Chapter Ten
Showing Me How It’s Done
I felt something tickle my nose and, mostly asleep, I brushed it away.
It went away but came back and I felt my brows draw together as I kept my eyes closed and batted at whatever was disturbing me.
It went away again but then came back so I lifted my hand again to stop the sensation and sleepily caught the offender.
It wasn’t such as an insect.
It was a hand.
A hand!
My eyes flew open and slid sideways to see Jake was sitting on the side of my bed, leaned into me, one arm on the other side of me, hand in the bed, one hand in my face holding a lock of my hair with which he obviously had been tickling my nose.
I shot up in surprise, did this fast and thus slammed my head into Jake’s jaw. Luckily, through this, he released my hair. Unfortunately, the crack to my head (and his jaw) was hard and caused a sharp pain but it was thus and it went away almost immediately.
So I scooted so that my back was to the scrolled iron headboard and stared at Jake who had not moved except to lean back a few inches.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Is your jaw okay?”
“It’s fine, babe. Serves me right for freakin’ you out.”
I said nothing.
Then it occurred to me I was the one apologizing but he was in my bedroom for reasons unknown first thing in the morning.
Therefore, I asked, “Um…what are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer. He was busy and what he was busy with was that he seemed rather taken with examining the entirety of the vicinity of my head.
“Jake?” I called when this lasted some time, and his eyes came to mine.
“Hair looks good down, honey,” he said softly and his tone was not one I’d ever heard from him before. It was quite low and very rumbly. Indeed, it was so much of both it had a physical effect on me that was not good when Jake was sitting on the side of my bed in all of his big man beautifulness. “Real good,” he went on and that sounded like an actual growl.
Oh my.
“Well…thank you,” I whispered.
We stared at each other, me finding it difficult to breathe. I didn’t know what Jake was experiencing.
Finally, I forced myself to speak but the only thing I could get out was, “Uh…”
“Right,” he stated, his voice now sounding hoarse. He cleared his throat and went on, “Before you’re off to the Weavers, I’m takin’ you to the gym to work out.”
I blinked at him.
Then I asked, “Work out?”
“Yep,” he answered.
“I…well…” I stopped talking because I didn’t know what to say.
Jake didn’t have the same problem.
“First, we gotta get food in you so we’re gonna do that and then you’re comin’ with me to my gym to work out.”
I belatedly saw that he was wearing a pair of navy track pants with one wide white stripe down the side and a white long-sleeved shirt made of breathable material that fit snug to his shoulders, chest, arms and abdominals.
At this vision, my mouth went dry.
“You got something to wear to work out?” he asked.
Although there was much I would do with Jake Spear just to be with Jake Spear, for instance, watch football while partaking of a dip that was made from Velveeta and, say walking to the ends of the earth and jumping off hand in hand, working out was not something I wished to do with Jake or…ever.
Therefore, I latched onto the excuse given to me quickly.
“No, Jake,” I replied. “I don’t have workout clothes.”
“Then how do you keep that body?”
“Well, I walk,” I informed him and usually I did. Quite often. Most specifically after an evening meal. I hadn’t been doing that lately because I was out of my normal schedule but I did it because I enjoyed it but also because it helped me to stay active and increased my daily energy levels.
“Today, you’re gonna do more than walk,” he returned.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the attire to do this, Jake.”
He grinned, bent to the floor at the side of the bed and I heard rustling. The rustling continued as he straightened and dumped a plastic grocery bag filled with clothes on my lap.
“Amber got a wild hair last summer that she wanted to get fit. Mostly, she wanted another reason to buy clothes. So she did. Figure what’s in that bag’ll fit you and doubt any a’ that has even been worn.”
I stared down at the offending bag in my lap and this was a mistake.
It was a mistake because my hand was seized as was the bag and, not paying attention, this came as a surprise. The bag was dumped by Jake on the bed beside me and my hand was tugged by Jake, so I had no choice but to come to my feet at the side of the bed.
When I was standing, I looked up at him to see he was looking down at me and that would be down…to my nightie.
I looked down too, taking in the midnight blue silk with its simple bodice and deep hem of delicate smoke-gray lace.
“F*ckin’ hell, Slick,” Jake muttered, his voice holding a nuance of how it sounded earlier and I looked up at him to see an unusual look on his face that could be displeasure or possibly, and strangely, acute pain.
“You don’t like it?” I asked stupidly because it didn’t matter if Jake liked my nighties or not. I’d never have the opportunity to wear one for him in one of the particular ways nighties were designed.
At my words, his eyes sliced to mine and he replied, “Babe, a man tells you he doesn’t like that nightie, he’s either gay or lying.”
I had no earthly idea what to do with that other than to feel relief (and other things) that he liked my nightie.
He let my hand go and ordered, “Suit up,” as he began to walk to the door.
