Down and Out

This has to work. I am so screwed if this doesn’t work.
I cross the street and pull open the gym’s doors, glancing at the “Help Wanted” sign in the window. The stench of stale sweat hits me as I look around the tiny lobby, eyeing the dozens of black-and-white pictures lining the wood-paneled walls. There are a few newspaper clippings among the pictures, all of some boxer from fifty years ago. My sneakers squeak on the yellowing linoleum as I lean in to scan an article, but movement down the narrow hallway to my right catches my eye. 
I step forward, out of the little sunlight pouring through the dingy front windows of Whitmore & Son Gymnasium, and into the shadows of the corridor. Shuffling echoes off the walls, followed by the occasional and unmistakable sound of weights.
The gym opens up, revealing a huge room with a boxing ring in the middle. The shuffling’s from the two guys sparring in the ring. They’re quick—throwing lightning-fast hits and dodging them just as easily. They glisten under the lights, the sweat covering them highlighting every muscle as it flexes.
The guy facing me slows, nodding his head toward me as he glances at his opponent.
Broad, tattooed shoulders relax as the opponent looks behind him, frowning as his eyes meet mine. He turns and walks to the edge of the ring, his chest heaving. Black and gray sleeves of tattoos, with splashes of color here and there, cover both of his arms and his back. His chest and stomach are bare, except for the sheen of sweat dripping down the tightest abs I’ve ever seen in person.
I thought bodies this perfect were a myth. Or at least heavily photoshopped.
Blinking, I bring my eyes back to his face, which—unfortunately for me—is just as exceptional as the rest of him. I haven’t regretted my decision to swear off men until right this second.
Vibrant green eyes stare back at me under dark brows, pulled tight as he studies me. He leans against the rope, bringing one of his gauze-wrapped hands up to take out his mouth guard. “You lost, sweetheart?”
The nickname immediately drops him down a peg in my book. It’s not a term of endearment, it’s demeaning and sexist. At least it has been every time I’ve heard it.
But as he watches me, waiting for my response, his eyes remain firmly on my face. Not once does he peruse me in a way that makes me uncomfortable, so I start to relax. I think he’s just highlighting how out of place I am.
And I am. This isn’t L.A. Fitness; this is a man’s gym. It’s old-school and outdated, and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here, because it’s obvious I don’t stand a chance. But I still have to try.
My nerves are a jumbled mess as I say, “I’m looking for the manager.”
He eyes me for several more seconds, then nods to a door towards the back labeled Office. “Wait in there.”
“Thank you.” I drop my head as I walk around the ring, feeling everyone’s eyes on me.
It turns out the office matches the gym’s décor—rundown and a little grimy. I settle into the cracked leather chair opposite the desk to wait for the manager. Five minutes later, my eyes widen as Mr. Tattooed & Beautiful comes in. They’re glued to him as he walks around the desk and sits before me.
In the small, still-functioning part of my brain, it occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t be this disappointed he’s wearing a shirt now, but I can’t help it. That little flare of “Aw, shucks,” still pops up.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
Based on how this place looks, I kind of expected an older gentleman with a cigar sticking out of his mouth, who curses like a sailor but deep down has a heart of gold. Or, you know, something to that effect.
My back straightens. I won’t let this throw me off. “I’m here about the help wanted sign.”
He cracks a smile and stands. “Thanks for coming in, but—”
“Wait.” I stand so fast my chair skids back. “Just hear me out. Please.”
He stares me down, doing that silent assessment thing before sitting back down. “Why do you want to work in a gym?”
I’ve lost count of all the places I’ve applied to. Retail jobs, waitressing—none of them even called me back for so much as an interview. Apparently high school dropouts aren’t in high demand for legit establishments. Go figure.
I try to play it cool, and let out a soft laugh. “Free gym membership?”
He does not find this as amusing as I’d hoped.
Sighing, I say, “Okay, so I’ve never worked in a gym before, but I’m a quick learner and a hard worker. You won’t be disappointed.”
He leans back in his chair, looking none too impressed.
“I really need this job,” I murmur, glancing down at the floor. “Please just give me a chance.”
It goes against everything in me to ask for help. I learned long ago not to depend on anyone for anything. It saves you the disappointment and heartache you’ll inevitably wind up with in the end.
But I’m at the end of my rope. It’s either ask for help or get used to earning money with my clothes off, and it’s a no-brainer. Swallowing my pride for five minutes is a drop in the bucket compared to the shame I’d drown in otherwise.
When I look back up, he’s frowning as he looks me over. He really has this brooding, smoldering thing down. It’s very unnerving. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.” It almost sounds like a question.
I don’t look that young, do I?
His hard eyes bore into mine. “You got a place to stay?”
