Chapter 15
Ethan: There’s been another threat against you. Where are you? Are you safe?
Jamie: I’m fine.
Ethan: Come to my office. We need to talk about it.
Ethan: Then I’ll come to you.
Ethan
When my limo pulls up outside the First Strike Boxing & Wrestling Gym, the sun is disappearing behind the surrounding buildings, and the streetlights have just come on. I lean forward from the back seat to tell Randy I’ll be a while, and he may as well take a break.
“Yes sir.” He looks pleased, which means he’s probably hungry. He starts getting out of the limo to open my door, and I tell him not to bother.
As I slide out of the car, a group of kids burst out of the gym’s front doors and jog down the stairs together.
They’re all around twelve or so, most wearing old, faded shorts and t-shirts, some clearly too big for them.
A couple of the kids are holding boxing gloves.
One has no shoes. They call goodbyes to each other at the bottom of the steps, then split and go in different directions.
With my car door still open, I glance after one of the kids, a boy who’s firing a finger gun at his friends and making “pew pew” sounds.
As I do, my eye catches on a shape in a nearby doorway.
It looks like a figure standing in shadow, mostly hidden by the gloom.
They’re wearing a dark overcoat despite the LA heat.
Judging by their height, it’s probably a man, though I can’t be certain.
He’s facing the gym entrance as though he’s watching for something, and it’s not the kids, because they go right past him.
If it weren’t for the photos of Jamie that have come in the mail, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But after the latest threat, I can’t afford to be complacent.
Frowning, I bend to the limo and lean in to talk to Steve. “There’s someone lurking over there.” I motion forward, but Steve has to crane his neck around to see me pointing, and he frowns, puzzled.
“Where?”
“In that doorway on the left. Next to the alley.”
“I can’t see anyone.”
Straightening, I look back at the doorway.
The figure has vanished. This part of town is a mix of small apartment complexes and stores, with a few single-family homes.
Several teens are hanging around the convenience store on the corner, and a woman is wrestling with a large washing basket as she pulls open the door to the laundromat.
I can’t see where the man in the overcoat has gone. Maybe he ducked down the alley.
“Where?” Steve repeats, getting out of the limo.
“Never mind. It was nothing.”
Shaking off an uneasy feeling that I’m being watched, I climb the stairs and go into the gym. Coming here reminds me of kissing Jamie. And of the mistaken booty-call, when she tackled me onto the mat and turned my world upside down.
Unlike those times, the gym is filled with the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists hitting bags, the squeak of shoes on rubber, and the shouts and laughter of children.
Jamie is with an older, gray-haired man at the punching bags, helping a group of kids throw punches. Judging by the noise the kids are making, they’re clearly having fun.
Jamie spots me as I walk toward her and comes to meet me.
“Hey,” she says, giving me a smile.
She’s wearing leggings, a tank top, and sneakers, her hair in its usual ponytail. She looks just the way she always does, but she takes my breath away. Her skin is covered with a light sheen of perspiration, wisps of escaped hair fly around her head, and she’s still a feast for the eyes.
“Hey,” I say back, stopping in front of her. “You’re teaching kids how to box?”
“I help Uncle Vito with his classes whenever I can.” She glances at the older man who’s still with the kids. “You said there’s been another threat?”
I nod. “Another photograph. Steve’s taken the original to show the police, but I took a picture of it.
” Tugging out my phone, I pull up the photo of Jamie walking into the gym, red ink covering her body in a violent splash that looks like blood.
“Someone must have been following you. Whoever it was, they took this picture in broad daylight.”
My mind flicks back to the shadowy figure I saw lurking outside. I should have gone after them.
“Creepy,” she says with a grimace. “What are the police going to do?”
I give a frustrated grunt. “Probably nothing.”
It’s at times like these when a background like Miles’s would be useful.
For generations, his family has been donating to the city’s institutions, putting the Marzoni name onto buildings and greasing the right palms. If the Marzonis were being threatened, the police would be all over it.
For all my money, I don’t have any connections in the LAPD.
