Modern gladiator, p.10
Modern Gladiator, page 10
Should I work out in Corbin’s living room? I don’t see why not. I need to stay here until he wakes and administers the next round of medication. Plus, I want to talk to him about what the next step of our relationship might entail. But I can’t be around all the time or even alter my schedule much. I have a few fights coming up, and I need to train and maintain my weight with a precise exactness.
The doorbell chimes throughout the apartment. I whip my attention to the door and glare. Who rings a doorbell at this hour?
I walk over, unlock the door, and open it.
Some surfer-looking guy stands in front of me, his cargo shorts and sandals the same tannish coloration. He has a tight black tank top, which shows off his wiry frame, but something about his posture rubs me the wrong way. He leans against the apartment wall like he’s been waiting forever, almost annoyed, but he straightens himself the moment he gets his eyes on me.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“I was going to ask you the same damn question.”
The guy glances around, trying to see past me. I step forward, and he takes a few steps back.
“I’m Corbin’s boyfriend,” he says. “Justin. I’m sure he’s mentioned me.”
Boyfriend?
Fuck.
I hate cheaters and finks—anyone who thinks a commitment isn’t worth their time. I was in the military long enough to appreciate loyalty, true loyalty, and men who cheat on their significant others are beneath me.
And it reminds me of my father. He cheated on every woman he was ever with, even my mother. It probably bothers me more than reasonable for that fact alone.
Justin lifts an eyebrow. “So, I take it he didn’t mention me?”
“He said he wasn’t seeing anyone,” I say, terse.
Justin runs a hand through his spiky blond hair, though the hair gel keeps it all in place. “Oh, I see. He invited you over and mentioned nothing about me. What a dog. And he acts so proper.” He walks past me and into the apartment.
I grit my teeth, half tempted to throw this guy out, but that would be insane. They’re a couple, obviously, or else why would Justin just walk in like this? I can’t believe me and Corbin messed around last night. I hate being the participant in some sleazy sexual affair.
“You should get out of here,” Justin says. He walks straight to the bedroom door and stops before going in. “I’ll let Corbin know you slipped out.” Then he looks me up and down. “Wow. You must have a great torso shot on Grindr. Is that how Corbin got ahold of you?”
I don’t do shit like Grindr.
This whole situation leaves a terrible taste in my mouth. I exit Corbin’s apartment, anger bubbling in my chest and threatening to spill over. Maybe it’s best Justin deal with Corbin. I would have some choice words for the guy—strong fucking words.
Why would he lie to me? What an asshole.
Chapter 10: Training
Corbin Friel
I ROLL to my side and snuggle into the warm body next to me. But my hands find a fully clothed man—a man half the size he should be—with no substantial muscle to speak of. I snap awake and lift my head. Blurry shapes and hazy colors greet me. I need my glasses or else the world isn’t right. I scrabble to retrieve them, but they aren’t on the nightstand. Isn’t that where I left them?
“You’re so cute when you wake up flustered,” Justin says, his voice laced with a casual amusement, bordering on a drawl.
“Justin,” I say. “What’re you doing here?”
Still, I can’t find my glasses. I throw around the blankets, wondering if they fell onto the bed in the middle of the night. And to add to my frustrations, I feel… soiled. I didn’t shower after my encounter with Keon, which might as well be a blasphemy, and now the sheets are tainted, and what if my glasses are rolling around this? I shudder imagining it all.
Justin rests back on my bed. “I came by to see my favorite boyfriend.”
I hold back a huff. “Favorite implies you have more than one. And we’re not dating. How many times do I have to tell you? How did you even get into my apartment?”
“That Grindr whore let me in.”
“Are you talking about Keon?”
“Whatever his name was.”
“Where is he now?”
Justin yawns. “I sent him on his way, obviously. I’m not the kind of guy who shares. Honestly, are you trying to make me jealous? I came by to spend time with you.”
“Get out,” I snap.
I can’t believe he sent Keon away. We still have to do the rest of his medication, and I really want to talk to him about last night. I had fun—and it looked like he had fun—but I want to make sure. I don’t know Keon as well as I should, I’m not very good at social interactions, and I’m not a mind reader, so straight up talking to Keon is the best course of action. Especially if I want our relationship to continue.
“Why are you so grumpy?” Justin asks. “Maybe you’ll feel better once you eat. Sometimes you get hangry.”
“I do nothing of the sort! Now get out. I can’t find my glasses.”
“Oh, these?” He twirls a blurry object around his finger. “I’ll give them back. For a kiss.”
“I swear sometimes I think you don’t understand English.”
I grab for my glasses, but he holds them above his head. Then he scoots up close and kisses my bare shoulder. I cringe away, practically growling, but Justin laughs, like he always does.
“Leave my glasses and get out,” I state.
Justin sighs. “Don’t be like that, Corbin. I’m not here to fight.”
He has to secretly be two people because no single person can be this stupid. How many times do I have to make it clear? He shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to see him. He should leave. I’m more anxious and worried about Keon than anything else. I really shouldn’t have allowed our sexual relationship to continue, not when he keeps trying to twist it into something more.
