"In Which Reality is Getting  Stuck on Incongruous Nicknames"

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"It's pretty simple, pretty obvious: that people's first impressions of people are really a big mistake."

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Vincent D'Onofrio

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(Still) The Arm Bar (gym), Behind The Garage

8:??PM

Cold laughter bubbles inside my throat, spewing straight from my lips at a strained pace, yet never truly reaching the dead look in my eyes.

"ACK!"A strangled noise comes from Dax, his shoulders quaking in barely suppressed laughter.

Suddenly, the sly glances, the not-so-secret curious stares, and the sudden fascination over my reaction to the new mechanic all made sense!

They weren't tokenizing* me for my opinion as a hormonal boy-crazed female teenager. They were simply stabbing me in the back!

"You. Sneaky. Old. Man," I snarl through my teeth, punctuating each word with raw derision under the guise of a smile. 

Pops's dark brows pull all the way back to his widow's peak, his shifty gaze keenly avoiding my dark stare. "I prefer the word 'cunning.'"

"You cunning old man. Why can't D n' D do it?" I grumble under my breath, referring to Dax and Declan. Although, it does sound like Dunkin' Donuts. 

Oh, god. I could use a Choco Butternut right about now.

Dammit. Eyes on the kill, Ave! No way was I letting this hoarding assgiant mess around with my baby!

"Psh!" — Dax sucks his teeth, his strong chin pressed to his neck and arms folded across his chest —"Maybe because we want to live?" 

He didn't even bother to filter his words in front of a stranger.

CR-A-A-ACK! My knuckles cry out, looming closely over the man I once called 'brother'.   

 "Mind repeating that, bro?" I ask with a disgustingly sweet smile, offsetting the hard glint in my eyes and the way my voice was dripping with irritation.

Dax may appear calm and collected on the surface but the tell-tale drop of sweat on his temple was a dead giveaway.  

"I said" — he covers his mouth with a closed fist like a mouthguard and coughs — "Better him than you" — his wide narrow eyes bravely meet my Medusa's Eyes* while slowly creating as much space as possible between us — "getting apeshit crazy and murdering one of us if we screw your bike up."  

SLAP! I loudly clasp my hands close to my face, smile still in place, and my eyes half-closed. "Then quit"— I blink, my eyes rounding into a glare — "before I make you."

Screw my bike up? Don't fuck with me. I wasn't born yesterday. Without any warning, I spring towards him, a fist semi-raised. 

Lucky for him, Pops pulls me back before I can strike, restraining me from inflicting any permanent damage to Dax's fatherhood dreams. 

"Nobody is quitting or getting killed!" Pops thunders in, the finality in his words is as good as law.

"Trouble " — he looks down at me from his towering height, his gray-green eyes stern — "you'll be working closely with him" — he points to Atlas — "until you'll have no time left on your hands to land yourself either dead or be unintentionally involved in something illegal that I can't cover for you anymore. From here on out, you're buddies!"

Let me explain something real quick. In the shop, everyone is assigned to work together in pairs. Pops calls it the 'Buddy System'. The only reason I never had a 'buddy' is that I was the odd one out (literally, like there are only 17 of us here), and Pops never did come close to fully trusting every new hire with me (something about them costing him therapy bills and medical insurance).

Either way, I loved it. The sense of solitude and never having to put up with anyone's crap was one of the things I loved about this job.

So, it's not surprising how my immediate response is, "No fucking way."

Pops swivels towards Atlas as if my protest — and choice of language — never interrupted him at all. "Son, you make sure that neither of those things happens to her. She gets too handful, use force if you have to — I don't give a shit as long as she stays safe and in one piece."

AAARGH! I try to kick at his shin. 

 Pops ignores me. "Stick close. Wherever one of you goes, the other one follows — whether it's at the shop, the gym, the bistro, or taking a fuckin' walk in the park. I expect you two to learn from each other and have each other's backs. Got that?"

 "Like hell, we will," I snap at him. "You can't just pair me up with a random newbie and expect me to go along with it. D n' D and the other guys don't even do half of those crap you just said."

I pout. "That was one time! I learned my lesson, ok?"