Behind Jamie, the class looks like it’s finishing. The kids are stripping off their gloves and unwrapping their hands.
A dark-haired girl with long braids sheds her hand wraps quickly, then scoots her wheelchair over to us. “Jamie!” she shouts. “Coach said I could spar in the ring next week if you help him lift me up there.”
Jamie smiles. “Of course I will, Felicity.”
“I can’t wait!” The girl grins at Jamie, but when she glances at me, her smile disappears, and she seems shy.
I crouch down so I’m at eye-level, though my overworked thigh muscles scream in protest. “Hi,” I say. “I noticed you doing that jab-hook combination. I’ve been learning that one myself, and you’re good at it. Better than I am.”
Felicity nods solemnly at me. “Thanks, mister. Keep practicing and you’ll get it.”
“I will,” I promise just as seriously.
“See you next week,” Felicity says to Jamie. Then she spins the wheels of her chair, speeding back to the other kids.
I slowly straighten back up. It hurts just as much going up as it did going down. All the ducking and weaving Jamie is making me do is more punishing than any squat routine.
“You okay?” Jamie eyes the slow pace of the movement. “Did I work you too hard this morning?”
“Pfft.” I wave a hand. “Wasn’t hard at all.”
“Got it. Next training session, you want to work harder. No problem.” Her lips quirk, and there’s a glint in her eye I can only describe as pure evil.
“Bye Coach,” the kids yell as they head out the front door of the gym, all leaving together in a noisy, friendly group.
The grizzled old man gives them a wave and walks over to us.
“Uncle Vito,” Jamie says. “This is Ethan Kane.”
Jamie’s uncle has a leathery face, the skin around his brown eyes lined with wrinkles. But his chest is wide, and it’s obvious he’s still in good shape. His face looks older than his body, so his age is hard to guess, but with a gun to my head, I’d say he’s around sixty.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” I say, shaking his calloused hand.
“Are those your trophies in the cabinet over there?” I nod toward the battered old display cabinet against a wall at the far side of the gym.
Behind the glass are at least twenty cups and belts, and from here they look old enough that it seems unlikely they’re Jamie’s.
Jamie’s eyebrows jump as though something I said has surprised her, but she says nothing.
Vito nods, smiling. “Middleweight champion in ’94 and ’95.” His voice is strangely raspy. Though he’s missing one of his teeth, there’s pride in his smile. “You know much about boxing, son?”
“Not a lot,” I admit, thrusting my hands into my pockets. I’ve never been called ‘son’ before, and it’s a little disconcerting.
Vito folds one arm over his chest and rubs the other hand over his unshaven chin. “Jay tells me you’re fighting in the match she’s putting together.”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“It means something to us both to keep this place from falling apart. Lot of memories here. So thank you.” He turns to Jamie. “I’m beat, Jay. I’ll clean up, then head out.”
“Leave the cleaning to me, tío,” she says. “I’ll tidy up. You go and get some rest.”
He protests, but she’s firm, insisting she can handle it.
Then she hugs him goodbye, and I stand back awkwardly.
As confident as I am in most situations, I never quite know what to do around displays of affection.
Mom loved me, but she wasn’t much of a hugger.
After a moment, I look away, giving them privacy.
As soon as her uncle leaves, Jamie rounds on me. “You were nice to him,” she accuses. “And to Felicity.”
I frown, puzzled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were rude to all those people at the ball. Like night and day.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know who you really are.”
Wow. That’s a sucker punch. I hadn’t realized what a bad impression I’d made on her, and that she’d assumed I was always an asshole.
“I respect people who deserve it,” I say. “I have history with the people at the gala I was rude to, and they didn’t deserve better.”
Though I sound annoyed, I’m angry at myself for leading her straight to a cluster of enemies at the ball. I didn’t consider how I’d come across because I’m not used to caring what people think of me. I was only thinking about selling tickets to the boxing match.
“Good to know.” She hooks her head toward the area by the punching bags which is covered with scattered equipment and discarded hand wraps. “Come on. You can help me clean up.”
