When I arrived at the apartment, I hesitated to open the door.

The door was fairly thin, so I heard practically everything. I knew Aya and Dina were behind it. "Does it look okay?" I heard Aya say.

"Never thought I'd ever see you in boxing gear, but yes, it does," her friend said.

Aya opened the door with such force, it made me cringe at how hard she was pulling at the poor doorknob. I stopped her from nearly breaking the hinges, leaning against it. "Hi," I said, glancing at her for a split second, then at Dina.

"shit–I nearly squashed your face–" she squeaked, fear glimmered in her eyes. She swallowed, blinking hard and straightens herself up. "Hi."

Her friend smiled, passing me and Aya glances. "Well, looks like my job is done here." her smiled faded. Her stare was cold and lifeless. For having grass-colored eyes, it was disturbing to look at for long periods of time. I wondered how Aya put up with her looking all... her. She folded her arms over her chest.  "Darren, you hurt her, I swear I'll serve your head personally on a platter at your discretion. You may be her personal guard, but know your limits. And most importantly, know your place."

"I could've said all that myself, Dina," Aya said mid-crouched on the floor. "Anyhow, bye-bye. Hasta la vista. Ciao. Adios. Allah Hafiz." She flapped her hands around in a shooing motion before getting up with her shoes in her hand.

"I know, it was more of a second warning than anything." Dina's expression was deadpan, looking me up and down. Women were deadly creatures. "Goodbye, Dina," I said sarcastically, my nerve starting to pick back up once more. I moved out of the doorway so she could easily leave without having her to squeeze her way out.

Aya and I both watch as she leaves.

I closed the door.

"Are you trying to make your friends hate me?" I groaned, smoothing my hand over my face.

"If you think that's hate, then what do we have?" Aya countered, swinging her arms as if they were pairs of swings, shoes still in hand. She plopped herself on the edge of the living room couch.

I clenched my jaw. I ignored her and walked to where she was. "Let me help," I offered, kneeling on one knee.

She looked up at me, her soft brown eyes for once normal and not at all dark and angry like they had been for days. I didn't realize it then, but as I looked at her awaiting her answer (it was going to be no, but I'd end up helping her anyway), I hadn't known the depth of them. I didn't recall them ever being this mesmerizing.

"No, I've got it," Aya said, turning her attention back to the shoelaces, her fingers, finicky, with the boot strings.

She was knotting them wrong. What a sloppy job. I shook my head, reaching to touch the boot of which her foot was practically screwed onto, but she crossed her legs aggressively one over the other she nearly kicked me in the face. She was out to get me, I was sure of it.

"You're tying them wrong, love," I urged as politely as I could without my temper getting the best of me. "Stop, let me help." this time I gently yanked her foot to rest on my knee, my left hand firmly wrapped around her ankle. She glared at me.

"Darren," she seethed. Was that a blush? "I can do it myself."

"You're too slow."

"Am not!"

I gave her a scolding look. She said nothing and looked the other way. I laced her boot up. "Is it loose?" I asked her without a hint of emotion to my voice.

"Yes."

I tightened.

"How about now?"

"Yes, still loose."

Jesus, these boots were far too large on her. Did she tell me the right size?

I tightened again, avoiding her gaze.

Aya dipped her head down to look at me. "Have I upset you?"

I stared at her. "I may not like you, Aya, but I am not going to hurt you, understand?" I clenched my jaw, my grip on her ankle tightened with it. "I don't like it when people put words in my mouth."

I fixed her boot smoothed it out before I moved to the other one.

"I've never done this before..." Aya said meekly, sounding embarrassed. "I just..."

I put her foot into the shoe and laced her up without any further complaints.

Aya sighed, running a hand through her done-up hair.

I put her foot on the ground and stood.

"Get up," I ordered her. "I need you to turn around."

"Excuse me?" Aya eyed me, mouth ajar.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Beleaguered, she got up and turned around, her back facing me.

"The zipper wasn't closed all the way," I muttered, averting my eyes.

Aya looked over her shoulder as if to see for herself, but I wouldn't allow her. "If," she started, "we're having this much trouble already, maybe we should cancel?" Her tone was fleeting, yet sarcastic.

I let out a wry laugh. "Better luck next time, love. That's not happening. You need this."

"What I need is to live a normal life," she said, pursing her lips.

I zipped it up all the way, my touch lingering on the small of her back. "And how would you describe a normal life to be?" I asked, my tone growing quiet.

I knew what she meant, and she meant well. I understood, because I felt the same way. Except I wasn't bold enough to say it. Coming back to America was not something I knew I needed.

I didn't know I needed her–not in precarious manner–or this job.

And I sure as hell didn't know I craved closure this much.

She looked at me, and I couldn't help but stare at her mouth as she spoke. "My perfect life would be without you in it. I can't... I don't want to dwell on the past but its all everyone talks about. And now, you..."

