This has to work. I am so screwed i

This has to work. I am so screwed if this doesn’t work.
I cross the street and pull open the gym’s doors, glancing at the “Help Wanted” sign in the window. The stench of stale sweat hits me as I look around the tiny lobby, eyeing the dozens of black-and-white pictures lining the wood-paneled walls. There are a few newspaper clippings among the pictures, all of some boxer from fifty years ago. My sneakers squeak on the yellowing linoleum as I lean in to scan an article, but movement down the narrow hallway to my right catches my eye.  
I step forward, out of the little sunlight pouring through the dingy front windows of Whitmore & Son Gymnasium, and into the shadows of the corridor. Shuffling echoes off the walls, followed by the occasional and unmistakable sound of weights.
The gym opens up, revealing a huge room with a boxing ring in the middle. The shuffling’s from the two guys sparring in the ring. They’re quick—throwing lightning-fast hits and dodging them just as easily. They glisten under the lights, the sweat covering them highlighting every muscle as it flexes.
The guy facing me slows, nodding his head toward me as he glances at his opponent. 
Broad, tattooed shoulders relax as the opponent looks behind him, frowning as his eyes meet mine. He turns and walks to the edge of the ring, his chest heaving. Black and gray sleeves of tattoos, with splashes of color here and there, cover both of his arms and his back. His chest and stomach are bare, except for the sheen of sweat dripping down the tightest abs I’ve ever seen in person. 
I thought bodies this perfect were a myth. Or at least heavily photoshopped. 
Blinking, I bring my eyes back to his face, which—unfortunately for me—is just as exceptional as the rest of him. I haven’t regretted my decision to swear off men until right this second. 
Vibrant green eyes stare back at me under dark brows, pulled tight as he studies me. He leans against the rope, bringing one of his gauze-wrapped hands up to take out his mouth guard. “You lost, sweetheart?”
The nickname immediately drops him down a peg in my book. It’s not a term of endearment, it’s demeaning and sexist. At least it has been every time I’ve heard it.
But as he watches me, waiting for my response, his eyes remain firmly on my face. Not once does he peruse me in a way that makes me uncomfortable, so I start to relax. I think he’s just highlighting how out of place I am. 
And I am. This isn’t L.A. Fitness; this is a man’s gym. It’s old-school and outdated, and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here, because it’s obvious I don’t stand a chance. But I still have to try. 
My nerves are a jumbled mess as I say, “I’m looking for the manager.”
He eyes me for several more seconds, then nods to a door towards the back labeled Office. “Wait in there.”
“Thank you.” I drop my head as I walk around the ring, feeling everyone’s eyes on me.
It turns out the office matches the gym’s décor—rundown and a little grimy. I settle into the cracked leather chair opposite the desk to wait for the manager. Five minutes later, my eyes widen as Mr. Tattooed & Beautiful comes in. They’re glued to him as he walks around the desk and sits before me. 
In the small, still-functioning part of my brain, it occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t be this disappointed he’s wearing a shirt now, but I can’t help it. That little flare of “Aw, shucks,” still pops up.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
Based on how this place looks, I kind of expected an older gentleman with a cigar sticking out of his mouth, who curses like a sailor but deep down has a heart of gold. Or, you know, something to that effect.
My back straightens. I won’t let this throw me off. “I’m here about the help wanted sign.”
He cracks a smile and stands. “Thanks for coming in, but—”
“Wait.” I stand so fast my chair skids back. “Just hear me out. Please.”
He stares me down, doing that silent assessment thing before sitting back down. “Why do you want to work in a gym?”
I’ve lost count of all the places I’ve applied to. Retail jobs, waitressing—none of them even called me back for so much as an interview. Apparently high school dropouts aren’t in high demand for legit establishments. Go figure.
I try to play it cool, and let out a soft laugh. “Free gym membership?”
He does not find this as amusing as I’d hoped.
Sighing, I say, “Okay, so I’ve never worked in a gym before, but I’m a quick learner and a hard worker. You won’t be disappointed.”
He leans back in his chair, looking none too impressed.
“I really need this job,” I murmur, glancing down at the floor. “Please just give me a chance.”
It goes against everything in me to ask for help. I learned long ago not to depend on anyone for anything. It saves you the disappointment and heartache you’ll inevitably wind up with in the end.
But I’m at the end of my rope. It’s either ask for help or get used to earning money with my clothes off, and it’s a no-brainer. Swallowing my pride for five minutes is a drop in the bucket compared to the shame I’d drown in otherwise.
When I look back up, he’s frowning as he looks me over. He really has this brooding, smoldering thing down. It’s very unnerving. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.” It almost sounds like a question.
I don’t look that young, do I?
His hard eyes bore into mine. “You got a place to stay?”
Heat explodes across my face. I’ve only been homeless for a week, after my meager savings dried up and my roommate was forced to kick me out, but is it that obvious I’m sleeping in my car?
My hands brush over the soft denim of my worn shorts to tug at the bottom of my gray t-shirt. I can’t remember the last time I bought new clothes. Everything’s always been second-hand to save on money. 
Embarrassment burns through me as I realize my clothes are kind of wrinkly. Sitting in a car all day will do that to them, I guess, but at least they’re clean, damn it.
A flood of defensiveness takes over, turning my embarrassment to anger. “Of course.” My tone’s a little too curt, and I try to rein it in by schooling my features. I probably shouldn’t glare daggers at the guy I’m trying to get a job from.
He nods once, pursing his lips as he looks me over. “This job pays minimum wage and requires a lot of heavy lifting. You sure you’re up for that?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation before the word leaves my mouth. I’m stronger than I look, and minimum wage? That’s seven dollars and some change more than I currently make per hour, which is a big fat zero, so hell yeah, I’ll take it.
He shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and stands. “What’s your name?”
“Savannah.”
“I’m Declan.” He extends his hand over the desk, and I shake it. “Welcome to Whitmore and Son. When can you start?”
 
I’m on cloud nine for all of an hour, when my stomach starts to rumble and I remember I have exactly three dollars and twelve cents to my name. I couldn’t have fallen faster from that cloud if I had an anvil strapped to my feet.
I glance at the laundry basket behind me in the rearview mirror of my beat-up Civic and frown, feeling myself fall even further. It’s piled high with dirty clothes, and I’m on my last pair of clean undies. I have enough money for dinner or laundry, but not both.
My stomach grumbles again, and I roll my eyes. “I know what your vote is,” I mumble.
The thought of going commando tomorrow doesn’t sound appealing at all, but neither does skipping dinner tonight—especially since I skipped lunch, too. I bite my lip, thinking maybe there’s a way I can have both after all, and start the car. 
Now where was that McDonald’s I passed earlier?
Five minutes later, I smile as the golden arches come into view, their yellow glow standing out in the night like a beacon of hope. Mickey D’s and I are BFFs. Their dollar menu saved my ass more times than I could count.
I pull into the closest parking spot, kill the engine, and grab a plastic bag from the back seat, stuffing it full of clothing. Once inside, I order my usual—a McChicken sandwich and side salad—and fill up my water bottle from the tap in the bathroom. It might not be a gourmet meal, but it’s less than $2.20 and somewhat healthy.
After I eat, I hole myself up in the tiny bathroom and fill the sink with hot, soapy water. I keep my eyes down as I work, diligently avoiding my reflection in the mirror in front of me. Washing my underwear in the sink of a McDonald’s bathroom is definitely not my finest moment. I can’t even bear to look at myself right now.