Round Five
OLLIE
Eat. Sleep. Wake up. Repeat.
That’s my life and has been for years. But toss in an hour at the local Love & War gym—a place I’ve considered a second home my entire adult life, a training facility for fighters, owned by guys I’ve called family since elementary school.
If I don’t get that hour a day of physical activity, where someone is beating the snot out of me and pushing me to the point of wanting to puke, then everything else feels a million times harder to deal with.
My brain works better when I’ve been active.
My reflexes are faster, my intuition is sharper, my endurance is improved, and my mood is far, far happier.
So I pull up in the parking lot and cut the engine, the sun already kissing the horizon despite the early hour.
Snagging my keys and my bag from the backseat, I shove my door open and drop onto the graveled ground.
“Jesus.” The wind bites at my nose. It sears my lungs.
My breath comes out in white puffs, beating me everywhere I turn, but this is the same bullshit weather we had last night, too.
This wind. The snow. The fucking ice in my veins.
How that woman—Jane Doe—walked in this kind of cold in nothing but a shirt and ratty jeans is a mystery.
Her very existence is all I can think about.
Working late so I could stay with her, then bringing her home—in my mind, anyway—until I lay in bed, wide awake, while my brain spun and spun in a million repetitive circles.
Eventually, I found sleep… but she followed me there, too.
If this case sends me insane, I wouldn’t even be surprised.
Slamming my truck door and rubbing my hands together, I cross the parking lot at a fast clip and trudge into the gym, stepping into a warmth created only by the movement of active bodies and the stench of old sweat.
Both bring me peace. The hospital sure as fuck doesn’t.
“Hey, Ollie.” Fox sits perched on a tall stool behind the front counter, her legs crossed, her back bowed, one elbow on the countertop, and a vixen-esque glitter of torment in her eyes.
Because she’s always in on whatever inside joke is playing through her mind, and no matter how friendly we are, she’s never invited me to hear the punchline.
“I was hoping you’d come by this afternoon.
Chris is in a mood, and he doesn’t wanna break Tommy’s arm before his next big fight. ”
“So I should let him break mine?” I swing my bag over my shoulder, hooking the strap over my hand. “Sounds like I should turn my ass around and leave again.”
She snickers. “Don’t. We need you to take one for the team and let Chris pound on you for a bit. Then I’ll take him home and finish smoothing out the rough edges. Everyone’ll be happier for it.”
“I find it kinda ironic that I pay to be here. Every single month.” Leaving her behind, I move through the next doorway and into the front training room, with two dozen hanging bags lining the walls, a regulation-size cage tucked off to the side, and a dozen kids shouting their kiai’s in the middle, balling their fists and showing off their fight faces.
My baby sister runs her junior class with the perfect mix of authority and devilish fun. She makes things entertaining for them, but the instant they step out of line and start acting like fools, she ropes them back in with a look that promises pain.
Eliza was one of those kids for years. Now she rules them.
Chris and Troop spar in the cage, rolling on the floor and slamming against the fence—Chris is slamming Troop’s head against the fence, that is—while Tommy watches from the outside.
He’s our world champ—literally—twin brother to the cranky-Chris, and though he’s not afraid of a physical altercation with his brother, Tommy’s winnings bankroll this entire gym, the people who work within it, the members who rely on the doors staying open, and the wife and two kids he supports.
Breaking his arm to assuage Chris’s bloodlust is not what smart businessmen do.
I glance across and wait for Eliza’s bright blue eyes to lock onto mine, for her smile to curl wide, then for her sneaky middle finger to flash my way without a single kiddie gaze clocking it.
She loves me.
Finally, I turn my attention to the cage and toss my bag to the floor so it rolls and hits the brick wall, then I toe my sneakers off and peel my socks right after.
Goosebumps sprint along my legs and up to my balls, because it’s so fucking cold out today.
Even in here, even with the guys sweating and belting each other into a medical emergency.
“Hey.” Tommy peeks my way, tipping his chin in greeting before casting his eyes back to the sparring partners. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it in today. Heard about the drama at the hospital.”
“Of course you did. The grapevine is alive and well, delivering gossip to every set of ears in town.”
Chris picks Troopy straight up off the floor, WWE style, and though Troop screams like a girl, Chris throws him back down again and follows him in with a viper-fast duck and weave, scooping his opponent’s leg up and damn near choking him with it.
