"The kids aren't here," he said immediately in his customary monotone.
"But - "
"They're with Nancy getting some ice cream."
Nancy was, of course, the home-wrecker. His secretary fling that had become more than a fling. The name of that witch alone nearly sent me into a psychotic rage.
"They're with her?"
"Yes. They like her. We all do."
"When will they be back?"
"I don't know, and that's none of your concern."
"So when can I call back?"
"You can call back tomorrow at seven."
"That's bullshit, Danny. This was my time with - "
"Tomorrow," he said, and hung up.
Chapter Four
An hour later, I was boxing at a little sparring club in downtown Fullerton, a place called Jacky's. Jacky himself trained me, which was a rare honor these days, as the little Irishman was getting on in years. I think he either had a crush on me, or didn't know what the hell to make of me, since I tended to destroy his boxing equipment.
The sun had set an hour ago and I was at maximum strength. I was also still pissed off at Danny, hurt beyond words, and now the old Irishman was feeling the brunt of it.
He was wearing brand-new punch mitts, which were those little protective pads trainers use to cover their hands. I was leveling punch after punch into his mittened hands, sometimes so rapidly that my hands were a blur even to my eyes.
And I wasn't just punching them, I was hitting them hard. Perhaps too hard.
Jacky was a tough guy, even though he was pushing sixty. He was an ex-professional boxer back in Ireland who had suffered his share of broken noses, and no doubt had broken a few noses himself. I had never known him to show pain or any sign of weakness. And so when he began wincing with each punch, I knew it was time to ease up on the poor guy. He was far too tough and stubborn to lower the gloves himself and ask for a break.
I paused in mid-strike and said, "Let's take a break."
To say that Jacky was relieved would have been an understatement.
Still, he shot back. "Is that all you got, wee girl?" he asked loudly, and, I think, for the benefit of anyone watching, since I sometimes attracted a crowd of curious onlookers, and Jacky had a tough-guy image to uphold.
Of course, I never wanted to attract crowds of onlookers, as I generally avoid bringing attention to myself. But since that incident last month with a Marine boxer, an incident in which I put him in a hospital, well, I had become somewhat of a hero in this mostly women's boxing club.
"Well, I could probably go another round or two," I said lightly to Jacky.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," he said.
Jacky shook off the protective gloves. His hands were ruddier than his Irish complexion; his fingers were fat and swollen.
"Sorry about that," I said. "I had a bad night."
"I'd hate to get on your bad side."
"Doesn't seem to worry my ex-husband."
"Then I say he's not right in the head. You punch like a hammer." He shook his head in wonder. I often caused this reaction from the old boxer, who hadn't yet figured me out. "Harder than anyone I've ever trained, man or woman."
"Yeah, well, we've all got our talents," I said. "Yours, for example, is having red hair."
"That's not a talent."
"Close enough."
He shook his head and held up his red hands which, if I looked hard enough at them, I could probably see throbbing.
"I need to soak these in ice," he said. "But if I soak these in ice, the women here will think I'm a pussycat."
I leaned over and kissed him on his sweating forehead. The blush that emanated from him was instant, spreading from his balding head, down into his neck.
"But you are a pussycat," I said.
"Well, you're a freak of nature, Sam."
Jacky, of course, didn't realize how freaky I was. In fact, I could count on one hand the number of people who knew how freaky I was.
"You could be a world champion," he said. Now we were making our way over to the big punching bag.
"I'm too old to be a world champion," I said. Jacky was always trying to get me to fight professionally.
He snorted. "You're, what, thirty?"
"Thirty-one, and thank you."
However, Jacky was closer than he thought. I was indeed thirty-seven calendar years old, but I was frozen in a thirty-one year old's body.
The age I was when I was attacked.
Granted, if a girl had to pick an age to be immortalized in, well, thirty-one would probably be near the top of her list.
And what happens ten years from now when you're forty-seven but still look thirty-one? Or when your daughter is thirty-one and you still look thirty-one?
I didn't know, but I would cross that bridge when I got there.
Jacky took up his position behind the punching bag. "So what's eating at you anyway, Sam?"
"Everything," I said. I started punching the bag, moving around it as if it were an actual opponent, using the precise body movements Jacky had taught me. Ducking and weaving. Jabs. Hooks. Hard straight shots. Punches that would have broken jaws and teeth and noses. Jacky bared his teeth and absorbed the punches on the other side of the bag like the champion he was, or used to be. I took a small breather. So did Jacky. Sweat poured from my brow.
"Let me guess," said Jacky, gasping slightly, and looking as if he had taken actual physical shots to his own body. "Is it that no-good ex-husband of yours?"
"Good guess."
"Does he realize you could kick his arse from here to Dublin?"
"He realizes that," I said. "And why Dublin?"
"National pride," he said. "So why don't you go kick his fucking arse?"
"Because kicking ass isn't always the answer, Jacky."
"Works for me," he said.
"We'll call that Plan B."
"Would be my Plan A. A good arse-kicking always clears the air."
I laughed. "I'll keep it in mind."
"Break's over. Hands up."
He leaned back into the bag and I unleashed another furious onslaught. Pretending the bag was my ex-husband was doing wonders for me.
"You're sweating like a pig, Sam," screamed Jacky. "I like that!"
"You like pig sweat?"
He just shook his head and screamed at me to keep my fists up. I grinned and unleashed a flurry of punches that rocked the bag and nearly sent little Jacky flying, and attracted a small group of women who gathered nearby to watch the freak.