The World: According to Rachael (22 page)

My head fall against the cool leather seat and I close my eyes as his finger moves in a circular motion, higher and higher up my bare leg. He begins to whisper the dirty things he wants to do to my body in my ear. I’m flushed with desire by the time we arrive at the gym.

As we slide out of the car, I say quietly to Graham, “You sure know how to make a girl forget about her job.”

The smile he flashes my way can only be described as wickedly sexy.

Malik is waiting for us under the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights. Even after all the years that I’ve been training with him three days a week at five in the morning, the contrast between the dark pre-dawn sky and his bright gym makes me cringe.

“Morning, Rach,” he says with a beaming smile. “You must be Graham.”

The two shake hands as Graham replies, using his southern-boy charm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Malik wastes no time with niceties. He gets Graham’s knuckles taped while I start my warm-up routine. It’s always the same. First I do one hundred jumping jacks. Next, I perform side-to-side lunges. Then, I move on to jump-roping and stretching my arms.

Graham joins me for the end of my warm-up. He’s wearing the pair of athletic shorts and sweatshirt that he wore to my house yesterday. Much to my liking, the gym heats up quickly and he’s forced to shed the sweatshirt. Watching him jump rope could be considered pornography for me. Glistening chest … rippling muscles … the sound of his controlled breathing … Jesus Christ, this is his first and last time to work out with me. He’s too distracting.

Malik quickly evaluates Graham’s boxing abilities and has him hold the pads for me. He has taken MMA before so he knows how to block, dodge my punches and move with me. We dance together inside of the boxing ring while Malik calls out punch combinations.

This is a different way to get to know him. He’s so serious while sparring with me. His eyes are wide, and a concentration crease indents his forehead. He studies my moves as he uses his bent knees to absorb the shock of my force. His breathing technique is one that I’ve heard Colin use when he’s working out, three short breaths out and one long breath in. I land my punch combinations with the precision that Malik demands. There’s no doubt about it. Graham and I are competitive people, with neither one of us wanting to appear weak.

“Stop,” Malik calls. “Take a quick water break.”

Just as easily as we slipped into fierce competitor mode, we’re back on friendly terms. I lead us to our water bottles and towels that I’d placed by the metal folding chairs in the corner. “You don’t realize what a good workout you get just holding the pads,” Graham comments as he slams half of his thermos. His arm and chest muscles are swollen and covered in a thin layer of sweat that shimmers under the florescent glare.

Malik flexes his very large biceps. “How do you think I got these guns?”

I roll my eyes and reply, “Uncle Sam.”

Malik laughs. “Okay, Smarty Pants. I may have earned them in the Marines, but I’ve kept them by boxing.”

I down another gulp of water, and turn to Graham. “Just one more reason that boxing is better than MMA. Ready?”

“Let’s do this,” he replies. Then to Malik, he asks, “What’s Rachael going to do while you hold the pads?”

Malik chuckles and winks at me. “She’s going to hold the pads.”

Graham’s eyes widen, and his face pales. “She can’t hold the pads for me.”

I stop walking and place my hands on my hips. “Excuse me. And why can’t I?”

“Because you’re not bigger than a minute, Rachael. I hit hard. I don’t want to hurt you.” As if to further make his point, he crosses his arms over his chest.

Malik adds, “I think she’ll be fine.”

“See, my boxing coach thinks I can do it. Get in the ring, Jackson.”

He drops his head and shakes it back in forth. “I’m not okay with this. You’re like, maybe a hundred pounds. I’ve got at least ninety-five on you.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” I stomp my foot. Not the most mature move in the world, but he’s really getting on my nerves.

“Baby,” he cajoles. “I don’t have to box. I’ll just go do the speed bag. You work out with Malik.” His eyes shine with sincerity, which just pisses me off.

“Either get in the ring and box with me, or this is the last time you’re invited.” I threaten in my best dragon-lady voice.

As if Graham is wearing cement shoes, he enters the ring, shaking his head. I pick up the pads and get into the proper stance, flashing him a smile and yell, “Hit me.”

Graham picks up his arms and goes into fighter stance, and lands the wimpiest jab ever into my pad. I drop my arms and glare. “You’re wasting my time. Hit me.”

