Uncaged Love Read online

  “Thank you.” I turn the handle of the bathroom door. Compared to my other jobs, this one feels like a dream.

  The bathroom’s tiny. Just a sink and a toilet in the open space. In one corner, four plastic cubes are stacked, open ends out. One has a towel and a brush in it. They probably belong to that girl out there.

  I lock the door and strip off the hoodie. Beneath it I have an athletic bra, the only kind I own. It’s wide and gray, and looks like what that girl lifting weights is wearing, but she’s showing hers. I can’t imagine walking around with my belly exposed.

  I turn to the mirror. My hair is a disaster. Tendrils are stuck to my flushed face. I snatch up a paper towel and wet it down. The cool against my neck is a blessed relief.

  I shouldn’t dawdle. I pick up the shirt. I know before I even get it pulled down that it’s miles too tight. A groan escapes my throat as I assess the fit in the mirror. Even with the athletic bra, you can’t help but look at my chest. The barbell across the front lands square on my boobs.

  Maybe I can ask for a bigger size. I fold up my hoodie and place it in one of the cubes.

  Nobody’s in the hall when I come out. The front room is empty. I poke my head in the weight room to see if Buster is there. Only the girl remains. I’m not sure if I’m feeling disappointment or relief that Colt is gone.

  I turn back to the front room, plucking at the shirt. I don’t know where Buster got it. I wonder if I can find them myself.

  There’s another door in the hall. The handle is tight, but I manage to jerk it open.

  Bingo. It’s a storage room.

  I can’t find any sort of light, so I have to open the door wide. It’s chaos inside, a tangle of bands, weights, and balls. High on the walls are a couple posters of boxing matches, curled and yellowing. One of the men looks familiar, so I step a little closer. Sure enough, The Cure McClure, Colt’s father, is posing on one of them. The poster is black and white except for his bright red gloves. The match was 1983. I don’t know where The Cure was in his career then, or if Colt had even been born yet. Probably not. He doesn’t look over thirty.

  It can’t be easy having a father so famous. I suddenly wonder if Colt has been successful at all. I don’t have a clue what MMA entails, how different it is from boxing. I wonder if going that direction was a good choice for Colt or if he is just defying his dad.

  I glance around, but I don’t see any T-shirts or boxes that might hold them. They have to be in the office.

  The gym is pretty quiet as I tiptoe over to Buster’s door. I stand beside it, trying to listen inside. I’m about to knock when I hear Colt’s voice.

  And he’s yelling.

  Chapter 5

  I can’t imagine how intimidating Colt must be when he’s pissed off. I lean closer to the door of Buster’s office.

  Colt’s voice makes the wood vibrate. “Don’t do me any favors, Buster. I’m not exactly here by choice.”

  “Colt, I’m the one stuck in the awkward position.”

  “Then say no. Tell him to shove it.”

  “We’ve already started construction.”

  “This is his idiot ego, not mine.”

  “Your dad has a lot of pull around here.”

  “Not with me.”

  The door handle starts to turn, so I bolt back to the front counter. My back is to the hallway as Colt storms out, but I can hear his angry footsteps. He doesn’t pause but crosses to the other side and through a door that I assume is the men’s locker room.

  Thankfully he didn’t see this stupid shirt on me. Maybe Buster will come out now, and I can ask him for another one. I’ve spent three years avoiding attention and now every inch of me is screaming, “Look at these!”

  I take my time breaking apart the boxes I’ve emptied and stacking them against the wall. But Buster never appears. After the argument, I’m not sure I want to knock on his door to talk about my shirt problem.

  I might as well finish this work. I’m down to the last package. I know those are going to be big, heavy weights. I sigh and open the last box. Forty pounds. Damn. I grasp the edge of the disc, bending over the box.

  “Hey, bend your knees first.” The girl from the weight room comes up. “You’re going to hurt your back.”

  She squats down. “Lift with your legs to let it rest on your chest.”

  I hold on to the bag and roll it into my body. With the bulk of the weight lying against me, it’s much easier to manage. “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’re going to hurt tomorrow if you’re not used to lifting.” She pulls the next forty out. “I’ll take this one.”