I searched for any excuse not to go work out with him and if not that, at least delay so I could find an excuse not to go work out with him. This was difficult seeing as I was enthralled with watching his shoulders move in that tight white shirt as he sauntered away.
I finally found an excuse and called, “I need coffee before I do anything in the morning, Jake.”
“Then it’s good there’s a cup of it on your nightstand,” he returned as he disappeared out the door.
I looked down to my nightstand and saw a cup of coffee, its color black, like I took it at The Shack.
I would need milk and sweetener.
I moved my eyes to the plastic grocery bag, finding myself oddly intrigued with the idea of discovering what kind of athletic apparel Amber had chosen.
Therefore, I decided to peruse what was in the bag before I went to prepare my coffee.
Ten minutes later, I found myself in said apparel (skintight black capri leggings with a thin piping of lavender down the side, a skintight tank top in lavender that had a built in bra and a racerback, a rather attractive zip up jacket with gathers at the bottom side seams and at the bottoms of the long sleeves as well as Vs made of netting along the shoulders and coming up from the back hem, and I’d added my walking shoes).
I also found myself carrying my coffee downstairs to prepare it.
But when I did, I did this in a travel mug.
* * * * *
“What d’you want, Slick?”
I tore my eyes from the wall of donuts on display and looked up at Jake standing at my side.
“You eat donuts before you work out?” I queried.
“Not every time, but do it occasionally to remind myself why I’m workin’ out,” he responded.
This was absurd but I had to admit, it also made an absurd kind of sense.
“Josie, need to get to the gym to open it,” he told me and prompted, “What d’you want?”
I looked back to the wall. There was a large variety and donuts were donuts. It was impossible to make a split-second decision when donuts were on offer.
“Um…” I mumbled.
“F*ck it,” Jake mumbled back, then louder and to the counter assistant. “Two Boston creams. Two glazed. Two cinnamon twists. Two maple glazed. Two chocolate glazed. Two buttermilk.”
“You got it,” the counter assistant assured and moved to the back, grabbing a box.
“Is it necessary for us to have that amount of donuts?” I asked and Jake looked back down at me.
“It’s necessary for me to open my gym which means it’s necessary for me to get you to get a move on, so yeah. You got choice. And what we don’t eat, the boys will.”
“Oh.”
He tipped his head to the travel mug I was still carrying with me, holding it like it was a lifeline, even though we’d entered an establishment that served coffee and he asked, “You need that warmed up?”
I absolutely did.
I nodded.
His lips quirked and he looked back to the counter assistant. “And my girl here needs a warm up.”
His girl.
Oh my.
“No problemo,” the clerk assured again and dropped the box of donuts on the counter in front of us.
I got a warm up.
Jake just got a coffee.
I ate a Boston cream in his truck on the way to the gym.
* * * * *
“Right, now, skip rope,” Jake ordered and I stared at him.
Donut consumed, travel mug sitting on a ledge beside where we were standing in his gym, I stared at him.
Suffice it to say, my perusal of his gym from my car through a dreary day was not thorough. I knew this when we entered it from the back ten minutes ago and I looked around, taking off my jacket, while Jake walked around, turning on lights and unlocking the front door.
It was much larger and that was to mean cavernous.
There were not two boxing rings but three.
There was also a good deal of equipment. Further, there was an office at the back that was several steps up from the main floor and was made mostly of windows so you could see the gym from there. Beyond the office were doors that had words on them that I assumed described what was behind them, one declaring it was the Locker Room, another declaring it was Equipment and the last that it was Utility.
And finally, on the walls in the gym proper in very big script quotes were painted, including:
“Life is like a boxing match. Defeat is declared not when you fall but when you refuse to stand again.”
And “Champions aren’t made in gyms. Champions are made of something they have deep inside them—a desire, a dream a vision. They have to have the skill, and the will. But the will must be stronger than the skill. - Muhammad Ali”
And “I can show you how to box. I can teach you every technique and trick I know, but I can never make you a fighter. That comes from inside, and it’s something no one else can ever give you. – Joe Lewis”
And my favorite “Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing. – Muhammad Ali”
I had no time to share with Jake that I thought his inclusion of these quotes was quite clever. He took my coffee, set it aside and gave me a jump rope. I noted he had another one in his hands.
This was when he ordered me to use it.
“You wish for me to skip rope?” I asked.
“You gotta warm up,” he informed me. “You also gotta work off that donut.”
I stared at him some more then asked, “By skipping rope?”
“Babe, not much you can do that’ll burn more calories than jumping rope. Also gets the heart beating, increases stamina, challenges agility and works the entire body.”
“Skipping rope?” I asked incredulously.
He grinned at me and commanded, “Josie, just do it.”
I studied him a moment before I prepared my rope and started skipping and I did this by literally skipping over the rope, one foot and then the next, like I learned decades ago on the playground at school.
