Grace voiced no complaints. I knew that this was just a temporary fix, but it was all I could offer.
***
Leaving Grace sated and sweaty in bed, I padded to the kitchen to rummage around for something to eat. Grace’s apartment was the antithesis of our house. It was quiet and clean. At my house, the television was always on and there were always random people moving in and out to drink, play cards, or just hang out. Grace’s place was a sanctuary. I wanted to provide this kind of atmosphere for Grace and me; a place like this that could be a haven for both of us. I’d do anything to make that happen.
Chapter Sixteen
Grace
The next day, I felt wrung out, like day-old bread. All the soothing concern that Noah had lavished on me seemed to have dissipated with the rising sun. He didn’t want me to be alone that day and insisted that I go with him while he trained. I packed my books into my messenger bag and left the camera backpack lying in the corner. I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel the confidence to wield it again.
“Do you miss the Marines?” I asked, fiddling with the radio. I wondered if I would miss my camera. Sometimes I would forget I was even carrying it, since it was such a natural extension of my body. This morning when I picked up the camera bag, it felt like it weighed as much as a cement block and I could barely drag it into the closet. My portfolio was lying on the desk, and sitting on top was a mint tin emblazoned with the tilt shift photograph I had taken of the Alpha Phis. Lana must have left it for me last night. I assumed it was one of the many rush-related paraphernalia they had produced. Maybe it wasn’t true art, but I couldn’t deny a surge of pride when I looked at the tin with my photo printed on the lid.
“Sometimes, but not today,” he said, interrupting my reverie.
“Why not today?”
“Today is Field day. If I were still in the Marines, I would be cleaning today. Shining my shoes, cleaning the barracks. Everything.”
“But if today weren’t Field day?”
“It’s nice not to have every aspect of your life under someone else’s control. I don’t miss walking in the desert and disrobing in order to take a—well, you know. I don’t miss getting shot at. But I miss my brothers. I think that’s why Bo and I enjoy living with all the guys. There’s a sense of community there that we had in the Marines. Plus, you know, you were paid to shoot stuff up. It’s unreal in some ways. But every day was like a challenge, a competition between yourself and the elements or the insurgents.”
***
The Spartan gym looked like its name. There were mirrors along one wall, but there were no machines like you would see at a health club. Bags hung from the ceiling, old huge tires were stacked in one corner, and long ropes coiled on the floor. Racks of free weights lined the wall opposite of the mirrors. The place smelled of sour sweat.
Noah led me through the front room where everyone seemed to stop what they were doing and stare at us. In the back was a larger room that resembled the warehouse where Noah had fought for his ten thousand dollars. Except this room had large fluorescent lights that hung down over a raised boxing platform. To one side sat a long bench like you’d see in a schoolyard. Noah led me over to it and gave me a hard, long kiss that left me blushing from the tips of my ears to the soles of my feet.
“Be right back,” he said.
When he returned, he and Bo were dressed only in loose shorts. They climbed into the ring and a couple of other guys came to help them suit up with protective gear, red on Noah and blue on Bo. They looked a little like the kid’s game of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. My trigger finger twitched involuntarily. If I stood up on the rafters and looked down, the bright colors contrasting against the dull gray walls would’ve made an amazing photograph. Dr. Rossum’s jeers about my trick photography killed the thought off quickly. I shook my head to rid myself of his taunts. I didn’t want to dwell on it. I resolved to just live in the moment.
A crowd of thickly muscled men filtered in from the front room and soon it seemed like everyone was standing or sitting around the platform.
This was different from the warehouse fight. Bo and Noah circled each other, their arms outstretched as if measuring the distance between them. When one moved in, the other feinted. They danced like that for a minute before Bo sprang toward Noah with a punch across the jaw. Noah’s head snapped back, but he responded with a quick kick to the side that pushed Bo away.
For two friends, the blows they exchanged seemed fierce. A flurry of punches, kicks, and parries followed, and a few of the blows elicited shouts of delight from the audience. Noah was on his back with Bo atop him, Noah’s legs snug around Bo’s torso.
With a quick movement, Noah rolled Bo onto his back, his arms around Bo’s neck and his legs around Bo’s arms. Bo tapped his hand to the side and Noah let go immediately. He rose easily and leaned down to help Bo to his feet. They hugged each other. When someone came to remove Noah’s helmet, I could see him grinning.
He said he fought for money, but it was clear by the expressions on both faces that they enjoyed this exertion of testosterone quite a bit.
Noah was breathing hard when he came to the edge of the ring. Leaning on the ropes, he motioned me over. I resisted the urge to look behind me, but I did see out of my periphery about a dozen heads swivel toward me. I have to admit the feeling that welled up inside me wasn’t pretty or nice. It was possessive with a tinge of pride. Yes, that guy up there all sweaty and gorgeous who just fought the crap out of the other guy? That guy was gesturing toward me.
Someone, I’m not sure who it was, gave me a boost at the same time Noah reached down to grab my hands. I stood on the outside with the ropes of the boxing ring between us. They were soft and springy.
“What’d you think?” Noah asked me, holding my arms so I didn’t fall backward. “Different from the other night?”
“I’m a little afraid of what I think,” I admitted.
“Oh,” he said, one eyebrow rising.
“It’s very primitive,” I said, “and evokes a primitive response.”
He laughed low, and I felt my stomach tighten in response. “I don’t think this is the place for the discussion I’d like to have. Let me shower and change, and we can get out of here.”
