Page 42 of The Sidekick

“I’m just pissed off,” he defends, and honest to God, he pouts. I do a double-take at the expression.

“We’re all pissed off,” I don’t cut him any slack. He’s the kind that would take a mile if you gave him an inch. I can already tell. “Channel it better. You can do it if you actually try.”

I walk away to chew out whoever is supposed to be teaching this guy, leaving him behind.

Two Weeks Later

When I glance out of my office windows, I notice the guy I held a bag for staring at me with a frown. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, and his wrist is wrapped up. I shake my head, going back to my computer. The guy needs to be reported for his own good.

A knock comes, and I push my glasses back into place to see the guy standing in the doorway.

“You were right,” he says, holding up his arm to show off the bandage.

I don’t respond as I wait for him to get to the point.

“How do I channel it?”

“I don’t teach boxing,” I reply. Apparently, no one does. The teacher keeps disappearing during his shift, and I can’t wait for him to be replaced.

“What do you teach?” He comes inside without being invited and has a seat.

“Go back to the door and ask to come in,” I turn to the computer, dismissing him.

“Why?” He demands, leaning forward as he gets angry.

“Because I didn’t invite you in here, and this isn’t your space,” I reply absently. “It’s called respect.”

He continues sitting there, and I continue with the paperwork. It takes him several minutes before he breaks the silence. “Are you always a dick?”

When I don’t look up, he huffs and returns to the doorway.

“Excuse me,” he exaggerates the polite phrase, “can I come in and ask you a few questions?”

“Have a seat,” I gesture to the chair he just left, and he grumbles as he sits down again. “Thank you for respecting my boundaries.”

He’s quiet as he watches me work. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for, so I glance up. He has an introspective look on his face that I can’t decipher.

“Why flowers?” He seems bewildered at my choice of tattoos.

“To support my sister as a tattoo artist. I made the mistake of telling her I didn’t care what she did.” The highly edited version spills out easily because a lot of people ask about it.

His expression lightens as he laughs. “That would explain one flower. What about the rest?”

“She wanted to carry on the theme,” I deadpan. “I was told guinea pigs never have a choice.”

“Smart,” he chuckles and glances at the pictures I have hung up. There isn’t much.

“I’ve never fallen asleep on her table again,” I agree. I don’t add that I love the things, and they help me stay sane.

“So, what do you teach here?” He finally cuts to the chase.

“Muay Thai and yoga.”

“I have no idea what the first one is, but isn’t yoga a girl thing?”

I give him a flat look. “That makes sense. Only women would appreciate a strenuous exercise that leaves you feeling more relaxed afterward.”

He cringes and says, “Sorry, man.”

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