Heat explodes across my face. I’ve only been homeless for a week, after my meager savings dried up and my roommate was forced to kick me out, but is it that obvious I’m sleeping in my car?
My hands brush over the soft denim of my worn shorts to tug at the bottom of my gray t-shirt. I can’t remember the last time I bought new clothes. Everything’s always been second-hand to save on money.
Embarrassment burns through me as I realize my clothes are kind of wrinkly. Sitting in a car all day will do that to them, I guess, but at least they’re clean, damn it.
A flood of defensiveness takes over, turning my embarrassment to anger. “Of course.” My tone’s a little too curt, and I try to rein it in by schooling my features. I probably shouldn’t glare daggers at the guy I’m trying to get a job from.
He nods once, pursing his lips as he looks me over. “This job pays minimum wage and requires a lot of heavy lifting. You sure you’re up for that?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation before the word leaves my mouth. I’m stronger than I look, and minimum wage? That’s seven dollars and some change more than I currently make per hour, which is a big fat zero, so hell yeah, I’ll take it.
He shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and stands. “What’s your name?”
“Savannah.”
“I’m Declan.” He extends his hand over the desk, and I shake it. “Welcome to Whitmore and Son. When can you start?”

I’m on cloud nine for all of an hour, when my stomach starts to rumble and I remember I have exactly three dollars and twelve cents to my name. I couldn’t have fallen faster from that cloud if I had an anvil strapped to my feet.
I glance at the laundry basket behind me in the rearview mirror of my beat-up Civic and frown, feeling myself fall even further. It’s piled high with dirty clothes, and I’m on my last pair of clean undies. I have enough money for dinner or laundry, but not both.
My stomach grumbles again, and I roll my eyes. “I know what your vote is,” I mumble.
The thought of going commando tomorrow doesn’t sound appealing at all, but neither does skipping dinner tonight—especially since I skipped lunch, too. I bite my lip, thinking maybe there’s a way I can have both after all, and start the car.
Now where was that McDonald’s I passed earlier?
Five minutes later, I smile as the golden arches come into view, their yellow glow standing out in the night like a beacon of hope. Mickey D’s and I are BFFs. Their dollar menu saved my ass more times than I could count.
I pull into the closest parking spot, kill the engine, and grab a plastic bag from the back seat, stuffing it full of clothing. Once inside, I order my usual—a McChicken sandwich and side salad—and fill up my water bottle from the tap in the bathroom. It might not be a gourmet meal, but it’s less than $2.20 and somewhat healthy.
After I eat, I hole myself up in the tiny bathroom and fill the sink with hot, soapy water. I keep my eyes down as I work, diligently avoiding my reflection in the mirror in front of me. Washing my underwear in the sink of a McDonald’s bathroom is definitely not my finest moment. I can’t even bear to look at myself right now.

? ? ?
Declan frowns as he digs through a box of shirts in his office. It’s the only expression I’ve seen him wear, and I don’t know him well enough to know if I should take the furrowed brows and tight lips personally or not. Maybe he’s a big ball of sunshine around everyone else, but I kinda doubt it.
He sighs. “I don’t have any smalls,” he says, handing me a black t-shirt from the box. “I’ll have to order you some.”
“Thank you.” I spread it out, taking in the gym’s logo on the back as he sets the box back on top of a filing cabinet.
I pull it on over my tank top, then tug my ponytail out of the back of the shirt. The men’s large dwarfs me, so I gather the excess fabric off to the side, tying it in a knot. When I look back up, Declan blinks and looks away quickly.
The space between his brows wrinkles as he frowns yet again and pretends to look at some papers on his desk. It’s got me self-consciously trying to tug down the hem of the knotted-up shirt, which I now realize is riding a little high and pulling up the bottom of my tank top with it.
He clears his throat. “We’re open six days a week, from six AM till eight PM, and closed on Sundays. The only Saturdays I need you to work are the third Saturdays, every month.” He finally looks back at me. “Okay?”
I nod. “Not a problem.” What little social life I had is non-existent now, but I’m not about to tell him that, because he (a) doesn’t care, and (b) doesn’t need to know. No use broadcasting that I’m a friendless loser, right?
Right.
“Good.” He looks as close to pleased as I imagine his surly attitude will let him get and motions for me to follow him out of his office. As we walk through the gym, he says, “Your job serves two purposes. First, I need someone to pick up around here. Things like vacuuming, putting back the occasional piece of equipment that’s left in the wrong spot, and—probably the most important part of your job—towels.”
He leads me down the hallway to the locker room and off to the side is a door marked Laundry. Pushing it open, he flips on the lights. On one side of the room sits two industrial-sized washing machines, and on the other side are two equally huge dryers. A big metal table sits in the middle of the room, ostensibly for folding.