I stepped back, lowering my gaze so she and I had ample room apart.

"What about you?"

"I don't know. I don't think I can say the same."

She let out the kind of laugh that was as sweet as it was menacing. Aya giggled. "Well, think. You're a doctor, aren't you, shouldn't you be smart and have loads more intellect than me?"

I folded my arms smartly, stance cool. I cocked an eyebrow. "Alright," I said with a sharp inhale, "my perfect life would be one where you acted as sweet as you look."

Aya scoffed and I loved it. She scowled, balling her hands into fists. "You..." her face flushed.

I smiled, the big, boyish smile that she loved so much.

"I hate you."

She was so ungodly clueless sometimes. I was utmost certain she lacked humor. "I'm kidding, love," I lied.

"Oh, don't worry, the feeling's mutual," I told her, grabbing our coats on the way out as she followed close behind me. I waited for at at the door, handing her her coat and watching her leave the complex before I closed the door.

"One day, Aya, you'll realize I'm not that bad," I said, my voice a slight bit higher so she could hear me properly from the far distance. I had the car keys. She stopped walking once she realized.

She groaned, and turned on her heel, and circled all the way back to where I was–still by the door. I happened to be in little to no rush. I dangled the keys in front of her face, taunting her.

"I doubt it," she said mildly. "Give me my car keys."

"No," I said, and I watched her face go from annoyed to pissed, "I'll drive. I don't, let's just say, want any more misdirection. We're going to be late." I swerved passed her and walked to the elevator.

"It wasn't misdirection!" She bellowed. Her boots thumped vigorously against the smooth, polished floor. She slid easily through the near-closing elevator doors.

It was working. Aya wasn't as bad I'd made her out to be, but this misdirection would fuel just enough rage, just enough tension perfect for the sparring match I planned for us to have.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

I opened her door, helping her step out of the car. I looked over my shoulder, looking at the large building before us. The gym's banner hung landscape, reading "GLEASON'S GYM. EST 1937." The windows were floor to ceiling, and I glanced inside.

"Looking for someone?" Aya asked, removing her hand from mine and dusting herself off. She rolled her neck and shoulders, the sun beaming down on her before behind. She looked over me, moving her head to the side. She slid down her sunglasses to the bridge of her round nose, her lips curbed downward.

"Just checking if anyone's in there," I assured coolly.

"What do you have planned?" Aya walked to the door, opening it for me.

"The basics only. I have a general idea." I shrugged, slightly surprised that she took the liberty of opening the door.

I walked right into the lobby and waited for her, keeping it open. "Very cool," she said, albeit rather unimpressed. It sounded like she'd rather do anything than be here. "Do I get to punch a dummy or something?" Aya smiled malevolently.

"What's got you in such a cheery mood?" I eyed her.

"No reason," she said briskly. "Go on and register us in." she nudged to the receptionist desk.

I couldn't shake the idea that she was hiding something big, something scalding she wouldn't tell me. A chill ran through me thinking about it. "Hello," I said to the front desk. "I cam here earlier  for a reservation."

"Ah, Darren Alexander," he said, exiting left behind the desk. He was as tall as me, perhaps a midge shorter, covered in all sorts of offensive tattoos that would one-hundred percent get you on the front cover of a scandal, or gossip column. He wore a black tank top and matching drawstring sweatpants. He looked over at Aya, who, was too caught up in staring at the wall of portraits of celebrities and an array of famous icons, to notice.

"That's Aya Huseinni, I didn't know that was your client," he commented, his eyes traveling slowly down her person. Well, the back of her.

The only way I was allowed to reserve a section–or all–of the ground floor of the gym was for high-profiled reasons. Say, I was the bodyguard of Emaad Huseinni's close relative (I did not disclose who) and was referred by him to come to you.

Names got you around the upper-crust of America, and socialite society in general, so I was prepared to do that a lot. It was similar in the military with the ranking system. Money could get you far, sure, but it was really who you knew and how you knew said person that solidified your position, authority, and legitimacy.

"Do you know who her brother is?" He said.

"Yes, he's my employer."

"Man, you're fucking lucky," he fawned, a low whistle escaping his lips.

I tensed up. "Excuse me?"

"You can't deny that she's a smoke show." He laughed. But I didn't find it the least bit amusing.

My jaw clenched. How could anyone say that to a person unprompted? "She is my client," I reminded him, tone stiff.

"Whatever you say, Darren, whatever you say." He shook his head playfully, his stupid smile still etched on his absurd face.

I walked over to the desk, hands at my sides. He scurried over, too. "Just give me the damn keys to the floor, and shut the hell up. Tell you what, I'll even pay you double just so you stop talking." Renting was $400 for the entire floor, flat rate.

"Relax, I was joking." He handed me the keys, I grabbed it, my hand grappling his with strong, unapologetic firmness.