“I came to give you some money I owe you,” Justin says.
“Fine. But give me my glasses and get out of here for a minute. I want to get dressed.”
“I could help you.” He leans back and stretches out on the bed. “Get you in a better mood.”
Normally I’d just give in to his persistent demands—better to give Justin what to he wants so he’ll go away and stop pestering me—but that has to stop. I won’t do anything sexual with Justin, even if we had good times in the past.
“Not today,” I say. “Not ever. We need to stop doing this. Get out of my room.” I use a tone I’ve never used with Justin—hard-edged and forceful.
Justin must sense a change as well because he gets up. “Fine. I’ll be in the living room.” He tosses my glasses on the bed and exits my room.
I jump into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and force myself to enter the frigid water. I shrivel in every sense of the word. Shivering and clattering my teeth, I scrub myself from head to toe. By the time I’m done exfoliating, the water’s warm but hasn’t yet penetrated deep enough to soothe my muscles. I leap out of the shower and scramble to get my clothes on.
When I enter the living room, Justin’s relaxing back on the narrow couch, his attention glued to the screen of his phone. I glance at the kitchen and find it empty.
“Where’s Keon?” I ask.
“I told you. I sent him away.”
“You really did that?”
“Yeah. Of course. I already said I’m the jealous type.” He puts his phone down and scratches at his forearm. “We still see each other on a regular basis. I know you like to deny it, but we’re totally dating.”
I huff and stifle a tirade. What does Keon think about all this? I need to speak with him. But I don’t have his number, and I don’t know where he lives. How am I supposed to get ahold of him? Maybe Lala will know. Or more likely, Derek. I should give my sister a call to get his number.
“You look flustered,” Justin says.
“That’s what I love about you. Your legendary perception.”
“So sarcastic. That’s how I know you’re really upset. You usually mutter all those sardonic comments under your breath.”
“You said you had money for me?” I ask.
Justin kicks off my couch and ambles over. He pulls out fifty bucks. I hold out my hand, and he takes his sweet-ass time, like always, before placing it on my palm. He’s sweaty, and his eyes a little more sunken in than they should be. I pocket the money and give him the once-over.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Concerned about me? That’s cute.”
He leans close, ready to kiss me, but I back away.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Ah, c’mon.”
“I said no.” I offer him a glare. “And you really don’t look well—even if I don’t want to make out with you, I am concerned.”
Justin shrugs. “I feel fine. What’re you even talking about?”
“You know it’ll be my job to notice things about people’s health, right? You look off. And you’re scratching more than usual.”
As if on cue, Justin itches at his neck. “Nah. All in your head, Bin-Bin.”
Whatever. If he doesn’t want to tell me what’s going on, I suppose it’s his business. And it’s not like he’s deathly ill or anything. I really should let it slide, along with everything else. The less he has reason to come over here, the better.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the cash. “Thank you for this. Consider us even.”
“I still owe you more.”
“Forget it. I don’t need it. And I’m actually seeing someone else now, so this really needs to end.”
Justin doesn’t say anything. I glare at him.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. “I need you to acknowledge it.”
“Who is it?”
“Keon.”
“Keon who?”
“Keon Lynch. The guy who was just here.”
“The Grindr guy?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. The Grindr guy. What does it matter?”
Again, he returns to silence, his expression a bit more serious than I’ve ever seen before.
I exhale. “We can still be friends, but this is serious. I don’t want you dropping by unannounced. And we aren’t going to have any more of these hookup nights.”
“You really think you’ll be in a long-term relationship?”
“Yes. I do. Now please leave.”
Justin rubs his hands on his pants. He mills about for a few seconds, almost like he might protest leaving, but then gives me a lopsided smile. “Hey, I’ll repay the last of the money I owe you. That’s the least a friend would do for another, right?”
Something about his tone of voice gets me uneasy, but I guess he’s right. “Fine. I would appreciate that.”
Justin pats me on the shoulder and then opens the front door. “And if it doesn’t work out, let me know. I’ll be here to keep you company again.” He steps out, leaving me alone in my apartment.
I glance at the time. Six thirty in the morning. Keon needs his medication in another couple of hours. And it might be too early to call my sister or Derek. I pace my kitchen and living room, my thoughts out of control and dreading every weird hypothetical. I’m more nervous about Keon than I ever imagined I would be. I haven’t been with many people, so seeing him seems more important than it probably is.
I check the time. Six thirty-two.
Yeah. I need to do something to occupy my thoughts. Then I’ll get ahold of my sister and Derek.
“HELLO?” DEREK asks once he answers his phone.
I sit up on my bed, breathing easy. “Hello. This is Corbin Friel.”
“Oh, Bin-Bin. What’s up?”
Oh God. Even Derek? I need to kill this nickname before it infests someone else’s vocabulary.