“Fox said he’s in a mood.”
Tommy chuckles. “He’s past the worst of it. Chris and Franky were supposed to go ice-fishing or some shit tonight after the gym, but Fox asked Franky to the movies instead.” His eyes glitter with amusement. “Franky chose Fox, and Chris got his feelings hurt.”
“Chris is married to Fox.” I rest my forehead against the cage, curling my fingers through the metal. “Dude’s jealous of his own wife.”
“And she’s not sorry for it. She didn’t want either of them sitting in the cold tonight, trying to catch a fish no one is gonna eat, and there’s a new movie on at the cinema Franky was excited for.
She weighed up her options, considered the repercussions of Chris’ sulking, and with this in mind, she made her move.
Saved us all from them getting sick and complaining about it in a day or two. ”
“Set me up to get my arm broken.” I hiss in sympathy as Chris folds Troop in half and forces the man to choke himself.
It’s not that Troop is a shit fighter, and it’s not like he’s an easy target.
But Chris trains the world champ, and he’s got pockets of rage stored away for the days he’s not feeling great.
“Your dad stopped by an hour or two ago.”
“Yeah?” I look Tommy’s way. “What’d he want?”
“To gossip, mostly. I think he was hoping he’d catch you before you’re back on shift. He wanted our version of the Barbara stuff, since it’s on the news and she’s pissy about it.”
“You don’t have a version. You have nothing to do with what happened on the road last night.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but like I said, he hoped you’d be here. Worst case, that you’d been here. He wants to hear what you think about it all, figured you’d probably told us about it, and now he wants that version.”
“Jesus.” I lean heavily against the cage wall. “He’s getting worse with age, I swear. Gus Darling used to be a respectable, authoritarian type in this town. He was a cop. Formidable. Firm. Now he’s retired and spending way too much time with the old lady book club.”
“Could be a glimpse into your future,” he teases. “Don’t retire too young, and keep your hobbies physically abusive. Steer clear of academia. Those are the secrets to happiness.”
“How very Watkins of you.” I exhale a bubble of frustration much the same way Chris does, releasing the tension of a long day and too little sleep. Then, straightening out again, I wipe Troop’s splashing sweat off my chin and set my hands on my hips. “What’s your version of the Barbara thing?”
“I heard the chick in the hospital is a scamming bitch who jumped out in front of Barbara’s car to commit insurance fraud.”
I shake my head, disappointed, as I so often am, in Plainview’s gossip mill.
“Barbara’s screeching about how perfectly she was driving, how she was paying complete attention, no radio on, not even distracting internal thoughts beyond her flawless driving, and how utterly selfless and kind she was to deliver food to a friend in need.”
“She’s always been a pillar of humility.”
He laughs. “After the hospital, Barbara met up with the book club bitches. They mooched free coffee and negotiated the price of a bear claw down until Alana was tempted to toss it in the trash instead, then they whispered and schemed for a couple of hours. They’re planning to out the girl for the criminal mastermind she is, un-closet her skeletons, ruin her reputation—since she so callously attempted to ruin Barbara’s—and if they can get the charges to stick, which they will, they swear it, they’re gonna send her to prison for the next hundred years. ”
“For fuck’s sake.” I brush a hand over my face, scratching my unshaved jaw and exhaling a deep sigh. “It’s exhausting listening to the bullshit.”
“What’s the real story?”
“Female vic was struck by a car. Frozen half to death, shattered Barbara’s windshield with her skull, suffered a traumatic brain injury, and the loss of her memories.
Now she’s in the hospital, scared to her bones, and with no clue who the hell she is.
But that’s private, so you didn’t hear it from me. ”
He makes a show of zipping his lips. “She gonna be okay?”
That new, constant dread sits heavily in my belly, aching and nauseating in all the worst ways.
“Depends on your definition of okay, I suppose. She’s talking and able to hold a conversation.
She speaks clearly, and sometimes, when she finds the exact right opening, tells a joke and delivers well-timed sarcasm.
She’s scared as hell, and went sheet-white when Billy and Ramone arrived to take her statement.
Says she can’t close her eyes, ‘cos she’s afraid of the dark, but I reckon she’s afraid of being snuck up on. ”
“You think she’s running from someone dangerous?”