Page 11 of Saint of the Shadows

The sun lowered in the evening sky. Clad in hoodie and leggings, Marisol ran through the city. But not in a straight line. If there was a retaining wall to climb or a concrete post to jump over, she took that path.

She hopped off the curb. The No Parking sign rang as she swung around it. She landed in a lot outside her dad’s gym. Her mom always had an opinion about how often she worked out, claiming the free-running and boxing made her look ponchado. That insult was of the exaggerated, devastating variety that only mothers like hers could spout. Marisol was athletic, not muscular, and begrudgingly had to wear industrial strength Spandex to hold back her boobs.

While entering, she finished stretching her triceps behind her head. After she unzipped her hoodie, she placed it on a hook over her duffle bag. From her bag, she pulled out some kickboxing gloves and a roll of gauze. Wrapped and strapped,she moved her way to a freestanding punching bag. She began a series of slow, alternating jabs to get the blood pumping into her arms.

The Westside Boxing Club was a converted warehouse with a tin roof and walls. A few boxing bags, some patched with duct tape, hung from the scaffolding in the ceiling, and a handful of freestanding bags circled the single ring in the gym. Though her apparent mission was a good workout, she made it routine to drop in and see how Dad was doing. After he sank his measly retirement into the place, she needed to double-check if the business made out the way he claimed.

As she switched her punch to alternating cross-hooks, she observed her dad in the ring with mitts on his hands, coaching a tall heavyweight boxer. The boxer already had a stream of sweat trailing down his tank top. When he ducked under Dad’s rudimentary swing, she recognized the boxer instantly. Detective Tobias Quinlan. She pretended not to check out his glistening shoulder muscles, but she slowed down her punching pace so she could pay more attention to the action. Tobias waved to her, and she flickered a quick smile to play it cool.

Tobias wiggled his hand out of a glove, shook Dad’s hand, and crawled out of the ring. Marisol showed off with a jab and cross hook combination.

“I was hoping to see you here,” Tobias said.

She stifled a squee, striking the bag with a hinge kick. “Looks like my dad’s working you up a sweat.”

“This?” He gestured to the sweat soaking his shirt. “All nerves. I’m an Eastsider on the Westside learning how to punch from the dad of the woman I’m interested in.”

Her laugh came out so loud that it practically shook the rafters. She forgot she was in a gym—Dad’s gym. An embarrassment confirmed by the face Dad made at her. The face that said, “Who is this guy?”

“We should move over to the hanging bag. See if you can actually throw a punch,” Tobias said.

“Surprised to see you moving so spryly after you limped out of the emergency room.” Marisol pushed the bag to have momentum to work with. She shuffled in place, gearing up for a big swing.

“I had a good nurse.”

She rolled her eyes before she showed off with another combination topped with a kick. The bag swung and twirled. Tobias steadied it. “Remind me to never make you mad.” He held it against his rippling shoulder and motioned for her to attack.

Between punches and kicks, she asked, “Why are you really here?”

Tobias traded places with her. She held the bag still while he punched. “I like boxing. Gets all life’s shit out of the system.”

“A lot of that is going around. What’s yours?”

Every few words he spoke, the force of his punches pushed his voice louder. “I’m tired of a sixty percent clearance rate putting me near the top of my department.” Tobias stood up and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Every year the city gets 300 murders, and a little over half of them get solved. It’s a little disheartening when that’s the best we can do.”

“I get that. The hospital board is more invested in creating a beautiful brochure to hand out at the latest conference. It’s like ever since Grandaddy Varian died, so did the last brain cell of the Varian family. If Vincent just stepped down from his tower…”

“They wouldn’t be bosses without being pains in our asses.”

“It makes those guys who dress up to fight crime make sense. No one to answer to, just take control and put the law in your own hands.” She returned to punching the bag.

“I wouldn’t be much of a cop if I condoned vigilantes running the streets in their pjs, but that isn’t what’s bugging me right now.”

“What’s bugging you?”

“I didn’t get your number. Wouldn’t want you to think that my interest in you is strictly business.” He smirked, revealing the handsome signs of age around his eyes.

She hoped her workout glow covered up the flattered blush on her cheeks. “That’s a little fast. Sure you don’t want to leave me hanging for a bit?”

“I’m old-fashioned. When I like someone, I do something about it.”

Though he had a carbon-dated flirting style, he wasn’t exactly old. Tobias was in decent enough shape to not wear a brace over any of his joints. Was he a fit forty or foolishly hate himself tomorrow because his knees hurt forty? Marisol, no longer punching, asked, “Are you trying to ask me out, old man?”

“Something like that, kid.”

Bold and matched her blow for blow? He had to be kidding. “In front of my dad?” Marisol brushed away sweat from her face with her forearm.

“I was thinking when you’re done working up a sweat, we could grab a couple of refreshments, and I’d ask you then.” He leaned against the bag again and winked.

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