Chapter 7
I jolt when I hear banging on the bathroom door, followed by a muffled, “Hey, get out of there.”
I shut off the blow-dryer, quickly pull the cord from the electrical socket, put it in my bag, and tie up my hair.
I pull open the bathroom door and find the manager of Hardee’s with a disapproving glare aimed my way.
“This isn’t a salon. You homeless people need to go to a shelter and stop freeloading.” I lower my head, avoiding her glare. “I’ll give you one second to pack up your shit and get the hell out of here, or I’m calling the cops.”
I step out, trying not to slip on the greasy brown tiles with my carry-on. Tears prick my eyes as people stare, watching me leave. When I’m finally inside my car, I let the tears fall.
I’ve never been kicked out before.
I’ve never been called homeless.
I needed to blow-dry my hair. I tried the athletic department locker room on campus, but they asked for ID and if I was an athlete to use the showers. My hair looks like shit, and people are starting to notice. I have until the end of next week to get my first paycheck from the gym. I can’t leave my hair wet because it’s getting cold out, and the last thing I want is to get sick.
When I turn the key to start the car, I jump when I hear a bang on my driver’s side window, causing my heart to beat so hard it feels like it leaped out of my chest.
I look over, and it’s the Hardee’s manager.
“Alright, I’m leaving!” I say loud enough so she could hear me.
“Open up,” she says, tapping the window.
I roll the window an inch. “Look, I’m sorry?—”
She slides a piece of paper through the crack of the window. “Here. It’s the address and phone number of a shelter. It’s dangerous to be doing what you’re doing at this time of night.” It is ten thirty at night. I take the piece of paper. “I’m sorry for being a bitch back there, but I’ll get fired.” I nod, knowing how important a job is when you need it. “Show up or give them a call. I don’t know your situation, but it’s better than being out here.”
I blink back my tears and swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks.”
I call before driving and using my gas, but they’re full for the night. They said to try again tomorrow but took my information. The lady said I could go to a fire station to pick up a hot meal, but I don’t need food. I need a hot shower and a place to sleep.
It's Wednesday before they have a spot available at the shelter. It smells awful. I ignore the curious glances from women. Most of them were looking at my bag and shoes. They smell like shit and in need of a shower. They remind me of the gas station restrooms.
When I reach the end of the line with a hot plate, a lady with dark hair pulled back in a hair net behind the counter gives me a once-over. “Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep,” she warns .
“Why not?” I ask.
I look at the women sitting on the benches with plastic garbage bags with everything they own, watching me while they eat. Some have missing teeth. Others have spots on their skin from drug use. Matted hair.
I glance back at the older lady sitting next to the woman with the dark hair. They are both volunteers in purple shirts with the women’s shelter logo embroidered on their left pocket.
The older woman leans forward, lowering her voice. “A pretty girl like you. You’re fresh meat in a place like this.”
“If you fall asleep, they’ll steal your shit,” the dark- haired lady adds.
I didn’t sleep. Hell, how could I with a warning like that? I was grateful for the free food. They were right about people taking your things. Three women woke up in the morning with their bags stolen. They were crying, and all the shelter staff could do was give them clothes from the donation box. I feel bad for them, but I have nothing to offer them.
Staying at the shelter comes with a price. Not sleeping isn’t an option.
In the morning, I look like a zombie. I’m running out of concealer and foundation. I have to figure out where to shower safely and take my chances sleeping in my car. I couldn’t stay awake after three cups of coffee. I couldn’t study or finish my homework.
When I walk into the gym at three o’clock for work, I don’t bother to look at Rey. I would sneak glances when I could but right now, I’m dragging ass.
The man is a machine when he trains, his body a work of art. He is quiet. What I found weird compared to everyone in the gym was when people would try to talk to him, he ignored them. He doesn’t have a conversation with anyone.
The few times Javier was around, they always went somewhere private. I found it weird. Weird enough that I googled him, and what I saw was a surprise. I work for the heavyweight champion of the world. I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t impressed. He’s impressive.
They call him “The Silent King.”
According to the articles I found online, he’s single. It doesn’t take a genius to know why he is unmarried. He is closed off and introverted. Lonely. Silent. He doesn’t speak more than two words after a fight. He doesn’t show off like other boxing champions and only cares about his brother and mother. His mother raised him in Puerto Rico before moving to the US when he went pro. There was no mention of a father.
When I got a closer look at him the first day, I saw something in his gaze. Beneath his cold stare was something warm. I felt safe when he looked at me like that, but frightened at the same time. I’ve never been looked at that way before.
When I walk through the gym’s main floor, I avoid eye contact with the guys training, but I can feel the heat of Rey’s stare when I fold the towels. I sneak a glance when he starts to hit the bag. He has a dangerous look in his eyes, and the thought of feeling safe quickly vanishes. The raw power of each blow he lands causes me to flinch. Each one lands harder than the last. His sweat drips like body oil down his muscles, disappearing in the ink drawn on his skin.
I don’t think he’s noticed me watching, but I can’t tear my gaze away. He is behind the bag, his mouth making a hiss with each strike. A strand of dark, wet hair falls forward, followed by more sweat down his chiseled jaw. He’s beautiful. Like a real-life Goliath. Beautiful from afar, dangerous up close.
I can hear the music coming from headphones. They must have them turned all the up if I could make out the lyrics of Eminem’s “The Way I Am.”
He continues to work hard on the bag, and my eyes are transfixed on the way he moves his feet in his boxing shoes. My eyes slowly lift to his chest muscles, which look like oiled pistons as they bunch and vibrate.
When he looks up, I avert my eyes nervously, dropping the towel on the floor. A shudder runs through me as I bend to pick it up, fold it, and place it on the rack.
I jump when I realize he’s right behind me. His gaze fixed on me. The intensity of his eyes when they ran all over me. Eminem’s “Superman” lyrics mock me from his headphones.
I place the stack of folded towels from the basket on the rack, ignoring the way he made me feel naked, stripping me piece by piece. His hand reaches in to grab a towel. My breath hitches in my throat when the tip of his finger brushes lightly over the top of my hand before grabbing a towel. I snatch my hand away, rubbing the skin like I was burned by the tip of a burning flame. My pulse beats frantically in my throat.
My eyes lift. He slides the headphones off his head and wipes his face and chest, full of sweat over tan skin and tattoos. When he’s done, I forget I’m watching him instead of working. I step back, but his icy stare pins me to the spot. He closes the distance between us.
“D-do you need me to take the towel?” I stammer, trying to think of the right thing to say, but he doesn’t reply.
His gaze travels slowly over my face. Alarm bells ring in my ears, telling me to run while I still can, but I push it away. I lift my chin, waiting for him to tell me what he wants, what he needs, or what I’ve done, but he looks down at me, cutting me with his gaze like a knife. He takes the towel, places it in the empty basket, and walks away.