ice. With the mutilated nubs of what’s left he scratches through the grass to get to the ditch underneath. In the trench, dozens of pale babies, sculptures made of ice, crawl on their cracking and breaking limbs. Julian’s blood drips onto their snowy backs. And underneath their crystal knees lies a dead and mangled Ashton.
* * *
Mirabelle sauntered into his gym a day later while Julian was training Buster. She was fresh and dewy, wearing a strapless, casual, pull-on milk-chocolate sundress. Her hair was styled half-up, half-down in meticulous cascading waves, and she wore open-toe platform sandals, not boots, and lots of bangles on her wrists, bangles that jingled with her every bouncy step. And that wasn’t the only thing that was bouncy. She wasn’t wearing a bra, her perky breasts bobbing as she sashayed toward him, the nipples eye-popping through the thin cotton fabric.
When Julian saw her, he forgot to duck and got walloped by the guy getting ready for a title fight.
“See, this is why you should switch to tennis,” Mirabelle said, coming close to the apron of the ring and peering at him through the ropes as he lay on the floor. “If you screw up in tennis, it’s 15-love. If you screw up in boxing, it’s your ass.”
“I didn’t screw up,” he said, pulling himself up and moving his sore jaw around. “You distracted me.”
She smiled like that was the best thing she’d heard all week, that she distracted him. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t, because he couldn’t.
He leaned over the ropes looking down at her gazing up at him. “What are you doing here?” A boxing gym was no place for beguiling gleaming girls.
From her bag Mirabelle pulled out his book. “I went to Book Soup last night and picked up a copy. Boy, do they love you there. You have a whole display. Book’s amazing, by the way. I finished it in one sitting.”
“It’s not exactly The Brothers Karamazov.”
“It’s much more readable. First of all, it’s in English.” She kept on smiling. “I want more. When’s the sequel coming out? Can you sign it for me?” She took out a Sharpie, like he had come off the stage, and she was waiting for him at the barricades, waving her playbill around.
He was sweaty, dressed in a black tank and boxing shorts, in other words barely dressed. She had her eye trained solely on him, while every guy at the gym was focused only on her. Except for Julian. He could barely look at her. He told her he’d meet her outside in fifteen, then realized he’d just asked a girl to wait out in the parking lot for him, knowing she didn’t have a car. Real classy, Jules. He gave her the keys to his Mercedes. “Turn on the AC if you want. I’ll be right out.”
She was sitting on top of his hood with her legs crossed humming to herself when he walked out, showered and dressed for the day: jeans, a collared shirt, a thin black leather jacket.
“I don’t know how men do that, get ready so quick,” Mirabelle said, hopping off and smiling. “It took me two hours to put myself together this morning.”
Julian said nothing. Two hours and she forgot to put on a bra.
“Can you sign my book?” She handed him a pen.
To Mirabelle, he wrote, may you never get sucker punched, but if you do, know how to take it. Best, Julian.
They stood in the morning California sun, she twinkling at him, he like a gloomy Sunday. She tried again. “I learned a boxing joke,” she said. “Want to hear? Why don’t boxers have sex before a fight? Because they don’t fancy each other.”
“Ha.” Julian said ha. He didn’t actually do ha.
“Are you hungry?” she said. “There’s a place called HomeState around the corner from me. They make great breakfast tacos with spicy chorizo.”
He knew the place well. Many mornings he and Ashton ate there before Treasure Box. “I can’t, I’ve got stuff.”
“Always with the stuff. Even busy people make time for breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”
“How did you get here?” He looked around the lot.
“Z dropped me off. She’ll be in Sacramento the rest of the week. So the apartment’s all mine for a change.” A beat. “There’s no one home.”
“Ah,” Julian said, not meeting her eye. “Well, do you want me to drop you off at home or at HomeState?”
There was another brief breathy silence. “Why don’t you come