Black Diaries

04. Tough and Buff

It had no effect whatsoever.

This made me for the first time really look at the guy on the ground. I mean really, actually look—not just at his face, but at the rest of him, too. I looked for... oh, it must have been a full ten seconds. There was quite a lot of him to take in.

Six foot three or so of lean muscle lay stretched out before me—and I don't just mean skimpy little stuff, like what had decorated Sam's and Matt's arms, but real biceps, broad shoulders, abs—the whole package, and clearly visible even through his clothes. Oh boy.

I may have stared a tiny little bit.

All right, I admit it, I stared blatantly. Finally, the guy propped himself up on his elbows, which made his curly black hair fall over his forehead into a face.

"Um... is everything all right?"

"Umm... what? Yes, yes."

"It's just that your mouth is hanging open, and you have a glazed look in your eyes."

"What? Me?"

"Yes. You didn't hit your head against the windshield or anything, did you? Does your car have an airbag?"

"Of course it does! And I'm not the one who got knocked on his ass."

I tried to help him up again, but before I could even take hold of his hand, he had shoved himself up from the ground and onto his feet. For a moment, he just stood there, rubbing the back of his head. I hovered around him, arms extended. I didn't really know what I was thinking—that I could actually catch him if he fell? Yeah, that was going to work.

"We should get you to a hospital," I said, taking him by the arm and attempting to maneuver him off the road. It only worked because he went willingly. Otherwise, I probably would have shoved myself backwards. "You should be checked out by a doctor. You might have a concussion."

"I'm fine." Flashing me a grin, he stepped onto the sidewalk. "I get hit harder every single day."

I stared at him. If ever I had not envisaged somebody as a domestic abuse victim, it was this guy.

"Um... your girlfriend?"

This time he didn't just grin—he burst into laughter. A deep, rock-solid laughter.

"No! My self-defense classes."

"You take self-defense-classes?"

I eyed his body, which was about as ripped as a piece of paper that just went through the shredder, wondering what he might possibly need defending from. Tanks, maybe? Small warships?

"God, no! I teach them. You see," he explained, "I work at a gym."

"You don't say." I let my eyes wander over his perfect physique, from the steel of his arms over his rock-hard chest to his abs, showing subtly under the smooth cotton of his running top. "I never would have guessed."

"What gave it away?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curving upward. "My superbly manicured fingernails?"

"No, your haircut."

"Dang. I'll have to change it."

"Don't. Long hair looks good on you."

He laughed again, and then winced, starting to rub the back of his head again.

I took a step closer. "Won't you let me take you to the hospital? You really should let yourself be checked out."

"Nah." He waved my concern away. "Like I said, I get harder knocks on the head every day. There is one thing you could do for me, though."