He cleared his throat immediately once he realized I wasn't.

The keys chimed in my hands and I shake them to get her attention. "Let's go."

I let her walk in front of me, and I peered over my shoulder to look at the desk and area we were in, the man whom I had the awful pleasure of conversing with, stared at me like he had just seen a ghost.

Once we were out of earshot, I leaned to open the double doors. I couldn't help but ask, "how much of that did you hear?"

"Oh, you know," Aya said dismissively, waving her hand. "Just about... everything? Come on, we're the only three people on this floor, Darren, it was hard not to."

"You're not annoyed, even just a little?"

She stared me down. "Who said I wasn't?"

Inside, the floor was littered with all sorts of equipment. From dumbbells to the far right, a bench press in the corner, a pile of mats right next to it. In the center, a small boxing ring. Off to the left were punching bags, dummies, and a cart filled with boxing gloves.

"Your call, soldier." Aya scanned the room, her expression unimpressed. Her eyes lingered towards the boxing equipment.

"We'll start with throwing light punches," I said, nudging towards the punching bags and boxing gear.

I tossed her a pair of gloves, and slipped them both on. Next to the cart of gloves were punching paddles, I picked one.

"Keep your legs shoulder-width apart." I stand behind her, peering over to the full body mirror that was covering a portion of the wall. "May I adjust you?"

Aya nodded. "Yes."

Gently, I placed my hands on her shoulders, repositioning her while she fixed her legs. She looked at the mirror, stiffening up. "Your tense, try to relax. I've got you."

"How's my stance now, solider?" her tone was quiet, still. There were firsts for everything, I supposed.

I looked at her with a careful eye, but I couldn't help be reminded of the earlier conversation. She was pretty. I, at the very least, acknowledged that much. However, she was still my client. She was still... her.

"Yes," I said. "A little off center and rather crooked, but that's fine."

"Oh," she said right as I stood in front of her. Our eyes locked.

"Tell me when you're ready."

Aya inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and channeling her inner diva (so I liked to think of her), then she launched a punch–off center, right above my shoulder.

Oh, brother.

I pressed my lips into a thin, firm line. "Maybe try opening your eyes, love?" I resisted the urge to reposition her arms or to even touch her. This was her moment, I was simply her instructor. That was it.

Aya sighed, and tried again. This time, she landed on the paddle, hitting it with mild force.

"Again."

She punched the paddle once more with a tinge more force.

Aya was about to throw another punch st the paddle, when I said, "this isn't working–" and caught her gloved hand in my bare palm. My grip was firm, but not tight.

She panted. "What do you suggest?"

"You need to hit harder," I told her, setting down the paddle next to my foot. "Use me."

Aya's mouth fell open and she laughed her grotesque laugh. Her gloved hand to her mouth. "Oh, God, that was phrased terribly," she said in between giggles.

"You know what I meant." I smoldered.

"Sure, but you're lucky we're in private. If you said in public–"

I gave her look that indicated for her to stop talking. "Just punch my hands."

Aya didn't look too convinced that I was being serious. "Are you sure?" she asked, her lips curved into a half smile. "I don't wanna accidentally punch you in the face."

"Is that so?" I cocked an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe a little," she admitted. "First because you dragged me here, second because..." She swallowed, shaking her head. Her eyes darkened before me.

She hit my palm–obnoxiously hard. Why was she a journalist when she could just be a professional boxer? The first female boxer, at that?

I held her balled hand, providing tension to the grasp. My eyes bore into hers. I channeled, too, and watched her come to life.

Anger poured out of her like a mad woman. Punch after punch, grab after grab.

"What was the second reason?" I asked, feeling the sweat drip from my brow.

"I hate that you're right," she said, stepping away from me to take a breather. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. "I really needed this. I don't know if I should say thank you or fuck you."

"I like the former," I replied with a satisfied grin. "Politeness looks nice on you."

Aya looked at me, deadpan. Her cheeks were flushed. "Thank you."

"Why don't we try the punching bag?" I asked, moving over to the circle of punching bags. "Or... would you rather use me, for that, too?" I grinned.

Aya scoffed, mouth ajar. "Oh..." She sneered.

"Don't pretend like I don't notice your staring, love." I folded my arms, leaning against the wall. I watched her turn even redder.

"You're full of shit," she seethed, throwing hard-hitting punches at the thick=grained, black bags that hung from the ceiling.

"I know I'm a piece," I started, steadying the bag so it didn't fly all over the place and swing at her with full force, "but you American girls cannot... keep your eyes off the prize."

Aya groaned. Yet she still punched. And punched. And punched. "The only"--punch–"prize you are, Darren"--punch–"is a junkyard trophy."

She looked at me, I looked at her. But our eyes weren't meeting.

They were staring at another part entirely.