Chapter 2
Light
“Just one more round.” My lungs are on fire, and my muscles scream in protest. But adrenaline pumps through my body, making me feel alive and spurring my desire to continue.
“You’ve had enough,” Ria laughs, her one glove already unwrapped as she tosses it on the floor. The other soon follows, signaling the end of our session.
She pats me on the back before climbing out of the ring. By the time I have pulled my gloves off, she is back with our water bottles.
“You’ve progressed quickly. If you think about how weak you were three months ago, this is an achievement.” Ria beams with pride, making me blush as I exit the ring.
Three months ago, I was so weak she told me her cousin's baby, who accidentally hit her in the eye when rolling over, hit harder than I did.
“You’re a good teacher.” I deflect, uncomfortable with compliments, while I wipe the beads from my brow with the towel I grab next to my bag. Unlike her, my body has pores that actually secrete sweat. She must be a robot.
“A good teacher is only as good as the student. You have a natural agility, making this sport a good fit for you. We will start working on more complex moves from next week.” She bobs on her heels while swinging her towel over her shoulders and around her neck, her hand clasping the ends in the center. She gives me a look I know well.
“Now, I have a date, so I should get going. When are you going to let me set you up with someone? Brian has a ton of male friends I could hook you up with.” Her eyebrows raise questioningly as she walks backward toward the changing room.
Just the thought of dating sends my stomach into spasm, let alone someone in her age range.
“Sure.” I drag the word out, rolling my eyes as I do.
“I’m sure they are lining up to date a woman old enough to enjoy a mixed tape and whose idea of the perfect night in is me, in my pajamas, reading a book.”
She laughs, and I dismiss her with a swipe of my hand and a big smile. Her shoulders hunch up as always when I brush aside this suggestion. Maybe one day, I would surprise us both with a yes. Today, however, was not that day.
Besides, I already had someone. Though I didn’t know who he was.
He was actually the reason I found Mike's Gym, this slightly run-down place I didn’t even know existed within walking distance from my house.
A few days after the club incident—the night I met the stranger in the hoodie—I was on the brink of another breakdown. The tenderness he had shown me in my moment of weakness lingered, leaving me feeling lonelier than ever. It made me long for a time when I didn’t feel so empty and sad.
As I sat on the cold tile floor of my kitchen, contemplating what to do and how to get out of the rut I was in, through my teary eyes, something white caught my attention—slipped right under my front door without a sound.
The first envelope. It contained a crumpled Mike’s Gym pamphlet and a handwritten note folded to hold some seeds.
It was a man’s handwriting. I just knew. The long slant of the letters and the bold, determined strokes of each one conjured up a hand holding a pen. A tattooed hand that was rough and gentle all at once. Shaking my head at the absurdity of the thought, I reread the sentence.
Daffodils, the flower for new beginnings and rebirth. It’s time x
Sniffing, I opened the door, scanning my front garden and the street in front of my house, but nothing.
While a little red flag was being raised somewhere in the back of my mind, telling me I should be afraid, that feeling seemed missing from my repertoire of emotions.
The words resonated with me, but I thought it must be coincidental. That someone made a mistake and that the envelope was meant for another person.
With no return address, it sat on a table next to my door for two days, the words etched into my mind as I pondered a new beginning. A new beginning doing what? I never asked myself that before.
Two days later, when I got home after walking to my favorite bookstore down the road, a small red pot with soil was waiting at my front door.
I knew this had to do with the daffodil seeds still sitting in the envelope inside. It took all of five minutes of me staring at it for me to invite whatever this was in. Somewhere deep down, I knew accepting this would be the start of something, but the warning bells were silent .
Someone saw me. And I liked it.
That night, I planted the seeds in the little red pot. It was cathartic. Like physically planting the seeds metaphorically seeded a new beginning in me.
That was the start of the pots. In the weeks since then, my windowsill has been filled with a pot of each rainbow color. After red came orange and then yellow, stopping when we reached violet.
And with each one came a note. A note that resonated with my soul. And mine alone. As if my essence had whispered its secrets to another, and they had answered my call.
It was no coincidence.
Every time my mind wondered who could have infiltrated my very being like that, who could have revived it from its near death, a hoodie-wearing figure with a calming touch was the only person who came to mind.
I also walked the couple of blocks over to check out the gym I was now a member of.
I hated gyms. My last experience walking into the big mainstream one in town put me off completely.
This place, however, was less fancy and smaller, which meant fewer people. Part of its appeal. Admittedly, it was the only thing that interested me three months ago. The thought of doing exercise was off-putting and resonated with me on the same level as submitting a tax return.
As I was about to turn around and walk out, a small red pot on the reception counter caught my attention. The words new beginning and rebirth floated around in my mind, and I thought, if that isn’t a sign, then I don’t know what is. I joined then and there and haven’t looked back.
I look at my watch, my eyes floating to the entrance as I hop on the treadmill at the back of the gym, facing the boxing bags—my favorite time of the day.
Little critters, now permanent residents in my stomach, start their little flurry of movement, excitedly anticipating what will come.
