Page 3 of Desperate Haste
A much larger—and longer—part of me prefers my current situation I have with the female species. They see me. I shmooze them. We go home together. We have a good time. Then I send them home before they can think anything more is going to happen when it’s not. It works for me and it has for years.
Except for last night.
My mind flicks back to what transpired as I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. No, last night was different.Shewas different. Normally the women I bring home with me—and there have been plenty, thank you very much—are sweet and kind and maybe even a little shy.
But her?
She was none of those things.
She was wild, unabashed, and confident as hell which just made her even sexier in my eyes. The moment I saw her in that pale yellow dress I knew I had to have her. For weeks, she and I had been toying with one another from afar but it was game over once she started walking down the aisle yesterday before her best friend, who also just happened to be the bride. My friends told me I should stay away from her, that I couldn’t handle a girl like her, but I didn’t care. I could, and I would, and I’d prove to them as such.
At least, that’s what I thought until she up and left last night before I could even get my pants on. The least you can do is let a man get some pants on before you leave him high and dry. But did she do that? No. She just left and waved her manicured fingers at me like we had just had a goddamn tea party. And the kiss on the cheek. Don’t even get me started about the fucking kiss on the cheek.
Little fox.
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I take in all my features. My dark eyes peek out under the mop of jet black hair that’s sticking out in every direction. I showered after she left last night and went to bed with it wet which never leads to anything remotely attractive the next morning. I turn on the faucet and wet my hands before running them through my thick, slightly wavy hair. Without a shirt on, I can see all of the tattoos that litter my body that I’ve accumulated over the years. Some more favorable than others. Others more memorable than most. At nearly thirty, roughly 70 percent of my body has been covered in ink. Some people would gawk if they knew how much money I have permanently etched into my skin, but I’ve spent my money on worse things. More dangerous things. And my tattoos are all signs and stories of my past that remind me to keep moving forward.
With my hair patted down, I swipe on some deodorant and throw on a black tank top. Swapping my boxers for fresh ones and pulling on some shorts, I sit on the edge of my bed again to slip on some socks. As I get dressed to head to the training center, my mind wanders back to last night and the way she looked at me as her dress fell to the floor. She didn’t flinch when I outlined her curves with my eyes or feasted on her round, supple tits. Confidence radiated out of her. She’s hot and she knew it.
I like that in a woman.
Finally dressed, and slightly hard, I head to grab a protein shake from the fridge. As I walk out of my apartment to head for my truck, I snatch the gym bag from the floor and throw it over my shoulder. For a half second, I almost text Hank and ask if he wants to join me this morning for a little friendly sparring, but then I remember that he and Bailey are on a plane jetting off for their honeymoon. Why anyone would wanna go climb a mountain in Peru for their honeymoon is beyond me. Give me a resort on a beach where I can make love to my bride all day every day and I’ll be happy.
My feet stop dead center in the hallway of my complex and I laugh out loud.Yeah right, me? Married?
Never gonna happen.
I continue to laugh to myself at the thought as I walk to my truck, slide in, and take off for the gym.
I’m not a marrying man.
I’m a playboy through and through.
And I’ll happily be so for the rest of my life.
* * *
Two hoursand hundreds of throws later, my arms are as limp as the Korean cold noodles Umma used to make for me growing up. My love for boxing and Mixed Martial Arts started a few years ago as I worked to put my life back together. My sponsor, an older man with gray thinning hair named Marshall, introduced me to the club I workout at almost daily as a healthier, more productive way for me to deal with my anger. When he first brought me here five years ago, I was on the brink of self-destruction. I’d fucked up a whole lot of my life by making several poor choices but with the help of him and my three best friends, I’d managed to get my shit together.
“Malcolm, it’s nice to see you boy,” Reese, the owner of the training center, bellows as he exits his office. A good friend of Marshall’s, the tall, skinny man with warm brown skin waves at me from across the gym with a smile. After coming here week after week for the last five years, he, too, has become a steady figure in my life. I also know he acts as a second pair of eyes for Marshall even though I’ve been out of the program for years now.
You never truly leave though. Anyone who’s been through it will tell you that.
“Reese, I saw you a few days ago, buddy. Remember?” Being a retired heavyweight champion, he’d taken a few too many blows to the head in his time. Now at roughly eighty years old, the impact of the constant head bashing is starting to show. I give him a warm smile and huff out a laugh, trying to catch my breath after going to town on the punching bag. I like to finish my workouts with sprint punches to wear myself down as much as possible.
“Ahhh, yes, I remember now.” His voice is raspy but chipper as he waggles a finger at me with a smirk. “Last you was here, you was tellin’ me about a wedding you had to attend? Something about how you were worried your suit pants wouldn’t fit over your legs or somethin’.”
I laugh for a moment because of course that’s what he remembered. I’d made a joke about Hank forcing us all to wear tailored suit pants—something I never wear—and joking with Reese that I was going to make mine burst at the seams because my legs were so big. Thinking of the suit now makes the memory of them falling to my ankles in front of Ophelia flash in front of my eyes.
“Yeah, yep. My friend, Hank, he’s been here a couple times with me to spar. He’s the veteran.” I swallow hard and take a deep breath in an attempt to cool the simmering fire in my core as the images of her under me come back quickly.
“Well, how was the wedding? You have fun?” the older man asks, taking a seat in a metal fold out chair which is his second most inhabited spot. If he’s not in his office, you can find him sitting on one of the two metal chairs that live against the wall that faces the main ring. More often than not, you can find Marshall there, too, right next to him. They like to say they sit there to give ‘feedback’ as they like to call it but really, it’s just the two of them sitting there, hounding you as you spar or go one-on-one with another person.
“Yeah, I had a good time. Hank and his wife, Bailey, love each other a disgustingly large amount. I only had to hold back my vomit twice,” I joke.
“When are you going to get married? You’re about as old as I am.” He flings a hand at me as he jokes. I chuckle at the thought and rub the back of my neck with my sweat towel before swiping it across my forehead. My hair is soaked through and as I wipe away the remnants of my workout, my eyes catch sight of my tattooed arm.
“Never. I’m never getting married, Reese. We’ve been over this.”
