"In Which Reality is a Terrible Match Made in The Garage"

(Pt. 2)

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(Still)The Garage, Downtown Square

6:27 PM

It took me a second before the basis of that reference ever so ungracefully dawned on me.

Then, another half to slap my hand across my tactless mouth.

Pops does those things!

I unconsciously scratch the back of my upper arm, my toes squirming inside my shoes. "You know what I mean."

Pops turns away, clearly refusing to look at me.

Great.

I sigh in defeat, stuffing my hands in my coat pockets. "I'm gonna have to make it up to you, am I?"

"Big time," he grumbles, sounding a bit hurt.

Oof, this giant s'more of a bear! I pout at him, imitating Emile's go-to-sparkling eyes.

Pops stares at me and then takes a quick look at Atlas who was momentarily absorbed in his work. "I get the hint, kiddo."

He leans down, his face a few inches above my ear. "But, the eyes don't lie," he murmurs, just as I cast a surreptitious glance of my own. "Promise me, you'd be careful "

I sigh, and turn towards him, meeting his gaze.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. But, I promise to do that. Just, please, keep him away from me."

"Gee, I wonder why." He rolls his eyes — not quite the agreeing response I wanted.

I snappishly jiggle my head at him before spinning on my heel.

"At least I get to keep this one working here longer than the last one!" he calls after me.

I shoot him a narrow-eyed glare over my shoulder. "You and my friends make me sound like a femme fatale."*

Pops guffaws. "Jeep CJ7, Friday night! Bring some food. Invite Tia and your other friends if they want to come!"

I just wave at him, still walking towards the backdoor leading to the gym.

Now, to get that much-needed Zen.

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The Arm Bar (gym), Behind The Garage

8:25 PM

https://youtu.be/0J2QdDbelmY

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

Over and over, my back hits the mat-covered platform, the thundering sound hurting more than it actually felt — not that it didn't hurt any less.

I stare at the shadowy figure above me, his stocky build harshly silhouetted by the garish yellow light above us.

Everything else in the gym was immersed in the shadows. All the lights were turned off, except for the giant spotlight typically trained on the giant square ring at the epicenter of the 50s-inspired gym.

Which just happens to be where a good-natured spar turned into an unsanctioned death match took place.

"You still keep telegraphing yourself," Dax remarks, his husky voice a bit muffled from removing his padded headgear.

I ignore the extended arm in front of me, a bit winded.

Instead, I focus my weight on my forearms, ignoring the musky scent of sweat and rubber under me as I fling myself to stand up a few yards from him.

A sudden jolt of pain strikes me, causing me to take a cautionary breath.

Fick! This man packs a killer kick!

Even while bound and padded with special foam, his powerful foot can still leave a bruise.

In fact, I wince, gently pressing the tender spot in the middle of my left arm when I tried to block him, I can feel one forming, right now.

I snarl through my teeth as I make quick work of tightening the wraps around my fists with them. "This was supposed to be a spar!"

Don't get me wrong. I may seem to be a brash, devil-may-care adrenaline junkie who relishes on other people's pain (okay, not helping my case), but I've grown out of that violent phase.

Just like stuffing a rabid dog into a thick bag (I just realized that was the worst analogy I ever came up with), Pops has sealed that away and replaced it with an alternative outlet and discipline (now, I sound like a trained pup.) through a series of various martial arts.

Dax shrugs a brawny shoulder, taking off his kicking pad gloves in favor of a cold bottle of water above the nearest corner pad.

"It may be to you" — he gestures at me with the plastic bottle before twisting the cap off — "but in this ring, it's a life-or-death situation. Dumb luck and wisecracks won't help you all the time."

I chew my lip, secretly grateful for a break. "It got me this far, didn't it?"

Dax clicks his tongue. "You still lack stamina. When was the last time you cut down on your number of sticks* per day?"

I take large gulps of air, trying to quell my burning lungs. Trails of sweat pool down my chest and arms."Two months ago, maybe(?). I'm up to 4... tops."

Dax releases a short sigh. "Ever consider quitting?"

I frown. "Ever consider me saying 'no'?"

He chuckles, turning a complete 180 from his hardcore fighter persona from earlier.

Conversely, the training did the opposite for Dax. Like a rabid dog (I gotta think of a new metaphor!) pumped with steroids, this ring fuels whatever underlying anger issues and aggression he has and turning him into a killing machine.

Over the top, was a tame word to describe him. Only a handful of Pop's men would ever dare step into a match with him — Pops and me included.

"Your mom cornered me in school the other day," I remark as I watch him thirstily chug down the bottle of water like his life depended on it.

A few drops splash down his thick neck, running further into his sleeveless undershirt, and outlining the gap between his protruding pecs and down to the ridges of his abs. 

