He had to eat. He didn't eat much, not these days, but he had to eat sometimes, and going out to the local greasy spoon was better than chowing cold pizza by the glow of the refrigerator. The restaurant wasn't bad, not really, just a little too dim and the bar a little too busy. Positioned right next to the el tracks, the already-crooked pictures rattled on the thin walls whenever the trolley passed by, the cutlery jingling on the tables. He chose a booth in the corner, like he always did, and folded his thick arms over his wide chest, taking care not to seem too friendly, otherwise the waitresses would cling to him like glue. He shrugged his hoodie a little closer around his powerful shoulders, and saw a curvaceous waitress approaching, hips swinging saucily from side to side. Long, thick blonde hair pulled into an aggressive ponytail danced over her shoulder as she smiled at him, a smile which showed too much teeth and too much personality. "Hi, welcome to the Golden Knife, I'm Jenny, your server tonight," She said sweetly, like she was in an Applebee's or a Chili's instead of a rinky-dink diner which served food only slightly less greasy than their counters. "Can I interest you in a drink?"
"Yeah, uh, Guinness Draft," Tommy rumbled. "Gimmie today's special." He slapped the menu on the table and she picked it up, long pink nails scraping against the fake plastic wood.
"Our special tonight is the Philly Cheesesteak Burger, is that okay?" The waitress – Jenny, he remembered – asked brightly. At his clipped nod, she stuck her notepad into the back pocket of her black jeans and swayed off, actually glancing once over her shoulder at him as though he were some celebrity. Which he was, he reminded himself, and pulled his dark cap a little lower over his eyes. Staring at the wood-patterned tabletop he was seated at, his gray eyes did not flicker in the slightest when the el screamed by, the entire diner rattling like a pea in a pod. The restaurant was slow tonight – there seemed to be perhaps five or six people drinking at the bar, none of them interested in each other and all of them engrossed in the game, silently drinking their poisons. One sad looking old woman was slowly counting out change in a booth near the middle, adding a tip, and then hobbled off. Tommy rubbed the crease between his forehead and tried to think straight.
Ever since he lost, he had been skimming around. People knew the name Tommy Riorden now, and everybody suddenly wanted to fight him, wanted to beat the war hero who ripped the door off a tank. He didn't want to be in another tournament, he just wanted to fight. Anyone who challenged him lost, badly as well. It was only by the barest, sheerest luck that people did not connect the name Riorden to Conlon – sure, the fight would have been more interesting, but it kept him safe. He didn't want people to know he went AWOL. There had been a reason he had arrived in Philadelphia with no money, no references, nothing – he had shelled out every red cent to wipe out any existence of Thomas Conlon. Now the only people who knew who he was were living nearby, and both related to him. Tommy sighed, expelling a breath between his teeth, and looked up at the sound of shoes approaching. What he saw made him roll his eyes.
She was cleaning the table where the old woman had left, wearing too-big sneakers with no socks and still had that boundless energy. The uniform – yellow shirt, black pants – seemed too big for her, as if she had gotten an ex waitresses'. The hair was uglier than ever – it was wet from the rain outside, as if she had just got in, and it clung to her awkwardly, too long to be considered short, too short to be considered medium-length. She slipped a little in the big shoes and shuffled off to the kitchen window to dump her load of dishes, then looked up from across the room. Quickly, he dropped his gaze – he didn't want to talk.
Apparently she didn't get the message, because she scooted over to his table in a flash. "Yo, hey, Tommy! It's Tommy, right? Remember me, from the gym?" She hesitated for the barest second, and then sat down across from him, resting her hands on the table. He saw that the swelling had gone down mightily, but there were still scattered markings across the knuckles. "My hands are doin' great," She continued, as if he had actually asked or cared, "I'm comin' to the gym tomorrow, you workin'?"
"Nah, I ain't workin'," He said, voice a low growl. He scraped his hands across his dark knit cap. "Whatsa matter, you gonna go bust your hands again?"
A smile which revealed slightly crooked teeth was flashed, and he suddenly realized she was almost nice looking. Not pretty, not even in the same ballpark, but with maybe a different haircut and twenty pounds on her she might look decent, instead of like a homeless junkie. "Yeah, but, if you trained me, I wouldn't hurt myself, see?" She chirped, brown eyes focusing on his steel gray ones. "You said you don't train nobody – I ain't nobody. Please? C'mon, I'm a fast learner, I won't give you no lip, I swear."
The buxom Jenny came sashaying back with his Guinness, setting it down in front of him. The table was scarred with hundreds of imprints of frosty beer mugs, and the slightly-warm beer made its mark among the gummy residue. There was a slight sticking sound as he picked it up to take a sip, the thick, foamy head tickling his upper lip. "You give people lip a lot?" He asked, raising his eyebrows, and she flashed another smile, very quickly.
"My boyfriend says I am, so yeah, I'm kinda mouthy," She said, sounding a little subdued. Then she rallied and grinned again. "But hey, y'know, I wouldn't give you none of that, I promise. Whaddya say?"
"Why you wanna train, mm?" Tommy asked, looking her square in the eye. "There ain't no room for girls in MMA. You got people there – you got people there who kill their opponents. You ain't gonna last five seconds in the cage, I swear."
