Snapshots of Sunlight (100 Days of Sunlight #3)

Chapter 1 The Job

THE JOB

A WESTON STORY

WESTON

They say you never forget your first job. The hard, honest day’s work, the smell of dollar bills as you cash your first paycheck, the expensive dates you take your girl on because you’re a working man now, and that means you can blow your money on anything you like.

At least, that’s how I always imagined my first job would be. A cliché to live up to my childhood dreams of the struggle for the legal tender. Sweat and pain. Demanding bosses. Coming home at night and grumbling about work like a grownup.

And by “work,” I don’t mean The Rockford Chronicle.

By “demanding bosses,” I don’t mean my dad (although he can be demanding sometimes).

My weekly summer visits to help at the newspaper felt less like work and more like a get-out-of-jail-free card for something else I didn’t want to do.

It was fun to see where my father spent his days, toiling over ad copy and problematic margins and editors’ editorials that still needed editing.

When I was a kid, my dad seemed larger than life—the William Randolph Hearst of upstate New York. A visionary, a dreamer, a legend who would occasionally put his hand on my shoulder and say, “One day, Weston, you’ll be the boss of this entire operation.”

I always knew the job was mine if I wanted it.

But when you’re seventeen, working for your dad isn’t exactly what you call a job. For one thing, you can’t complain about it to anyone at home unless you want to trigger Armageddon.

For another thing, it doesn’t feel earned.

It feels handed to you on a silver platter with your name on it.

Call it pride, call it ego, call it whatever you like—I don’t want a favor.

I want a job.

A real, hard-earned job.

A job I have to impress someone to get and work my ass off to keep.

Like every other seventeen-year-old before me.

And that’s why I stop dead in my tracks halfway down Main Street at six forty-five p.m. It’s an ordinary late-spring night—cold enough for jeans and a hoodie, but warm enough to make the crickets scream extra loud.

I’m headed for Anthony’s on the corner, to pick up a pizza and bring it back to Tessa’s house, but everything slams to a stop when I see the sign.

HELP WANTED

Taped to the window of Bruiser’s Boxing Gym.

Surprisingly, I’ve never been to this place before. It’s one of those pay-to-be-a-member deals, which automatically disqualifies any guy without a steady income who has a girlfriend to keep happy with what little savings he’s accumulated from odd jobs.

I’ve always wanted to train at Bruiser’s.

There’s something about those rows of scuffed-up heavy bags, those shiny wood floors, those walls dripping with MMA posters and boxing memorabilia.

You can almost smell the sweat and blood and victory, just looking through the windows into the lit-up gym.

It’s closing time, and there’s only one person left in the place: the owner, mopping down the floors.

I recognize him because I’ve seen his truck parked on the street outside the gym—a beast of a lifted Chevy pickup with US Marine stickers all over the back window.

The guy himself is like a human version of a lifted pickup: boulder shoulders, tattooed biceps the size of Everest, a ferocious buzz cut, and a permanent frown carved onto his face.

Not exactly the most approachable dude in the world. I can see why they call him Bruiser. But I’m not scared of the guy. What’s the worst that could happen?

I decide to try my luck.

He’s got his back to me when I step inside, setting off the door chime. “We’re closed,” he mutters in a gruff New York accent, aggressively pushing the mop back and forth.

“I know,” I holler back over the ’80s rock music blasting from the radio. “I’m not here to train. I… wanted to ask about the job.”

That’s when Mr. Bruiser finally turns around to look at me. He squints, giving me a once-over, and I’m suddenly glad I wore pants instead of shorts tonight. At first glance, I look like just an average high school grad in red Jordans and a UFC hoodie.

“I’m Weston,” I say, because now seems like a good time to get on first-name terms.

Mr. Bruiser apparently doesn’t share this opinion. He sets the mop aside and walks over to the radio, cranking the volume down low.

“You got any experience in boxing, Weston?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve done a lot of training over the past five or six years. Sparring with friends, that kinda thing.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“Uh…” I shrug, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just picked it up, you know? I watch a lot of fights and try to learn technique. Practice on my best friend until he gets sick of getting his ass handed to him.”

Bruiser grunts a dry laugh. I’m well aware of how unqualified I sound—an amateur enthusiast at best, talking up to a guy who was probably a heavyweight champion back in the day.

I try to ignore the glint of trophies tucked in a glass case beside the benches.