"One time?"Pops bristles, turning me to face him. "You're lucky it was only a knife! Face it, trouble"— he gently shakes my shoulders — "Even with training, you're still reckless and fuckin' impulsive. You don't have the eyes, ears, and nose to spot danger even when it's staring you dead in the eyes. You need someone to keep you in check and judge a situation before you run gonzo with your fists. Cami, the boys, and I talked about it. It's a done deal.* You still got a problem with that, go call Cami. We clear?"

I scrunch my nose. He just had to bring out the big guns* and use the magical C-word. If Pop's words were law, Cami's was  the Universal Ethical Principle.*

I give Atlas the side-eye, and throw my nose up in the air. "My phone battery can last longer than our attempt for tolerance." I didn't even need to point out my battery was at its last 15%.

Pops gives me the look that says it was non-debatable. "Like I said, you got a problem — you call Cami."  

Seriously, the level of trust he's giving this guy was starting to bother me.

Dax chooses this time to break the tension with a whistle. "Sheesh, Pops. Aren't ya being too hard on our rookie, pairing him up with Taz* here?"

I scowl at him. "Why you!"— 

Pops pulls me farther away before any of my kicks can land on Dax. Meanwhile, Dax inches close to Atlas.

"Dax"— Pops nods to his soon-to-be-sterile apprentice with a meaningful look while skillfully thwarting my every shot for escape — "I need you out front for a minute." 

Dax stares at him for a bit before evident relief spreads throughout his warm features. "Thanks, Pops."

He turns toward the fiendish blonde giant (by that, I mean Arschloch-slash-Atlas), exchanging fistbumps and backslaps with each other like they're the best of friends since Pre-K. "Welcome to the family, man."

A straight-faced Atlas simply lifts his chin in silent respect.

"Whoop-dee-do! I guess we know who's winning Mr. Congeniality three years in a row. Congratulations, D!" I slow-clap with a straight face. 

Pops ruffles my head, messing up the hair that I painstakingly gathered into a ponytail. "It's called being nice. Something you insist to be untrainable of."

Dax rolls his head over his shoulder."You should show him around, Georgie. It's been so long since you had a guy jacked" — he snorts— "knife."*  

He bends over in laughter at his own joke while we just stare at him. He wipes a tear with his finger. The proud expression on his face was just too... pathetic.

My hands fly to my mouth with a soft gasp. "Wow, D! What a terribly lame-ass idea"— I waggle my finger — "very consistent of you, I must say! " 

"I'll settle for being a lame-ass than having a bruised ass anytime," beams the guy who suffered minimal damage throughout our friendly little spar.

He twists his head towards Goldilocks, the level of his eyes barely reaching the assgiant's shoulders (but, oh, how he really tried! ).

His hand covering the side of his face, he jabs a meaty thumb in my direction with an intentionally loud voice. "Watch out for her, she's not afraid to make crotch attacks!"

CRACK! The sound of his testicles snaps from my kick. Using his excruciating pain as an opening, I aim for another kick to his stomach.

The impact — with his weight — throws him to the ground, just in time for the gym floor to open up and reveal a blazing inferno.

No one makes a single sound as I listen in grim satisfaction to the slow crackling flames as his corpse burns into hell.

Unfortunately, that wasn't what happened.

Even by knowing where my happy thoughts are leading, he just had to milk every second of my captivity, taking his time to wink at me and strut across the room before scrambling towards the door like a cartoon character.

This leaves me trapped in between two gargantuan men hovering over me, proving that someone with a 5'9" height can feel just as petite.

Are they as humongous as The Big Show or The Rock*? No. Do they look like they can break my bones like a toothpick? Abso-fucking-lutely!

It's almost comical, standing close to each other, how eerily similar they are in looks, build, and style — almost like father and son.

Pops has a beard. He had a beard.

Pops has long hair. He has long hair.

They both looked like they came out of their mother's wombs with a set of gym equipment.

They're both big alpha males who can't grasp simple words like 'Privacy' or 'Personal Space'.

Pops used to work on monster trucks. He works with a monstrous coc—*

Oh my god, is this what they say that every girl would more likely go for guys who resemble their daddies?

Pops isn't technically my dad, so it doesn't count, right?

Uneasily, I secretly glance at Pops.

Ew, ew, ew, no, do not even go there, Avalon!