Rich casts of tangerine stain the smooth expanse of his coppery skin, glistening under the heavy rivulets of sweat.

I swear, if I didn't know this man so well for the last couple of years —  from the endless times of getting my ass served to the fact that we're practically family — I might have agreed with others calling him hot.

Unfortunately they have never had to go through the horror of getting their faces shoved underneath his armpit as he incapacitates them in a chokehold. 

When he showed no reaction, I continue with my case, "She really played the part of a loving and affectionate housewife pretty well."

He sharply snorts and puts on his headgear again, covering his semi-bald fade.

Great, I just poked a wide-awake grizzly (sweaty face emoji).

"She's worried about you and wants me to tell you... that she misses you."

The last bit made me do an eye-roll, a perfect reaction to that little sob story in the school hallway last week.

"Yeah?" he says distractedly, snatching his gloves off the floor and his small narrow eyes on me.

"Then why isn't she the one telling me that, instead of sticking up for that obnoxious motherfucker in the house?"

Once the pads were slipped on, he claps his hands together, assuming a ready position. His heavy feet are wide apart and planted firmly on the matted floor. 

I fake a yawn. "Beats me."

He crooks one arm, signaling for our spar to resume.

All right, Ave. Think.

How the fuck did I easily crush those two masked creepazoids while drunk, and still struggle on keeping my feet from being swept off the mat?

And, how do I replicate that?

One side of my brain whispers two words, 'Drunken Master.'

The other simply says, 'Attack!'

So, you can imagine which side I chose to listen to.

https://youtu.be/Xsp3_a-PMTw

I pivot around and aim a flying roundhouse kick to his head.

He easily deflects it, my foot hitting the cushion-like surface of his hand. THUNK! 

I slide back and spin again, this time striking with a back kick. THUNK!

Dammit! He blocks it again.

"Look," I grunt, wrenching my leg back before he can grab it.

I drop down, both palms on the floor, and make a swift sweep towards his legs.

"UHH!" He stumbles down, but not before grabbing my leg and dragging me down with him.

BAM! My back smashes into its sole best friend at the moment — the floor.

I ignore the building pain on my spine, scrambling to get up. But, like the speed of light, he instantly covers my body with his arms, locking my right arm and rendering it useless.

Fuck! It was the only hand powerful and fast enough to land some damage on his sturdy steel frame.

His hot breath fans my face, his thighs squashing my waist at both sides.

Beads of perspiration trickle down from his forehead to mine, the warm salty liquid distracting me.

I've always hated the feeling of sweat running down on my skin. More so, if it belongs to someone else — like Samoan Colossus* here.

You'd think with the centralized ACs blasting gust after gust of freezing air, it would deter my body from crying out in weird places.

No, the heightened pressure and the sporadic spikes of adrenaline made sure I was covered with sweat.

Heart racing dangerously fast, I fight the sickly feeling of claustrophobia; each second drowned in its increasing beats.

Don't get your wires crossed, I'm not claustrophobic — except when wearing a year-old pair of skinny jeans and a push-up bra.

I emit a grunting sound, my voice hoarse. "D, sooner or later, you're just gonna have to grow a pair of balls and face her, okay? I'm tired of playing 'Shoot the Messenger' just because she thinks we're dating."

He tilts his head, not in the least bit fazed at the surge of jabs and hooks from my free hand. "Funny. And, here I thought, if I didn't grow a pair, Samia and I would still be together."

I grit my teeth at the composed look of his face, struggling and half-anxious to wriggle my way out of his vise hold.

I settled for another tactic in my range of arsenal — a.k.a. my endearing personality.

I roll my eyes with a sardonic grin. "Oh, her girlfriend has a dick. You just can't see it. In fact, I have one, too."

Just to be clear, it's not what you might think it meant. Ok, it might — if you think I'm heckling this big guy's masculine pride. Which, I'm not.

"Yeah," he playfully smirks, tightening his grip.

Problem is, no bitch move can ever work on Dax. Call it a side effect of his sweet and sunny disposition.

Oh-h-h, it was so easy to wipe that victory grin on his mouth with a knee strike to his crowned jewels.

But, I take a deep breath, I wasn't that desperate to break the rules.

In case I didn't mention it (let's face it, I most likely didn't), Dax and I had made an understanding: No attacks to the abdomen or any private parts (my boobs and his moobs* included).

I pertly nod. "Uh-huh, it's bigger than yours, too."

Dax snickers. "Sure it is, Georgie"— he cuts off, feeling the brush of my patella against the inside of his thigh — "Hey, no crotch attacks!"

He adjusts his lower body to one side, his thigh acting as a barrier to my kneecap.

