“Sure.” My flip-flops were noisy on the wood floor as I followed him back to the elevator.
Grabbing his keys and sliding his feet into a pair of flip-flops of his own, he pushed the button for the elevator, which opened right away.
“You aren’t skipping a Sunday lunch with family, are you?” He leaned back against the handrail, gripping it.
Clearing my throat, I replied, “I got divorced four years ago. The house was sold in the settlement and I moved into my parents’ row house in the city.” I fiddled with the strap on my purse. “Yes, it was pretty pathetic, living with my parents in my thirties—with a child of my own. Fortunately for all of us, they retired and moved to Florida a few months later. I decided to stay and live in the house I grew up in, maybe because it was familiar, maybe because it was just easy. I had too much insanity as it was with a fourteen-year-old who was angry at his father, at the world. At the time it didn’t make sense to find somewhere else to live, but now with Chris gone, maybe I should start thinking about it.” I flicked my gaze to his and realized I'd rambled. “To answer your question, no. No family in town.”
The doors opened and he led me back out into the heat, which hit us like a wet blanket as we walked to the car. I glanced back at the gym, curious. This was Gray’s business. His life. When I first saw him on Friday night I’d thought he was fit and lived it instead of just pumping iron. I’d been right.
Through the wall of windows, I could see dark mats on most of the floors, a large reception area, punching and kicking bags hanging from the ceiling and what appeared to be a boxing ring with chain-link fence around it. Several people were working out.
“Want to check it out?” he asked, angling his head toward the gym.
“Sure.” I didn’t want to tell him I was curious, but I was. I followed him to the door, which he held open for me. The space was la
rge with high ceilings, the windows faced the street so whatever was happening in the gym was advertising itself. It was clean, just like Gray’s apartment and didn’t have that sweaty-sock smell I was expecting.
A guy was punching a small bag that hung from the ceiling that swung back and forth, Rocky-style. Two men were in the fenced ring, sparring with headgear, mouth guards and gloves. A woman ran on the treadmill, earbuds in place even though music came from hidden speakers.
The young guy at the front desk was on the phone but gave a quick wave to us.
“You used to fight like those guys?”
Gray turned to face the ring. “No, they’re just boxing. I did MMA.”
I bit my lip, hoping I didn’t sound too much like an idiot. “What’s the difference?”
“Boxing’s like Muhammad Ali, just punches. See, they’re only using their arms.” When I nodded that I followed, he continued. “MMA is combining boxing with kicking, like Muay Thai or karate, then fighting on the ground like wrestling, but some Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in there for submissions.”
An electronic bell rung from a timer on the wall. The men touched gloves and stepped out of the ring.
I saw Gray here, just right for his surroundings, his job. The knowledge and experience it took to run a place such as this, to have the following, the backing, the fame, was impressive. I was impressed. I was also completely in awe and a little bit in lust, because the testosterone seeping from him in this space was heady.
“Want to give it a try?” he asked.
I frowned. “What, me? In there?” I pointed to the ring. “That looks like something out of a Mad Max movie.”
He smiled. “Come on. I'll show you what I do, but you have to promise not to hurt me.”
Letting me step in the ring first, I rolled my eyes at him.
“Okay, so you want to stand like this and put your hands up in fists, here and here.” He stood beside me and I copied his stance. “Good.”
He moved to stand in front of me, hands up like mine. “Punch me.”
My eyes widened. “Are you serious? I can't punch you,” I said, lowering my hands. “Besides, we aren't even wearing gloves.”
“Think of something that makes you mad. Got it?”
The first thing that came to mind was Jack. My eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I got it. My ex.”
“Good. Now pretend I'm him. Punch him. Left, right. Like you mean it.”
I lifted my arms back to the position he'd showed me, then thrust out with my left hand. Gray's arm came up to block my strike. When I shifted my stance and punched with my right, I felt my feet come out from underneath me and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground with Gray sideways on top of me. In the blink of an eye—and with a care I doubted he gave to his usual opponents—he swept me to the ring floor. Gray's chest was pressed into mine and his face loomed over me. I was breathing hard, perhaps from the surprise move, but most likely because I had him on top of me, his mouth only inches from mine. I felt the firm floor beneath my back. There was no question he could hurt me, for there was no way I could defend myself from him. I knew, though, if I pushed against him, he'd let me up. I wasn't afraid of him.
I licked my lips. My heart was racing and surely he could feel it. “Now what do you do?”
Gray's eyes lowered to my mouth. “If you were my competition, I'd try to either choke you out or do an arm bar.”