“Are you planning to keep wrestling strangers?” I ask as I heft the barbells and hand weights that have been left around the racks, my aching muscles complaining with every movement.
She stops stacking mats to give me a sharp look. “Of course. And don’t bother telling me not to. I can look after myself.”
“But someone’s clearly following you, taking photos and sending them to me. Don’t you tell your clients not to put themselves in dangerous situations if they’re being targeted?”
She frowns. “Like I said?—”
Her phone rings, cutting her off. She tugs it out of the side pocket of her leggings, and grimaces at the screen before hitting the button to silence the call.
As she shoves her phone back into her pocket, I wonder why she grimaced, and who it is that she doesn’t want to talk to. Could her reluctance to answer it be connected to the threats?
“Have you been getting threatening calls?” I ask.
“No.”
“Do you have enemies? Could the photos be from someone who knows you?”
She draws her back up with a huff. “I don’t have enemies. I’m pretty sure that was my father calling me, okay? He’s not the one posting you those photos, but I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Okay.” I brace my poor muscles to pick up a heavier weight. “Your father’s not in your life?”
She scoops up hand wraps, throwing them into a basket. “Not unless he wants money.” She sounds bitter, and my heart goes out to her.
“My dad was an asshole too,” I say, wanting to let her know I have some idea of what she’s going through.
She hesitates as though debating whether to tell me about him.
After a long silence, she says, “Mine’s a grifter.
He’s never had a real job, not as far as I know.
” She balls one of the wraps in her fist, shooting me a sideways look.
“You want to know why I don’t want to stop doing the wrestling matches?
Well, when I was young, we’d always be moving from place to place.
Every time Dad ripped someone off, we’d have to run away and go somewhere new.
Then he went to jail, and my mom and I were homeless.
There was violence on the street, and I spent all my time wishing I was bigger and stronger so I could defend my mother and me. ”
My chest tightens. If I thought she’d let me, I’d go over there and put my arms around her. “Jamie?—”
"Don't." She shakes her head, her expression hard. "I don't want pity. That's not why I'm telling you. The point is that I got strong, and I can defend myself against anyone now. And those videos? They prove it."
She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with defiance. Daring me to argue.
I can’t.
She’s fucking magnificent. She took her weakness and turned it into strength. And though I hate the thought she might be putting herself in danger, I can only admire her for it.
"Your uncle taught you to fight?" I ask, trying not to grunt with pain as I put another weight on the rack.
She nods, collecting skipping ropes from the floor and hanging them on hooks.
“I came here when I was twelve. Lots of great fighters trained here back then, not just kids. I got to hang out here with them, picking up all their moves.” An affectionate smile curves her lips.
"I missed a lot of school in those early years, so I never got much of an education. But I learned how to fight, and that’s all I ever wanted to do. "
“Did you ever think of turning pro?”
She snorts. “If I were a man, then sure. But do you know what female boxers get paid? It’s pathetic. I earn more through my Youtube channel.”
Putting her hands on her hips, she scans the gym, then gives me a satisfied nod. “Good enough. Thanks for helping.” She says it in a voice that lets me know she’s calling an end to our evening, and I react instinctively, not wanting to leave her alone.
“Want to have dinner?” I ask.
There’s probably already something scheduled on my calendar for tonight, some dinner with a business contact, but I’ll ask Rachel to postpone it. It’s late notice, but I don’t care.
Jamie’s expression turns wary. “Listen,” she says. “I don’t know what you expect, but what happened the other night isn’t going to happen again.”
“Okay,” I say evenly, pretending I’m not disappointed that she doesn’t want to repeat that incredible make-out session. “But I’m hungry, aren’t you?”
“I’m starving.” She wrinkles her nose. “But I need to take a shower and get changed. I worked up a sweat today.”
“We’ll stop at your place on the way,” I say, pulling my phone out to call Steve back with the limo. “Where do you live?”
“Actually, I live right here.”
“What…here in the gym?”
She motions to a nondescript door in the back corner, hidden in shadow, that looks like a cleaning cupboard or storeroom. “Up there. I’ll show you.”