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“Get a job,” he suggested.
“Yeah, right,” I snorted. “Doing what? With what resume? I’ve got a master’s degree I’ve never used and no employment history I can actually put on paper. What should I apply for? Parking attendant or McDonald’s? Oh wait…all the parking around here is automated. There’s also probably some hippie health group around here trying to make fast food illegal.”
“Bouncer?”
“You trying to get me back on the booze?” I glared at him, challenging. I wasn’t about to admit I made a trip to a bar almost every day. He didn’t need to know that shit.
John Paul tossed his hands up in the air in acknowledgement. He sat back for a moment and took a long swig of his beer before speaking again.
“Raine’s pretty into you,” he said. “I don’t think she’s looking to have you around just to bust up any dickhead that comes close to her. For some fucked-up reason, she likes you.”
He stared at me for a while.
“You want to go back there, don’t you?”
I nodded. There wasn’t any need to clarify where there was.
“She won’t have anything to do with it.”
I nodded again.
“Yeah, you’re fucked.”
“Thanks a lot.”
John Paul just grinned and scratched the dark beard on his chin. I grabbed a handful of nachos and shoved them in my face, effectively ending the conversation.
“You been going to that gym in your building?” John Paul asked.
I stared down at my glass and didn’t answer.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he snickered. “You’re getting soft, motherfucker. Get yourself in there before I beat the shit out of you.”
“Whatever.” I flipped him off. I knew he was right, but I wasn’t going to admit it.
“Seriously, bro,” he said as he leaned forward again. “Hit the weights. Five days a week, just like we used to.”
“Why?” I looked back up into his eyes, and they flickered away from me.
“Because,” he said as he lowered his voice and looked back at my face, “you may not be in the wilds of your island paradise anymore, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t shit she needs to be protected from here. They know where you are, and they know what she knows. It’s only Landon’s reputation that’s keeping them from busting down your door and taking you both out. You go soft, forget your training, and you just might miss something.”
I felt my chest clench at his words. They were far too true to be ignored, and I suddenly felt like a complete moron. I had been slacking off, not just at the gym but with everything. I was so unaware of what was going on around me, I had even managed to walk into a dude on the beach. No one from Franks’ organization would be as obvious as a guy on the beach—those people would be sneaky bastards, not tournament fighters but real hit men.
We polished off the nachos. John Paul finished his beer, and we parted ways. I hopped back onto my bike and sped back down I-95 to Miami Beach. With John Paul’s words still in my head, I changed my clothes and headed up to the gym for a good workout.
He was right; it had been a while. I couldn’t do as much on the weights as I used to, and I needed to fix that shit. I finished my sets and headed back to our floor by running the stairs. I was a little out of breath and decided my endurance was also a little lacking. I’d have to hit the beach early in the morning and run again. I’d start keeping track of distance and time.
And so my fitness craze began.
I hit the beach every morning and was pretty pleased with how well I was progressing. I started going really early before there were any tourists on the beach and before Raine even headed off to her classes. My routine runs on the beach became cathartic. The pounding of my feet in the sand, the call of gulls, the scurrying of sandpipers, and the chill of the early morning waves across my shoes were relaxing. At the hour I began, the sun wouldn’t have quite risen over the horizon, and the beach would be all but empty.
One weekend morning, as the sun broke over the sea in brilliant red and purple, I reached my halfway point and turned to head back south. There were a handful of early risers looking for seashells left from the high tide, a couple other joggers, and some fishermen around. I dodged the fishing poles jutting out over the water and the tractor smoothing out the high tide line and slowed to a fast walk.
There was a guy sitting at the edge of the water, dark Ray-Bans concealing his eyes, but his head was angled in my direction. Just as I veered away from the shore, he spoke.
“Good morning for a run.”
I narrowed my eyes a little. Who wears sunglasses this early in the morning? Then again, the whole Miami fashion scene didn’t make any fucking sense to me, so for all I knew, it was normal. I looked him over, appraising the tattoos on his decently muscled arms and chest. He wasn’t my size but obviously spent more than the occasional day at the gym. Around his neck was a long chain with a pair of dog tags hanging from it. Across his chest were the words “God forgives I don’t” in scripted black ink.
