It’s early Sunday morning and, rather than sleeping late like I planned, I’m downstairs in Ricky’s gym, beating the living shit out of the heavy bag. The door to outside opens and I turn to watch Ricky meander over.
“Did you even sleep?”
I swipe an arm over my forehead. “What do you mean?”
“Drove by last night. Saw the lights on so I swung into the lot.”
I snort. “Spying on me?”
“Wanted to make sure Travis hadn’t left it on.”
“Nope. It was all me.” I don’t mention that I let the kid sleep on the mats in the corner again. Ricky and I don’t see eye to eye about that.
He wants to support the kid, let it go.
I want to have a talk with the mother.
He glances up at the big clock hanging on the bare brick wall. I can’t believe the damn thing’s still working after all these years. Or maybe Ricky’s got a supplier for them.
I turn and throw another punch, follow it up with a left, then another right.
“You working today?” There’s a smile in his voice.
“Yep. Brunch.” I flick a look his way. “You should bring the lady in.”
“Maybe I will.”
He won’t. Just like he hasn’t put the damn gym on the market yet, despite our many, many discussions.
“You talk to the real estate agent?” I send a quick combo of punches to the bag, my bones craving the strike as much as my muscles want the strain of repeated movement and my lungs need to struggle for air.
“She’s hard to get ahold of.”
“Bullshit.”
“Aw, come on!” Ricky’s hurt act needs work, which I guess is what happens when you spend most of your time keeping teenage boys out of trouble. “You know I’m busy.”
I throw him a grin. “Yeah. Dolores keeping you occupied?”
“She’s a full-time job.”
“Then let’s sell the gym, man. Give her your full attention.”
He walks around and catches the bag. “The gym’s yours.”
“Building’s mine, but the business is yours,” I say, although really the whole thing was a gift. Repayment for everything the man’s done for me in this lifetime. And still, it doesn’t even come close.
“It was an investment. You should come in and run it.”
I stop, lungs heaving, sweat pouring down every part of me, and let my arms drop to my sides. “I’m not taking over the gym. Told you. I’m not moving back here.”
“Then I’m not selling.”
Ricky’s got one of those faces that’s like a map of his life story, carved out one piece at a time. There’s the nose—broken a time or two when he was a kid in a local gang, then smashed to a pulp in prison and again, later, in the ring. His mouth’s bisected by a long, angry scar, courtesy of his father who, by all accounts was one hell of a piece of work. When I met him, he had smile lines fanning out from his eyes, but now, at over sixty years of age, they’re more like trenches, dug deeper by all the years of laughter and yelling and all the other shit that goes on in a place like this.
A place that saves literal lives just by its very existence.
“Wish you’d take over the gym.”