"I don't wanna fight, I just wanna learn," She pleaded, shifting a little in her seat. She was never still – always moving, tapping, tracing, doing something. There was a lot of potential energy to be tapped there. "C'mon, I just need a trainer. Please? I'll pay you, I'll pay you whatever you ask. I got two hundred dollars under my mattress right now, an' more in the bank, so I can pay you. Okay?"
"I ain't no trainer," Tommy rumbled, low voice quiet and determined. "You wanna trainer, I can get you one. But I'm a fighter, see, I ain't no trainer."
She seemed torn, deciding between Tommy himself – a person she barely knew – and a complete stranger. "Wouldn't that make you bettah?" She queried, cocking her head to the side. "I mean, 'cos you're a real fighter 'n all. Wouldn't it make you bettah?"
"No," Tommy said firmly.
There was silence for some minutes, and then Jenny breezed over with a plate overflowing with greasy food and set it down in front of Tommy. Jenny looked meaningfully at the other girl – Tommy couldn't remember her name for the life of him – and she got up reluctantly. "Who do you know?" She asked, with an air of compensation.
"There's, uh, Ricky over on Third Street," Tommy said, "An' Sammy, he's over on Worshington road. Both of 'em will do you good, you got it?"
She shrugged, stole a french fry. "I got it. Hey, thanks, Tommy," She said, and then pulled out her notepad. Hastily clicking her pen, she scribbled something down. "This's my number, 'kay? You call me if you change your mind, right?" She slapped the note face-down on the table then scurried off, slipping and sliding in her oversized shoes. He watched her go, and then dimly thought She stole one of my fries, which really didn't have anything to do with the conversation they just had. Sighing, he bit into his burger, looking at the irregular note, torn from her notepad, and decided the burger had enough oil to choke a horse. Chewing, he flipped over the note, and his heart almost stopped.
You better train me, Tommy Conlon. I only learn from the best. KELLY 783-555-2910
How the hell did she find out who he was?
He found her in the gym the next day, of course, despite the pouring rain outside, she had still made it. He didn't know how far away she lived – the restaurant and the gym were nearly twenty minutes apart – but she was soaked to the skin and wearing her ridiculous outfit. This time, though, she disregarded the tee shirt and opted instead for a dingy white undershirt which probably belonged to a truck driver before it ever hit her small body. A crumpled sweatshirt over by the benches was so wet a stream of water was running across the floors, and he growled at his coworker to wipe it up. She was dancing around the big bag she had been going after earlier, kicking it occasionally and almost ending up flat on her back, her balance was so poor. He marched straight over, avoiding the other boxers who hailed him in greeting, and grabbed the bag. "Hey, what's you problem?" He demanded, his gray eyes dark and hard as steel. He was big, aggressive, and furious.
"I want you to train me," She said, and her Jersey accent struck her in full force. She seemed just as determined, for a little bitty girl, and equally aggressive. "I wanna learn from you, Tommy Riorden, 'cos you're the best an' we both know it. Your brutha popped your shoulder, that was the on'y reason you lost, 'cos you woulda decked him the next round. You didn't spare him nothin', and I want you to train me, you got it?"
He wanted to kill her. Punch her lights out. Give her bruises on her face to match the ones on her hands. He would have, had she been a guy. He wouldn't have hesitated to drag her over to the cage, give her gloves, and proceed to break every single rib and tear every muscle. But she was a girl, a woman, for God's sake, and the rage trashing his system vented a little. His mother had been subjected to a man like him – enraged, ready to do battle at any moment. He wouldn't turn into his father. He wouldn't. Ever. So, instead of pounding some sense and fear into her, he locked his jaw, and snapped out, "How did you find me."
A smirk. She smirked at him, goddammit. "Ain't that hard. My old man served wit' you, over in Iraq, real briefly. He saw your face on television 'fore he died, said you musta gone AWOL, 'cos everyone thought you were dead. I watched Sparta, wanted the best fighter, found you. Like I said, ain't that hard."
"Why you wanna be a fighter, huh? Why me?" Tommy snarled, clenching his fists around the bag.
"'Cos I'm tired 'a bein' a helpless female, that's why," She snapped. "An' fightin' pays better 'n waitressin'. Plus you get to beat people up."
"Look, girly, they'll wipe the fuckin' floor with you. Those guys in there? Them guys are animals. They'll eat you alive. You got that?" Tommy told her, stabbing the air an inch from her face with his finger. "An' you wanna be a fighter, fine, go ahead. But you get in the cage, you'll come out in an coffin. I'll train you, fine, but you're gonna get murdered if you ever go in there, got me?"
That stupid, stupid grin. "Gotcha."
A/N: I changed the summary to give you a better example of the story. And Tommy and Kelly will NOT like each other at first, so hang in there. Please review! I'm SOOOO happy at the amount of viewing this is getting! I've never gotten 4 reviews on the first chapter before, especially on the SAME DAY IT WAS UPLOADED, so this is so wild for me! Please, you have no idea how much it cheers me up to see reviews, it really makes my whole day. Thank you, thank you, THANK you, all of you. XD