Page 77 of Fighting Jacob

In the background of one photo, a woman with long blonde hair is sitting on his lap. I could assume he’s getting a lap dance, but the more I scroll, the more apparent it becomes that isn’t the case. The same girl pops up in multiple photos taken throughout the night. If the timestamp is anything to go by, it was a good eight hours.

In the very last image, there are no heads, but I recognize the lower half of Jacob’s body. He loves his cargo shorts, no matter how much I despise them. The same girl who was sitting in his lap earlier is crouched between his legs. She’s in the process of lowering his zipper. She has a look on her face, one I know all too well. It’s the look all women get when they realize Jacob’s cock is as big as the rest of him.

The grip on my phone tightens as a long growl grunts from my lips. Here I am moping in my apartment like a loser who can’t get a date, when he’s out doing anything or anyone he wants.

With anger strangling my senses, I type Jacob’s name into the search bar at the top of my Facebook feed. I’m acting like a child, but euphoria dashes through me when I click the block button on his profile. Just like changing your status from "in a relationship" to "it’s complicated" sparks the rumor mill, unfriending someone is the equivalent of giving them the one-finger salute in public.

I sit cross-legged on my bed for the next several minutes, trying in vain to reel in my anger. I want to hurt someone, but the person deserving of my wrath is in Los Angeles. With the early hour in mind and more adrenaline than I know what to do with, I dart out of my apartment. I'm so frustrated, I don't even take a second to pat myself on the back for getting ready in under ten minutes.

With traffic light, it only takes me forty-five minutes to get where I'm going. My anger didn't reduce in the slightest, though. I maybe even more angry now than I was earlier. Not even the poor rusty hinges on Hank's Gym door survive my rage. They buckle when I throw open the door before stomping to the bag hanging mid-space.

“Good morning, pretty lady, what are you doing here so early?”

I ditch my handbag, snag a pair of gloves off the rack, then spin to face Hank. “I really need to punch something, figured what better place to do that than at a boxing gym?”

Hank’s brows furrow as he scans my face. Once he finishes his vigorous assessment, he jerks his chin to the ring. “You don’t need to work the bag. You need to hit something real, so how about we put your frustration to good use?”

After tying my gloves, he dons his own pair.

“What are you doing?”

“You want to box, so we’re going to box.” He uses his teeth to tie his gloves before holding apart the ropes for me. When I hesitate, he smiles. “Don't worry; I won't hit you for real.”

I climb through the ropes before cocking my hip. “I’m not worried about me. You, on the other hand...” My arched brow talks on my behalf.

Hank’s loud laugh rumbles right through me. “Bring it on.” He motions with his hands for me to move toward him.

I take on the fighting stance I’ve perfected over the past year and a half before raising my hands to protect my face. A proud smile stretches across Hank’s face a mere second before his fist sails past my head. I bobbed down in just enough time to miss his left hook.

“Good. Now back on your toes.”

For the first few strikes, I hesitate. Hank isn’t wearing the protective gear he usually does when we box, so I’m worried I’ll hurt him.

It doesn’t take me long to realize the error of my ways. He confidently blocks Jacob’s hits, much less my puny ones. With that in mind, I put more effort into our battle. More times than not, Hank sweeps his hand in front of himself, making me completely miss my mark. For the occasional one that connects, they either land on his glove-covered fist or his torso. I’m aiming for his head, so I’ve got nothing to brag about, although the gleam in Hank’s eyes says otherwise. He’s proud of me—and my anger is finally starting to dissipate.

By the time an hour has ticked by, I’m exhausted, and my lungs are burning. I lean my arms on top of my head before sucking in big, jagged breaths. It takes several tedious minutes to get my heart rate back within safe levels.

Hank wipes away a trail of sweat running down his face with a white towel before tossing one to me. “Do you feel better?”

While glancing into his nearly black eyes, I nod.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

My head bob turns into a shake. I’m just now getting my anger under control, so I don’t want to bring it to the surface again. I also can’t breathe, much less speak.

“Alright. You know where I am if you need me. Until then, hit the showers. You stink.”

He noogies my head as he always does to Jacob before climbing out of the ring and making his way to his office. On my way to the locker rooms, I spot him through the crack in his office door. He’s not sorting paperwork like you’d expect any business owner to do when things are quiet. He’s folding blankets.

Upon noticing my curious glance, he musters up his best fake smile before closing his office door, barely blocking out the makeshift cot in the corner of his already cramped space.

Later that afternoon, when back in my apartment, I can’t stop thinking about Hank. Although he had everything packed up by the time I got out of the shower, what I saw can’t be denied. He’s living out of his office.

Is Jacob aware he uses his business premises as a home base? If so, why hasn’t he offered him an alternative solution? Jacob isn’t rolling in money, but the proceeds he gets fighting for Isaac would surely provide something more suitable than a concrete floor, wouldn’t it? And what about the money Isaac pays Hank to train Jacob, where’s that...?

Like a lightning strike brightening a dark sky, reality dawns. I’ve never paid a cent to use Hank’s gym—not one. I show up with Jacob and use his facilities without paying him a dime. How many other people do that as well?

Guilt makes itself known in my gut. I’ve been using Hank for months when he’s never been anything but kind to me.

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