raise a hand as he walks toward us. “Eddie, this is my friend Marsh. Marsh, this is Eddie. He owns the studio.”
“Nice to meet you,” Marsh says, and they give each other a fist bump. “This is a great gym.”
“Thanks, man.” Eddie looks around at his pride and joy. “Yeah, my brother and I have owned it for about five years. It’s in a good area.”
“That’s awesome.” Marsh eyes the space.
“So, have you ever boxed before?”
“I’ve done a few classes, I loved it. I’m probably not as good as Lucy, though.” Marsh looks at me. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something refreshing about a man who doesn’t feel like he needs to be good at everything. Especially with something physically challenging.
“I’m happy to do a few drills with you to start to get back into the groove of things?” Eddie offers.
“Yeah, I’d love that. Thanks,” Marsh says. “Do you have wraps I’d be able to purchase?”
“Oh yeah. One sec.” Eddie goes to the front desk and then pulls out a new set of black wraps. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” Eddie taps a bag.
“We can put our stuff over here,” I say, and we set our things down in a spot by the ring. “Do you know how to wrap your hands?”
“You know, I could lie and say yes,” Marsh says, “but I think having a broken wrist after today might be a dead giveaway.”
“Let me help you.” I laugh and then take his wraps. He pulls up his sleeves, revealing his forearms, and then sets his hand out in front of me. “It took me months to learn how to do this,” I say as I start unraveling the fabric and weaving it in between his fingers and over his wrist.
Marsh’s hands are big. Strong. For a moment I wonder if they could cover my entire waist. When the tip of my finger grazes over his palm, the most innocent contact that could ever happen, my heart beats a little faster.
I don’t dare glance up, because I can feel his gaze on me.
Not on my hands and what I’m doing, but on me.
He’s studying my face, my breath, as if I don’t notice.
I seal the wrap on his right hand and begin the process on his left.
“How long have you been boxing here?” Marsh asks.
“A little over a year?” I say. “I try to be consistent and come like three times a week.” I continue weaving the fabric through Marsh’s fingers. “You’re in good hands with Eddie, though. He’s the best.”
When we finish up, Marsh makes his way over to Eddie on the other side of the studio. I take a seat on one of the benches and I watch the two of them as I do my own wraps.
I’m instantly impressed with Marsh’s boxing stance.
Although he’s tall, he’s not using his limbs like a baby deer.
He’s in control of his body. I notice muscles on his calves twitch as he bounces on his feet.
There’s precision with the placement of his gloves over his face, and he uses his body to throw a punch.
As Eddie continues to call out combos for Marsh, I decide to find my own bag and get my drills in. After a few rounds of practice combos, squats, and burpees on my end, they both make their way toward me.
“How goes it?” I take a sip from my water bottle.
“My man’s got a hidden talent, Lucy.” Eddie pats Marsh’s shoulder. “I didn’t have to hold back.”
“I saw.” I look at Marsh who now has sweat droplets around his temples. A pool of heat slides deep in my belly. “I’m impressed.”
“I think he could do some mitt work with you,” Eddie suggests.
My brows lift. Mitt work isn’t easy.
“Unless you’re scared,” Marsh says, and I narrow my gaze.
“All right, you’re on, Oakley.” I punch my gloves together. “Let’s do it.”
Eddie pats Marsh on the back. “I got my seven-thirty private. You guys enjoy, and don’t go easy on her, Marsh.”
“Me?!” I give Eddie an incredulous look, and he just laughs as he goes to meet his other student.
Marsh and I get in the ring, but I stop when Marsh takes off his gloves and reaches for the hem of his sweater.
In one fell swoop he lifts it over his head, and I see a sliver of skin and a light trail of hair leading past the waistband of his shorts.
My eyes instantly look away, and he puts his gloves back on.
I’ve never noticed how a T-shirt fits on him—how it accentuates the curves of his shoulders, the surprising circumference of his biceps, and the broadness of his chest.
I try to remember the last time I had sex. I think it’s been a month…maybe two? I literally don’t remember, and seeing Marsh’s abdominal cleavage doesn’t help. I wonder if he’s good with his fingers, his tongue, his—
“You ready, Luce?” he asks, and I snap back to the moment.
I get into my stance and hold my hands up. “Are you ready, Marsh?”
He starts lightly bouncing on his feet and holds his gloves up. “Ready.”
“One,” I say, and he throws me a jab with his left hand. It’s firm, quick, and makes that delicious pop sound when his glove hits the mitt. “One, two,” I call out, and he throws a jab on his left and then right. “One, two, three.” He gives me two jabs and a hook.
“Okay?” he asks. It’s then that I realize there’s no ego with Marsh. He didn’t want to box today to show me up in any way or impress me. He wants to learn and he wants to be here, possibly because it’s something important to me.
“Yeah,” I say, not trying to flatter him. “I seriously wouldn’t have guessed you haven’t done this in a while.”
“I forgot how much fun it is,” he says and then gets back into position. “I get why you do this all the time.”
“One, two, three, two three.” I hold up my mitts, and he delivers effortlessly.
I then squint and move my mitt to his side, but he blocks me.
“I have to keep my guard up at all times,” he says. I know that’s something Eddie told him.
I home in and then try to come up with a combo in my head that I’ll be able to do myself. “One, two, five, six, block, three, four.”