I chortle under my breath. "Wasn't going to."

I grab the opportunity of his one-sided position, taking him by surprise.

My soles firmly planted on the ground, I seize my imprisoned fist.

Without a moment to lose, I secure them around his shoulder bridge, using his weight against him to roll us over.

Our positions reversed, I immediately fasten his left arm with mine. I lock his other arm with a deadly leg-hold, applying enough pressure to cut the blood circulation in his arm.

"So-o-o, what do you think of the new guy? Want me to scare him into asking you out?"

Leave it to Dax to make a joke while caught in a compromised position.

I rumble, still not budging. "Why does everybody keep asking me that!?"

Seriously, Jack even gave me the eyebrow-wag when I entered the gym.

Dax testily flexes his biceps, looking for some room in my arm-lock. When that didn't work, he shrugs, seemingly content in our banter.

He and Pops did exhibit the annoying habit of gossiping like old ladies.

"He looks hot — from a hormonal female perspective. 'Sides, Pops just wanna make sure that if you're gonna date anyone, it might as well be someone he can keep an eye on."

I blow a stray lock of hair off my scrunched-up face, voice tight in concentration. "Since when is my dating life — or my lack of — have to be a security measure?"

"Because you're our only girl," he simply justifies, and nixes it by adding, "Come on, not even just a li-i-il' bit attracted to him?"

It was easier to say no.

But, the fleeting flashes of Atlas's face. The way he would stare at me with this mystifying look in his eyes, that mountainous body that I could climb on — I gulp — forced me to hesitate.

Wait—what?!

My short-lived pause was all he needed to untangle himself from my armband and toss me a few feet away.

BAM! That moment of impact shakes some sense into me — or, it could be the pain vibrating from my back.

Back sprawled on the floor, I raise my eyes to the ceiling. "He looks like the type of guy who's gonna bring his girlfriend out for dinner, sees a prettier girl, and leaves with her."

Dax snorts, braying in the most annoying way possible.

"Ave, please" — he wheezes, clutching his taut stomach — "Don't sell the guy short. He's obviously the type who would leave with both girls."

My jaw involuntarily twitches, as I briskly pick myself up.

I brush some dust off my shoulders, half-wishing I could do the same with that person. "Why don't you" — I stab a finger in his direction — "hit on him?"

Dax claps his padded hands and holds them out, tossing me a devilish wink. "Maybe I will — and without your help, too." 

"Ha-ha," I sneer before swooping in.

I raise my foot in a parabolic swing, my upper torso snappily leaning backwards.

THWACK! The blade of my foot connects with the side of his face.

His head whirls to the side, his headgear saving him. The force alone should've been enough to inflict a dislocated jaw.

Using the same foot for leverage, I deliver a back-kick to his chest.

Just my rotten luck, he recovers too soon and catches my foot before it can inflict any damage.

I groan in between shallow breaths. "Why won't you just let me hook you up with someone already? I can be a good wingwoman."

"Thanks," he says wryly, hurling me towards one of the ropes. "But, unlike some people" — he eyes me knowingly — "I'd rather get over a heartbreak like a normal person and not conveniently ruin someone's feelings when I'm clearly not over my ex."

The ropes stretch back from my weight, my head and arms still lolling from the inertia. I pull back.

Okay, he is in complete denial.

And, before you say, 'Oh, Ave, you can't possibly know that!', hear me out.

He and Samia had broken up three years ago — three fucking years! That's like 144 outs* wasted in a relationship!

I stalk around him. He mirrors this, his body honed to anticipate any attack.

I roll my eyes. "You're not gonna ruin anyone...ish," I add belatedly – mainly, for his benefit.

He skeptically arches his brow.

I raise my arms in the air. "She would know the score! You see, this is why you get dumped — a lo-o-ot," I emphasize, curling my fingers in annoyance. "You make it easy for girls to dump you because you're such a big softie."

ZHHHHH! His fist whizzed past my ear.

"Just because I respect other people's wishes, doesn't mean I'm a softie" — he makes the first attack with a 45-degree angle kick.

I smirk, leaping back. "No, you're just a pushover."

I lunge at him, using his leg to hoist myself up.

THWACK! My kick lands dead-center to his steely chest.

This makes him bend over, giving me the chance to climb over his broad shoulders.

He tries to swat me off, but it only makes my thighs strangle his neck in a chokehold.

"Where was I?" I ask tauntingly.

He replies by squeezing my legs, trying to untangle them. I could feel the tell-tale signs of bruising forming there.