Meanwhile, dear ol' Pops lets me go. He motions with his head, his mouth forming — what I assume are — words that my brain is having trouble deciphering.

In this situation, the only logical thing to do was nod. And so, I did.

Of course, a nod is such a universal gesture that anyone can understand it — in their right mind. Anywhere you go, everybody does it as a sign of affirmation, respect, or acknowledgment.

The only problem is, that we tend to forget the context.

While my nod was more of a simple reflex to show I was mentally present in the conversation, Pops took it as a 'Yes'.

He sighs — almost as if knowing I wasn't really listening — and shakes his head. He pats my hair and leaves.

And then, there were just the two of us.

Great, I inwardly groan, watching where Pop's burly figure disappeared behind the back entrance.

Wait, what did Pops say again?!

"You were about to show me around."

"Right," I realize with a resigned huff, not all impressed by his unwanted — though helpful — reminder.

Ugh, here I thought I had a good reason not to gawk when Pops was around. 

I clench my fist. Maybe, now, I can see right through the filtering effect at a certain point—

I look over my shoulder.

Are you fucking serious?! How gorgeous must he have to be to look like a certain 10 in this bad overhead lighting?! Seriously, did he get lost from applying in a GQ photoshoot or something?!

But then, like a foreboding flash of lightning, our gaze immediately clashes. 

To anyone watching, it was like a mammoth and a sabertooth tiger being pitted against each other (and guess who the mammoth is), staring each other down as every passing second of silence convoluted into a thick miasma of enmity hanging around us.

I take a deep breath through my nose.

I tilt my head upwards, an eyebrow raised in a challenge.

I'm pretty sure any person caught in his hawk-eyed gaze would crumble and squirm.

Well, not today, Satan! Not me!

Without a sign of hormonal weakness, I crook a finger at him. "Follow me, Skips."

'Skips' was a default name made by D n' D for every new unsuspecting hire who hoped to last in their job.

Not-So-Spoiler Alert: None of them lasted. They all said I was too intense and uncooperative to be paired with. I said we were just simply incompatible. 

I turn my back to him and make my way to the ring in long snappy strides.

From the lack of footfalls behind me, he obviously wasn't keen on taking leads from the girl who took his dick for a ride and spat on his fragile masculinity the next day.

Although, in his defense, my face was a visual definition of 'Go fuck yourself.'

He decides to break the silence with — what he might think as — a friendly voice. "It's Ciaran, by the way."

That unmistakable baritone sound felt so close, grounds of static prickled down from the very tips of my ears.

I scoff, not bothering to face him. "And you're telling me, why?"

"So that you'll have a name to throw those curses at."

A soft tug on the tip of my ponytail causes me to swing around in reflex, my nose almost bumping against a hard wall of a chest.

Eyes almost popping out, I swallow my surprise.

Too bad, I couldn't do the same with my balance.

Just as I felt gravity about to drag me down to the floor, the unmistakable scent of sweat, aspen, and coffee envelop me.

I blink as a large strong arm wraps around the middle of my back, pulling me back on my feet and sending sensual shocks down my spine to the tips of my toes. 

He stands directly in front of me, so close that with every steady breath he takes, his chest brushes mine.

A sudden ache encapsulates my breasts, my tit toppers hardening like it's the last three days of January. On the other hand, fierce heat slithers and creeps into my neck as a flicker of smoldering blue fire burns in his gaze.

But then he blinked and drowned was the sky of blue by the swirling clouds of gray.

It was exactly what I needed to give another mental Cher-worthy slap to myself and physically brush his hand off me.

For a living breathing mountain, he moves like a fucking cat! How the hell did I miss him moving closer?

Facing him up close, his figure towers over me. The light behind his back casts a soft silhouette, he was like a looming shadow swallowing me whole.

Did somebody (I'm not pointing fingers—Dax!) purposely turn up the thermostat just to mess with my head?!

Still, I stand my ground despite the swarm of bees humming underneath my skin from where a small gap of space separates the two of us.

I quirk a brow, arms automatically crossed around my chest with the towel acting like an indomitable shield. "I'm Ave, and no, I won't curse the man who was kind enough to help me with my bike free of charge." I'd just settle with killing him — in my mind, I want to add.

Okay, I had to give myself a mental pat at how even and curt my voice sounded.

