I turn to him, rubbing my knuckles, feeling where the skin is abraded—it was careless to not wrap—but at least I took the time to put on a pair of yoga pants and a tank to sweat through.
Nik surveys the studio, which branches off the main room of the gym. Heavy bag, speed bag, lots of gear and equipment for just about anything you might want to do, from rolling out some sore muscles to a step aerobics class to sparring. All the equipment is pristine. This room doesn’t get used too much. Mostly it’s just the ellipticals out in the main section.
“You don’t see this kind of stuff in a typical hotel gym,” Nik says, touching the ballet barre. “Usually just a few machines and a shitty treadmill.”
“Welcome to how the other half lives,” I tell him, trying to hide that I’m a little out of breath. “What’s the situation outside?”
He glances at Ruby floating silently in the corner. “That doesn’t keep you updated?”
“It does. I want to hear it from you.”
“Well,” Nik says, slapping his hands together, making his way across the studio to me. “Cots are being distributed on the upper floors, though, funny thing. A couple of the luxury rooms are empty, in case any more”—he puts both hands up and does finger quotes—“VIP guests arrive.”
“Again, welcome to how the other half lives,” I tell him. “Meanwhile the people who actually do the labor of shipping these assholes through time and keeping them safe have to bunk out in a goddamn hallway.”
“What do we do?”
I laugh at him. “What do you mean, what do we do?”
“It’s not right,” Nik says.
“That’s life.”
I don’t have to look at his face to tell he’s disappointed in me. Whatever. After a few moments he says, “Silver lining.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve got some extra TEA agents in the fold. Danbridge set up the shifts downstairs, and he deputized a few more just to roam around and keep an eye on things. But they all know that you’re in charge.”
It’s starting to feel like that isn’t the case, but I tell him, “That’s good.”
He’s eyeing the bag. I see the look. I put my hand up, palm flat, offering it to him, and take a step aside. From what I’ve seen today, he carries himself tight in the shoulders, but in front of the bag his body unfurls and he throws a couple of quick jabs, testing distance. Then he dances around it, sending out a flurry of very sharp, very accurate shots, the bag barely swinging. He finishes and turns to me with a smile, like he wants my approval.
“What do you train in?” I ask.
“Mostly boxing, though I’ve been getting into Brazilian jiu jitsu,” he says. “You?”
“Krav Maga,” I say. “Muay Thai. Could never get into BJJ. Too much time getting up and down from the floor.”
Nik shrugs. “I like it. It’s like playing chess at a hundred miles an hour.”
As he’s talking I throw a quick low roundhouse at his shin. Not even going for power, just to see how he reacts. He checks it, and hops to his other foot, ready to throw a push kick, and then stops himself.
“Really?” he asks, falling back into a loose fighting stance.
“Just curious.”
He glances back at the gloves. “Into sparring at all? It’s been forever.”
“You’re okay sparring with a woman?” I ask.
“Women have better form. Guys can sort of muscle their way through shit. All the women I train with, when they’re good, it’s because they have the technique down cold.”
I laugh a little, hoping it doesn’t sound like flirting. “Do you like getting hurt by women?”
“I like learning, and getting hurt is the only way you learn.”
I glance at the wall of gloves and wraps and headgear. Feel the itch to fight with someone. “Not today, kid,” I tell him. “Too much work to do.”
“Danbridge wants you gone,” Nik says, almost blurting it out.
It hurts to respond: “I know.”
“He’s feeling me out on the house detective position. He told me not to tell you.”
It’s kind of him to say that. But still, I walk over to the wall rack holding the sparring equipment, select a pair of gloves that don’t smell too much like feet, and toss them his way. He catches one and drops the other, asks, “Changed your mind?”
I pull on my own pair of gloves, which I keep in the gym, but pushed toward the back of the shelf, so no one ever uses them. I get them on nice and tight and ask, “Do you want the gig?”
He doesn’t answer. Which feels like an answer. But then he says, “I’ve been working the stream for a year now. I’d rather be there.”
“It’s overrated.”
“Really?”
“No.”
We tap gloves, and then move slowly around each other. “Nice and easy,” I say. “Let’s not go back to work bruised up or missing teeth.”
As we make our way around the floor, feeling out how we move, I figure on being bold, which is usually my jam, so I give a little duck, move in, and throw a fist at his midsection. He blocks with his elbow and taps me on the head with his hook. He’s not built for power, but he’s fast and he’s got reach.
He steps back and lets me shake it off. “It doesn’t seem like a bad job. Being here. The test for full field agent is coming up in April. I’ve been studying.”
“The test isn’t so hard,” I tell him, moving back into my rhythm. “I guess the real risk is on your health. I know plenty of people have done it and haven’t exhibited symptoms. But there’s no way to tell how you’re going to react. Which has got to be a little scary, right?”
“A little,” he says, dancing out of the way of a jab cross, but not responding with anything. “No one lives forever.”
“No,” I tell him, hopping back. “No they do not.”
I think he’s going to say something, and then he doesn’t. His chin dips, elbows get tighter to his sides. He’s in it now. Good. I move in, let him throw a few, and put up some blocks, waiting for an opening. When I see it, I take it, and my fist glances off his cheek, but I opened myself up; he comes in under my chin and it snaps my head back, my teeth clicking. Stupid to do this without headgear, but even more stupid to do it without a mouth guard.
Nik steps back, puts up a glove. “Good game. Let’s get back out there, okay?”
But now I’m seeing red. I move toward him, not even worrying too much about my guard. At this point I just want to hurt him a little. I go for speed, thinking I can best him there, and I make him defend himself as he steps back. Then I play it a little dirty, throwing a roundhouse at his floating ribs, knowing he’ll drop his arms enough that I can put my fist square into his forehead.
And I do, a little too hard. His head snaps back and I can imagine he’s seeing stars, so I back off, let him regain his composure. Thinking maybe I should apologize but not really wanting to. Hitting the bag may be my meditative state, but hitting another person, that’s the real medicine I needed.
He puts his gloves up in surrender, smiling. “Okay, before you kill me, we should get back down there.”
“Damn right,” I mutter, then I shake off the gloves and return them to their secret spot on the shelf, glad to have gotten that out.
Over my shoulder I hear Nik say, “Huh.”
“What?” I ask.
He’s staring out the window.