You Have My Attention

Five

« Winter's POV »

Familiarity.

That's what washes over me when I walk through the gym doors, hands tucked into my pockets. From last night. It all seems like it was a dream. I suppose not though. Because it's familiar. Déjà vu familiar. And not from using my imagination while sleeping.

I ignore my temptations to revel in how the handsome neighbor literally saved my life, and focus on the task at hand as I walk into the gym full of sweaty men and women. A few guys look my way and smirk, eyeing me up and down. I curse myself for wanting to look cute tonight instead of wearing leggings and a sweatshirt.

Why can't people just keep their eyes to themselves? I mean, it's inevitable that people will look if you look good, but it sucks. I just wish everyone dressed up all cute without worrying about the next person who tries to hit on them or touch them wrong.

I'm wearing a white skirt with a small black tank top and a sleeveless jean over-jacket. I slide some random beaded bracelets over my wrist that I made when I was bored, pulled my hair up into a messy ponytail, and slid on some small-heeled black boots. I look good, I think. I just would prefer these three men to not give me a steamy scene with their eyes.

My cheeks flush out of nerves and embarrassment, and I avoid all eye contact as I head into the third back office, where Lyle is stationed at night to make deals and receive bet money. Vince always sends me out to arrange a fighting time with Lyle for him while he preps for the night.

I knock on the door and clasp my hands in front of my body, waiting for it to be opened. Even in my heels, I'm shorter than him. I'm shorter than most girls too, even wearing my tallest pair of shoes. I don't really like my build. I'm tiny, thin, and bruised all over. The reason I wanted to wear a skirt today was because I felt like covering up my scars and marks using my makeup routine. It takes about an hour and fifteen minutes to conceal them, and to make my legs look normal. That's why I don't do it much: it takes up time.

"Winter," Lyle greets, eyes sizing me up and down. I try not to squirm under his shameless lustful gaze. "You look gorgeous today."

"Thank you," I mumble awkwardly, cheeks blazing. I'm not blushing. I'm just...really uncomfortable.

"Of course," he says with a weirdly too-warm smile. He opens his door wide. "Here. Come on in, and we'll discuss plans for Vincent."

I nod silently and head inside. Lyle looks left and right before closing the door and locking it. I subtly swallow at that notion. He doesn't have to lock it, does he?

Lyle walks over to his large tan metal cabinet drawers and opens one up, pulling out a yellow folder. He hands it to me.

"These are the available time slots. Sign his name in the place you want it, and then we'll talk money," he explains.

"Okay."

I grab a pen from the desk and observe the papers, looking for an appropriate time slot. But there aren't any before or at two in the morning. They're all at three through six-thirty a.m.

I look up at Lyle, worried. This has never happened. I've never been punished for not getting him a time he wants. Here in Salem, they're more booked than anywhere Vincent has fought! This club must be huge.

When I look at Lyle, I notice he was staring at me rather...strangely. He clears his throat and straightens up, arms crossed as he looks at me expectantly.

I try to ignore it and study over the time sheet again. I flip back and forth between the two papers, trying to see where a time would work.

"Um...Vince needs a spot before two. He can't do anything after. Can we possibly move someone to adjust to him?" I look up to Lyle again, hopefully. "Please?"