He walks in at precisely five minutes past seven, his tall frame casting a shadow across the floor as he enters.
His head dips in greeting as he passes one of the regulars lifting weights.
I have never heard him talk. But I have imagined it in my fantasies—the hoodie stranger and him merging in my dreams.
I’m not surprised. The similarities are uncanny. That stranger in the club is the same height and size as this guy. They also both have tattoos on their hands. While I couldn’t speak to the rest of my club mystery man, the one my eyes are glued to appears to be covered in them.
I try to keep my eyes low as he removes his hoodie, the throb in my core intensifying as delicious skin and muscle are revealed. I don’t like tattoos on anyone. I love tattoos on him.
While some women liked extremely muscular men, my taste was this man's physique exactly. Wholly unaware until my eyes landed on him three months ago, and I nearly face-planted on the treadmill.
Tall, lean, muscular. Not overboard. His big hands looked like they could crush a man's skull or grip a throat firmly like some of my book boyfriends do.
With effort, I drag my eyes up his body, finally landing on the pièce de résistance. That face. Damn. Another critter does a jig in my stomach as I shamelessly stare.
The more I have looked at it over the last couple of months, the more attractive it is. However, some might disagree and call me crazy. The scar starts at the bridge of his nose and curves down and along his cheekbone, ending on the side of his face, like a long, flattened-out S.
The scarring has faded, so it must be an old wound.
I’ve made up many stories about how it was inflicted, all dark and dangerous. But those are just made-up. It could have happened in any number of ways, like a car accident or maybe a ski trip gone wrong.
What I would give to know the story. Just looking at him, I can tell not many do. There is a quiet warning in how he holds himself and the unapproachable aura he wears, like the mark of a black widow.
As easily as I flicked the small bug off my jersey this morning, that warning flies off into the distance, landing with a plop amongst the self-preserving fear, which also seems missing in action lately.
His lip twitches and his gaze flicks over, meeting mine. I burn from the outside in as my heart ceases to pump much-needed blood. Panicking at being caught, I do the only thing I can and offer a small smile. One that is not reciprocated. Where is my shovel? I need to dig a bigger hole.
I look away, my ears even pink from the heat of my embarrassment while I can still feel his eyes on me. Only when I hear the familiar sound of flesh meeting vinyl do I venture another look. Because I just don’t learn, and like an addict, I cannot help myself.
He doesn’t use gloves. His massive hands are balled into fists that pound the boxing bag over and over again—the familiar sound echoed in the throb that forms between my legs.
I don’t know why this happens. But watching him specifically as he pummels that bag, all the power rippling along the core of his body, through the muscles, and exiting his fists in powerful punch after punch, has that effect on me.
A quick glance at the other regular, also punching a boxing bag, confirms the lack of pussy pulse.
I verify that it was definitely the man and not just the action, almost nodding at the job well done in analyzing the situation successfully.
This was adult woman's homework. And excellent motivation to stay on the treadmill .
By the time he is finished, so am I. I am exhausted, and I’m horny.
It looks suspicious that I stop the treadmill when he stops his workout, but I cannot continue.
My legs are on fire, and my muscles warn me that I will pay for this voyeurism tomorrow.
I don’t care. I had accumulated a good couple of pictures in my mind to use later, just before bedtime.
Six months ago, I couldn’t even entertain a sexual thought for a minute. Now, I craved release. Probably more so because I hadn’t slept with a man in over two and a half years. James’ tumor left little room for intimacy toward the end, but I didn’t blame him. No one asked for what happened.
I smile, thinking how far I have come. Lately, it has become easier and easier to think of James, not with pain but with some joy. Before, his memory was tainted by only the end. Now, I remember some of the good times.
“Sienna, just the person I am looking for.” Big Mike, the owner of this fine establishment, is suddenly standing before me. For a big man, he is stealthy.
He isn’t called Big Mike for nothing—just muscles and testosterone. But underneath, he is a teddy bear, and our shared love for reading has made us fast friends.
“Hey, Big Mike, how’s it going?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my face and sipping water.
“Always good when I see you.” He smiles and winks.
If I didn’t know him better, I would think he was flirting with me. But I did not carry the right weaponry between my legs for this to be anything beyond friendship.
“Remember that guy I was telling you about? The one who might have a job for you,” he prompts, reminding me of the conversation I had with him a couple of weeks ago about looking for a part-time job somewhere while I figure things out.
Thanks to James’s life policy, which I didn’t even know about until after his death, I wasn't strapped for money. But I wanted to do something to relieve the boredom that had etched its way into my everyday existence.
Even my job as a freelance editor had lost the shine it once had.
“Damon!” Big Mike shouts out, my gaze whipping over to look at the man I have been ogling all these months.
The sweat I had wiped from my brow reappears almost instantly and travels down to my hands. I resist the urge to wipe them against my tights, sure that action will give away my nervousness. As if the shock plastered all over my face isn’t doing the job.
The critters in my stomach procreate and multiply until I feel like I might throw up.
Sweet geezus, this was going to be awkward.