If this guy found me, that means Jimmy knows where I am. I shouldn’t be surprised; I didn’t take great lengths to cover my tracks from my ex-boyfriend. He was never abusive, never threatened me, and there were actually elements of a sweet man in that junkie’s body. I’ve had a total of three romantic relationships in my twenty-eight years, and the one with Jimmy was the longest and most recent. But I had to leave him, and I did so in the middle of the night. In the middle, in fact, of a drug deal gone terribly wrong. There were no goodbyes, and he’s never tried to make contact with me since.
Back then, Jimmy and I were criminals. He probably still is.
“I don’t keep in touch with Jimmy,” I say, keeping my stance and fists in place.
“He didn’t tell me you were this hot,” the gym guy says.
I stay silent, eyeing his kneecap.
“No disrespect,” he adds. “I’m just sayin’.”
I was convinced I’d rid myself forever of Jimmy, but now it appears I was only in remission.
I put my earbud back in and turn away.
Then he lightly grabs my left arm to get my attention. Apparently, he thinks our conversation isn’t done.
I spin and seize his throat with my right hand and grab his testicles with my left hand. I want to slam my heel into his kneecap, but we’re not at that level. Yet. Instead, I squeeze with all ten fingers. He’s immediately disabled, as if struck by lightning. Gasping, arms at his side. He could swing if he wanted to, and I’m prepared for that, willing to release to duck his fist. But he’ll miss, and then he’ll pay for that, too.
The music thumps in my ear, and I can’t understand his desperate words, which suits me fine. I squeeze harder.
He collapses to one knee, and I finally release. As he looks up from the floor, his face is flushed, his eyes narrowed in pained rage. His moving lips leave little room for misinterpretation.
Fucking bitch.
Movement in my peripheral vision. I glance and see Samuel, one of the owners, rapidly closing in. I pop my earbuds out.
“Jesus, Alice, what’s going on here?” He pronounces it heyah, more Boston than Manchester.
“This asshole grabbed me,” I reply.
Sam glances at the man on the floor, comes very close to smiling, then looks back at me.
“I’d ask if you’re okay, but maybe he’s the one I should be asking. You want to call the cops?”
“No,” I say.
He jerks a thumb at the man and says, “You, out of here, and no coming back.”
“I was just trying to talk to her,” the man says. “We have a mutual friend, and I wanted to ask her a few things.”
“I don’t care what you wanted,” Samuel says. “Out.”
The man doesn’t protest. He rises, smooths his hair and shirt, then winks at me—not in a flirty way, but rather a shared-secret way. As if we’re coconspirators and we’re about to be taken into separate rooms for questioning, and he’s telling me to just go with the story.
He turns and walks away, and as he does, he says something that gets lost in the clashing of weight plates on the other side of the gym. But if I had to guess, I think he said:
See you soon.