I pick up my arms and adjust the rectangular red strike-target that I’m holding.

He throws another jab with a little bit of weight behind it, but it’s nothing compared to what I know that he can do.

I drop my arms again and turn towards Malik. “He’s wasting my time.”

“Fine. I’ll throw one solid punch, and then I’ll spar with Malik. I’m not fucking hitting my girlfriend
.
”
Girlfriend?
I’m his girlfriend? Interesting …

I pick my hands up and get into my stance. “Ready.”

With lightning-quick speed he lands a combo into my pads of a jab, a cross, and an uppercut. I block and absorb his strikes with ease. He drops his hands. “Happy now?”

“Absolutely.” My chin drops to my chest, and I smile sweetly at him while I bat my eyelashes. “Let’s keep training just like that.”

He shakes his head and shoots me a look that makes me fear for my own safety, but he picks his arms up and gets in a fighter’s stance. Malik calls out punch combinations and coaches both of us as we move around the ring. This is how Malik and I spar. He doesn’t make it easy for me to land my punches. He dances, and I have to anticipate where to throw my strikes.

At first the only sounds that fill the air are Graham’s knuckles connecting with my pad, our heavy breathing, and Malik’s coaching. Soon, Malik’s words stop and it’s just the two of us mentally and physically connecting on a different level inside the ring. The rawness of the sport mixed with the mental conditioning—it’s why I love boxing so much. It is just as much of a dance as the tango is. It’s about reading your opponent’s eyes, focusing on their footwork, and learning their weaknesses. It’s chess in its purest form.

Our rhythm inside the ring is the same one that we share when we’re making love. It’s a physical and mental dance of two souls who recognize each other.

I note how different this boxing training session has been compared to the others. Instead of me fighting my inner demons inside of this ring, I’m lighter on my feet. This session, albeit very intense, has been joyful. I love getting to know Graham this way.

Malik interrupts our silence and calls out, “One more minute.”

His voice breaks my concentration just enough that my hand is able to deflect Graham’s punch but his fist still connects with my cheekbone. I hear the thud before white light clouds my vision as pain electrocutes my body.

Before I can register what’s happening, Graham has me cradled in his arms and is carrying me toward the training table by Malik’s office. He keeps repeating, “I’m so sorry, Rachael. I’m so sorry,” over and over again. The skin on his face is pale and clammy. His eyes are wide with horror.

“It was a glancing blow. You didn’t get me full-on,” I reassure him, but I can tell he either doesn’t believe me or isn’t listening because he keeps repeating his mantra of “I’m so sorry.”

I’m carefully laid on the table as if I’m a breakable piece of bone china. As I struggle to sit up, Graham places his hand on my chest. “No, Rachael. You might have a concussion. Stay still.” He’s stoic as he begins examining my eye movements and studying the inflamed cheek.

Concussion? Is he serious? Yes, his punch connected with my cheek, but I don’t have a concussion. A bruise? Probably.

Malik places an icepack on my cheek, which Graham holds in place, studying my face to ensure that I’m all right. I look up at these two men. Malik knows I’m fine, and has a know-it-all grin on his face. Graham looks like he just accidentally killed his mother.

Shaking his head, he begins lecturing me. “I let you push me. I shouldn’t have sparred with you, Rachael. I knew better. You’re so petite. It’s not—”

“Enough already,” I cut him off as I struggle against him to sit up.

He cuts his eyes from mine, and mutters, “Damn stubborn woman.”

“Let me up,” I demand in an ice-cold voice. This is such a vulnerable position. I’ll feel more in control if I can at least be upright.

Reluctantly, Graham steps back, as if he’s giving me his blessing, but he’s shaking his head, and the scowl says that he’s not pleased. I sit up without any help and lean against the cold cement-brick wall. I reposition the icepack and hold it against my cheek. I look at both of the men and tartly say, “Shall I tell the press I was hit by my boyfriend?” I really like how that word sounds on my tongue. “Or that I had a gym mishap?”

Graham’s eyes draw together, and he leans forward onto the training table so our faces are no more than a couple of inches apart. “If you’re willing to publically admit that you have a boyfriend instead of just a friend, I’ll go with ‘While you were working out with your boyfriend, you had a gym accident.’” That one eyebrow cocks up and his dimple gleams. Ugh. He owns me, and calls my bluff. God, I like that about him. I try to smile, but grimace instead as my bruised cheek throbs in pain.