“Shower,” I said plaintively. I wanted to finger paint the sweat all over those defined muscles from his chest down to his low-riding gym shorts. His hands tightened on my arms, and I wondered if he was going to haul me over the ropes. He just looked at me, his nostrils flaring.
“Don’t push it, sister,” he said, growling a little. “Pull up on the top rope.” And he ducked under the raised rope and came out on my side. He jumped down and held up his arms for me. I leaned forward, and he effortlessly lifted me down.
“Why is your nose still unbroken? Or your face rarely bruised?” I patted his face.
“It’s the face masks, but sometimes I can get a bloody nose. Bo wasn’t aiming for that though.”
“Aiming?”
“Yeah,” Bo’s voice came from above us. He jumped down from the ring to land softly beside Noah and me. “Noah has a glass jaw, so I couldn’t hit him too hard, or I’d mess up his photo shoot.”
“I don’t like getting hit in the face, so I try to avoid it,” Noah admitted.
“Does that mean if you get hit in the face you’re knocked out?” I asked.
“Nah, it just means I can’t take too many of them. And I’ve developed very good duck and jab instincts.”
“So this is like the swimming thing,” I said to Noah. “Exposure is like an antidote.”
“You told her you were scared of the water?” Bo asked, surprised.
“He wrote to me about it,” I replied. Bo gave Noah a strange look and then slapped him on the back.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said and took Noah off to the locker room.
The mini high that I had been on faded, and discomfort set in as I looked around the room as it emptied. A big barrel-chested man who had been standing in Noah’s corner during most of the fight came over.
“Paulie,” he said, holding out a giant hand, which could have engulfed two of mine.
“Grace.” I watched as my hand was swallowed up. Where Noah was lean and muscled, this man’s physique screamed steroided body builder. I shrank away at the menace in his gaze, but he didn’t release my hand.
“My boy Noah’s got a chance to be a big name in this sport. You gonna help him or mess with his mind?”
“Um, I think Noah decides what he wants to do without much input from others.” Paulie must not have had a good understanding of Noah’s mentality if he thought I was going to influence Noah one way or another.
“There’re two kinds of girls for a kid like him: The hometown girl and the ring girl. One is going to do everything she can to propel her man up the ladder to the title.”
“I’m guessing I’m a hometown girl.” I tugged at my hand and he finally let it go.
“Yeah and you hometown girls have a lot of ideas about what your men should do. Uptight chick like you with money written all over her probably thinks she’s too good for this place. Maybe you should let go now and hook up with your own kind.”
Right, like I was going to take lessons from a guy whose neck had been swallowed by his shoulders.
“Leave her alone, Paulie,” Noah demanded. He had returned from the locker room. “Let’s go,” he directed to me.
“Bo?” I asked.
“He’s got his own ride,” Noah ushered me to his truck. His hair was wet from the shower and laid flat against his head, like a silky brown cap.
“Bo mentioned you had a photo shoot? What’s that all about?” I asked when we got into the car.
“I’ve been offered an undercard fight on Halloween,” Noah said.
“My God, is that why you were all at the apartment the other night?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I came up to tell you the news. Lana was making spaghetti, and we just dumbly invited a bunch of people over.”
“God, I feel like an idiot. I ruined your big news.”
“Nah, it’s all good, Grace,” He turned his head slightly, and I could see a smirk on his face. “The evening ended just right.”
“What happens now?” I asked, slapping him lightly on the arm.
“It would be great if you could just get into the Octagon and fight. But there is a ton of BS involved. The publicity you’re required to do. The constant monitoring of your diet. The working out constantly. They make me wear my cowboy boots to public appearances,” Noah’s voice started to take on a whiny quality.
I stifled a laugh at his side.
“I can feel you laughing,” Noah accused me.
“I’m sorry,” I giggled a bit. “Cowboy boots? I’ve never seen you wear those!”
“Yeaaahhh,” he drawled. “And they want me to talk with a twang and use loooong vowels.”
This time I couldn’t contain my laughter.
“Being successful in the UFC isn’t just about being the best fighter; it’s about being a personality. Making people want to either cheer for you or against you,” Noah complained.
“How do you get chosen for the fight?” I asked.
“Money,” Noah said flatly. “It’s all about how much money I can generate. I’ve got a perfect record, but there are a lot of low level guys with perfect records. We all earned them against gym chum.”
“Gym chum?”
“Yeah, for smaller gyms, they drag in guys off the street, promise them money fights, and then throw them up against more experienced fighters so that those fighters can build their records.”
“You aren’t making this sound very savory.”
Noah shrugged. “Anything where there is a lot of money contains unsavory things.”
***
Sleep came easily each night with Noah’s attentiveness, but each day I awoke with a sense of dread. Noah needed to spend more and more time training. And I felt like I was just marking time. Mike asked me to cover for a classmate who was struggling with midterms and I said yes. I had nothing better to do. I hadn’t picked up my camera since the debacle with Dr. Rossum, and other than the one time at the gym when Bo and Noah were fighting, I hadn’t had the urge.
Ironically, it wasn’t the money that killed off my hobby. Getting paid for it was exciting. Instead, it was knowing that what I was doing was fake, a trick, no more worth gracing the cover of a magazine than a bowl of fruit. I wished I had the nerve to tell Dr. Rossum how much State was paying me, but money probably didn’t matter to him. Noah said that real criticism came in the form of dollars exchanged and if someone thought my work was worth paying for, then it didn’t matter what a million Smithsonian artists had to say. I wanted to believe that was true more than anything, but I was having trouble convincing myself, or at least of getting the courage to return to Dr. Rossum. One visit to the firing squad was enough for me.