“Ninety percent of your job’s gonna be keeping the towels in the locker room stocked. It’s a never-ending pile of laundry that needs to be washed, dried, folded, and put away. Pretty simple, but it gets repetitive really fast. Any questions so far?”
I shake my head. “I’m a maid, basically.”
Declan’s lips turn up into the closest thing I’ve seen him do that resembles a smile. It’s beautiful and distracting—two things I definitely don’t need right now. “Basically.”
“What’s the second part of my job?”
He exhales. “Locking up at night. Ever since the old manager retired a few weeks ago, I’ve been working double shifts from open to close, six days a week, and I’m really f*ckin’ tired of it,” he says, lightly chuckling. “I need you to work from twelve to eight, with an hour for lunch, Monday through Friday. Think you can handle that?”
“Yeah, I just, um. . . You want me to close by myself? I’ve never been in charge of anything like that.”
“All you need to do is stock clean towels in the locker room, turn off the lights, and make sure the doors are locked when you leave. These guys come in, do their thing, and go. I promise they won’t need your help with anything, but I still need someone here while the place is open. And hey, if you need any help, my apartment’s right upstairs. Okay?”
I nod again, placated by his response, when it dawns on me what this means. I’ll have the entire gym to myself, conceivably for hours every night after closing. I can take showers. Wash clothes. You know, things most people don’t think twice about.
Declan reaches into his pocket, pulling out and handing to me a set of keys. “I won’t make you close tonight, but you think you’ll be ready tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” I told Declan he wouldn’t regret hiring me and I want to keep my word. I also want to keep this job, ’cause it turns out it’s got some pretty sweet perks.
A guy dripping with sweat walks by on his way to the locker room. He nods to Declan in that signature, silent way guys say “hi” and wipes his face with a hand towel, then tosses it into the nearby laundry bin.
Declan rolls it over to me, and I stare at the growing pile of white terrycloth. I can smell it from here, all stale man-sweat, and my lip curls.
“Looks like you’re up,” he says, giving me a pat on the back.
I watch him walk away, his big, inked arms swinging by his sides. The white cotton of his plain t-shirt hugs his back like a second skin, stretching over those impossibly broad shoulders. His gait’s surprisingly graceful for someone so huge.
I push the thoughts from my head and turn to the cart. Groaning, I grab a handful of towels and shove them into the gigantic front-load washing machine. Ugh, they’re damp.
“Gross,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s a small price to pay, though, considering the benefits. So yeah, I can totally handle some stank-ass towels now if that means I won’t have stank-ass body parts later.
I finish loading the towels into the machine. Since it’s only half-full, I push the cart back into the gym to collect more.
My steps come to a halt when I see Declan back in the ring, sparring with the guy from yesterday. His black shorts hang low on his hips, sitting below that tantalizing “V” all super-cut guys seem to have. My gaze goes up to his washboard abs and hard pecs as he throws a quick one-two punch, the muscles bunching and relaxing under his skin. He leans back when the guy takes a swing, narrowly dodging his punch, and then left hooks the guy in the gut, dropping him to the floor.
This all happens within what seems like a split-second.
My mouth’s agape, and for the life of me, I can’t look away. The way his muscles flex with every movement, the rivulets of sweat clinging to his skin, his confidence—it’s all so virile.
He turns and locks eyes with me. Chest heaving, sweat dots his brow as green embers sear into me, pinning me in place. I should be embarrassed I’m openly staring at him, but I’m not. At least not right now. Later I probably will be.
Okay, that’s a lie. Later I’ll be searching for a rock to crawl under, because I’ll be mortified.
But right now I don’t care, because right now I swear he’s got the same look on his face that I’ve got to be wearing on mine. It starts with “want” and ends with “you,” but there’s a whole lot of mental undressing in the middle.
He holds my gaze until his head’s wrenched away by a flying fist, which makes him stumble back. Surprise flits across his face as he touches his bloody lip. It’s replaced with a scowl just as quickly and he comes out swinging, his fist connecting to his opponent’s nose.
I blink, the spell broken as I drop my eyes to the huge black and gray tattoo on his back. It’s a pair of hands clutching a rosary, clasped together like they’re praying. The detail and shading are amazing. It looks more like a photo than anything that could’ve been drawn by hand. Someone had obviously spent hours etching that into his flawless skin. Each pass and stroke of the needle had to have been meticulous and reverent, and the artist’s passion for their work is apparent.
Beneath the hands, in elegant script, is Mickey the Great, and there are two dates—a date of birth, and a date of death.
The name seems familiar, and it takes me a second to realize where I know it from. It’s the boxer from the newspapers in the lobby.