The Broken and the Brave

Chapter 3: Inevitably Unwanted Surprises

"What the hell are you doing here?" I sternly question with my glare piercing his flawless face.
"I followed you here," he stoically answered, "I wanted to see what had the insanely beautiful and I-hate-the-world woman in such a hurry for."

No response. I didn't owe him one, so I definitely wasn't going to give him one. I simply continue to bore my eyes into his tanned skin as it shines smoothly in the warm glow of the sun coming in through the small windows of the gym. His dark, manly scruff poking out of his jaw like newly sprouting grass on a moist mound of dirt. The way his mystifying blue eyes innocently flash back at me with a devilish curiosity burning bright... It all annoyed me- all of him. No one can be so physically perfect, it's not possible. I search his face, then the rest of his muscular body for any possible imperfection to set astray from his godly features.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he practically preaches with the cockiest smirk I've ever seen.

Merely narrowing my gaze, I crack my knuckles and continue with my regular routine, starting with the punching bag with Derek's name plastered on it. I could practically feel his eyes on me, and let me say... it's frustrating as all hell. I never usually care about an audience watching me, but him. Oh, he is an entirely different story; I can just hear his damned immature thoughts thickening the air I breathe with every punch to the leather encased sandbag before me. Hearing footsteps fade I sigh a relief, believing he has thankfully left my place of sanctuary.

"Does she always do that?" I hear loudly whispered behind me, who I'm assuming was Derek directed towards Marcel. Looks like it was merely false hope deceiving me.

"Talking? No, actually. She must fancy you."

In a sudden burst of anger I send my fist rocketing into the punching bag, thus causing a rather loud gunshot-like noise as sand then begins spilling out of a small quarter-sized tear. Feeling double the number of eyes on me I cease my punches and huff out a large amount of breath before my trek towards my water canteen residing beside my bag.

"You're payin' for that, mate." Marcel scolds with a serious tone laced with a nice hint of humor.

Throwing my hands down to my sides in frustration, I drag my feet monotonously over to a worn cabinet on the side of the gym room. Never even once sneaking a single glance to Marcel and definitely not even Derek. Recognizing my vigorously paced breathing, I stand before the cabinetry silently tranquilizing my inhales and exhales. That man, Derek, is making my life melodramatic, accelerated, and... different- I don't like it. Not at all. I can't have it, my life is routinely for a reason.

Clearing my throat I obtain the replacement bag and trudge back to the bag which is still spilling its guts onto the cement floor. With my mind clearer, I realize I probably should have taken the bag down before getting the new one to prevent further sand loss. It's all his fault. If he hadn't come, my mind wouldn't have been off task and I wouldn't have punched the worn out bag too hard.

With an exasperated exhale of breath, I unlatch the top of the bag and carefully lower it to the floor making sure the spillage doesn't increase any more than it has to. Still, I refuse to give in to the temptation of wanting to lay my eyes upon the mysterious man causing this already chaotic change of events in my life. I want to know why him. Why the cockiest man on the face of the earth must be the one to throw me off balance in my world of seclusion and acerbity. It bothers me on such a high and unknown level, I can't stop thinking about it.

Snapping the chained hook of the replacement bag into place I heave the damaged one over my shoulder, more or less careful about whether or not sand spills. Only when it's rested upon my shoulder do I worry where the leakage is located, thus maneuvering the bag so it's facing upwards. Keeping my focus straight ahead and only on what's right in front of me I calmly strut my ass out the door to the dumpster around the corner of the gym. Away from the cause of my fret. After I toss the damaged bag into the dumpster I wipe my hands together for the finish of an easy task while letting out a sigh. Looking up at the sky my mind wanders.  Placing my hands on the rim of the dumpster I stretch in a sort of lunge position with my head bowed between each bicep, the chilling coolness of the metal against my hands calming my nerves. I inhale a deep breath, taking a moment to gather my wits, urging myself to forget about him entirely. There's no use in keeping him in my life... or anyone for that matter. Not after what happened in-

"You know, you really shouldn't stick your butt out like that," a voice says from the direction of which I originally came from. "In an alleyway like this, some creep might do something inappropriate. You never know."

Says a creep. Knowing exactly who it is I pick my head up only to serve him another glare, thankfully as mellow and careless as my usual self. Good. Things are turning back around the way I want them to.

"Why do you always have to glare like that?" he asks, voice not changing pace at all. Always the same pitch.

Huffing out a small amount of air as I push myself off the metal box of trash I walk straight pass Derek, grunting in reply to show no further interest in the subject. Heading back to where I need and actually want to be going.

"Talking is a thing, you know," he says. "Even stern boxers can do it!"

Merely glancing in his direction I continue on forward, not at all moved by his true statement. Feeling a sudden heat glaze over my wrist followed by a sturdy yet gentle grip I quickly halt and turn my body back towards the perpetrator with my fisted hand swinging right along with me. Only for it to stop an inch short of Derek's face, stopped by his own hand. With this, I level my gaze with his not allowing myself even a single increment of expressing the shock of his actions. It's like he expected the punch, yet he didn't smirk at me as per usual. No. It was a serious, stern countenance peering into my eyes with those sea bearing orbs. Our faces are so close I can see the green flecks hidden in the blue of his iris, the pupil a bit more dilated than it should be with the brightness of the sun watching over us.

"You need someone in your life. To help you through life," he starts but I pull my arm from his grip and begin to return to my life. "Everyone has a past and I can tell you're running from yours!"

Not wanting to hear any more of his ludicrous accusations, I push through the doors. The glass entrance serving as a separation of myself from the man who already seems to know more about me than anyone should. The man who I'm starting to fear will tear the life I have sculpted apart. To reveal the secrets no person should ever learn. The secrets that gave me the scars I bear today.