I’d felt this way before, and I knew from experience to wait a few days. It would pass, my body would adjust to eating less.
The stinging scent of disinfectant erased the good smell of my boss’s breakfast as I prepared the mop bucket, and I wheeled it out and started down the hall toward the women’s locker room when he stopped me.
“You’re awfully early for a Saturday.” I paused and looked back, but all my eyes could focus on was the last of what looked like a sausage biscuit in his hand.
“Yeah,” I blinked and rubbed my midsection, looking down. “Figured I’d hit the women’s locker room early like you said. Then I can take care of the men and be done mid-afternoon.”
He nodded watching me. “We’re only open a few hours on Sundays. It can be your day off.”
“I can work a few hours.” My eyebrows clutched, and I tried to meet his eye. But my stubborn gaze wouldn’t go past his breakfast. Licking my dry lips, I forced my sight back to the bucket. “I need the money.”
Rook didn’t speak for a few moments. I couldn’t tell why or what he was thinking, until he suddenly spoke. “I’ll up your weekly pay to cover it. Everybody needs one day off.”
I did meet his dark eyes then. “Thank you.”
“Well, you’d better get busy. Sometimes the trainers come in early to exercise before it gets crowded. Mostly it’s just Kenny, but still. She’ll need the locker room when she’s done.”
He turned back to his office, and I took the bucket, guiding it through the large, open workout space and through the metal door. The locker room was large and empty. Showers were in the back behind a cinder-block wall, and small, beige lockers lined what was the dressing area. Benches filled the center, and sinks and large mirrors were around the perimeter. I tried not to look at myself as I pushed the mop.
I’d gotten skinny. The lines were still on my arms, but until I ate regularly, I wouldn’t have muscle mass. My eyes were different, too—ice blue and slightly wild. I needed to work on my expression or I’d scare people.
Bending my arm, my bicep still peaked. The boxing gloves inked there extended past the bottom of my shirtsleeve— Never Stop Fighting . I wasn’t sure how I felt about that phrase now. The bold 21 stood out on the side of my hand, and I made a fist, thinking of its meaning, the year my life changed.
A metal-door scrape grabbed my attention. Tammy pushed through it, and when she saw me, she stopped in her tracks. She was dressed in calf-length black pants and a skin-tight, hot-pink tank top. Her body was impressive, but I wasn’t checking out the boss’s wife. I wasn’t checking out any women.
“Hey, Slayde is it?” Her tone was sharp, and it irritated me. But my days of being a badass were over. I was a fucking janitor now.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“For starters, don’t you dare call me ma’am again.” The smile in her voice made me glance up. “Second, you’ve got to put the signs up when you’re in here. The yellow ones and the flag? We don’t want the members complaining about a man in the ladies’ room.”
Rook hadn’t mentioned anything about signs, but it made sense. I pushed the mop into the bucket. “Right. Sorry. If you’ll tell me where they are—”
She let out a little growl and rolled her eyes. “I know, Rook forgot to tell you. He isn’t the best when it comes to details. Follow me.”
Back at the juice bar, a white bag in my cubby caught my eye. I didn’t have time to investigate. Tammy came out of the supply closet and pushed a plastic sign and a flag on a suction cup at me.
“Take this and this. Prop that on the floor and attach the suction cup to the door.”
“Yes, ma...” I didn’t finish, and she laughed. I started to head back to the locker room when she stopped me.
“There’s something in your cubby you’d better get.”
Stopping, I went back and pulled the white bag out. The scent of sausage, egg, and cheese again hit
Learning to Kill: Stories