  She leads the way to the weight room, her high ponytail swinging.

  We dump the forties at the end of the line of sandbags. She stretches out a hand. “I’m Lani. I’m kinda new here.”

  I shake it. “Jo. I just started.”

  “Glad to see more girls around.” She heads back to the doorway. “I was about to head out, but do you want help with those?”

  I don’t think Buster would like me asking his customers to do my work. “I’ve got it. Thanks for the tip.”

  She nods and turns away. The room is empty for the moment, so I feel comfortable looking around. The weights are scattered everywhere. I pick up the smaller dumbbells and arrange them on a set of shelves.

  Buster is back in the doorway when I look up. “A self-starter,” he says. “I like that.” He glances at my shirt. “Good fit. I’ll dig out another tomorrow so you’ll have a couple.”

  I groan inside. So I will have to wear this every day. I can’t bring myself to thank him.

  “I’ve still got a few more sandbags to stack,” I say.

  He nods. “After that you can head out. I’ll have a list of tasks for you for tomorrow. Come back around eight.”

  “Okay.” I head up to the front. It’s eerily quiet now throughout the building.

  I peer into the last box. Only three to go, all fifties.

  “I can do this,” I mumble, arranging my legs the way Lani told me to.

  “Do what?”

  I recognize the voice, the sexy rumble I felt in my chest yesterday.

  I pop up and whip around. Colt stands by the front door, freshly showered, his hair damp. His eyes rove over my tight shirt, and my face grows hot.

  “Just moving weights.” I gesture lamely toward the box.

  He nods. He’s wearing jeans and a jacket like when I met him. His eyes sparkle with green and brown. “That’ll strengthen you up in a hurry.”

  “If it doesn’t kill me first.”

  He walks over. I know how upset he was a few minutes ago, but you can’t see it now.

  “You’ll be having the guys here tripping over themselves to help.” He glances down at my chest again.

  I’ve never wanted my hoodie so bad in my life. “I don’t think so.”

  He huffs. “You’ll see. They’ll line up for any hot little gym girl in a tight shirt. Tomorrow you can add some tiny shorts and waltz out with any of them. Too bad you can’t work for tips.”

  I want to punch him. Anger flares through me so hot and fast, it’s almost the hurricane feeling. But I’m ashamed too. I should have kept the hoodie on. I knew this would happen.

  I turn back to the weights and heave one against my body. If he says one more stupid thing, I’ll launch it at his face.

  I guess he sees it because he holds his arm out like he’s going to stop me.

  “Hey,” he says. “Whoa. I’m sorry.”

  My arms are screaming as I push past him to the weight room, grateful that it’s empty.

  Colt follows. “Jo. Stop.”

  I ignore him and drop the sandbag by the wall. I hate that I ever thought even for a moment this guy was anything like my father. I’m sorry I met him.

  He tries to block my way, but I circle a weight bench to avoid him.

  He cuts in front of me. “You took that the wrong way,” he says. “God, I suck at this.”

  There’s something i
n his tone that brings me down a notch. “You do,” I say. “I’m grateful for the job, but I’m not going to stick around and let you insult me.” I try to push past. It’s starting to feel like the day I met him, except now he’s the bad guy I’m trying to avoid.

  His hand encircles my wrist. I try to stay focused on the anger, not the touch. He’s holding me, and I’m supposed to be mad. But I stupidly feel like I don’t want him to let go.

  “I only meant to tell you how enticing you are. How distracting.”

  I don’t have anything to say to that. I want to be brave, to look him boldly in the eye. But when I glance up, his hazel eyes are full of tangled emotions. There’s worry there. And confusion. He’s not like a big-shot fighter anymore. He’s a kid realizing he’s done something wrong.

  I shake him off and say, “Don’t worry about it.”

  He tilts his head. “I get it now.” His Adam’s apple moves up, then down, in a hard swallow. “You don’t like that shirt, do you? You aren’t comfortable around all these guys.”