The guy’s military tats are intimidating enough.

“Look, sir, I know I might not be the most qualified person for the job, whatever it is. But I love fighting. I love just… being in a place like this. And I’m a quick learner.

I could do anything you want. Mopping the floor, for one thing.

Uh, fixing stuff, cleaning up, keeping the equipment straight—”

“I don’t need a janitor, kid.” Bruiser cuts me off with a hard look in my direction. “I need an instructor.”

My eyebrows rise. “An instructor?”

“That’s right. Business has been picking up lately.

I lead the classes, but it’s been tough to keep up with everyone.

The more students I’ve got in a class, the less time I can spend with each one of them.

I need an assistant—a right-hand man who can do exactly what I would do without me having to train him, too. You catch my drift?”

I nod. “Yes, sir. And I think I could do that.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yeah.”

The way he squints at me makes my palms sweat. “How the hell old are you, kid?”

“I’ll be eighteen in September.”

A half-amused smirk twitches one side of his mouth. He’s either about to laugh at me, or he’s about to say, “You got the job.”

But to my surprise, he doesn’t do either of those things. He just steps up to me and taps his chest with one hand.

“Throw a punch.”

I hesitate.

Throw a punch? At this dude who’s twice my size?

Somehow, it’s not the job interview I was expecting. In my imagination, there was going to be a civilized discussion with résumés and weak coffee and questions about dedication and work ethic. But there’s only one way to respond to an ex-Marine boxer called Bruiser who tells you to throw a punch.

I throw a punch.

And God, the pecs on this guy. It’s like hitting a rock wall.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Come on, that’s all you got? Throw a punch.”

I try again, driving my full weight into it.

BAM.

No flinch.

No response.

He just shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “Pansy-ass.”

Okay, that pisses me off.

Who does this guy think he is, calling me pansy-ass?

He has no idea who I am.

This time, I throw. Hard.

But before my fist hits that iron chest, his hand shoots up and blocks my punch.

Bone-on-bone—ouch. A sizzle of pain numbs my forearm.

I flow with it, ducking to miss his jab at my face, upper-blocking to knock off his right hook.

I don’t think about what I’m doing. It’s all instinct, primal.

In one fluid motion, I lurch forward and uppercut him in the stomach as hard as I can.

This time, he grunts—jerking back a step and rubbing his rock-hard abdomen where I landed my shot. His gaze is cold as ice as he stares at me, wordless, muscles wound tight.

Ohhhhh shit.

I stagger backwards, my life flashing before my eyes. I think about Tessa, how I’ll never get to eat that pizza with her tonight. How I’ll never get to make out with her again. Will she be at my funeral? Or will this guy dump my body in the woods to be eaten by vultures?

That’s when he takes me by surprise, cracking a grin. “Not bad, kid.”

I’m speechless. “Really?”

“Come back tomorrow morning before we open. I’ll run you through a few drills and see what else you’ve got. Then we’ll talk about the job.”

It’s impossible to keep the grin off my face. “Sounds great. Thank you, sir. I-I appreciate it.”

The civil thing to do at this point is to reach out for a handshake, right? I go for it, but Bruiser doesn’t move. Just stands there looking at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot for thinking I could shake his hand.

I clear my throat, hands retreating to my pockets. A nervous laugh stutters out of me as I walk back to the door. “I’ll… uh… see you tomorrow morning.”

Tessa looks like a dream come true when she swings open her front door and finds me standing on the porch. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, which is way too big for her, but somehow, it’s the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen.

“Pizza delivery,” I say, extending the boxes.

She smiles, taking them and stepping back into the house. “Thank you, delivery boy.” She pushes the door shut, but I stick my foot in the crack at the last second.

“OW! OW, MY FOOT! YOU JUST brOKE MY FOOT!”

Tessa gasps and whips the door open, her eyes wide. It usually takes her a moment to get jokes like that, which is amusing for me because my brothers don’t fall for my fake-outs anymore.

Tessa bursts into laughter when she sees me laughing.

Next thing I know, she’s pulling me inside and kissing me, ditching the pizza boxes on a side table.

I twirl her around, pushing her back against the closed door and squeezing her hips as I kiss her deep and slow, kiss her like a guy who just won the lottery.

“Mmm, you smell so good,” I murmur against the curve of her neck, pulling her into a full-body hug. “You feel so good.”