But, damn (oh damn), nothing prepared me for the visual assault he throws at me as he leans closer.

He shakes his head, thick sooty lashes covering a fraction of his eyes as one pinkish corner of his supple lips shifts into a slight curve.

I discreetly wiggle my upper lip, silently fuming at the effect of that simple change on his straight-faced expression.

"Wow" — he breathes out in a dreamy toe-curling timbre — "it must've killed you to say that."

Ironic how his way with words just automatically obliterates all that effect.

I grit my teeth, my eyes narrowed — in what I could imagine — like the sharp tip of a blade. "Surprisingly, it didn't."

He nods, his hard glaring eyes faintly mocking. "Well done, lassie."

I pretend to pick a piece of lint from my towel as I make another eye-roll at his failed attempt at a friendly tone. "Easy with the 'L' word there, Braveheart.* Someone might think you"— my mouth shrugs — "watched too much 'Outlander' that now you're trying too hard to sound Scottish, or"— I look him up and down — "you're a sad creep who uses foreign words as part of a pick-up line."

There are three possible ways this conversation might lead to :

First, he admits to using foreign terms to charm women who have a fetish for foreign men (or, historical romance novels involving English lords and highland warriors). If so, poor choice.

Second, he admits to obsessing over 'Outlander'*, maybe too much that the jargon stuck. Though, I won't blame him. Ginger-haired Sam Heughan* in a kilt is like a hard meal to turn down.

Third, he denies both claims and lies with his pants on fire.

"As a matter of fact" — he cuts into my thoughts — "I am Scottish."

Or, fourth, he is Scottish, and it's natural for him to use the term.

DING, DING, DING! I can see the hotness scale-o-meter shoot up by just those two words. That does explain his Nordic/highlander-esque (a.k.a. primeval brute) vibes — not to mention that physique. 

Broad shoulders, well-defined pecs, and hard washboard abs covered by tight tapered skin. If I hadn't met him last Friday, I would've pounced on him right this instant.

No, Ave, focus! Stop picturing him half-naked! Do not let that sight of masculine perfection cause your panties to melt.

Seriously, why do I hate him again? asks my thirsty inner-me.

Two fucking words: Leather Jacket!, says rational inner-me.

Ah! — Both my inner-me(s) scream — Our baby!

"But"— I clear my throat, stopping before my words become a series of stutters, and release a shallow breath.

Apparently, my common sense needs a minute more to catch up. Ooh, I think it just came back!

Arms crossed, I pin him with a skeptical look. "You almost sound and talk like an American."

He simply shrugs it off, mimicking my folded arms. "I live here now. Isn't that what they all say, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'?"

I scoff, not at all amused by that sardonic lift on his full kissable lips-WHACK!

Dammit, even if they're imaginary, these slaps packed a wallop!

"Well this is America, and there are things here Americans do that people shouldn't do in general."

He strokes his well-defined jaw. His expression could've been mistaken as pensive and stoic, if not for the dark stony look he's boring into my eye sockets.

"Like sneaking out without saying a word? Or, unable to hold your bevvy?"*

"Or, shutting up!" Why the hell would I have a bevy, anyway?! I don't even own a single swan!

He continues to dig a hole in my face with his eyes. I jut my chin, averting my gaze away from his and focusing them on the tip of his nose.

Dammit! Even his nose looks great at this angle —  and not even a tell-tale sign of a single booger inside!

I squint my eyes, angling my head back just so I can peer at his whole face. "Also, quick tip, you might want to tighten those 'oo-s', drop the 'ae-s', and add the consonants if you want to lose the accent. The loose jaw and the missing consonants are a dead giveaway." Although, why I didn't notice this sooner is what irks me!

I may not be an accent expert, but I'm faithfully subscribed to one. And, trust me, that's the closest thing to a relationship I'll ever commit to.

"I'll take note of that," he replies with a contemplative nod, the small movement sending silky waves of burnished gold to slide past his shoulders.

I lift my jaw. "Good!"— I prop my hands on either side of my waist (mostly as a poor attempt to stop my itching fingers from stroking their satiny texture)— "and while you're at it, I would like my jacket back."

He covers his mouth with his hand, thumb pressed to his cheek, and his face — surprise, surprise — unreadable again. "That, I may not guarantee."