“I’m looking for Keon,” I say. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
Derek spends a good five seconds thinking over the question. I stare at my bedroom wall, ready to write down a phone number or leave the apartment, whatever is needed. Then Derek clears his throat.
“Uh, he’s either working or he’s at the gym.”
“Working? I thought he was a professional fighter. Isn’t that his job?”
Derek chuckles. “Yeah, I wish. Professional fighters don’t get paid that much per fight. A couple thousand at best. And that’s if you win or sell tickets. Otherwise it’s a couple hundred. Not enough to live on. Not in California, am I right or am I right?”
“What does he do for work?”
“He’s an exterminator. Killing bugs in stores and restaurants. Ya know.”
Ah, some sort of certified blue-collar job. Not the best, but not working the register at a McDonald’s either. I guess I shouldn’t be too judgmental. I once worked at a Baskin Robbins to make extra cash on the side, and that was anything but respectable.
“What gym does he go to?” I ask.
“Some place called Harvey’s Workout Zone. It’s in Stockton. The northern part. Real shithole, if you ask me. A few pretty ladies go there, though.”
Derek likes to share every thought on his mind, doesn’t he?
“Can I get Keon’s phone number?” I ask.
“Sure, sure.”
I write down the number as he recites it, relief coming in with every breath. “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate this.”
“No problem. Oh, uh, maybe you can do me a solid in return.”
“A solid?”
“Your sister is a sweet girl. I like her.”
“Okay,” I say, hating the direction this conversation has gone.
“Where can I take her? For someplace special. Some place she’d like.”
My sister has odd tastes. Everything she loves is something she shouldn’t be doing. Since she’s so fragile, all physical activity was off the table. So, obviously, she wanted to do hockey, and then MMA, and then ride horses, and then dodgeball on trampolines… the list goes on and on, escalating into whimsy with each new interest. But Derek can’t do any of those things with her. She can’t do them ever.
“Maybe take her to a hockey game,” I say. “They have them every once in a while in San Francisco.”
“Oh shit, she likes hockey? Damn. Where has this girl been all my life?”
“Hm.”
“Thank you. You’re all right.”
Having Derek’s approval isn’t high on my list, but I’ll take it over disdain.
“Goodbye, Derek.”
“Bye, man.”
He hangs up the phone, and I briefly wonder what I should do.
I’ll call Keon, and if I can’t get ahold of him… I’ll find another way. The fact he left without even a note, even leaving his gym bag, tells me he probably left in rush. Late for work? I hope so. Better than regretting an evening with me. And better than being upset because of Justin’s presence.
And I won’t be able to study until I get this off my mind.
I clean my hands with a squirt of sanitizer and reach for my phone a second time.
Keon Lynch
STOCKTON DOESN’T just have shady neighborhoods. It has whole sections of city that could be described as a seedy underbelly. Better than Oakland, which is where I lived before, but it’s not much better. Last I saw, Stockton was one of the top ten most dangerous cities to live in within the United States, and second most dangerous in California. Which is why the rent is so cheap, hence why I live here.
The biggest downside, however, is that most of the facilities open to the public are a trash heaps. I glance around my twenty-four-hour gym, taking in the myriad of graffiti tags, broken equipment, and shabby individuals, some of whom have been here sleeping for the last hour.
I do wish I had someplace to work out that was a little less of a dumpster fire. Most of the members seem to be openly in gangs—Stockton has a major problem with them—and half of the gang members have talked about their time in prison while working out.
Doesn’t surprise me. The amateur fighting league is filled with thugs. They join to be “hard” and claim that they’re “fighters,” but most never make it to the professional level. Even people trying to get to the professional level never make it, really. You have to get through three amateur fights, and then you need a sponsorship to the professional level. Doesn’t sound hard, but the sponsorship only happens when individuals are impressed with your skills.
That’s why I moved to California. My old military CO, Harvey, owns this shitty gym and technically trains people in karate, though I don’t think he’s an actual sensei. He’s my sponsor, and the one who got me into the professional ring to begin with. I owe him a lot, though I rarely see him. Harvey asks me to train some of his paying members in mixed martial arts, which I do for free, and that’s our unspoken agreement.
Sucks not having a proper team, however. Most guys get sponsored by dojos or fight academies, so they have tons of people rooting for them, training with them, and actively helping them at every step of the process. I just have Harvey asking if I won anything and if the name of his gym got slapped on a few fight tickets or around the octagon.
Harvey actually owns a ton of places around Stockton, including a restaurant, a museum, and a movie theater. Guy likes to invest in random things and then run them with half-assed enthusiasm, hoping something will turn a huge profit. That’s probably what I am to him—a minor investment he hopes works out, but he’s not going to put much effort into the ordeal.
Whatever works, I guess.
I lift some weights, my mind drifting. I do this damn near every day. I have to maintain a baseline level of conditioning year-round. And I have to keep track of my progress, so the weights help me know the exact amount I’m capable of lifting. When I’m done with this, I’ll do some cardio, then swim, and end it all in the steam room. Basic training, really. What I need is a competent sparring partner to hone my combat skills.