  I’m holding in my breath. I don’t want him to figure me out. If he knows this, then he’ll know pretty quick that he’s different.

  He lifts his hand to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. My heart is hammering.

  “I think you don’t know how beautiful you are,” he says. “I think you don’t want to know. It’s easier for you to just cut us all off. Keep us away.”

  I’m trying not to shake, holding everything in tight.

  He pulls his hand back and shakes his head. “And that is, without a doubt, a truly excellent decision.” He takes a couple steps back. “Stick to it.”

  Then he turns around and walks out, not stopping until he’s through the doorway and out on the sidewalk.

  I don’t release my breath until I hear his Harley roar down the street.

  This officially counts as the craziest day of my life.

  Chapter 6

  When my alarm goes off the next morning, I can feel the pain.

  The shower helps, hot and scalding. Washing my hair takes some effort, but when I wrap my hand around my upper arm, I can feel how much tighter the muscle is. It’s the craziest thing, like I’ve already started to change into someone else, somebody stronger than I was before.

  I jerk the too-tight shirt over my head and cover it with a hoodie. No matter how hot I get, it’s staying on.

  I eat a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. My stomach is a hollow pit of hunger, but I don’t have much else. The energy for this job is going to require more food than I can afford at first. Hopefully I’ll get paid soon. I have to nurse that little bit left over from the pawn shop.

  The gym is nuts when I walk in. A dozen lifters grunt in the main room. Buster talks to a guy in sweats, signing him up, it looks like. He was right. It’s going to get busy.

  He spots me. “Sign in and grab the box on my desk. It’s a banner we need to put up.” He frowns. “I guess out front. There’s a ladder in the addition. Figure out a way to hang it.”

  That sounds loads better than hauling weights. I push my way into the office and scrawl the time next to my name. A tall skinny box rests on a pile of receipts. I glance at them. Weights. Mats. Chairs. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff. Big change for the gym. And all Colt’s doing, it seems.

  I tear open the box and peer in. It’s a rolled-up banner. I’ll need some twine or rope. And something to attach it to.

  I can’t pull the banner out, so I upend the box and let it tumble to the floor. It unfurls a bit, and I see a glove, smaller than a boxing glove, slender and black. The arm it’s attached to is thick and corded with muscle. I already recognize the tattoo encircling the bicep. I pick the banner up and head to the hall, where I can see how long it is.

  As it unrolls, I have to suppress a giggle. No wonder Colt was annoyed.

  The banner is him, all him. Arms in the air, shouting to a crowd. Crouched over, eyeing an unseen opponent. Punching air. I can’t help myself but run a finger over his bare chest. I remember crashing into it. Heat blossoms through me just thinking about it.

  So I’m attracted to him. I shrug. Who wouldn’t be? It’s not like anything would happen between a big-shot fighter and a minimum-wage gym grunt. I’m safe enough.

  In the center of the banner, giant letters proclaim “The Gunner trains here.” A laugh escapes before I clamp it down. This doesn’t seem like Colt’s style. Nor Buster’s. This was probably what they were arguing about yesterday.

  I roll the banner back up and lean it in a corner. Buster’s still talking to the man at the counter. I go outside and assess the front facade. There’s an unused flagpole sticking out to one side of the door. I could tie it to that. I pace off the approximate length of the banner. The brick wall is unbroken here. No place to tie the other end.

  We probably want it lower anyway. I’m examining some metal hooks attached to the top of the window when I hear a motorcycle slow to a stop behind me. My heart accelerates.

  The engine cuts off, but I keep looking up. Yes, there are quite a few places I could loop rope through. I just have to locate some. I can sense Colt behind me, but I don’t turn around.

  “You always stare at painted windows?” His voice cuts straight through to my gut. Stupid crush. I have to ignore it, make it go away.

  I look at him, but I can’t think of anything witty to say. “You’re not going to like my next task.”

  He raises his eyebrows. No jeans and leather today. Just a pair of gray sweats and a hoodie. He fits in now. I like that he’s adapted.

  “And why’s that?” His grin is wicked.

  The ache shifts into a burn. “The dorkiest banner I ever saw is about to go up.”