I roll my eyes, constricting his neck tighter and directly applying pressure on the vulnerable area between his neck and shoulder. "I'm not saying you should channel into some toxic masculinity — I would beat you up if you would — but you just need to know when to 'jump ship' before 'sinking a ship.'"*

He struggles to pry my thighs open. "Now, you're giving me love advice," he wheezes, not losing his sarcastic tone.

I bend down a fraction, frowning at him. "No, I'm giving you a survival guide. Why'd you think I never had a broken heart?"

"Because you'd need a heart to have one," he mutters in a rough-hewn voice.

I jerk my hip to the side, wedging my thighs to dig deeper around his neck. "I'm sorry?"

Dax's face turns into a purplish hue.

I bet he just wishes his nails could bite the skin underneath my skin-tight yoga pants.

"You've never had a boyfriend," he breathlessly corrects himself.

I smirk. "Bett"—

I didn't get to finish the word.

Dax's arms begin to limp when suddenly, BAN-NG-G!

The sound continues to ring in my ears as both our backs fall on the floor, his face near my foot. 

Dax had done every drag queen proud with a death drop.*

Even with my mind still reeling from the blow, this doesn't stop my foot from trying to drop a kick on his face — even if I knew he could catch it.

And, he did.

"Exactly" — I gasp in quick shallow mouthfuls of air, the pulse near my neck thrumming —, "my point. You think I don't know that every guy I date would just fall behind and disappoint me?"

"W— He makes a sound to reply.

I stick my arm out in the air to stop him. "No. I, being a smarter person, end it before it bites me in the ass. I call it Ditch," I say the word with pride.

Dax scoffs and twists my foot. The force sends me to land on my front. Well, at least he didn't break my foot. "Did you even like any of 'em?"

"Of course, I did"— I pounce at him, tackling his arm (as if that did me any good) — "I wouldn't have dated anyone if I didn't."

He lifts me away from him, his arms free of his gloves (wait, when did he have time to take them off?) and holds me by my exposed waist.

My body hovers a few inches from him in a semi-straight horizontal line, my face in line with his.

"But, have you loved any of 'em?" he asks pointedly.

I stop struggling and squint my eyes at him like he just said something completely ridiculous (because it did).

 I quirk a brow. "Of course, not. I would be stupid if I even let any of those fuckers  get to me. I just keep them 'coz they look pretty."

Dax nods his head before shooting me a mischievous grin. "Stupid enough to make an opening for a kick?"

Before I can answer him (much less process what he said), he pushes me away with a kick to the gut.

The power behind it hurtled me straight into a corner pad. Hard.

"You cheated!" I sputter, ignoring the tremors of pain building up in my belly.

Even if I did fake a knee strike to his balls, it didn't count.

Dax merely shrugs, his body vibrating with unconcealed laughter. "Nah, I just ditched the conversation."

I growl. "Why-you"—

"Oh, Tro-o-u-uble," Pops booms in a sing-song voice, cutting through my plans for homicide. "I have a surprise for you!"

His body emerges from the darkness, jaunting towards us in quick lengthy strides.

I glance warily at him, my line of sight trailing to the person behind him.

Fuck surprises!

(To be Cont.)

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I know, those two just lo-o-ve to play it rough. More or less, Heinrich taught them well.

Who else wants a boss like Heinrich? Anyone? None? lol

Who could the person be behind Heinrich, and what is the surprise all about?

What do you think about this action scene, any suggestions?

Comment down your answers and suggestions in the comment section. Don't forget to vote and share!

Now, to our Shout-Out of the Chapter, we have...

AddieElise03, author of "What Colorado Brought" and "Project Phoenix"! 

I invite everyone to check out her stories. You won't be disappointed! 

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

Seven Nation Army — The White Stripes

Supermassive Black Hole — Muse

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*[F/N]*

Femme Fatale — an attractive and seductive woman, especially one who is likely to cause distress or disaster to a man who becomes involved with her.

Sticks — (Slang) means "cigarettes".

Samoan Colossus — (Fictional Character) Colossus is a mutant with the ability to transform his entire body into a form of "organic steel. He appears to have a massive and physically imposing build. Ave calls Dax this nickname due to Dax's similar build while also referencing Dax's ethnicity. 

Moobs — (US Slang) means "man boobs". 

144 Outs — (DITCH: Episode 14, Pt. 2 Reference) Ave recalls the mechanics of DITCH Rule #2. 

Jump ship before sinking a ship — Jump ship is an idiomatic expression meaning "to leave an organization or cause, either because you think it is about to fail or because you want to join a rival organization." Ave is implying that in order not to get hurt in a relationship, it's better to leave it early before it crashes and burns.  

Deathdrop — (RPDR Slang) an iconic dance move requires a performer to fall supine on the ground with one leg extended straight and the other bent at the knee.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André