“Well, Malik. I can’t say that it’s been fun. I’ll catch you on Wednesday.”

Graham helps me off the table and then holds me in place, as if I’m going to collapse. I swat his hands away. “I’m fine. Just grab our stuff.”

If looks could kill, I’d be a goner. Apparently, Graham doesn’t realize that I hate being treated as if I’m made of glass. Well, he’s just going to have to get over it.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head, much to my chagrin, and we head outside to the waiting car. Lou takes one look at the icepack against my cheek and shakes his head as he flashes me a toothy grin.

When we’re in the backseat of the car again, I ask Lou to turn up the radio so I can catch a few more minutes of the Sons of Liberty.

Graham stops me. “Actually, I was hoping we could listen to some calming music on the way home.”

Rather than argue, I say, “Lou, put on something classical.” I don’t know what Lou chooses, but it sounds like elevator music to me.

Our trip back to my townhome is quiet. Graham holds my hand and runs his thumb over my knuckles in a rhythmic pattern while the horrid music tries to lull me to sleep. I glance to my left to study his face. It’s etched with tension—even his beautiful full lips are tight. I have an instinctive feeling that his brooding mood is more than just his angst over our boxing match gone awry. I wish that I knew him better. Is he waiting for me to ask him to tell me what’s wrong? Or is he the kind of person who wants to be introspective, and he’ll inform me what’s bothering him when he’s ready? I like this man so much, but the incident at the gym and the car ride back to my place has definitely been a reminder that we have a lot to learn about each other.

When we arrive, I tell Graham that I’m going to take a quick shower and get dressed. I invite him to join me. I also offer that Lou can take him and George home.

Graham looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’re not going to work.”

I roll my eyes as I unlock my front door. “Of course I’m going to work. It’s just a bruise. It won’t keep me from speaking, or writing, or yelling, or any of the other five thousand things that I do during a normal work day.”

We wait in silence as Lou does his job.

As we enter my home, George jumps to his feet and waddles over for his proper attention. I run my hand over his head, and then head upstairs, ignoring Graham.

I turn on my shower and while the water is warming up, I examine my face in the mirror. I’ve got a shiner, all right. My cheek is a ripe hue of red surrounded by an intense purple, and the skin under my eye is also turning a lovely shade of plum. The right side of my face is a bit swollen. There’s not a chance that makeup will do anything to hide this. Oh well! There’s nothing that I can do it about it.

I strip off my workout clothes and toss them in my dirty clothes hamper. Next, I slide under the hot stream of water. Instantly, my muscles thank me. My mind clears of any thoughts about Graham and what’s on my calendar for today. I bliss out, experiencing a rare moment of calm. I’m feeling so relaxed that I don’t hear Mr. Grouchy Pants enter my bathroom.

“Rachael.” I nearly jump out of my skin. “It’s a bad idea for you to go to work. Why don’t we both take the day off?”

I poke my head out of the shower curtain and gaze upon Graham Jackson leaning against my bathroom counter with his arms crossed over his bare chest. Unfortunately, I scan upwards to the scowl marring his face.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“It was a rhetorical question, genius. I’m going to work. I have a bruised cheek. Make it up to me. You can fix me dinner at your place tonight. I’ll try to sneak out of work at a somewhat decent hour.” I smile sweetly as I offer up what I think is as good of a compromise, in my opinion, as any.

I close the shower curtain and step back under the hot spray. This conversation is over in my mind. The only things left for him to say are what time he wants me there, and to text me directions.

Apparently, I misjudged my opponent, which doesn’t happen often. The shower curtain is pulled back, and a very naked Graham joins me. My bathtub is old and miniscule in size. The original architect did not envision two people sharing this space to get clean and, well, do other things.

“What are you doing?”

“Convincing you to miss work,” he says as he reaches for me.

I slap his hands away. “Not happening, Jackson.”

His eyes soften as he brushes his fingertips gently across my injured cheek. “This makes me crazy. The last thing that I ever want to do is hurt you.” He seems to be carrying a weight that’s almost too much to bear. Once again, I know that something is bothering him more than our gym accident.