Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“No.” Jersey’s feet screeched to a stop, keeping her back to Chris. As Marley’s only son, George took over the gym after his father died.
George didn’t box.
George didn’t take out the trash or hire anyone else to do it.
George didn’t do math.
George had no clue how to run a business.
Marley left his gym to a forty-eight-year-old with some sort of mental disability. Nobody knew what exactly was wrong with George; they just knew he wasn’t all there. He mumbled to himself and spent most of the day coloring superheroes in warped, water-damaged children’s coloring books with broken crayons piled in a grease-stained, fast-food bag.
“That’s bullshit because George doesn’t share that many words.” She continued into the back room.
“Fair enough. He didn’t say that. I asked who was in charge and he nodded toward you. I’m good at reading between the lines.” Chris shadowed Jersey like a pesky fly.
“Your lips are still flapping. You’re still in the building. I don’t think you have any clue how to read between the lines.” She peeled off her sports bra.
“Oh jeez …” Chris turned his back to her. “What are you doing?”
“Washing off the blood and sweat. What’s wrong? Never seen a naked woman before?” She flipped on the cold water to the rusty sink. All memories of hot water or an actual shower died when she skipped out of the system eight years earlier at fifteen.
“Uh … of course I’ve seen a naked woman. But anyone could walk back here.”
She ignored the pesky fly. After years of living on the streets and doing anything for a meal or mismatched gloves and a soiled blanket, she welcomed a five-by-five square of an old boxing ring mat in the back corner of a rundown gym, a shit-smeared toilet, and a dinky sink with partially running water. It was worth the lack of privacy.
Squeezing soap from a bag she stole from the bathroom dispenser at the gas station down the street, Jersey sudsed her body and sponged it off with a well-used rag and frigid water.
By the time she finished and slid on a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, Chris faced her with his hands crossed over the front of his pants.
Bed, shower, toilet. Jersey never took for granted the very basic things in life.
“Don’t you think you’re asking for trouble?” Chris cleared his throat. “This place isn’t exactly filled with guys who respect women.”
“True.” Jersey ran her fingers through her sweaty hair which received weekly washings. “Do you respect women, Chris?”
He adjusted himself, not outwardly proud of his unavoidable reaction to her. “I think so.”
She twisted the rag, releasing the excess water. “You don’t sound too confident.”
He shrugged. “I was in an accident.”
“You don’t say.”
The scar tissue on Chris’s face thwarted his attempt to frown at her reply. “I don’t remember anything from the accident. In fact, I didn’t remember anything at all until I saw this building. My name is Chris, but I just figured that out. I used to box here, and I was good. Marley was like a father to me.” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s coming together, but it’s not all there yet.”
Snatching a half-eaten banana from the side pocket of her camouflage duffel bag, Jersey plopped down onto the mat—her bed—and crossed her outstretched legs.
“So you grew up around here?”
Chris meandered around the dingy room lined with a few lockers, minus actual locks, a row of three urinals and a toilet, a broken vending machine, and a buzzing fridge filled with water and beer. It smelled like death. “I’m pretty sure. As sure as I can be. I think I grew up in the system,” he mumbled.
“Were you homeless before your accident?”
Chris stopped, scratching the back of his head. “I’m not sure. At times, I think I left town for a while. Then I came back after …” He continued to shake his head. “I’m not sure. I think I had enemies. I just …” Chris shook his head, pinching his eyes shut. “It’s like my memory has no inception.”
“Real enemies?” Jersey paused her chewing. “Not like the obvious one which is life.”
He chuckled. “Life, huh? You think life is my enemy?”
“You said you grew up in the system. You’re here, looking for a warm place to sleep, and I saw you practically drooling over this banana when I pulled it out of my bag.” She held up the black peel. “And let’s not even get into what must have happened to you that left you looking like you do. Clearly … life hates you.” Jersey sucked at subtle. She sucked at a lot of things, like patience, restraint, kind words, and giving a shit.
“And it likes you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think it knows I exist.”
After a few silent moments, Chris faced her again, sliding his hands in the front pouch of his hoodie. “Come on. I just bared my soul to you. What’s your deal? Why would you say life doesn’t know you exist? You have to elaborate.”