Jake watched my feet and he did this smiling big then he looked at my face and he was still smiling big.
And his voice was shaking with humor when he ordered, “Stop.”
I stopped.
He kept ordering by saying, “Now watch.”
I watched.
Jake started skipping rope but not like me. I was pretty certain my lips had parted in wonder as the rope went so fast it whistled through the air and he jumped on the balls of his feet, sometimes lifting one but an inch to jump on one foot, then moving to the other, then using both of them.
He ceased doing this and asked, “Can you do that?”
“Absolutely not,” I answered truthfully because I…could…not. I might kill myself and this was not an exaggeration. Me, rope, speed and jumping was not a good mix. I knew this about myself completely.
He was smiling again when he noted, “Slick, it isn’t hard.”
“Jake, I think it isn’t lost on you that I’m not the most graceful of females,” I pointed out.
Or males. Or any being with legs.
I didn’t go on to include these options.
“Yeah, in heels,” he replied.
“Also not in heels,” I shared.
“And when aren’t you in heels?” he asked.
“This morning, when I slammed my head into your jaw.”
“I surprised you.”
This was true.
“Try it,” he encouraged.
It was then I found myself wondering how I was wearing Amber’s workout clothes, had a donut in my stomach, far less caffeine than was required for me to face the day and was in Jake’s gym at the ungodly hour of seven fifteen in the morning contemplating the idea of taking my life in my hands to skip rope for Jake Spear.
My eyes wandered to his body-hugging t-shirt and I had my answer.
Thus, I arranged my rope and started.
First pass was good, second pass I caught the rope on my ankle and tripped.
“Shake it off, try again,” Jake murmured then began jumping rope.
I took in a deep breath and tried again.
Three jumps into it, I failed again.
“Again,” Jake said, still jumping.
I gave him a look and tried again.
Ten seconds later, I failed again.
“Don’t give up, babe,” Jake urged.
I sighed and tried again, failed again, tried again and failed again.
Jake stopped jumping and I looked to him.
“Right,” he said, his voice again trembling with humor. “Do that schoolyard skipping thing instead. It’s not as fast but it’s something and we need you warmed up.”
“I feel like a fool,” I murmured, looking down and preparing to start again, the girlie schoolyard way with Jake beside me doing it the manly boxing gym way, but my hand was stayed by Jake’s fingers wrapping around my wrist.
I looked up when the fingers of Jake’s other hand curved around my jaw and I saw he’d gotten close.
Very close.
“You are not a fool,” he whispered. “You can never be a fool. You’re total class from top to toe. You’re also a klutz. Own that, baby, because it’s cute and because it’s you. If you learn to accept yourself just as you are, learn to laugh at your quirks instead of hating them, show the world all that’s you without tryin’ to hide things that are not even a little unattractive, that makes you more attractive. What you got is a f*ckuva lot. You own all of it and let it all hang out, you’ll go off-the-charts.”
My heart was racing and not from exercise when I blurted, “You’re very sweet.”
“And you’re very cute,” he returned immediately then grinned. “Even cuter standin’ in a fighter’s gym skippin’ rope the way you do it. So own that, Josie.”
That was so nice, his words made me feel so lovely, I could do nothing but nod.
So I did.
After years of Gran saying much the same thing and me not taking it in, for Jake, I’d own it.
For Jake, alas, I had a feeling I’d do anything.
He unfortunately let me go and stepped away.
He started jumping rope and I began skipping it. I continued to do this for some time without catching my rope on my ankles or any other mistakes and suddenly found it was kind of fun.
On this thought, the phone in the office rang.
Jake stopped jumping rope and said to me, “Keep doin’ that, Slick. Only stop if you get too winded.”
I nodded.
He moved to the office just as the door behind me opened.
Still skipping and doing it concentrating so I wouldn’t falter, I turned to it and saw a brawny man walking in wearing workout clothes and carrying a workout bag over his shoulder. He was, perhaps, two or three inches shorter than Jake (which, I should note, still put him at tall) and he had his dark brown hair clipped close to his skull in an attractive cut. He was quite muscled, and although his muscle was bulky, it was not as pronounced as Jake’s.
He also had his eyes on me as he moved into the gym and he further had his lips turned up into a grin.
I kept skipping rope, doing it owning it as Jake said I should and I saw as the man approached that he did not seem to think I looked a fool. Not if I read the look in his eyes correctly.
“Hey,” he greeted, stopping close (though not too close, my rope was still swinging).
He had lovely blue eyes.
“Good morning,” I replied, still leaping over my rope.
He looked me up and down before he again caught my eyes. “You new to the female league?”
“As I don’t know what that is, the answer would be no,” I answered and his grin got bigger.
“Female fighters,” he explained.
“Yes, my answer is no,” I confirmed.
“Good to know, seein’ as no one should put a glove to that face,” he remarked.