My jaw drops wide open.

I close it.

It drops again. "What did you just say?"

"I said, I can't guarantee that."

"Oh, come on!"— I flap my arms in the air, stomping my foot — "It's not like it would fit you!"

He lazily scans my face for a second, noting the flaring look of outrage. A slow smirk forms across his lips. "I heard there's a Goodwill store nearby."

I stare at him and do a double-take, my mouth moving wordlessly.

All that came out was an inaudible sound, resembling a tiny whimper, escaping my lips as I imagined the terrible state my leather jacket would find itself in — alone and hanging on a rusted rack, crying for me to find her.

A wave of newfound fury rips through my current thoughts. Like a magical beanstalk, my blood pressure rises, boiling under the sweltering heat from the sun. Or, in this case, a fair-haired Celtic god of evil.

Oh. No. He. Did. Not. Just. Say. That.

Ciarán-Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is has officially topped my list of people to murder.

And, I know just where to do it.

Standing on the balls of my feet and my side to him, I slant my head back and jut my jaw. "That's it"— I stab his chest with my forefinger — " you and"— I point my thumb — "me. Spar. I win, I get my jacket back."

He tilts his head down towards me, eating my space, his expression is unflappable.

I could feel his hot breath on my forehead, his darkened eyes solely directed at me.

I visibly gulp, hating how I'm the only one physically affected by this.

The merest groove appears near his lips. "What if I win?"

A hard derisive laugh escapes my lips. "Oh, you won't."

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Uh-oh, looks like things are about to heat up.

Lemme know who you think might win. Are you Team Ave or Team Ciarán?

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*[ F/N ]*

Tokenizing — a situation in which a member of a distinctive category is treated differently from other people. Tokens (people perceived as distinctive) are considered experts on something for having the properties of a token (the thing which makes them distinctive).

Medusa's Eyes — (DITCH: 1.1 Reference) refers to Ave's resting glare that generally sparks fear in someone that they stiffen like stones.

A Done Deal— an agreement that has been finalized.

Bring out the big guns — to resort to using the most powerful method or treatment to achieve something when everything else has previously failed.

Universal Ethical Principle — Unlike the law, universal and abstract values such as dignity, respect, justice, and equality are the guiding force behind the development of a personally meaningful set of ethical principles.

Taz— (Cartoon Character) is known for his speech consisting mostly of grunts, growls, rasps, and screeches, and his ability to spin and bite through just about anything. He also has quite the temper.

Jacked — to masturbate or bring someone to orgasm with one's hands. Said especially of a male.

Jackknife(kick) — a type of kick wherein a 540° roundhouse kick is followed by a hook kick from the opposite leg.

Big Show and The Rock — (Paul Donald Wight II and Dwayne Johnson); real-life American pro-wrestlers. Johnson retired and went on to become an actor, TV host,  and producer.

Monstrous Coc— — an unfinished word. Ave meant to say "monstrous cock". 

Braveheart — a 1995 American epic historical fiction war film. Apparently, the Scots are not entirely proud of the movie. According to historians, the film was a heavily fictionalized romp, as opposed to being a historically accurate portrayal of the country's past and people. So it is probably best not to bring it up.

Outlander — a historical drama TV series where a WWII British nurse gets transported back in time and falls for a strapping Scots warrior.

Sam Heughan — a Scottish actor, producer, author, and entrepreneur. He's best known for playing Jamie Fraser in "Outlander". Overall, hot! 

Bevvy — (pronounced as "Bev-ee") Scottish slang for an alcoholic drink, not to be confused with the collective noun "bevy". 

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SNEAK PEEK

He frowns. "You don't look like an Avalon."

"Wh"— Pops makes a coughing noise somewhere, masking a fit of old-man giggles.

It wasn't my fault Average didn't pass my mother's fickle taste – or her uncanny fascination for Medieval English Literature.

I cast him a sidelong glare. "Well, you don't look like a Themysciran either, so I guess we're both stuck with incongruous names."

"You've got too much fire to be an Avalon," he remarks, obviously unable to let a topic go. "You'd exonerate everyone too quickly."

I quirk a brow, lips half-curved into a patronizing sneer. "If I were a fire, you wouldn't be existing right now." 

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André