  “Featuring Gunner McClure, I bet.” He tries to look annoyed, but his eyes crinkle with a smile.

  My whole body goes hot. I don’t feel anxious at all now. It’s like we survived our first fight yesterday and now we can act natural around each other.

  I crouch into one of his fighting poses. “You’re like this,” I say. I move into another position. “And this.”

  He laughs out loud, his chin in the air. “I can totally see it.” He leans against the window. “So what will it take for me to convince you to drop it down the sewer drain?” His voice has gone all low and sexy.

  His eyes are on me, giving me his full attention. I seize up then, completely losing my easy humor. “M—might be expensive, since it’ll probably cost me the job you got me.”

  My stumble changes something in him. I can feel the shift like a sudden weather change.

  Colt stands back up, as if shaking himself free of whatever he’d been thinking. “That’s all right,” he says. His voice is hard now, cold. “I can always tear it down myself.”

  He heads for the door.

  “Colt?” I say, but my voice is puny.

  He waves his hand next to his head at me like he doesn’t want to hear any more. The black door closes behind him.

  I’m not sure how I’ve messed up, why he has gotten mad at me. He’s so hard to figure out. I pretend to examine the hooks a few more minutes, enough time for him to get in the locker room. Then I head back in.

  Buster tosses me a coil of twine. “Need help with the ladder?”

  I shake my head and cross through the weight room. The cigar man is back with another boxer, taking up the corner punching bag. There aren’t any girls this morning, just men of every age, some spotting each other. Nobody talks or smiles. They seem serious about their workouts.

  I pass through the plastic-covered hole to search for the ladder. The crew isn’t there yet, but the place is swept up. A big rectangle is chalked off in the center.

  I spot the ladder. It’s enormous, at least ten feet. Just getting the legs pushed together takes effort. I feel pathetic compared to all the people I’ll be walking past.

  I tuck the rope into my pocket and lift the ladder in the center. It’s aluminum, so it’s not unreasonably heavy. Still, I’m sor
e from yesterday. I poke the plastic curtain with the end, hoping nobody’s in the way.

  People stop to stare as I pass through the weight room. I try to look nonchalant and capable. But my arms are screaming. As I near the doorway, a random muscle flat out refuses to hold. The top of the ladder tips and scrapes along the concrete floor with a screech.

  I try to set it down easy, but the other arm gives in and it crashes down. The weight room goes quiet, the clink of metal stopping.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. My gaze stays straight ahead on the front door. I don’t want to know if anybody is looking at me. I shake out my arms and pick the ladder up again. I will do this if it kills me.

  Buster cuts in front of me to open the outside door. His face is a mask. I have no idea if he’s impressed or trying not to laugh.

  I lay the ladder on the sidewalk, my arms trembling. I begin to doubt if I can handle the job. First Colt. Then the sheer physical labor.

  But I don’t have a choice. I suck in a breath and steady myself to fetch the banner.

  When I head back in, I see an unfamiliar girl inside. Her back is to me. She’s leaning against the entrance to the weight room, talking to someone on the other side of the wall. Her manner is easy, almost seductive, her bent elbow up near her head. She’s showing lots of skin between a black athletic bra and low-slung shorts rolled down at the band.

  I head into the hall for the banner. Even if my high school years had gone differently, I could never have been one of those flirty girls. I liked loose jeans and sweatshirts. To disappear.

  The only time I’ve ever worn makeup was my eighth-grade class play. I was too old to cry when they stuck me in a dress. I played one of the ladies-in-waiting for Queen Isabella, ready to direct Christopher Columbus on his journey to the New World. But the color on my eyes was purplish blue, like a bruise. No one listened to my argument that Cover Girl didn’t exist in 1492. I rubbed it off before the curtain closed.

  When I come back down the hall with the banner, the girl turns around to look at me. Her blonde hair is too perfect for a gym. Her own makeup is expertly applied. When she moves, I can see Colt on the other side of the door. She’s been talking to him the whole time. But now that she’s looking away, he’s staring at her cleavage.