Since I agreed I wanted no boxing glove hitting my face, and since I thought this was an unusual but quite nice compliment, I said nothing.
His grin turned into a smile. “Name’s Mickey,” he informed me.
“Josephine.”
“Nice t’meet you, Josephine.”
“Likewise,” I replied.
“Please tell me that Jake’s opening the gym to aerobics classes and you’re the instructor,” he begged good-naturedly.
“Alas, I must dash this dream,” I told him.
He burst out laughing and I found the sound of it most attractive.
When he stopped, he asked, “So, seein’ as this gym is fighters only, you wanna share what you’re doin’ here skippin’ rope?”
“She’s with me.”
This came from behind me and it came from Jake.
Mickey’s eyes moved to Jake and I looked over my shoulder at him (yes, still skipping rope).
“You can quit, Slick,” he said to me.
I stopped skipping.
“We got a new gym policy?” Mickey asked Jake as Jake came to a stop close to my side.
“Yeah, the policy is, seein’ as I own the joint, I can let anyone I want in,” Jake answered.
“Well, in case you want feedback, I approve of your choice,” Mickey returned and I looked to him and smiled.
When I did, I felt Jake get closer to me.
Mickey looked at me. “You comin’ to the Saturday night match?”
“The what?” I inquired.
“Adult league,” Mickey stated and it was clear he felt he answered my question but he didn’t.
So I queried, “Pardon?”
“Adult league,” Jake repeated Mickey’s words and I looked up at him. “Mick and me belong to an adult league. We box in Saturday night league matches.”
Intriguing.
“Every weekend?” I asked.
“Can’t fight that much, Slick,” Jake answered. “One match every month, short matches, three rounds.”
“You wanna come, I’ll leave tickets for you at the office,” Mickey invited at this juncture and I looked to him.
Before I could answer, Jake put in, “She wants to come, I got her covered.”
I looked to him.
“You got three kids and DeeDee to cover. I got her,” Mickey returned and I felt my insides squeeze.
DeeDee?
Who was DeeDee?
“Dee’s gone, Mick,” Jake said in a quiet voice that strangely also sounded quite lethal. “You know that,” he finished and that sounded even more lethal.
My insides relaxed.
“You been on and off for two years, Jake,” Mickey remarked.
My insides seized again.
“We’ve been off for five months, Mick,” Jake returned, his voice still quiet, but now tight and also terse.
“Right,” Mick murmured but it was the odd mixture of both taunting and disbelieving.
I wasn’t entirely certain what was happening. I just knew it was dangerous and I also knew I was the only one there who could do anything about it.
Therefore, I did and I did this by turning to Jake and noting, “I think I’m warmed up, Jake. Can I punch a punching bag now?”
Jake looked down at me and I saw his face was also tight, most specifically his strong, square jaw.
Oh dear.
It relaxed but only slightly when he replied, “Yeah, babe. I’ll show you how to work the bag then we’ll finish you up on the speed bag.”
I had no idea what was what but I still said, “Excellent.”
He jerked up his chin and stated, “Let’s move.” But he was the one who moved me, doing this by putting a hand in the small of my back and giving me a gentle shove.
I got moving.
Jake said over his shoulder, “Later, Mick.”
“Later, Jake,” Mickey replied and then, clearly to me, “If you come to the match, I’ll have a ticket waiting for you, Josephine.”
Jake made an annoyed noise low in his throat that was, like all things Jake, attractive. Intensely so.
Even thinking this, I called noncommittally, “Thank you, Mickey, and nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” I heard him say as Jake stopped me at a long, cylindrical bag.
I decided my best course of action was to leave my discourse with Mickey at that and turn my full attention to Jake.
He still looked annoyed. Vastly so. He was also looking at the punching bag like he wanted to rip it from its chains and throw it out the window.
To stop him from doing this, I said, “All right. What do I do now?”
Jake looked down at me and it took a moment for his expression to clear, but finally it did and he gave me a small grin.
“You ready to kick the shit outta that bag?”
“Kicking is involved?” I inquired, somewhat surprised.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know that bags such as that were used in that manner. It was just other types of fighters, not boxers, used it thus.
“It will be the way you’re gonna use it.”
I looked at the bag thinking this might be fun.
So I looked back up at Jake, smiled and said, “Splendid.”
Finally, Jake’s face totally cleared and he smiled back.
Then he said, “Right, Slick. I’ll show you how it’s done and then it’s your turn.”
At that point, Jake pushed me slightly back and commenced “showing me how it’s done.”
And thus, at that point, watching Jake, I knew without any doubts why I’d allowed myself to be pulled from my bed and dragged to a boxer’s gym at an ungodly hour of the morning.
I also knew I would allow the same to happen tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next.
Just as long as I got to watch Jake “showing me how it’s done.”
* * * * *