The two of us move our fists and arms in sync and it sounds and feels perfect. I’m fired up in the best way possible. We’ve found a groove, and rather than me trying to help Marsh, I feel like I can challenge him. Or maybe he can challenge me.
“Don’t go easy on me,” I say.
“I’m not going easy on you.”
“You’re telling me you’re punching your hardest?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Lucy.” He deadpans. “If I were punching my hardest, I would break your wrists.”
Okay, fair.
“Let’s switch then,” I say. “You wear the mitts.”
“I haven’t worn mitts before,” Marsh says.
“It’s easier than you think.” I swivel around him. “The punches aren’t mirrored. It’s the same hands you would be using if you were punching.”
“Okay.” He takes a breath. “I can try.”
I pass him the mitts and put on my bright red boxing gloves. A gift that I gave to myself for my birthday. We get into position again and he watches in concentration.
“Just call out whatever you’re comfortable with,” I say, and he nods.
“One, two,” he calls out, and I give him sharp jabs. There’s a slight curl in his mouth and he leans in. “One, two, three, four, one, one, block.”
I’m impressed. I then begin to follow his combo, huffing at every punch, staying light on my feet. Maybe now I’m the one trying to impress him.
“Five, six, five, six, five six,” he says, and I give him my most powerful uppercuts. “One,” he says, and I jump forward with a jab. “One,” he says again, and he moves across the ring and I follow him.
“Can I try one?” I ask him. Normally the person wearing the mitts calls the shots, but I want to see if we can do a combo that I love.
“Please,” he says.
“Okay…” I say carefully. “One, three, two, one, two, one, catch…five, two, three.”
He laughs. “You have a lot of confidence in me.”
“You can do it.” I smile. “I’ll call it out in real time.” We start and then I’m the one who misses an uppercut. “Shit,” I spit out. I’m sweating underneath my crewneck. I take it off and throw it to the side of the ring.
I notice Marsh’s eyes lingering on me. My black sports bra that matches my shorts is now revealed. I can feel the sheen of sweat across my chest and in the crevice underneath.
“Ready?” I ask.
He coughs and his eyes dart back up to mine. “Yeah.”
We continue to spar for the next fifteen minutes, and I find myself cornered in one of the ropes.
“One, two,” Marsh says, and my punches come out weaker. I’m tired. “Come on, one two again,” he says.
“Fuck,” I breathe out. “I can’t.”
“Keep going,” he says.
“I’m too tired.” I shake my head, but he keeps his mitts up.
This is what boxing is. Pushing yourself to your next level, showing yourself that you’re resilient. I punch, grunting. I can feel the hairs from my ponytail getting stuck on the dampness from my shoulders.
“Harder,” he says.
“Marsh,” I pant.
“Harder.”
“Marsh,” I cry and throw another punch.
“Harder,” he demands.
I oblige and punch one last time then collapse into the middle of the ring. “I’m done,” I wail. My chest heaves up and down and my legs spread out like a starfish.
“Good job,” he says, leaning against the ropes, watching me.
“Help me stretch?” I ask, but Marsh just stays in place, playing with his mitts. He’s watching me and I can see his eyes traveling up and down my body, but he doesn’t say anything. “Marsh, please.”
He pushes himself off the ropes and leans down. I throw one leg over the other until my body feels like a towel being wrung out. “Push,” I say.
Hesitantly, he puts pressure on my hips. I can feel the weight of his body over my ass and thighs. It feels good. Really good. My mind starts to wander to a place it shouldn’t again. He has amazing stamina and I bet it’s not just in the ring.
“Mmm.” I let out a satisfied sound and then look at him. His face is undeniably flushed. Everything feels so dirty and sweaty, and I want to bask in it. Our eyes meet and Marsh pushes deeper. It’s with intention, and all the heat in my body is now pooling in a dangerous place.
I have a flash of what it would look like to have Marsh’s head between my thighs, or him hovering over me while I scream his name.
My hands scrape his arms, and they feel strong.
He pushes again and my grip tightens around his forearm.
I’m not even trying to be subtle. I arch my back in a way that I know looks attractive, and a low gruff comes out of Marsh.
There’s a wicked glint in his eyes and that’s when I see it.
The small inkling of animal magnetism—raw, primal desire that I need to see in full force.
Between the stretching of my muscles and the heat now climbing up my center, I don’t have a coherent thought. There’s no space, mentally and literally, to think of my next move. I just know I want him.
“Marsh—” I start but then am jolted back to reality when Eddie rings the bell at the corner of the studio, signaling a perfect combo with his other student.
Marsh immediately pulls himself off me, flashing an apologetic smile. His cheeks redden, although it’s unclear if it’s from exertion or arousal.
“You good?” he asks.
I try to regain focus—where we are, what we’re doing. I grab ahold of the hand Marsh has offered and pull myself up. I wonder what I look like, because I feel like a cat in goddamn heat.
“You really killed me there, Oakley.” I clear my throat. “I’ll get you back.”
“Oh yeah?” He takes the hem of his shirt and brings it up to his forehead. In a swift motion, he wipes the sweat from his face, but I’m met with a flash of his flexed torso that I just want to rewind and freeze on. “Game on.”
“Just wait until I’m the one yelling for you to go harder,” I challenge, knowing exactly how it comes out. “Let’s see if you can handle it.”